Fatimah Krgo

The year is 2012, and my mother, my brother, and I sit in the living room watching TV awaiting the arrival of my father from his job. Rewind about 14 years, the place is Boone hospital, and the cries of joyous family members fill the 1st floor, a frantic nurse rushes to the front desk, and says frantically, “Paige Dr. Quint! She’s about to be in labor!” My family members described me to be very cheerful and that I was always laughing and that I never stopped smiling. But they also told me that I was a cry baby as well, whenever someone took something away from me, like a toy or food, I would start crying and then preside to hit them, ferociously with my tiny fists.

“Oh…okay I will, now calm down Francine, it’ll all be alright.” The other nurse said in a calm and soothing voice.
A few minutes later the doctor ran to room 119 where I was being born. A few days later, I was taken to the comfort of my home, to begin my life with my parents and my older brother.

I was eating my breakfast which consisted of cheerios and milk, when I heard a tiny knock on the backyard door. I quickly got up and ran as fast as my little legs could carry me, to the door to see who it was, even though there was really only one answer to that question. I came to the door to see a little forehead peeking up to try to see through the glass. I opened the door only to reveal four of my cousins, ready to play with nothing on but their diapers, all except the eldest who was fully dressed. As our usual routine went, I jumped up with glee and ran to get my brother to go play outside. The zipping of sprinklers filled the yard as we danced around them, loving the cool feel of water dripping down our backs, fighting against the strong heat of the rays from the hot afternoon sun.

The time is seven thirty a.m. and my mom is helping me get dressed and ready for pre-school. My brother is already downstairs in the kitchen with a great big grin on his face, wagging his finger and teasing, “Ha-ha-ha I got ready all by myself.”
I grew angry and annoyed by him, I ran down the stairs with half of my hair brushed and my eyes still groggy from the little sleep that I got due to my excitement of my first day of school. Once I reached the bottom of the stairs, I chased him around the kitchen table until my mom and dad separated us from each other, and yelled,
“Guys STOP! Now Fatimah go back upstairs and get your backpack, and Ahmed go put on your shoes.”
My mom rushed my brother and I out of the house, into the car, and zipped out of the driveway. As usual, we were fighting against the clock. We arrived at the Islamic school, the private school that I went to for five years, which were undoubtedly the best five years of my childhood life. The day zipped by, because we were having so much fun, probably because our only assignment was to share with the class what our favorite foods were, and what we loved to do when we were home. When our parents came to pick us up, we dragged our backpacks behind us and slowly climbed into our car seats, exhausted from a hard-days’ work.

The summer before the fourth grade, my mom told my brother and I, that we were going to start to attend a public school. I was devastated. All of my friends were at the private school, and now I was taken away from them and into a new world, in which I was not prepared for. When I arrived at Mary Paxton Keely Elementary school, I was put into an E.L.L. class even though I was born in America, and spoke perfect English. I felt very out of place in public school, for the first two years. That same year, my love for soccer began. I registered along with my best friend, in the Columbia recreational soccer league. I loved the feeling of the wind blowing in my hair as I dribbled the ball down the field, only to be met with one of my team mates who I then passed the ball to, and with one powerful, precise, kick, we scored the winning goal of our first game. From then on, I felt a certain connection to the sport, one that I would never forget or lose.
When I was in sixth grade, I started to wear the hijab or headscarf. I felt that I was ready, but I didn’t expect it to be as hard as it was. I knew that people would stare at me but I always thought that they would ask me about it, instead of making assumptions. When I was in the sixth grade I experienced how truly mean people could be. I became best friends with two girls that were on the same team as I was. Towards the end of sixth grade, one of the girls started to act very mean and expressed intentions of trying to fit in, and to be popular. We would argue a lot, and in the seventh grade I didn’t associate with her anymore. But there was a serious problem; there were other people that she roped into her scheme, who were also my friends. Since then, I am only friends with one of those girls, the others I am truly sorry for, they have fallen under the spell of society, and don’t intend to stand out at all, but follow what everyone is doing and wearing, unlike me. I am an individual.

The summer before the eighth grade, my family and I went on a long awaited trip. We traveled to Bosnia, the country in Europe where my parents are from. My mother and I hadn’t been there in a number of years, but my brother and father went a few years before. I was so excited to go that I started to pack a month earlier! We had to take four planes in order to get there, when we flew over the Atlantic Ocean we were on the plane for close to seven hours. Even though there were movies playing on our TVs, the time didn’t seem to pass quick enough before my motion sickness and claustrophobia kicked in. My seat was close to the edge of the row, but our row was in the middle, so it had the most amount of people in it. In the middle of the flight, I had to go use the restroom, but I didn’t want to, because in order to do so, I would have to climb over the man who was sitting to my right, preventing me from being the one sitting at the edge which would make it easier for me to get up and walk to the bathroom. But when it got to the point where I couldn’t wait anymore, I turned to the man sitting next to me and said,
“Um, excuse me sir, I need to pass through to go to the restroom.”
“Oh okay, here I’ll move as much as I can.” He said while turning his legs to his right exposing them to the path that we could walk through. I tried to squeeze through without making the situation any more awkward than it was and barley but surely succeeded. When we finally arrived, we were met by my grandfather who hadn’t seen us in so many years, and naturally broke down in tears as well as everyone else. A big Bosnian feast awaited us at their house where we were to stay for the majority of the trip. After we were finally finished with our fantastic meal, we washed up, and went to bed. The whole trip was full of fun adventures including, going to swim in the Mediterranean, visiting family, and most of all walking around the city at night. I can surely say that I will never forget this trip, and I am counting down the days until I get to go back!
Some of my most memorable memories are with either my friends or family. I am still best friends with the people who I grew up with and although we go to different schools, we still manage to keep a tight knit friendship. Also, the fact that we are all Muslims brings us even closer together. All in all, I am truly grateful for the life that I have had, considering that there are many children out there who don’t even have both parents around, or are living in extreme poverty. I am grateful for having a roof over my head, plenty of food on the table, and two loving parents, along with a wonderful extended family.