My First Landing in AmericaI arrived in America carrying both fear and comfort. Fear from the scars of refugee life, but comfort knowing my mother was beside me. As long as she was with us, we would be okay.Seattle was our first stop. After years of moving—from Laos, to Ubon camp, to Panatnikhom—suddenly I was standing inside an American hotel. One king-sized bed, a glowing television, lights so bright they almost erased the memory of dim kerosene lamps. My little brother and sister laughed and played, unaware of how extraordinary this moment was. My mother’s smile told me everything: her children were safe at last.That evening I watched my very first American movie on the big color screen. I couldn’t understand the words, but the story was clear: a woman was dying of cancer, her husband broken with grief. I cried. That was my first American night—tears and wonder, all in one.And then I noticed something miraculous. It was 9 p.m., yet outside the window, the world was still bright. In Thailand, by that hour, darkness swallowed everything—you couldn’t even see your own hand. But here, the night refused to fall. Later, I would learn the strange phrase: daylight saving time.That was my first landing in America—a mix of sadness and joy, endings and beginnings. Thirty-nine years later, this land has become my home.And now, next month, my daughter will begin her own journey at one of this country’s most prestigious institutions. As I watched the 134th Stanford Convocation, awe rose in me. Soon, we will be standing there ourselves, among the proud families of the Class of 2029. From refugee camps to university halls—it feels as though life has been weaving a story far greater than I could ever imagine. Sometimes, it seems, life knows exactly how to give what is best.
My First Landing in America
I arrived in America carrying both fear and comfort. Fear from the scars of refugee life, but comfort knowing my mother was beside me. As long as she was with us, we would be okay.
Seattle was our first stop. After years of moving—from Laos, to Ubon camp, to Panatnikhom—suddenly I was standing inside an American hotel. One king-sized bed, a glowing television, lights so bright they almost erased the memory of dim kerosene lamps. My little brother and sister laughed and played, unaware of how extraordinary this moment was. My mother’s smile told me everything: her children were safe at last.
That evening I watched my very first American movie on the big color screen. I couldn’t understand the words, but the story was clear: a woman was dying of cancer, her husband broken with grief. I cried. That was my first American night—tears and wonder, all in one.
And then I noticed something miraculous. It was 9 p.m., yet outside the window, the world was still bright. In Thailand, by that hour, darkness swallowed everything—you couldn’t even see your own hand. But here, the night refused to fall. Later, I would learn the strange phrase: daylight saving time.
That was my first landing in America—a mix of sadness and joy, endings and beginnings. Thirty-nine years later, this land has become my home.
And now, next month, my daughter will begin her own journey at one of this country’s most prestigious institutions. As I watched the 134th Stanford Convocation, awe rose in me. Soon, we will be standing there ourselves, among the proud families of the Class of 2029. From refugee camps to university halls—it feels as though life has been weaving a story far greater than I could ever imagine. Sometimes, it seems, life knows exactly how to give what is best.
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