Ammari 1

Rana Ammari
Dr. Mary Minock
Voices of Pluralism in American Literature
7 November 2013
Little Girl Lost, Little Girl Found
At first I thought it would be fun. A new beginning with relatives who I have never met
and the possibility of creating new relationships as well as forming new memories. I could not
contain my excitement on the twelve hour plane ride to Michigan with my mother, older brother,
and my nine month old baby brother. My little brothers incessant crying filled the airplane as we
received several harsh stares with the occasional shaking of the head from many irritated and
sleepy passengers. However, I was not letting them erase the enormous smile on my face and
ruin my happy, carefree mood.
My parents have decided to leave our country of Jordan behind and start a new life in
America. A life that would be easier and one that would provide endless opportunities. My dad
made the transition first in order to find a steady job and a place to live. We followed him just
two months after. My parents didnt think the transition would be this difficult. On the other hand
I, a nave six year old girl, sure as hell didnt think so either.
We moved into our tiny two bedroom apartment in June of 2000. I shared a bedroom with
my two brothers, which was not enjoyable for a little girl. My older brother Zaid and I would
constantly throw pillows and toys at each other, arguing about who would sleep on the top bunk.
Since I was the only girl, my parents decided that I should take the top bunk. I think they felt a

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bit guilty, considering the fact that I had to share a room with two boys. Then again, I didnt
really care how they felt at the time since I ended up getting what I wanted. With a loud HAHA to my brother, I climbed up the ladder to the top bunk and gloated about how I won.

It was a beautiful day in July, the sky brighter and more beautiful than ever. The wind
blowing my long, shiny brown hair as I danced around in the front yard, waiting for my family to
come outside. My moms cousin decided to throw us a party celebrating our big move. It was
definitely nice to have relatives surrounding us, helping our fearful hearts in a brand new
environment.
As the door opened, my moms cousin and his family raised their hands and screamed
with joy! This was not only a party welcoming us to their home, but welcoming us to America as
well. As we walked in, we could hear the Arabic music blasting throughout the house and the
delicious smell of Arabic food. They definitely succeeded in making us feel like we were at
home.
As we entered their closed patio, I could smell the shish kabob on the grill so much that I
could almost taste it. The table was filled with several middle-eastern appetizers such as
tabbouleh, which was on top of several leaves of lettuce. There was also fresh pita bread and
hummus, which was decorated with pomegranates my favorite!
After consuming the most delicious dinner, I went out to the front yard to play with Zaid
and my two cousins. My cousin Vasso was two years younger than I was and Nabil was two
years younger than Vasso. After we were all done kicking the soccer ball around, Zaid and Vasso
decided to go for a bike ride. Although our parents warned us not to go far, the boys thought they

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were old and mature enough to go for a bike ride around the block. Racing to the garage, Zaid
and Vasso grabbed their bikes and were ready to go. However, I wouldnt let them ride off that
easily. Quickly grabbing the last bike laying in the garage, I followed them. Noticing I was right
behind, Zaid immediately pressed the brakes on his bike, turned around, and stared me down
impatiently.
What do you think youre doing? He said, speaking in Arabic.
I want to go on a bike ride too. I said, with a hint of sadness in my voice.
No way! Boys only. Ill tell mom, she would never let you go. he replied.
Go ahead, tell mom! She wont let you go either because she told you not to go far, so ha-ha!
He knew I was right so he never went to snitch on me.
With a big sigh, my brother continued to ride his bike down the driveway while shouting
at me to stop following them. There was no way I was going to stop. If they were going, it was
only fair that I joined them for the ride. Reaching the end of the street, Vasso saw me catching up
to them. Shouting at my brother to pedal faster, Vasso waved at me and turned the corner. I
showed no sign of defeat as I turned the corner a few seconds later.
Turning the corner once more a few seconds after, we were now all riding our bikes on
the sidewalk of a main road. They pedaled faster and faster, quickly turning around and stealing
glances to see how far I was. I started panicking as I stared down at my bike pedals, knowing I
could never pedal as fast as they could. As I looked up ahead, I saw no sign of my brother and
cousin. Immediately pressing the brakes, I stood in silence for a few minutes. After I realized

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they were nowhere in sight, I repeatedly called out for my brother, my voice shaking after every
call. In that moment, tears began to stream down my face as I finally realized I was on my own.
Cars were racing by as I tried to find my way back. I turned around and turned the corner
until I reached the end of the street. I started to panic further as I didnt know whether to turn
right, left, or go straight. Turning back around, I rode my bike back to end of the street that led to
the main road. I couldnt call out for my brother anymore, as my voice quickly gave out from
fear. All I could do now was cry and hope my brother would come back and find me. I repeatedly
kept looking back to see if he had returned.
As the time passed, my incessant crying caught the attention of a man who was washing
his car in his driveway. He looked at me with sadness and immediately ran across the street. Im
sure he asked me what my name was, my age, and where I lived. However, I was absolutely no
use to him considering the fact that I could speak not a word of English. Feeling more terrified
than ever, I now had a strange man by my side who I was unable to understand.
Running back to his house, the man returned a couple minutes later with his wife and
daughter. His wife, a tall blonde woman who seemed to be in her early forties, was on bended
knees as she tried to console me. His daughter looked to be about fifteen or so, and she too tried
to console me while caressing my long brown hair. We all turned back around as I slowly rode
my bike down the end of the street. Stuck with the dilemma of turning right, left, or going
straight once more, I looked up at the woman and continued to cry, calling out for my mom this
time.
Minutes later, I finally saw two familiar faces in a white, four-door car. My moms aunt
was driving while my grandma was in the passenger seat. Taking a deep sigh of relief, I got off

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my bike and ran to the car shouting yaya, which means grandma in Greek. Since my grandma
was part Greek, we never called her anything but yaya. After thanking the kind strangers for
their help, my moms aunt told me to place my bike in the trunk and sit in the back seat. After
about an hour of panicking, I was finally able to calm down.
Racing back to the house, I opened the front door to find my mom and my aunt waiting
for my return. My moms cousin Chris and my dad were still searching for me, but soon received
a call from my mom assuring them I was safe and sound. I almost didnt recognize my mom as
her dark black makeup was running down her face, crying uncontrollably. I ran into her arms and
felt the urge to stay there forever. With added force, she let me go and warned me to never do
anything like that again. You scared me to death, she uttered in Arabic. Listen to me next
time! Okay habibti? Nodding my head, I wrapped my arms around her once more and felt
liberated from the fear of being lost.
In my nave mind, I thought I would never have to experience a situation as terrifying as
that one. However, this proved to be wrong in the fall when I was enrolled in school. I was seven
years old now and was in a first grade classroom with twenty four other kids who knew how to
communicate in a language I didnt. When I realized I was unable to understand a single word
my teacher was saying, I pictured the kind stranger I met earlier in the summer. I remembered
how he tried to communicate with me but I was simply lost and useless, just like I was in that
classroom. I got up from my seat and ran to the back corner of the classroom, covering my eyes
with my arms, crying uncontrollably.
In more ways than one, thats how I sometimes feel living in America while being a part
of an entirely different culture. I feel hopelessly lost and incapable of being understood. I come
from a different country with a completely different language, thousands of miles away. I come

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from different traditions, values, and morals. These kids in the classroom staring at the girl
crying in the corner will never be able understand that.
As I got older, I realized there was a massive difference between the American culture
and the Middle Eastern culture. Some differences were quite simple, such as the way they
communicated with one another. Other differences such as their beliefs and morals about various
subjects took longer for me to understand. As I got older, I began to understand those differences
and tried to acquire some characteristics of the American culture into my daily life, while still
maintaining my Middle Eastern roots. So far, Ive managed to find an appropriate balance.
To this day, life can prove to be a challenge because no matter what, I will never be a true
American. I will always be part American and part Arab. Perhaps maybe more Arab than
American. I still fluently speak the language, carry on the values and traditions, and have the
mindset of someone still living in the Middle East. Though I have transitioned to the American
lifestyle quite smoothly, I will always be reminded of my culture, values, and traditions.
However, through those challenging moments in life, I cant help but feel hopelessly lost, as if I
was that six year old girl again lost on her bike.