Today, over breakfast after my son’s basketball game, he looked up and said, “Dad… that story you told us yesterday — it sounds like something Mama has told us before.” I smiled. Because it was my story. But it turns out — it was hers too. Different times. Same journey.
Yesterday, after his game — his first time back on the court since breaking his hand — we went out for a late lunch. He’d spent months running track, rebuilding his strength through the 200, 400, and 800 meters. But seeing him back on that hardwood floor again, even if they lost by over 30 points, felt like a win. While we waited for our food, I looked at my sons and said, “Let me tell you about the day I first came to America.”
It was the summer of 2000. I flew out of Nairobi, landed in Dallas, and then made my way to Wichita, Kansas. I arrived around 6:30 p.m. And the sun was still up. That was the first shock. Back home, by 6:00 p.m., it’s already dark. No guesswork. No long summer nights. You know what time it is by the sky. But in Wichita that evening, it felt like mid-afternoon. That night, I tried to sleep around 10 p.m., and the sky outside was still glowing. I remember lying there thinking, “How do people sleep in this country? Does it even get dark?”
The next morning, I was taken to the international admissions office at Wichita State. Right across the street was a McDonald’s. I had never been inside one before. We didn’t have McDonald’s in Nairobi back then — I had only seen it in movies, especially Coming to America, with the hilarious “McDowell’s” knockoff. But here it was. The real deal. So I told myself, after I register, I’m going in.
I walked into McDonald’s for the first time in my life. I stepped up to the counter, ready to experience America, and said: “I’d like chicken and chips… and soda.” The cashier stared at me. “What kind of burger?” he asked. I said, “Just burger.” Then he said, “We don’t have chips. We have fries. And pop.” Now I was confused. I could see the fries. I knew what I wanted. But the words were different. Where I come from, fries are called chips. And soda is soda — not pop.
Then there was the burger. In Kenya, we don’t hide grilled meat in bread. We roast it over fire, season it with salt, and savor every bite. No buns. No ketchup. Just meat — pure and honest. That’s nyama choma. So when the cashier offered a cheeseburger, I said yes, mostly out of hunger and curiosity. He pointed again at the fries and said, “These are fries, not chips.” I whispered under my breath, “Still chips,” and found a place to sit.
And right there, I took my first bite of culture shock. Not in a classroom. Not from a textbook. But from a cheeseburger and fries.
So when my son reminded me today that Mama had told a similar story, I realized something I hadn’t before. My wife came to the U.S. six years after I did. And sure enough — she went through the same thing. Same confusion. Same fries. Same adjustment.
The moral of the story? We may come from different places. We may speak in different ways. We may arrive at different times. But when you pause, listen, and remember, you realize: we’re all living the same story — just at different moments in time. Culture shock doesn’t always come with big announcements. Sometimes, it shows up in sunlight that overstays its welcome… in small words that don’t match what you know… in burgers that teach you more than books ever could. We may be different, but we all experience life in the same way — just not always at the same time. You just have to listen. Then remember.
What is your culture shock story?
Anthony Ndungu PhD
