Caleb Kobosh
In Port Elizabeth, South Africa, my family lived in a beautiful home on the corner of Honeysuckle and Iris Avenues. Our house sat in the middle of a lush yard overflowing with tropical plants and delightful fruit trees. My two siblings and I spent every minute of daylight playing in our safe, little jungle. Day after day, we laughed and played in that yard until we were out of breath or too hungry to keep going. But, as is the case for all children, I eventually grew older, and the wonder of my backyard grew fainter. I soon ventured out of my little garden into the big world of kindergarten and discovered yet another joy of life: friendship.
I met my best friend Andrew on the first day of class at Sunridge Primary School. Andrew was about my height and size and had dark brown hair. He was a cool, calm person and a born surfer-dude. We played rugby together at school, and, if we saved a little cash from our birthday cards and allowance, we rode our bikes to a local grocery and perused the candy section. The biggest piece of candy we could afford was a licorice stick. The soft, licorice sticks came unwrapped in a big, white, cardboard box. The sticks were about a foot long, and they were filled with icing. I can remember reaching into the licorice box and pulling out one or two of the long licorice sticks. I experienced the time of my life in Port Elizabeth, but at the end of my first year in school, my father embarked on a new course in life and moved us home to the United States.
I was seven years old when we left South Africa. I have a picture of that day; I am standing on the ground in front of the airplane that would take my family to the United States. My roller-blades are slung over my shoulder by their laces. They were one of the few possessions I could keep with me when we left South Africa. Days before our departure, I sold all my toys, gave away my two dogs, and told my best friend Andrew good-bye—forever. As I began to step up the stairs into the airplane, I paused a moment and realized that my feet might never again touch South African soil.
When we landed in the United States, I stepped out of the plane onto the frozen, snow-covered ground of Chicago. The sky was grey and the trees were bare; the wind bit at my face. I felt like I was in a foreign country, although I was a United States citizen. For the first time in my life I experienced culture-shock.
I had to learn many new American ways. I hated the American accent because it was incredibly nasal. I felt like Americans were pigs that stuffed their mouths with McDonald’s cheeseburgers and Diet Cokes. I was accustomed to playing rugby and cricket, but now I had to learn about football, basketball, and baseball. The hardest struggle was that the sun never shined in America. In South Africa the tropical sun shone brightly every day, but in America the sky seemed gray even when the sun was shining. One dull day I burst into tears and begged to return home to South Africa.
My sentiments towards the United States slowly changed as I learned to appreciate the culture. I fell in love with the American seasons, and I learned to ski and enjoy the snow. Today, I have just as much of a Wisconsin accent as anybody, and I even occasionally sneak over to McDonalds for a double cheeseburger. I played football for four years in high school and two years in college, and professional baseball games have become a favorite pastime. Honestly, I am more of an American today than I was ever a South African.
I realized my new American culture when I visited South Africa my sophomore year of high school. The people who knew me as a child laughed at my American accent, and I was uncomfortable with the South African way of life. I thought I would feel like I had come home, but I realized South Africa was no longer my home – to them I was an American. I came home to Wisconsin after three weeks in South Africa and finally felt like an American. For the first time I had reconciled my past with the present. I was beginning to discover my identity.
Over the years, I have grown to appreciate my personal history. I have learned to appreciate diversity and to cherish community. Sure, my experience has caused a few cultural set-backs, but the journey has been unforgettable.
