Category: <span>Life</span>

Imagine being eleven years old and finding yourself suddenly blind, deaf and mute. That is exactly what it felt like when I moved to the United States. We landed at JFK in the afternoon of August 21st, 1994. Dusk had settled over the Big Apple by the time we exited immigration, customs and picked up our luggage. We drove to my aunt’s house in the suburbs of Philadelphia and began our new life.

I was enrolled into a local middle school and started 6th grade on September 6th, 1994. That would be a short two weeks after we arrived here. Here are a few facts about me on my first day of school:

I did not speak any English. I did not know anyone. I had never used a school locker or seen a locker lock before. I was 11 and most other 6th graders were 12-13 years old. I was enrolled into ESL (English as a Second Language). I was also enrolled in Spanish class — and why not? It was all the same for my brain… English, Spanish… they could have added Mandarin and it wouldn’t have mattered to me. I had to take a test to be admitted into 6th grade. My math level was that of a 9th grader.

I was sad, nervous, anxious, relentlessly teased by my classmates for anything and everything. I could not complain to my parents or my sister; They were busy getting on their feet so that we could move out of my aunt’s house and begin rebuilding our lives in our new homeland. My parents and sister had to get drivers’ licenses, jobs, and find an apartment.

… and move out we did a scant three months later. My mom and sister got jobs first, my dad followed. My sister enrolled into Drexel University. My parents worked hard, incredibly hard — all the time. My dad worked three jobs initially and my mom two. They helped pay for my sister’s college education (though like me, she paid part of the way herself).

Fast forward four years — my sister married and my parents were homeowners working normal jobs and saving for retirement, for my college education. We were comfortable…

Fast forward two more years and I was attending Drexel University on a merit-based scholarship.

Fast forward five more years and my parents were attending my graduation from college.

Fast forward three years and we celebrated my marriage to an amazing man.

Fast forward three more years and my parents were helping my husband and I move into our first house. Fast forward another six months and my parents were helping us bring Sophia back home from the hospital.

This is the truth. This.. this is a story of determination, of hard work, of not being spoiled. This is a story of immigration, of the American dream. This story isn’t really about me. It is about my parents. It is and always was just about them. I dedicate this story, this series to them.

2 suitcases per person. Your whole life, your children’s lives — all in 8 suitcases. Memories, special mementos, family heirlooms — all in 8 precious suitcases. I don’t remember those suitcases — I don’t want to remember those suitcases.

I do remember my parents sorting through hundreds, maybe thousands of family pictures and albums and selecting a precious few. I remember the rest were burned … no other option. Perhaps more tragic than the fact they were burned, is the fact that each and everyone one of them, my dad took. He enjoyed photography as his hobby and would take, develop and print every picture. He let me “help” him when I was a little bit older and it was such an amazing treat.

I remember amazing pictures he took of my mom when they were dating. I remember pictures he took of my sister and me, of my family, my aunt when she and her family came to visit in 1988. They’re all gone. In fact, and I am sorry I missed seeing some that my aunt has from when my grandmother would post them to her. I want to see them, I want them. It made me very sad.

I was 8 or 9 when my parents began the application process for moving to the United States and thankfully unaware of the difficult road they were embarking on.

Immigration is a tricky word you see. One can immigrate for different reasons such as seeking political and religious asylum, for a new employment opportunity and many others. Most Jews immigrating from the Eastern Block countries were seeking asylum from religious persecution. Your emigration status was directly linked to the assistance you would receive upon your arrival in the states. HIAS was formed especially to aid in the resettlement of Jewry in the United States.

We had family in the United States (my mother’s sister) and applied to emigrate based on a re-unification program. The reunification program meant that the United States would allow you to immigrate to rejoin your loved ones (mother, father, sibling, child). Any social assistance had to be applied for separately. We did apply for social assistance (refugee status), went through an in-person interview at the U.S. Embassy in Moscow and were the only family out of hundreds interviewed that day to be denied.

An especially poigniant moment of the interview stands out in my mind; we were in the office of one of the embassy employee undergoing the application interview. The interviewer, a man in his middle to late 40ies or maybe even 50ies, speaking in almost flawless Russian said:

“Mr. Colonel, you want to apply for refugee status and come to the United States asking for aid? You are a Colonel and in America, Colonels have staffs of employees and aides. Do you think it is something you will be able to do, to stand in line with your hand open asking for free flour?”

The employee didn’t have any comprehension that my parents’ number one goal was to bring their children to America, to raise and educate them and enable them to live a normal life with rewards based on their achievements — and that yes, they would do whatever it takes to do that — forget who they are, let go of statuses and possessions. The fact is, that while esteemed and enjoyed a comfortable living, a Colonel in the USSR army didn’t retire with staffs and aides.

By denying my family refugee status, the United States essentially denied ANY and ALL assistance (financial and otherwise). They were permitting us to enter the country with the right to work. The reasons for the denial are unknown but could be any or a combination of the following: my mother’s sister who resides in the suburbs of Philadelphia was enjoying a very comfortable middle class life and my father was in the military and the embassy had a difficult time envisaging his new identity in America. I suppose the government had decided that if we did emigrate, my aunt was going to support us. I should also say that most families denied social assistance did not emigrate to the United States, instead opting to stay back or head to Germany or Israel who had more social aid oriented programs.

The lack of assistance did not weaken my parents’ resolve. We sold, donated and distributed all of our possessions packing up our 8 suite-cases (2 per person) and heading to a new life in America.

The next installment of the story of how I came to be who/where I am … if you’re new here, the previous ones are here, here, and here.

My dad, a Colonel by this point had made a decision to retire so that he and my mom could emigrate to the United States. The decision, I am told, was difficult. My parents had everything going for them; Being a retired, esteemed and decorated member of the armed forces, my dad was entitled to a cushy pension, a private apartment of substantial size in the city of his birth (Kiev) and many other perks (e.g., in the former USSR, Colonels did not have to wait in line at train stations or airports).

My sister and I however, had extremely limited prospects. Education was free (in fact, they paid YOU to go to college — if you were accepted to a program that is) excellent, required and respected. Nonetheless, education was not guaranteed even if your grades were outstanding and your entrance exams passed with flying colors. Corruption and wide-spread racism (your religious affiliation was forcefully stamped in your passport) were major causes for concern and barriers to attaining a spot at a respectable university. Employment opportunities were becoming scarce and even though it was the nineties, my parents were all but certain that neither my sister nor I will enjoy the same quality of life as did my parents. They made the ultimate sacrifice to emigrate.