Young Writers Society

Without Words

My name is Michelle Kapnick and I am an immigrant. I was born in

Johannesburg, South Africa, (and yes that is a country) in the Park Lane Clinic on September

fifth 1995. I grew up in a cottage like home with a tall green gate, fifty nine Lyme street. I was

happy and comfortable with all my friends close by in the sunny suburb of Glenwood. My house,

a large, beautiful garden with a swimming pool and trampoline and no shortage of roses. Pink,

white and peach roses, the peach ones were called Just Joeys and they were my favorite. Spring

was magnificent. The Jacaranda trees would bloom and the jasmine would peek out from

between the leaves; a glimpse of what was to come. After school I would come home and change

into ballet attire for my dancing class three afternoons a week. On the fourth I would take a

speech and drama lesson. Friday afternoons I would sit on a stool in the kitchen watching the

shabbos preparations unfold and enjoy the smell of fresh home made challah. Shabbos

afternoons were spent lying on the grass outside with my tight knit group of friends and talking

for hours. Sundays were always reserved for family and Braais ( what Americans would call a

barbecue), outside while we swam in the pool, jumped on the trampoline and ate watermelon.But

life is like a trampoline, there are ups and downs.

When my father told me we were moving to New Jersey, he actually used that awful

cliche, “It will be an adventure!” I was not convinced, however the thought of having a brand

new life, the opportunity to start over, intrigued me. As the anticipation and excitement grew I

found myself smiling at the thought of attending an American high school. As a freshman I

considered that it might be fun to make new friends, have a new home, a new neighborhood. My

father then announced that he had found us a temporary home in Mountain View; a place which I had

never heard of. From the pictures I saw of the house it seemed nice enough. It had polished

wooden floors, a modern kitchen and three levels. I could see a picture forming in my mind of a

better life. Maybe leaving my home was not such a bad thing. “Saying goodbye is the hardest

part” I told myself repeatedly. I actually started to believe it.

I refused myself the luxury of self pity, But then the goodbyes began. I pretended it

didn’t matter while I was torn up inside. I felt a trembling sensation in the depths of my heart.

People asked me how I was holding up and I faked ease and confidence. They asked me if I

wanted to move - I tried to sound excited. I didn’t want anyone to realize that every time I heard

the word goodbye I felt like I was dying, those were their final words to me.

As I felt the plane take off, leaving South African soil, I forced my mind to shut down. A

few tears managed to escape my overwhelmed eyes. While in the air, I was hit by a sudden

realization; I was alone. All my friends had each other, but I was very much alone, suspended

somewhere above the Atlantic ocean.

The day I arrived in America it was raining. The weather was horrible and my mood was

further dampened. I pressed my forehead against the misty cool glass of the Supershuttle and

closed my eyes. I felt empty and suddenly very vulnerable. “What have we done?” I whispered

to myself in absolute horror. I had not slept in many weeks. My face was pale, my eyes

bloodshot and glistening. My hair was a mess and my emotions lay in tatters. I lost the courage I

had possessed and felt a sense of reality setting in like one of those storm clouds above me. New

Jersey was not the magical place I had imagined, and it most definitely not my home.

The day only got darker as we arrived at our new address which turned out to be a red

brick and stone house. It was nothing like I had expected, not the dream house I had constructed

in my head. The garden was wild and overgrown, every surface inside was coated in a layer of

grime. I looked at my father who was trying to hold me and my sisters in one piece, trying to

prevent the inevitable tears that stem from the feeling of having nothing. I sat down heavily on a

temporary dinning room chair from Costco and gathered my knees to my chest, cradled my head

and sobbed. I remember thinking that a hot bubble bath would surely soothe me but I didn’t even

have a towel and the bathtub was filthy.

I climbed the narrow, steep staircase to my new bedroom and tumbled onto my new bed.

The mattress was still in its plastic wrapping. I wanted to go to sleep and find myself back at

thirty four Lyme street when I awoke.

The first and second weeks were a blur; meeting members of the Mountain View community,

trying to remember names and faces, people commenting on my “cool” accent and sticking out

like a sore thumb. I was constantly filled with a strong feeling of I-don’t-belong-here.

I was hit with severe culture shock. The lifestyle in America was not what I was used to

and nobody knew me or anything about me. I could be the person I had never dared to be. Even

though my name is Michelle, everyone who knows me calls me Mishi, an affectionate nickname. I

thought if I introduced myself as Michelle it would make me a new person, a happier person. It

didn’t. The fact that nobody knew anything about me was a disadvantage, it meant that nobody

understood me. I want to be understood. I was shouting to be heard, in a voice that was no longer

mine. Every time someone calls me Michelle it is as though they are sending me a clear reminder

that this is not my home and they are a stranger.

After three weeks of living in New Jersey I had my interview at Mountain View Prep. I walked

through the halls overwhelmed by their size and the number of faces. I sat down in Mrs. Simmon's

office and she looked me in the eye saying, “I cannot imagine how hard this is for you. New

home, new school, new friends, family overseas, having to start from scratch, build your life up

from the ground.” Not being able to hold back anymore, I burst into tears.

“I think this is the right place for you Michelle.”

I didn’t say anything.

Night after night I cried myself to sleep, emotionally drained with the same thought

running through my head repeatedly, “It would have been easier if I had stayed.”

In the summer I went back to South Africa to visit the people I had left behind. I knew

this was a make it or break it moment. This visit was going to either give me closure or it would

be a major setback on my road towards settling down in the U.S. Watching the life I used to live

as an outsider was heart rendering but at the same time eye opening. I was no longer a part of it.

I didn’t fit in anymore, I didn’t want to. Saying goodbye the second time was harder than the

first because now I knew that South Africa was not the place I wanted to be but I could no longer

deceive myself into thinking that my new life was a utopia. I knew the truth.

The next few months I was miserable, distraught. I felt myself deteriorating, refusing to

confront the pain I was feeling. I simply had no place that I belonged. Nothing has really

changed since then. I don’t remember what it feels like to be me. I have changed, and that only

leaves me with a bigger question; who am I?

Some days I am spiralling downwards. Once upon a time I would have fought that dark

and dangerous pull. Not anymore. I no longer have the energy or the motivation. I have no fight

left in me. And then, just as I have slipped beneath the surface, I see the sudden blaze of sunrise

- only for a second. That small fragment of hope somehow renews of my strength and my head

resurfaces again. Things will get better. I don’t always see it but I believe it. Because I have to.

I learned this year that writing is about “finding your voice”, the people, images, ideas

that inspire you, move you to express yourself to the world in your own unique way. I find

myself desperately searching for my lost voice.