Never in my life could I be classified as an immigrant to New York, but I was most definitely a stranger to it until the age of thirteen. At the start of my adolescence, I would wake up in an entirely new world every day. A world so shocking from my own culture with a mix of people who I had never interacted with on such a daily basis before. A world where would I have to learn the new language, customs, and norms, in other words: high school.

This is the part where a reader will laugh, “A lot of people go to high school,” My circumstances were different from most however. I was homeschooled. Going from a class made of two younger brothers to eight rotations of thirty vastly different people was quite the shock. Add on the fact that for the first year of high school, I lived in Staten Island while school was in the Bronx. This twenty-mile odyssey spanning four boroughs was no school bus ride.

The dominant emotion emerged before the daily journey could even begin. Waking up groggy and dead to the world at 5am to the annoying chirp of a cellphone alarm that had haunted the past five minutes of your dreams was a great feeling. The routine that followed being awoken would be compounded into dull monotony as the days passed, but for the first few it was fresh and exciting. For the first time I was eating breakfast, getting dressed, and washing up all with the purpose of meeting ~3,000 other people in a shared destination. Shoes on, the journey could now begin.

There was nothing like departing the house at 5:30/6:00am in the cold crisp autumn air with backpack in hand. The morning darkness added to the excitement of, at the start, a new adventure for me. I would sit in the back of the car as my dad drove my mom and I to our next mode of transport. I sat there enjoying the sounds of light chatter from the front as I enjoyed what would be the only familiar part of my travels. What came after the brief ten minute ride in a cluttered car were methods of transportation that I had used very few times if at all before. There was one main method that my mother and I used to get to Manhattan:

Any classical immigration story requires a boat to Ellis Island and all of the experiences that it entailed. The Staten Island Ferry will have to do for my purposes. Before you could ride on the ferry, you walked through this huge terminal to a waiting room. Vendor shops along the edges of the ferry station did business selling newspaper or coffee to the present early birds. In the center, a large fish tank containing some slow-moving fish stuck out like a sore thumb among the crowd of people who were otherwise occupied. More people piled into the waiting area, but this wasn’t the crowded part. Through the glass doors a glimpse of orange could be seen and a horn would blare. At last it was here. Two minutes passed as the boat docked and the waiting room shuddered as the ferry finally made contact with this side of New York Bay. I could see people get off and nervousness kicked in, as I knew that I would be boarding any second.

At last, the ferry had emptied itself of its previous contents and was allowing new passengers. The partition between the waiting room and the boat opened up, and the gathered crowd all pressed in together. I held my mother’s hand in order not to lose her in the throng of people. The tile of the terminal gave way to the concrete of the docking area. It was an amazing experience embarking on the ferry at the crack of dawn with the water scattering the sunlight. The mass of people continued to shuffle onwards onto the boat. We were finally approaching the short metal ramps that led on to the boat. As we walked into the belly of the beast, I would notice a person in uniform smiling down on the entering crowds from the top of the ship. It was a look that said, “The management of this boat and I are going to get you safely to your destination,” The security and certainty given off by the captain or his first mate would be enough to lower my concerns about the journey and set me at ease.

Past the threshold and actually inside the boat, the crowd had thinned out and my mother and I’s pace became a bit more frenetic. We walked past the different arrangement of colored seats that are offered. They were much like seats transplanted from a subway car. The sound of other people walking to find their seats continued in a beat like a drum as we finally found seating to our liking. Now was a great time to rest my eyes, still very sleepy form my early awakening, but any semblance of sleep would be shaken off as the ferry began to move. It was a steady move forward accompanied with the slight bob of a buoyant object. The scenery past the windows changed as smaller, slower boats appeared to go in reverse. We powered across the water with the sun still just peeking over the horizon. I feel a tap on the shoulder and see my mother’s hand point. I looked up to see the Statue of Liberty. It was nice seeing such a sculpture in person, even from the distance of the ferry ride. Others were of course gazing at it with a few people standing by the windows. How long must the statue have been a part of their daily commute? Not long after entering my field of vision did the statue move out of it. That mattered little, as what it really signaled for me was the oncoming conclusion of this part of my journey.

We began to stand from our seats. Out the window the water had begun to fill with upright wooden pylons, and it had gained a noticeable green tinge. Welcome to the city. We made our way to the front to prepare to exit. After grinding to a halt and a length of time used to secure the boat passed, the exit opened and I walked out into Whitehall Terminal in Manhattan. Directing me onward, my mother led me to the exit. Outside with the fully woken sun hanging above it was the city, containing buildings, vendors, and the disgruntled sounds of traffic and people trying to get to work. Of course I knew all of this existed beforehand, but I had mainly only ever experienced Manhattan from the back of a car. Any previous excursions by ferry were few and far between. Now I was on ground level, and would be everyday, experiencing commuting with the numerous other people who the city was composed of. Well, I had little time to pause and breath in the fresh air as my mother forced a steady pace designed to get us both to work/school on time.

Exhaustion and weariness had just gotten to the point where I was about to toss in the towel as we walked up and down long city blocks. Fortunately respite was at hand, I looked up at a sign that read “Bowling Green 4 Train” and stumbled after my mom down into the city’s underground.

The sounds of the subway are what stick out the most in my early memories of taking it. “There is a Woodlawn-bound uptown 4 train approaching the station. Please stand away from the platform edge,” A light would appear from around the bend as mechanical parts roared. Then wssssh, before you knew it the train blew into the station with loud screeches and clacks that shook me out of my sleepy stupor. Doors slid open and we filed in, dragged into the darkness of the tunnel.

My first few rides were certainly exciting stuff. However, I was still able to fall asleep to the calming motions of the speeding train. I took everything that the subway had to offer in stride: The commuters, the loud schoolchildren, the homeless, the solicitors, and the crazy. I sat down and fully accepted what the subway life offered. I was going to be using it for a while now anyway. Most noticeable and exciting about this part of the journey was exiting the underground in the Bronx at Yankee Stadium and getting exposed to real sunlight again. Needing to close my eyes to adjust my vision to the outside world again, I’d open them to see the impressive baseball stadium and its sign hanging above. I’d nod in awe as my mother would say, “Oh there’s a game happening tonight,” Soon speeding away and leaving even that landmark in the dust, I’d peer around the car, fully awake and prepared for the coming day.

The subway car had thinned out by then; most of the commuters had got off in Manhattan. The populace now mainly consisted of school children, doing work, sleeping, or listening to music. Many were going to the same destination as myself. I sat back, nervousness again beginning to run its course as I approached the endpoint. I checked my backpacked, adjusted my clothes, and looked at my phone to keep myself occupied, but before I knew it: “This is Bedford Park Boulevard-Lehman College,”

I filed out the subway with my mom and teens who were other accepted or returning students of the Bronx High School of Science. I walked down the stairs and out the station doors, getting my first in-person look at the Bronx. I was greeted by the sounds of cars and busses honking, an incoming train rattling above, and people at the newspaper stand talking. A lengthy walk along Bedford Park Blvd and up Paul Av and I had arrived. A hug goodbye to my mom and a walk down the stairs put me at the front entrance for my first day of school.

This wasn’t a very typical immigration story. I didn’t move from one country to another or even change my place of residence. However, the first time I took the journey I talk about above was the marked shift for me of leaving my homogenous, homeschooled life for a new exciting place where I could accomplish my goals. It was a miniature American Dream in a way. The daily trip soon became routine fare, but my first time from S.I to Bronx Sci will always be my particular immigrant journey.