Sean The First

April 24, 2012
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When I was ten years old, my family moved to America from Sweden for my father’s job. My mother pretended to be okay with the move, but she hated the idea of moving even more than I did. The only person that seemed to be genuinely excited about the move was my four-year-old brother, Sean. He kept asking me about Americans.I didn’t know the answers so I would always reply, “You will find out when you get there, Sean.” This just made him even more excited to move.

After eight months of planning the move, the day was finally here. After saying goodbye to our friends and family, we headed to the airport. My father had already been to the house and had everything set up. We only took our clothes and other belongings with us. I was sure that I would never see Sweden again. Sean was still asking questions about America. He kept asking who the king was. Father told him that there wasn’t a king. It was obvious that Sean didn’t believe our father. He sulked all the way to airport and on the airplane. I was starting to worry about him, but when the plane landed in America, Sean seemed to be in better spirits. He was quiet, which is odd for him, but he was smiling and looking around eagerly while mother carried him. I remember my father telling me that we would be living in Miami, but he never explained to us how magnificent it was. It was extremely warm, which felt extremely unusual to us Swedes. The sun was so bright and there were so many people. We got into a car that had been waiting for our arrival, and we went to our new home.

When we arrived, I was awestruck. The house was enormous, well; at least that is how it seemed to us. Since Sweden is so crowded, most people live in tiny apartments, and this was about seven times the size of our old apartment. I decided to go see my room when I heard a scream. “MOLLY!” I ran to the base of the stairs as fast as I could. Sean was standing outside of his bedroom. He had tied a blanket around his neck and had a Burger King crown on his head. He jumped onto the railing of the stairs and slid down screaming “Här glider kungenavAmerika! Sean den förste Lindgren!” or “Here comes the king of America! Sean ‘the first’ Lindgren!”

“Molly, there hasn’t been a King Sean before has there?”

“Sean, What are you talking about?”

“Molly, papa lied to us! There are American kings, and we are them!?

“What do you think that?”

“This is the biggest house in the world! We have to be kings!”

Sean continued running around the house declaring himself the King of America. I didn’t have the heart to tell him we weren’t kings. It wasn’t until he tried to make the neighbors bow down to him a few days later, that we told him we weren’t kings.

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