Member-only story
Growing Up an American Immigrant
A journey on discovering what being an American means
I’m an American through and through. English is my native tongue and it’s the language I think and dream in. I’m a citizen — even though I didn’t become one until the third grade — and have the Pledge of Allegiance and Star-Spangled Banner etched in the front of my brain for life.
But you look at my name and think, “huh, I wonder where she’s from…” Or, “how do you say her last name? First name?!”
My first name is pronounced like Leah, Lee-yuh, Liiiiii-yaaahh, in case you were wondering.
I grew up in the South (okay, Atlanta which doesn’t really seem like the South) and corn and watermelon were my favorite summertime foods as a child. I craved corn on the cob, slathered with salted sweet cream butter, with the hairs getting stuck in between my teeth for hours, forcing me to pick them out with a dirty, soil-stained fingernail.
Summers were filled with the deafening nighttime screams of cicadas and the sparkling lights of fireflies dancing in between the trees. Sticky from sweat was a constant state of being during the summers in the South.
I can put on a southern accent like it’s nobody’s business. And then immediately switch to a Russian accent.
