Kiss the Ground

Sitting at concourse B31 of John F. Kennedy International Airport, I rub my face into my hands, mixing my tears with the sweat that coats my palms. Since I last sat in this concourse, waiting to depart to Israel for my first time, Eretz Yisrael, or The Land of Israel, has been calling my name, and often times screaming it. Now, in my last few minutes on American soil, tears are rushing from my eyes in an effort to express the immense gratuity and disturbing detachment that I feel from America.

For twenty years, home has stretched from sea to shining sea. From welcoming me in the shadow of the Statue of Liberty to lulling me to sleep with the tides of the Pacific, American soil never ceases to provide me with the nutrients I need to grow, or the solid ground I need when I need to weep. Such a loving and beautiful home I am privileged to reject; I suppose that’s the closest to tasting freedom I’ll ever get.

It is a tradition for new immigrants to Israel kiss the ground when they step foot onto the new soil. My father kindly encouraged me to kiss the ground for him when I land. Though I find such acts of nationalism to be aggravating, minutes from my departure, I am tempted to bend down and kiss the American soil instead.