Do they eat with forks here?
I was talking to a friend, mentioning that I'm excited to talk about childhood with my therapist. The thought engrained in me that all my answers stem from there. She mentioned her therapist had her write down all dates she remembers starting at birth. The exercise has been on my mind lately but I can only recall one date and that's September 11, 2001.
On September 11, my mother, father and sister were in a mall in Canada. I've never been to a mall before. I've never seen so many lights, screens and people inside a concrete structure before. It felt like a bazaar from the future. My parents were talking with a sales rep about buying a home phone. I was bored out of my mind so I began to wander. I spotted a big group of people outside a TV store, all watching the TV. A lot of commotion. On the TV, it's the twin towers, burning. I ran to my mom to get her attention. I didn't understand what was going on; I didn't speak English very well but I felt a strong sense of urgency to tell her. While I remember the events of 911, that's not the reason it's so ingrained. Three days before, my family migrated from Moldova to Canada. That's how I'd always introduce myself. "I'm from Moldova. My parents moved here three days before 911. We were very lucky because the immigration system changed and we might have never come".
My parents were working to migrate for over three years. Paper work, learning English and working to save $10,000, not an easy feat after the Soviet collapse. My dad had a panic attack shortly before the move. Some paperwork was in limbo and there was a chance the sacrifice was for nothing, and hope of getting out dwindled. It was my dad, toughest man I know. "You do what's right and needed regardless of the pain". I've never seen him like that. I've been fortunate to not see it since. An ambulance came, they kicked us out of the room and we paced anxiously. My sister and I had no idea why this was happening. It was all a secret. My parents told us we were migrating two days before our flight.
I'm 11 years old, yet I remember so little. The life change is so fucking profound, yet I remember little. Is it my goldfish memory? Is that my coping mechanism? I don't remember packing or having a party. There is a good chance there was no party. Trust is so low and fleeing wasn't exactly blessed by the corrupt government. I do remember loading into a bus, all our family outside waving us goodbye and intensely crying. I was so confused. Why is everybody crying so much? I can't even hold back tears as I write this. Goodbyes are so hard for me. I visit family once a year, and every time I leave I break down. What if it's the last time I see them? I love them so much. I'm choosing to leave them, live away from the people that have given me everything. As I write this out, I'm having a realization. Goodbyes are hard for me because after loading onto that bus, I would never see them again. Never play in those streets. Never again be immersed in that culture. Tossed into a foreign land. Always feeling like a fish out of the water.
The bus took us to Romania, then a flight to Toronto. My first ever, yet again I don't remember it. Walking outside of Toronto's airport, I'm hit with a wave of humidity. People bustling about, cars honking, and a stench of exhaust. It's the four of us and eight giant bags. On the bus ride over to our next home, I look over to my parents and ask "Do they eat with forks here?"