2003 Childhood: Albania’s Transition, Dreams, and ‘No Cats in America
The year is 2003. My hometown has one movie theater that goes bankrupt a year after its opening. In its place they built a casino. It’s clear to see where the people’s priorities were: this is post-pyramid scheme Albania. Six years after the Civil War and the anarchy. Thirteen years after the fall of communism. My parents and every adult around me is grappling with the remnants of a once-familiar reality that now has been scattered. Emerging from it feels akin to stepping out of a tightly woven narrative, reminiscent of a cult, where your entire world has been shattered. The nation becomes fertile ground for religious practitioners seeking to engage with vulnerable individuals, particularly among the youth who may lack literacy in religious matters. This landscape is further nuanced by the historical context that Albania, paradoxically, was the first country to ever declare itself atheist. From the resounding communism chants that proclaimed, “Parti! Enver! Jemi gati kurdohere!” (Party! Enver! We are Ready whenever!), echoing the faithfulness to the political ideology, to the transformative calls of “Liri! Demokraci!” (Freedom! Democracy!), signifying the shift towards democratic values. And now, in the midst of change, it’s as if this casino emerges with a call that reflects the uncertainty and the spirit of taking chances: “Provojme fatin!” (Let’s try our luck!), capturing not only a sentiment of experimentation and openness to the unpredictability of fate but also carrying undertones of hope lost and a profound acknowledgment of a nation in transition: a symbol of a collective yearning to navigate its destiny beyond the constraints of the past, even as the journey is marked by negligence and a sense of losing control. Even though disillusioned, people are not readily giving up their fantasy for a get-rich-quick option. Even though disillusioned, the economic illiteracy is still ruling the country. It hurts not to have hope, it hurts to be betrayed — any condolence would do.
I watched Disney’s Anastasia and Just Married (featuring Ashton Kutcher and Brittany Murphy) in that movie theater. In 2003, I was six years old soaking up like a thirsty-for-hope sponge the American culture through the screen. I wasn’t able to associate popcorn with movie theaters yet. There was no such luxury in my hometown. I had no idea what diet Coke was either. However, vivid memories remain — laughter rippling through the audience when Brittany Murphy’s character comically bumped her head against the door frame. I remember feeling safe. Strangely, something about the lights being off as the film was screening comforted me in the same way as doing my homework in the evenings after school with the soft glow of a candle. A ritual born out of necessity, as electricity would cut off while I was in the middle of my studies, it still provided a reassuring familiarity, a communal embrace of both literal and symbolic darkness.
At that age, I took immense pride in my VHS cassette collection, boasting all the Disney movies with Albanian voiceovers. However, “Anastasia” was absent from my collection. That’s why my eighteen-year-old sister and her boyfriend took me to see it at the theatre. My brother, then a student in Italy, made it a tradition to bring to me a new VHS cassette with each visit. Among them, my favorite was “An American Tail” for its song: “There are no cats in America”, the lyrics of which painted a world where mice dared to believe that in America, there were no cats. Little did I know that this catchy refrain would become more than just a whimsical tune; it would resonate as a metaphor for my own journey. While, for most kids my age, America remained an intangible and distant concept — something glimpsed on a movie screen that promptly disappeared as the credits rolled and life in our Eastern European country continued— for me it was a bit more tangible and personal: my sister was dating an American. This newfound connection bridged the gap between abstract ideas presented on TV and the real world. Through this connection, America ceased to be a distant fantasy; it transformed into a palpable reality, even for a child like me. My sister’s boyfriend played a crucial role in making the distant seem near, introducing me to the vibrant world of “successful” capitalism and consumerism that America was, and Albania longed to be. It wasn’t at all about the material aspects; it was about regaining hope, safety, and connections. He gifted me my very first watch — a white Rugrats watch that emitted a playful beep with every passing hour. This simple yet significant gesture marked my initiation into a world where even the mundane carried a touch of magic, turning America into more than just a faraway place — it became a realm of possibilities and connections. Each cheerful beep served as a reminder that, just like the changing hours on the watch, my time to embark on a new chapter and cross the Atlantic was drawing near. The innocent gift not only sparked envy among all my friends, but also carried a deeper meaning, foreshadowing the transitions and adventures that lay ahead.
2010 Adolescence: Shifting Mindsets, Idolizing Taylor Swift, and Unraveling Self-Perceptions
The year is 2010. The casino went bankrupt too. This becomes more than a financial downturn, but rather a symbol shift in the collective mindset of Albanians. This economic setback echoed a deeper disillusionment: the once-optimistic allure of chance and fortune had given way to a more pragmatic and skeptical outlook among the people. In its place they built a supermarket. Now that made more sense. The shift was more aligned with the practical needs of the community: “Has my hometown finally come to its senses?”, I wonder though it’s hard to tell at thirteen when you’re laser-focused on “moving out and calling your own shots” in the words of a Taylor Swift’s song that I’m listening to nonstop on my iPod, “Never Grow Up”. With wired headphones on my ears and my iPod tucked into my front pocket, I pass the street where the supermarket is because my favorite kebab is across from it. I pass that way because I wait for my friend to hit the gym. I was a wide-eyed girl drinking in like a thirsty-for-validation sponge the diet culture. I scroll through pictures of Taylor Swift on Tumblr. I soak up every detail of her. Her life becomes a source of fascination and emulation, with one image capturing her holding a diet Coke — an emblem of a lifestyle I could give everything to have. Everything Taylor Swift does becomes a template for what I aspire to be. From her poised demeanor to her musical and lyrical prowess, she symbolizes the kind of person I envision becoming. This newfound understanding, however, comes with its own set of challenges. Now I start to develop anxiety every time the gym teacher calls my name to shout my weight in front of class, in front of the boys I blushed whenever looked by. I still don’t know that there’s nothing wrong with me. Anxiety becomes an unwelcome companion, especially when the gym teacher booms my name, demanding my weight in front of the entire class. The once harmless act of being noticed by boys now induces in me a blush, an involuntary response to newfound self-consciousness. Now I become unhealthily insecure about my nose. Little do I know that my gym teacher is a bully. Little do I realize that there is nothing inherently wrong with me — an epiphany yet to dawn on me.
2016 Young Adulthood: Scrubbing Cabinets, Dreams and Uncharted Paths
The year is 2016 — I find myself in the kitchen of an elderly American couple, engaged in a side hustle — an endeavor inspired by the entrepreneurial spirit of Americans. This opportunity, orchestrated by my sister’s in-laws who are friends with the couple, places me in a distinctive setting. I stand on a stool at their kitchen counter, diligently scrubbing the already spotless wooden cabinets, all while the inauguration of Donald Trump unfolds on the television. “I can’t believe in this country anymore”, says Marlene, 89, to her husband, John, 95.
As I prepare to depart, Marlene steers our conversation toward her adopted son, and we traverse through a corridor with family photographs on the walls. She complains about his infrequent visits despite his intriguing career in either the FBI or CIA — I can’t recall which, specialized in aviation. this information leaves me both shocked and deeply impressed. At 19, I find myself captivated by his story. In the pictures on the wall, he appears to be in his 20s, effortlessly handsome. My youthful naivety leads me to make presumptions about his life, interpreting his image as one untouched by hardship. Little do I realize, even though not too naive to comprehend the unequal distribution of wealth and luck in the land of opportunities, I find myself aspiring to achieve something equally impressive, ignoring the fact that I’m there as a cleaner. Having completed the task and getting ready to leave inside my first car, a white Buick Century 1998, I am preoccupied with a different concern: “Will this old lady compensate me with $40 or $50 for this work?” That is all I’m thinking about drenched in a melancholic sense of fantasy lost. Work. A lot of work. If it wasn’t evident, I had moved to this country, specifically Idaho.
2021 Womanhood: Ancestral Echoes in the Arizona Wilderness
The year is 2021, and I find myself in Bowie, Arizona, gazing at a mountain in the company of a group of free-spirited 20-somethings within an off-grid community — a Buddhist retreat center where I am volunteering. At 24, I’m seeking relief from the lifeless concrete of New York City. Eager to connect with my new friends, I decide to share the compelling story of my paternal grandmother who passed away when I was ten. My grandmother, compelled by tradition, was forced into a marriage she did not choose. In an act of rebellion, she sought refuge in the mountains, spending an entire night there. They send a search party and brought her home in the morning. One of my fellow volunteers from Ohio responds with genuine interest, “A mountain like this in Albania? So fascinating — to think that I didn’t even know the country was on the map! Now I know the kind of women it has, too!” As I share this story, I realize that despite the vast geographical and cultural differences, there is an inexplicable resonance between her experience and my own emotions in this remote corner of Arizona, an inner knowing that she was everything but scared. Surrounded by the stark beauty of the landscape, I confess to my newfound friends that being in this faraway place evokes a profound sense of understanding.
I, too, harbor a desire to escape, to transcend something that has brought me to this middle-of-nowhere desert in Arizona. In that moment, I am not scared. Instead, tears well up as I reflect on my grandmother’s courage. It dawns on me that she, too, must have faced the unknown with a fearless heart — the same resilient blood running through my veins.
Yet Another Writer's Block 
