Eduardo Morales
The hot glass of the window made my face burn, and I leaned away, shifting in my seat. The closer we got, the heavier my body felt from the stillness of sitting too long. My shoulder sat tired beneath the weight of the stranger next to me, their head pressed carelessly against me as if we knew each other. The air inside the bus was thick, a reminder of the long road behind us. As the driver announced the next stop; shoulders straightened, eyes lifted, and bags were gripped tighter. With little to no room, I wrestled my way to the overhead rack. The brakes screeched like nails against metal. Bumping shoulders and catching snippets of hurried conversations, I suddenly caught the faint sniff of something different - something lighter.
I got the sniff of freedom. Big buildings, nice skyline, big billboards, and a big light green statue of a lady holding a torch. I had always had liberty-my parents never chained me with strict restrictions - but this freedom felt new, raw, untamed. It wasn’t permission; it was a possibility. It felt like the type of freedom that gives birth to creativity, to reinvention. As I stepped off the bus into the sharp rays of the sun, the air tasted unfamiliar, yet it carried a promise. My heart raced with excitement and dread. I didn't know what to feel at that moment. The street in front of me, alive with honking, taxis, vendors,and the shuffle of people. This was a place where a new chapter was going to begin.
As my thoughts twisted, a sudden honk turned me back onto the moment. I raised my hand, and a big yellow cab swerved to a stop. I slid inside, clutching my bag to my chest and watched with curiosity the outside world. The driver's radio hummed with a static voice in a language that felt half-familiar, half-strange. There were those moments when sadness crept in-my family's faces flashing before me, their eyes filled with tears, as I left the border. As I swallowed hard, pressing my lips together, forcing myself to breathe through it. By the time the cab rolled to a halt, the ache in my chest had dulled into determination.
When I stepped inside my new home - a small apartment that smelled faintly of paint and emptiness - I teared up, but it wasn’t from sadness. The bare walls and quiet rooms seemed to whisper of potential. My hands brushed across the chipped counter, the creaky wooden floor beneath my shoes reminding me I had made it here, on my own. I remembered all those who doubted me, telling me that a skinny, pale Mexican doesn't have good use in a first world country. For the first time, I felt the deep pulse of victory. This really was the land of the free.
This story was just free writing at first, but then I kind of made it similar to a movie I had seen before. This movie was about an immigrant coming to a new world and having new experiences. Dealing with different problems and having to succeed while having that sense of being an outsider. It also reminds of how my parents had similar troubles and how they had to go through the same struggles. Although they had a rocky start, they ended up in good conditions.
The story not only can resemble my family, but other immigrant families as well. As other families have also crossed the border and have come to a new home for the better of the family. It shares similar thoughts and the same mix of feelings throughout. The idea of being scared is something all have shared and have overcome as time in this country grew longer.
The setting sets the tone as New York is known for being a busy city with big buildings filled with culture and technology. It symbolizes the opportunity and pressure, making it a perfect setting for a character to change.
In shaping this story, I used imagery to highlight the emotions and characterization to show personal growth. The way I structured the narrative moves from uncertainty to adaption, reflecting the emotional experiences of many immigrant experiences. The themes I explore are cultural identity and the search for opportunity.
My literary influences are authors whose work focus on migration and identity, such as Sandra Cisneros. Her storytelling style is rich, includes cultural details, and emotional, inspired by my tone and structure of writing. They influenced how I mixed personal reflection with a broader message that other readers can relate to.
About the author: I am a writer who draws heavily from my own personal experiences, family history, and background, using storytelling to share meaningful experiences from my family with others.