by Yumi Takahashi
America was never one place to me
more a scatter of moments
I tried to gather my hands.
A diner at dawn
where the waitress called everyone “hon.”
A highway that stretched so far
It felt like a question without an answer.
A city that hummed with urgency,
as if standing still might undo it.
I learned the country in fragments
in the way strangers held doors open,
in the way they didn’t,
in the way the land changed its mind
every few hundred miles.
Mountains giving way to plains,
plains giving way to water,
each insisting they were the real beginning.
Some days America felt like a promise.
Other days, a story told out of order.
Mostly, it felt like a place
still trying to finish its own sentence.
And maybe that’s the truth of it
that this country is less a destination
and more a long, restless becoming,
a map that redraws itself
every time you look away.
I’m still learning it.
About the Author
Yumi is a student majoring in Gender Studies, with a focus on identity, culture, and representation. She is interested in how history and everyday life shape the way people understand themselves and each other.