As I pass by Dyker Heights and see the elaborate houses decorated with Christmas lights and ornaments, I regress to an eight-year-old immigrant child. The first memory that vividly paints itself in my mind from December 22, 2002 is of the winter wonderland and bright lights of lavishly decorated Brooklyn houses. Yet, the same excitement and curiosity ceases to exist. The image of my eight-year-old self quickly disappears; an indifferent expression replaces the innocent, bewildered eyes. The culture shock has slowly faded over the past eleven years, as I have become desensitized to the “glitz and glam” of American culture.
As I walk around 81st and 82nd street of Dyker Heights, Brooklyn, bundled up with my hat and gloves, I feel safe—too safe. I have seen these festive houses decorated for the holidays the past eleven years. I don’t feel the need to stop and stare in surprise. I don’t feel the need to even look up to wonder what the ruckus is about. I already know which houses place a blow-up Santa Clause on their front lawn and which one wraps multi-colored lights around its trees. This year is not any different. The garland, ornaments, and audience of this spectacle are always the same—I’m the only one who has changed.
I nonchalantly walk past them, dodging tourists and visitors who are in awe with the inundating decorations. I wonder how silly it is for tourists to come from other states and even countries to witness this.
I was once that “tourist.” Oh how times have changed! I wonder if the city has made me heartless. Have I grown up too much to appreciate this? Can one ever grow up ‘too much’? These flashing lights, which once brought me the same thrill and amazement as these tourists, now only stir up feelings of confusion and frustration.
Perhaps I have become ungrateful. Maybe this land of hope and opportunity molded me to be as durable as the paved streets. They’re definitely not paved with gold—just hard, cold, cement. Who would have imagined cement being an accurate reflection of my life? I wonder how my eight-year-old self would think of this newfound rashness.
In Albania, I appreciated the slightest fortunes—when the power turned on or warm water was running. Now, not only do I expect those necessities, but also take magnificence for granted. I wonder, is that the New York bravado? The hectic, fast-paced lifestyle transforms people—for better or worse.
I forcefully shut my eyes, hoping to regain the same passion and spirit of the little girl who stood here eleven years ago—half confused and half excited to be in a new world. What I wish to have her back. Yes, she spoke no English, abandoned her family in Albania, and didn’t quite understand what severe impact this move would have on her life, but she was innocent. She was sweet and naïve and these pretty lights made her happy. They made her new world look beautiful and exciting. Of course she still had knots in her stomach and didn’t know what to expect, but in that moment, she felt whole.
She was awe-struck to see the colorful lights flickering on and off. Light was a luxury in Albania and these strangers were brightening the outside of their houses with it. Yet, that little girl sat inside of the car with her parents, sister, and “American” grandparents, and passed no negative judgment. She was reunited with her grandparents whom she hadn’t seen for several years, and that made the butterflies in her stomach settle down.
‘Ooh’ and ‘ahh’ filled her head, as she could not verbalize what she was feeling. The kaleidoscope of images inundated her mind, causing her to succumb to its beauty.
She seems like a distant image now—or a dream—not a part of me. I can’t whole-heartedly refer to her as “me” because she seems like a mirage. Perhaps that is the reason why I struggle with memory—because I’m quick to detach myself from the past. I’m quick to move on and forget. Sometimes it’s easier to repress the memories than admit that I have changed—for better or worse.
But as I pass by the ornate houses, I’ll choose not to categorize the change as ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ All the miniscule details that I can recall from my past serve as tiny, colored glass squares to the mosaic of my life. Although the fast-paced, repetitive nature of the city life has desensitized me, I don’t view it negatively. It is merely a motivation to search for something new and exciting, rather than fall back to a mundane life style. Although the streets are not paved with gold, you can paint them yourself. You can choose to walk in the same, worn down streets day by day or explore new territory. I choose to pave my own streets and see what the journey holds.
As I hurriedly rush down 82nd street, I’m not interested in experiencing something for the twelfth time, but looking to explore something for the first time. I realize that it is not heartless or depressing to swiftly pass by these aesthetically astounding houses because I’m giving someone else the opportunity to experience it for the first time. I’m passing the baton to someone else, in hopes of filling his or her life with wonder and joy.
Although I love the spirit of that bewildered immigrant girl passing by those houses in awe, I have to find other ways to quench my curiosity and stimulate my passion. I have shifted from experiencing life as a bystander, to actively and keenly living it. The rose colored glasses of the little girl and the kaleidoscope shattered to fit in my grand mosaic, which has barely taken form.
