A Poem

We were surprised this past weekend by an email from one of our local Bulgarian friends. (I'm still just blown away by the way we've been able to become part of the local Bulgarians-living-in-Minnesota community - such a great way for Bobbi to keep her language, and for all of us to keep our feet wet in Bulgarian culture.) She shared that her daughter had entered a contest for poems about immigration...and won! Even better is the intersection with our life - her daughter dedicated the poem to Bobbi, citing her as the inspiration for the story. As a child of immigrants, knowing many other Bulgarian immigrants herself, she could have pulled inspiration from any variety of sources, but there was something about Bobbi's story that captured something for her, and apparently, her thoughtfulness in telling the story captured the interest of the judges as well!

Enjoy:

“Little Bogomila: Based off a true story”

It happened so fast,

But I remember

That special letter,

The letter addressed for me

Whispering:

I’m going to America.

And yet, here I am.

Goodbye Airplane,

Goodbye Bulgaria,

Goodbye Orphanage,

Goodbye Life,

I miss you, but I must move on.

Now that I see it,

America,

I’m breathless.

Finally saying,

‘Goodbye’ to that

Small orphanage.

Too many feelings.

I’m excited, but

I miss you, Bulgaria.

,,Липсваш ми’’ I whisper.

But now...

I think I’ll just say goodbye.

The airport: overflowing.

Immigrants, everywhere.

One of them though;

Is going to be me.

And I’m going to live

Like a real American.

They’re coming toward me.

I see the family.

But... something is wrong.

It’s missing something.

Maybe they’re missing

A girl like me.

Later the family comes

Surrounded by people:

Very formal.

When they sign a paper

The little child,

Says “ welcome home.”

Thankful,

Thankful that somebody

This kind is here.

Actually willing

To claim me.

I wonder why….

I was happy, but now?

Questions surround me,

“What will they think?”

“Am I an outcast?”

Its too many questions.

How do I answer?

Weeks later,

They drive me somewhere.

Somewhere unfamiliar,

Overfilled with kids

Pushing through and I wonder,

“Is this school?”

Everything: so different.

They talk strange,

A much different language.

And nobody understands me.

Yet I’m supposed to be

In 5th grade.

“Some much stress” I think,

“The teacher is always talking

But I can’t hear...

Or understand

She’s always

Facing me… Why?”

Then when everyone,

Hurriedly piles out

I realize why they’re always staring

It’s the wheelchair on my feet.

I’m angry, it’s just helping me.

How does this matter to them?

And then I see that

We all came from somewhere,

Someplace else.

And suddenly, I can feel a shot of joy

Like I’m not the only one.

But maybe I’m right.

And this may not be

My true home

But I know,

I still belong

And that’s really

All that matters to me.

I feel so proud,

I’ve gone so far,

I’ve inspired many people,

I’ve learned about many other cultures,

I’m just thankful,

That I could see it all happen.

My friends,

My family,

My education,

My life,

Thank you, America

For helping them.

And it warms my heart

To hear others

Who could also share;

Share their struggles

And remind themselves

Just how far they had went.

Other countries,

Other people

Other stories,

Other traditions,

They’re in another world

But here, they can be together

I see it

But differently.

It’s unique.

It’s America.

Това е живота ми.

Това е иммиграция.

Author’s Note: “This is my friend’s story and she is from the same culture as me. I think that this explains why I’m glad for immigration. This is based off of her experience. Special acknowledgments to Bogomila [G]Lewwe.”