As my legs step off the plane, my dark brown eyes widen in awe. Men and women swiftly pass by us in a panicked hurry. Doors open by magic and the “voice of God” welcomes us to our new home: “Terminal 3B is closed for maintenance,” he said. As our heads turn to examine every corner of the airport, I notice an “umugabo uli umuzungu” (white man) sitting in a corner gazing intently at a stack of papers. Moving away from my parents, I walk towards him. Reaching him, I stare at him silently until he notices me and gives me the item in his hand which has taken my interest. While the image of the man is blurred in my mind, that object is forever engraved into my memory. Reflecting on a moment that affected me, I remember that day. The day where a refugee-immigrant first stepped on American soil and the first time she held an American pen.