Trojan Horse in America

This summer, I go home.

After passing the slew of covid inspection officers and stumbling my way through the questions with passable Japanese, I stroll through the “returning” section of the immigration checkpoint. Seeing that “returning” sign and knowing that it belongs to me, I feel a sickening sense of joy. I am home—all those people walking through the “visitors” section cannot not claim this land as theirs, but I can. I breeze through the immigration officer’s questions, somehow feeling my Japanese improving, and I stroll down to the baggage claim, then the rest of the airport, all of which feels smaller than I left it. In the distance, standing by the 7-Eleven, I see my grandma in what I know are the same clothes as when I last said goodbye. 

This summer, I go home.

After passing a line of groggy airport workers powering through the final hour of their overnight shift, I stride through the hallway to reach the immigration checkpoint; everything seems quicker here, with everyone standing just a little straighter. I look up and can’t help but smile at that sense of belonging when I see “returning.” As I wait in line, I look up at the sign: Chicago O’Hare Airport. It hits me—this is where my father first entered America. I turn to my right, towards the immigration section; he must’ve stood right over there, watching all of the returning citizens stride by with his glossy 5-year-old eyes (of course the entire airport was probably laid out differently, but I let my imagination run for a bit). Lost in my memories, I don’t hear the repeated commands of the immigration officer. I scurry over to show him that I belong.

William Boo