Having come here from somewhere else people often ask me what I think about their country, these United States. I usually answer that I really like it here; that despite some shortcomings it's the greatest country on earth, for a lot of reasons. But what I like most about it is its people. The kindness I meet everywhere I go; the generosity toward those in need that I see all around me; the boundless optimism and the "we'll take care of that" attitude that just can't be stopped.
And then, sometimes, I tell them this story.
I am sitting in the courtyard of the apartment building where I live. I am five years old. With me is my best friend Lottie who is six. She's trying to teach me how to tie my shoelaces. I'm thinking that I've just about got it when a sudden grumbling sound distracts us-forgotten are the shoelaces.
Our curiosity on fire, we run out to the street. The distant rumbling has turned into the tortured clanging and clattering of many iron treads on pavement, as a long line of American tanks winds its way up the street. One by one they roll past our apartment block.
This is a novel sight! We cheer and wave at the green-clad soldiers leaning out of the tops of these awesome machines, and they smile and wave back at us. Then, a total surprise. Reaching into the depths of their clamorous, cannon-studded monsters, a few of the men come up with handfuls of something that they throw toward us. It takes us just seconds to identify the wrapped objects as chocolate bars. By then every child in the neighborhood has joined us, but after many tanks and many generous soldiers there is plenty for all.
It is five years later, an evening in early summer. Thanks to a government program several of my friends and I are en route to spend our six weeks of summer holiday on an island in the North Sea. Right now we are still in a train station, waiting to switch lines to get us from our little local onto the big one that will take us all the way up north, all the way to our ship.
A rowdy bunch of American soldiers spills from another train and tumbles toward us noisily. They say something to the woman in charge of us who, with helpless shrugs and polite smiles, indicates her non-comprehension.Giving up, they move toward the snack bar and out of sight.
We are still waiting for our connecting train when the soldiers reappear, even more boisterous and happy than before. Smiling all the while and saying things we have no way of understanding, they pull chocolates, obviously just bought, from their pockets, and hand one to each of us, even our chaperone. I guess we must have been a sorry-looking lot, a dozen or so scrawny, underfed ten-year-olds late at night in an ill-lit train station.
Fast forward to winter 1965. I am now thirteen and unfortunately, due to my parents' poor life choices, I am spending Christmas in a state orphanage. No one is feeling very festive when suddenly all of us children are invited to join in holiday celebrations at the local American Army base.
Ants must have been in our pants or in those bus seats because there was no keeping us still on the ride across town. As we pulled up, a crowd of people stood waiting, and as the doors of the bus hissed open, each child was greeted by a friendly, smiling family and led toward unknown adventures. The first of these turned out to be a dinner so sumptuous it seemed like a meal in heaven to us. Some of the dishes were strange but never mind, it was delicious and I ate it all, including a tiny box of ice cream.
Later on, we watched some cartoons and I know we all had a great time. I was in my first year of studying English during that winter and I'm sure that, despite my shyness, I must have tried to use a dozen words or so in our not-so-successful attempts at a conversation. There was no difficulty, however, when it came to understanding our expressions of gratitude, especially after we all received a beautifully wrapped Christmas gift.
I was too young then to realize all the implications of a foreign military entrenched in my country, and all the upheavals that had brought things to this point. After many years I understood that not all of my fellow citizens had the opportunity to form such a positive view of the situation. But, speaking for myself, I will always be grateful to the people who, through a few acts of kindness and generosity, made such a long-lasting impression on me, a little girl in another country.
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