Micah Gura ’25, Circumstances 9 Elona Michael ’24, My Path

My Path

Standing at the edge of the boat, I look below and see the Hudson River tide brushing against the ferry. The sun flashes in my direction, and I feel the slight breeze reflecting off the water. Suddenly, the loud noise of the speaker erupts in my ears, “And to our left, ladies and gentlemen, is our Lady Liberty. In a joint effort to celebrate the friendship between France and The United States during the American Revolution, the French gifted this statue to us. But this is not the only significance of this statue, in fact when European immigrants first came to Ellis Island this was the first image they saw of America. Lady Liberty holding out a torch. To them, she was a symbol of hope and new beginnings.” I remember my first time learning about Ellis Island in Lower School. I was so fascinated I even went home and asked my immigrant parents what it was like when they first arrived. They both laughed and explained to me that they weren’t one hundred years old and immigration had revolutionized greatly since then. Both of my parents had to flee their country, Ethiopia, at a young age when a repressive regime took over. While my mother first went to France and my father to Michigan where his brothers were, they both eventually found themselves in Washington, D.C. My father, although living in this country for about twenty years and attending university here, did not become an American citizen until 2012. And my mother was able to win a green card lottery and came to this country speaking barely any English while living in a small apartment with her brother in Arlington. My family takes much pride in being American as well as Ethiopian. Our house is a gateway into a melting pot, as one would say. On top of our piano stands a black and white picture of my great grandma and grandpa from 1897, near the time when the Ethiopians beat the Italians in the Battle of Adwa. My great grandpa sits on his red chair while my great grandmother stands by his side. Next to it are pictures of my family and me standing in front of the Hollywood sign from 2018. Our arms fold around each other while the California sun beams down on our skin. If you turn to your left, you will see 2-ft miniature clay statues of women from the Gambella tribe, a region located in southwest of Ethiopia. They wear green skirts and orange tops highlighting their smooth dark skin.

Maybe if you listen closely, you will hear the sound of my mother playing Teddy Afro and cooking shiro and tibs in the kitchen, while my dad grills hot dogs on our porch during a hot 4th of July evening. In our basement we have hundreds of photos of my parents and grandparents when they were younger. On my dad’s old Dell laptop there are probably thousands. I dedicate some days to just scrolling through old video tapes observing my parents’ younger selves. And all of this happens while the American and Ethiopian flag sit together in a vase on our kitchen counter to be seen by anyone who walks by our townhouse window. Even though this lifestyle seems like the perfect mix, growing up as a firstgeneration kid I still always felt like I wasn’t embracing my Ethiopian roots enough because of how westernized our family has become. Whenever I’m eating my ChickFil-A in my living room and doing my homework, sometimes I can feel my great grandmother side-eying me, wishing I could be brave like her and be a part of the minority of women who fought in the war at the time for her country. Or at least be in Ethiopia, carrying on the legacy of my grandpa Ketema Yifru, who was one of the main founders of the African Union, while also representing his country, Ethiopia. I look back at Lady Liberty in the distance. And this time she is facing me. Her eyes meet mine, and she lowers her torch to my level so that it is pointed right at my direction. As I stand there in front of her, on a hot summer day in August, I start to realize why immigrants saw her as a sign of hope. Lady Liberty holds out her torch for you and promises new beginnings and belonging into the unknown world. I am a product of immigration. I am descended from ancestors of bravery and pride of their nation. I am also the first person in my family to be born in the United States. When Lady Liberty holds out her torch to me, she reminds me that I am the new beginning, promise, and sign of hope. I am the start of historical differences that will impact the next generations. By living in my “melting pot,” I am one of the millions of first-generation kids in the U.S., actively showing how amazing it is to be able to be the first to be a part of two beautiful cultures. So although I might not be an Ethiopian citizen like the people who came before me, I am a first-generation American citizen, able to experience the fascinating job of lighting the way for a new change to come, while also sticking my roots to the ground. By the time I look up again Lady Liberty is gone; she now has all of her attention on the next ferry. I look forward and can somehow hear the faint noises of the city ahead. I know that the boat will dock soon and my trip will be over, so I stand by the edge and look at the Hudson River tide brushing against our ferry while the sun flashes in my direction, and I feel the slight breeze reflecting off the water. Below, the ferry creates a new path following me as I make my way toward land. This is my path.