By Leila Sackur
We didn’t expect it to be this hot. It’s 35 degrees in Chicago, despite being mid- September. It’s the middle of the day and we are on the boardwalk of Lake Michigan. The pale concrete reflects the light of the too- bright sun and we are squinting as we walk. My hair is clinging to the back of my neck.
My twin brother and I are here for 6 days before we move on to Detroit, and then Ann Arbor, and then Grand Rapids, and then back again. And then we will go back to university- second year, and restart everything all over.
It feels weirdly poignant to be in the US now. We were born here, in Washington D.C., but we haven’t returned in years. The only thing I have left to show of my American identity is that I’m still able to recite the pledge of allegiance; an old patriotism learned in kindergarten turned sour by a teenhood political awakening. But still, it feels odd to be back in the country where I formed my childhood memories in the summer before I turn 20. Because I judge the age of 20 as “Official Adulthood”, so this feels strangely circular, a rite of passage.