I don’t really remember my first visit to New York City. I was in forth grade and had come from Buffalo for my mother’s college graduation. I remember seeing the Flatiron Building, riding the subway, and craning my neck to try and see the tops of the buildings; but not much else. I do remember, however, telling my father that I was going to go to live here one day. I knew then that I would do everything in my power to move to New York City as soon as I could.

Fast forward to my senior year of high school. While most of my friends were applying to colleges around our hometown, I was looking for the cheapest way to go to New York for college. My parent’s had told me early on that I was responsible for my college debt. That’s how I found Macaulay and knew that it was going to help me accomplish my dream. The day I got accepted was the happiest day of my life because I knew there was nothing holding me back anymore. When my friends would ask me if I was scared, I’d tell them no. That was only half true. In a way, I wasn’t scared since I was too excited to begin my adventure and do something different. But I was scared, because I was leaving everything familiar behind -my friends, my family, my home- in favor of a completely new life.

When it finally came time to move in, my mother drove me. I’ll never forget leaving my house, knowing it would no longer fully be my home. It was so difficult to know I would be going so far away but I was also excited to begin my new adventure. After eight hours of driving, we arrived at my dorm and I met my roommates. We unpacked and I said goodbye to my mom. That was really the hardest part. My mom was always there for me as a kid and knowing she would be so far away was terrifying.

After six months of being on my own, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. My roommates are my best friends; I spend all my time with them. I’m incredibly lucky since I’ve never heard of anyone getting along so well with his or her roommates. Living in the city is amazing. I get to experience something new everyday. My favorite thing about the city is that I can walk out my door and be anywhere in a matter of minutes. I can explore multiple neighborhoods in one day, each with their own distinct personality. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and remember that I live here, in the greatest city in the world, and I get excited all over again. Moving to New York was the greatest decision I ever made. Moving away from everything familiar to me was scary but it made me braver, more mature, and I’m proud that I had the courage to follow my dreams.

Sara’s description of my family’s immigration story accurately sums up how my family came to the U.S.  Those who’ve read it know that I am not an immigrant and don’t have a true immigration story. However, I do have experiences from being the child of immigrants. Therefore, rather than regurgitating what Sara worked so hard to put together, I think it might be best to discuss my own personal experiences from having grown up in a Jamaican-American household.

When I was younger, there were essentially two worlds: the world inside my house, and the rest of the world. They seemed like two completely separate entities and, consciously or subconsciously, depending on where I was and who I was with, I could be one of two different people. At home, I was more Jamaican. I ate Jamaican food, understood how Jamaican’s spoke (it’s not as simple as just putting “mon” at the end of every sentence), sang Jamaican nursery rhymes, and knew Jamaican jokes and superstitions. At school, and when I wasn’t with my family, I was American. I ate American food, and learned American jokes, nursery rhymes, and superstitions. It was rare that the two worlds ever crossed because when my parents left the house, they became more “American” as well. Today, things are about the same, but I think that I’m more willing to show my Jamaican side to others than when I was younger.

Even though I felt as if I lived in two worlds, that didn’t mean that the world of my house was like the real Jamaica, and my parents often reminded me of that. They told me that my life was boring- that had I grown up in Jamaica, instead of spending all day watching T.V. and playing on the computer, I’d be climbing mango and guinep trees, running around with friends, and playing more active games. I never understood why they told me this, as it only made me feel like my life was less than it could have been, but eventually I decided that I was glad to not have lived that life. Yes, I didn’t spend as much time outside, and didn’t climb as many trees, but I’d also never been chased up a mango tree for not doing my chores, kicked by a cow for I forgetting to tie its legs before I milked it, or beaten by my teacher in front of all my classmates in school. The same could not be said for my parents. I figured that my life was, while different, equally as good.

My visits to Jamaica confirmed that I was content with the life I had. While some of my family members in Jamaica are just as well off, if not more, than we are, many live or have lived impoverished lifestyles. Not all have or had indoor plumbing, financial stability, or even proper education. In Jamaica, one must pay yearly school fees to enter their child your child in school. This is not just for college, but also for all other levels of education. Not all Jamaicans are able to continually afford this. As a result, I tended to feel bad for some of my family members and appreciate my American life more.

In conclusion, while my immigration story isn’t as interesting or inspiring as that of my parents, it still reflects some of what one has to deal with when they live in a culture much different from that with which they were raised.

I am fourth generation American. Because of this, the stories regarding my ancestors’ travels to America and their first experiences here have become reduced to little more than facts and a few memorable details. Despite this, I will attempt to fill in the blanks of where my family came from.

My mother’s father’s grandmother came from a village called Porak in Czechoslovakia. Porak was a mining village and she came from a coal mining family. They came to America for more opportunities. They immigrated to a mining town near the Poconos called Eckley. My mother’s father’s grandfather came from Warsaw, Poland. He and his family also immigrated to Eckley where the two met. My great-great grandfather was a miner in Eckley and they raised their family there. Eckley is a famous mining town because it was the home of the Molly Maguires. The Molly Maguires were a secret society of coal miners. Their children stayed in Eckley and so did my grandfather until he moved to Philadelphia where he met my grandmother.

Little is known about my grandmother’s grandparents except that they were born in Ireland until they moved to Brooklyn. They stayed in Brooklyn for a few years, then moved to Philadelphia and worked in a factory that made machine parts. The majority of my mother’s family is still in the Philadelphia area today. I think it is interesting how families will travel thousands of miles to come to America and then will stay in one town, or area for generations and generations.

My father’s side of the family comes from all over Eastern. One of my grandmother’s grandmothers was born in Riga, Latvia. My grandmother’s mother’s father was born in Hungary. Half of my grandfather’s family came from Hungary. His other grandparents came from Poland and Lithuania. They were all living in shtettles there, so they came here for more opportunities and a better life.

My grandfather’s grandfather came to America with his family but left many relatives behind. Her father kept in contact with some of his cousins, his mother’s sister’s children. My grandmother still has letters between them from before the war. Everyone on this side of the family is Jewish and unfortunately, the correspondence stopped mid way through the war. These relatives were living in Vilnius in Lithuania which was occupied by German forces during the war. There were about 265,000 Jews living in there and the Nazis in Paneriai murdered 95% of them. My family has assumed that unfortunately, our relatives in Lithuania were killed in a concentration camp. My grandmother keeps the letters between her father and his cousins, and is grateful that her grandfather left when he did.

My grandfather’s mother was born in Hungary and came to America alone when she was 13 years old. Her mother had died and her father remarried to a woman who didn’t want my great grandmother around.

My grandmother’s grandfather settled in a town called Canchahakan where he started silent movie house. It was a real family operation. My grandmother’s aunt played the piano during the films, another aunt took tickets, and another operated the projector.

From Rice Fields to the Concrete Jungle

            My name is Reylyn Krizzel Aloag Roldan, but you can just call me Reylyn. I was born in Quezon City, Philippines on July 29, 1995. To help you understand, the capital of Manila is like New York City; it is made up of different “boroughs.” Just as Brooklyn is to New York, Quezon City is to Manila. Another comparison I want to point out is the weather. Yes, I know that the Philippine Islands are located in the tropics and that New York simply does not match up in terms of great weather. Although this is indeed true, the Philippines also has its downs. Just like the American East Coast experiences hurricane season, the Philippines also has a tropical storm season of its own. Because the waters are much warmer in the Pacific, these storms are called typhoons, which have stronger winds and heavier rainfall. Can you see where I am going with this? If not, I’ll just tell you. You see, typhoon season starts around May and by the end of July, it is at its peak. So now, do you see the connection I’m trying to make? My goodness, the trip to the hospital must have been terrible. Well actually, my parents have confirmed this assumption already when they recounted my birth story to me. One good thing did come out (no pun intended) from all of this though. ME!

Bored yet? Hopefully not, so please bare with me. WE DIDN’T EVEN GET TO THE BEST PART! When you read the first sentence of this essay, did you wonder, “Wow, she has a really long name!” C’mon, don’t lie. We’re all friends here. Okay, I’ll just assume that you agreed with me since I’ll forever be incapable of knowing your response at this very moment in time. If you haven’t realized yet, I’m basically talking to no one except this paper. Gosh, you must think I’m crazy. But that’s okay! We’re all a bit crazy, right? So going back to my name. The reason why my name is so long is because in the Philippines, we consider our mother’s maiden name as our middle name. Pretty cool, eh? For me, my Filipino middle name is Aloag (Al-oh-huag). The history of my surname is even cooler. The Roldan name originated from Scotland and Spain. According to Google, I even have family crests from both countries. Following the guidelines of history books which the public education system has bestowed upon me, I am certain that my genealogy traces all the way back to Spain. Plus, the influence of the conquistadors was definitely inevitable. Although I highly doubt that I am a descendant of the Scottish line, it’s still quite cool to ponder about. You know what they say: anything is possible!

I bet you had enough of me already. My life can be a bit dull sometimes. So moving onto the real story. I currently reside in New York City, more specifically in the borough of Staten Island. I know you’re probably like, “Hahahahahaha, you’re from the dump!” Jokes on you because I’ve already heard it only about a hundred times. Staten Island is seriously not that bad; it’s the suburbs of the city. So if you plan to raise kids in an urban setting but without all the corruption that the city has to offer, Staten Island is the best place to do it. I promise, your kids will turn out perfectly normal. C’mon, look at me. I’m great! But fair warning, there will be occasional teasing when they grow up. Don’t worry though; it will build their character and make them a tough nut to crack. On the bright side, it definitely won’t be as bad as Long Island kids. Ooh, shots fired. If you’re from LI and reading this… sorry not sorry!

So how did my family get to the greatest city in the world? The same way everyone else in the United States did (excluding the Native Americans, of course) – through hard work and dedication. My family wasn’t born into wealth. In fact, it all started in the farmlands of the northern provinces of the Philippines. Coincidentally, both sides of my family are from there and neither knew what kind of future lied ahead. Funny how fate works, right? Anyways, my grandparents from my dad’s side were from a province called Ilocos Sur (Ee-loh-kos Soor). My grandmother has three other siblings, all of whom are women. The oldest, Felicitas, was striving to be a biochemist, which was a profession unusual for women to pursue. She was the first to leave the province and earn her degree in a college in Manila. Now this achievement was massive back then. She was actually the first woman to ever receive such degree in all of the northern provinces. She was and still is a big deal back in Ilocos. In a way, she’s kind of my idol in a sense.

Upon graduating from college, she decided to take a leap of faith and go to America. Airplanes weren’t that popular in the Philippines in the 1960s, so my great aunt had to cross the ocean the old fashion way – by boat. She first settled in Hawaii for a year or so until she earned enough money to settle in the mainland. Like most Asian immigrants coming to the United States, she entered through California. Now how she arrived in New York, I completely have no idea, but if I have to guess she probably used her brains to do it. Using her biochemistry degree, she was offered a research job in Rutgers University where she worked for about five years. Remember when I told you she was a big deal? Well, her “big-dealness” spread amongst the biochemistry community. Columbia University asked her to work in their lab, and she accepted. It was during her time as an instructor in the biochemistry department in Columbia where she met her husband, Elias Naum Bobrow. To make their love story even more cliché, he was actually her student. Mind-blowing, eh?

Of course by this time, my great aunt already accumulated a large sum of money. She used that money to bring the rest of her family: her sisters, my grandmother, my three uncles, and my father. The cycle of hardships continued once they all settled here. My grandmother worked two jobs, one at Carnegie Hall and the other at INC. My grandfather, on the other hand, worked in a Sheraton Hotel. My father and uncles were job-hopping, ranging from McDonalds to JFK Airport. For a while, they lived in a small apartment in Woodside, Queens. Overtime, my grandparents and their children saved enough money to buy a house in Staten Island.

So let’s go a few years back and return to the motherland. It was in the late 70s when my parents met in college in Metro Manila. Unlike most college dormitories in the United States, various colleges shared dormitories in the Philippines. Both my parents were studying accounting in their respective colleges, and once again fate worked its magic and brought them together. Now that I think about it, does that mean that I’ll meet “the one” in college, too? OMG, that’s scary to think about. Where were we? Right, my parents’ love story. After a year together, my mother gave birth to my eldest brother, Ray. A few years later, my brother, Ralph, was born. And you already know that I came after him. Oh, fun fact of the day! All our names start with “R.” My mother’s name is Rosalina and my father’s is Reynold. Speaking of my father, he left for America after my first birthday. It took nearly seven years for our family to be reunited. SEVEN! Can you believe that?

I came to America when I was seven in May of 2003. Similar to my family members who came before me, I experienced a major culture shock. Language was definitely my biggest barrier. Ironically, the older members of my family knew more English than me when they first came to the States. I guess it was because of their education; my grandmother was a teacher and she passed her knowledge to her sons and husband. Another big difference was definitely the weather; we only knew one season in the Philippines – summer! So moving to the United States, and experiencing my first snowfall was a life milestone. Should we talk about food next? It’s true when they say that everything in America is BIGGER! The portions are simply incomparable. Some types of food definitely took time getting used to. I remember I wasn’t that fond of mustard when I first arrive; I thought it tasted disgusting. Both my mindset and palate eventually changed, and I’m now more open to try different kinds of cuisines. And NYC is the best place to do it!

This essay is getting too long. How did I even write so much? Wow, it’s almost midnight. I should really wrap this up, so here’s the jist of it. Although change can sometimes be frightening, it can also be very rewarding. If my Aunt Felicitas did not muster enough courage to move to America, my family wouldn’t be here right now. I wouldn’t be here right now. The most important advice I have ever gotten came from my grandfather on the day of my high school graduation. He said to me, “Don’t ever forget where you came from. Remember all the sacrifices and hardships we’ve made to get you where you are now. Always remember.” I carry these words with me everyday and for the rest of my life. Saying thank you isn’t merely enough to convey my gratefulness for everything my family has done for me. Because of this, I am letting my actions speak for themselves. Just like them, I too will work hard to not only provide for my future family but for them as well. And in the words of Ray Bradbury, sometimes we have to jump off cliffs and build our wings on the way down. This is truly the best way to live.

On February 17, 1947, a little girl named Sonia was born in the small town of Guayanilla, Puerto Rico. Born third out of ten children, out of only which five survived, she looked exactly like her mother with the can-do-it attitude of her father. Sonia came from a religious, hard-working, and loving family, but they were not wealthy by any means and placed more value on working hard to make money to support the family than school. But she was not to be discouraged  – even as a small child, Sonia had big dreams.

Every day she would wake up, dress herself, and run to school, always eager to learn and never discouraged even when tasked with the care of her younger siblings. While never unhappy, she always dreamed of a better life for herself. On occasion, planes would fly over her house, and Sonia would chase them, running freely in countryside that was her backyard, yelling – “Llevame a Nueva York!”  (Take me to New York!)

Yet as her siblings dropped out of school, got married, and had children, Sonia found herself balancing the responsibilities of schoolwork, housework, and child care. Eventually, her mother had to work in order to support the growing family, and needed her daughter to quit school to be more present at home. Disheartened, Sonia returned her books and never finished the seventh grade, but she was not one to give up easily.

At fifteen, she took a job working in a shoe factory and found herself working side by side with her father. Her passion for school never faded, and Sonia took a test and was promoted to the 9^th grade. During the day she worked to bring money to her family and during the night she attended school to benefit herself. In time, a perfect opportunity arose. Her father had made the decision to relocate the family to the mainland United States hoping to find a better life there. In October of 1966, at the age of 19, Sonia found herself in the place of her dreams – New York.

There are many people who find themselves in a similar situation as Sonia –thrown suddenly into a large, anonymous city where no one speaks your language and everyone has someplace to be or someone to meet. Sonia was like a stray puzzle piece, and she needed to find out where she belonged. The main challenge was the language barrier, which she tackled head-first. Not only did she attend language classes, also she spoke English to anyone who was willing to listen. She immersed herself completely in her new world, listening to the radio, watching TV, reading and listening to music in English only. Soon, Sonia and her father paid for tickets to bring the rest of the family over to New York. At the same time, Sonia was earning her GED.

Even as a young lady struggling in a big city, Sonia was always enchanted by New York. She made the rest of her life here – marrying, having children, and eventually being the first person in her family to go to college. She has mastered the blending of Puerto Rican and American culture – she eats rice and beans but also cheeseburgers and fries, she speaks two languages, she watches Jeopardy! but also telenovelas. Sonia is my grandmother, and the efforts she made to succeed in this country has benefitted not only herself but also her family. She recently turned 67 years old, but she is still the same dedicated little girl who never stopped working towards a brighter tomorrow.

My mother had always been different from her family. The middle child of ten brothers and sisters, her life growing up in the Philippines was marked by a thirst for adventure and independence. This being said, she was raised in fortunate circumstance; her father was an engineer while both her parents also ran small businesses in which her and her siblings took part. These sources of income allowed all of them to get a good education and pursue the careers they truly wanted. For my mother, this was nursing. She was always good with kids so it was a given that she’d go to nursing school with the intention of working in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU), where she would care for premature and sick newborn babies.

However, there were too many nurses in the Philippines and they were paid a very low salary. She could only find work as a pharmacist’s assistant and was tired of still having to ask her parents for money while not doing what she wanted. So when my mother and her friends heard that nurses were in demand in America, they found an employment agency through ads. The employment agency would look for jobs in America, specifically New York, and provide connections for those who wanted to apply. But there were requirements. For one, you had to pass an English proficiency test administered by the U.S. Department of Education. Because English is a second language in the Philippines, they passed easily, and a hospital in Queens approved them to work.

For my mother, such an opportunity meant much more than the start of her career. To her, America was like the ocean she loved to swim in. One time when she was younger, she went out into the water to float and, letting herself get lost in the effortless calm, accidentally fell asleep. She woke up hours later, lost in the middle of the ocean with no choice but to simply swim back. And she did. In the same way she found comfort in the ocean’s infinite freedom, despite knowing the dangers of such a mysterious place, she saw America as her escape as well. She didn’t want to rely on anyone but herself, whether it was her parent’s efforts or their family’s wealth. At the same time, she naturally gravitated towards things she wasn’t used to. She felt a need to explore, to be part of a culture that wasn’t as conservative and uniform as that of the Philippines. She wanted to be surrounded by people of different beliefs, colors, and experiences. She wanted to be the first American in her family.

After saying goodbye to everyone in the Philippines and getting a flight to New York, my mother was picked up from the airport by the employment agency’s American representative. Her and her friends temporarily stayed in an apartment in Briarwood, which had already been arranged for by the agency. With ten people living in a one-bedroom apartment, it wasn’t exactly the most comfortable move. Another drawback was the seasonal change. They weren’t used to the fall weather and, having lived in a tropical climate, didn’t have the right clothes for the weather. However, this could be fixed easily. More problematic was the general disorientation of being in a new country, with the issues of both location and language. It was difficult to find their way around, especially since there were no subways in the Philippines. On the other hand, they were fascinated by the height of the buildings and organization of the traffic system, contrasting greatly from the dusty, unpaved roads they were used to and the little shacks that lined them. According to my mom, “Everything was so clean-looking and there was always a structure. The blocks were straight and so measured.” While being exposed to such a developed city was overwhelming to them, they were impressed and very grateful for it. It was also alienating to adjust to the change in language. Although my mother knew how to speak English, everyday American English was very different from the English she was taught in school. One time her roommate came home crying because her supervisor said to her “Are you crazy?” Such expressions are used commonly here and don’t mean anything offensive. However, my mother’s roommate interpreted it literally and felt disrespected because being called “crazy” was very demeaning in the Philippines.

When asked about how it was like being surrounded by such diverse people, my mother did mention that she had a coworker who’d constantly embarrass the nurses who were Filipino. Whenever there’d be a health problem with a baby being cared for by a Filipino nurse, her coworker would blame the nurse, no matter how much they reasoned with her. “A lot of us Filipinos, we are peace loving people. We don’t want to argue. If we are here, we came here to work,” my mom reflects. While the blunt, fast-paced way of the American lifestyle was opposite to the culture she grew up in, my mother learned to toughen. She knew that she was lucky to be in a country many of those back home had only dreamed of living in. She viewed the obstacles as growing experiences and though she didn’t have her support system—her parents, siblings, and the majority of her friends—she was satisfied to be making hard-earned money with the thrill of a new start.

It was the 29^th of November in 1989, to be exact— when my mother stepped off of the plane and onto the New York pavement hand in hand with my eldest sister, Annjannette, who was only 8 years old at the time.  My mother left the comfort of the warm, humid Jamaica air in a dress and was in for a shock because, unbeknown to her, it was a cold and snowy that November day.  The biggest adjustment my mother had to make was to the weather.

Hopping off the plane after a three-hour flight, my mother found herself exhausted but nonetheless excited to be in the States.  Her first impression was Wow! This is so different from home!  She marveled at things as simple as the width of the street—they were much bigger in the States, along with the houses.  She was amazed at the amount of levels the houses had.  For the most part, the houses back in Jamaica typically had one level, so that was what she had become accustomed to.  Small differences like that were a big shock to her.

As soon as she got settled down with my sister and my father, she set out to find work, which did not take long at all.  Back home in Jamaica, she had worked as a secretary for the Energy Center and then as a secretary for the Students’ Union at the College of Art, Science and Technology, which was originally named the Jamaica Institute of Technology.  Once in the States, however, her sister-in-law was able to find her a job at Alexander’s, which was a major retail store at the time.  She worked there for a year or so as a receiving clerk, dealing with inventory.  Around January of 1990, my mother enrolled my sister into a school where she began the 3^rd grade.  In the fall of 1991, my mother set out to get her GED and enrolled in a certificate course in Office Information Systems at LaGuardia Community College in Long Island City, NY.  She did this while working at Burlington Coat Factory.  Finally she was able to settle down fully with my sister and my father in their own place in Far Rockaway, Queens where, years later, my other sister and I were born.

I asked my mother what hardships she had to endure with her transition to living in New York and there was not a single thing she could think of.  Not to make it seem like this was a fairytale transition, but everything, for the most part, ran smoothly for my mother when she finally came to New York.  She didn’t miss the culture back home.  She was here with her husband, child, and mother, so she had everything she needed.  At 20-something years old, she oozed excitement.  She was definitely looking forward to the change and now fully embraces her US citizenship but still acknowledges her Jamaican heritage.

by Saranya Radhakrishnan

My father had made the journey from Chennai, India to New York in order to obtain his Master of Science in Engineering degree and maybe even a prestigious future job. He had never been apart from my year old sister or my mother for the two years of their marriage so saying goodbye was difficult. My father was fortunate enough to stay with a friend who helped him assimilate to the American lifestyle and college life at New York University. Nevertheless, it was all so alien.  Back in India he had both of his parents, his two younger brothers, his younger sister, his wife and child all under the same roof.  Life got really lonely especially in a city as big New York. My father and mother would always exchange letters during this time in order to have some form of contact living half a world away. My mother would always talk about the occurrences of the household while my father talked about New York and college but they both expressed the misery of each other’s absence.

After a year and ahalf, my father was able to bring his wife and child over to live with him. They lived in a one bedroom apartment in Jamaica Estates. Like my father, my mother learned the difficulty of becoming independent. Learning the meaning of nuclear family, my mother only had my sister while my father was in college. After my sister started school, my mother realized that she was no longer confined to the life of housewife in America. After college, my mother had wished to gain further education and have a well-respected profession. However, her dreams were cut short when the talk of marriage came about. My mother did not realize how suppressed she was due to her culture until she came to New York. She was taught to play a submissive role at home and live a life serving only her family. However, America played a new influence and my mother was in the land of opportunity. She went back to school and became a certified public accountant. She even acquired a job at a travel agency. My mother looks back at this time of her life proudly because she was able to accomplish something for her own happiness.

In my family’s neighborhood there was a beautiful red house that my father spotted on Aspen Place. My father would drive by the house occasionally when he had the chance. Miraculously, the house went up for sale but my father knew he couldn’t afford it. My mother encouraged him to take out a loan and buy the house anyway. With much deliberation and cold feet, they finally got the house and we’ve officially paid off the mortgage last year.

I was born a few years later and this red house on Aspen Place is the only place I have ever lived. Luckily, my parents had made friends with other Indians and Americans on our block so anytime I needed babysitting, wanted to play with other kids, or runaway after a fight with my sister I had other family to turn to. Although, it was challenging to adapt to a foreign country, my parents were able to integrate the better qualities of Indian culture with aspects of American life.

Many believe that our ancestry helps shape us; helps make us into the people we ultimately become. I’m not certain whether or not this is the case, but I do believe that the actions of our ancestors definitely help shape where we eventually wind up living. For the most part, my family lives, and always has lived in Greece. Of course certain members of my extended family wound up in different parts of the world such as the U.S, Australia, Brazil, but never anyone from my immediate family’s ancestry. Odds were that a change of scenery would eventually have to happen. Next thing you know, my parents, 2 of my siblings, and myself found ourselves in Whitestone, New York in December of 2001. I was six and a half years old, knew very little English, and was in general terrified of New York because of the things I had heard about the attack on the Twin Towers.

            This trip to America though was not the first time my parents had come here. They had previously attempted to live in New York back in the late 70s. At that time my mom gave birth to my two oldest siblings, my sister, and oldest brother. Things did not work out and they were forced to move back to Greece where my father tried to open up several restaurants (some of which were successful for a time). During that period between the 80s and 2001, my Mother gave birth to three more boys, of which I was the youngest. Due to the ever changing governments, and economy of Greece at the time, the most successful of my father’s restaurants had to be shut down and so he decided to pack things up and move back to the U.S. He took along my two oldest siblings, my mother, and me. My two other brothers stayed in Greece as one was about to start college, and the other was living with his fiancé.

I remember very distinctly how my first emotion in regards to coming to live in New York was utter fear. I may not have been that old, but at six and a half years of age I was old enough to understand the kind of drastic change that was about to undergo my life. The adjustment though to my surprise was not that hard. I didn’t know a word of English that first year, but luckily thanks to some help from my mother, I was able to pick up the language pretty quickly over the summer, and feel like I’ve been thriving ever since. For several years my father moved from job to job. We had a stint in 2007, and 2008 when we went to North Carolina for a business opportunity. Unfortunately things didn’t work out and we quickly moved back here in 2008. Since then, things have really settled down, my Dad opened up a restaurant with my Brother-in-Law (now Ex Brother-in- Law), and an old family friend.  For the first time since I can ever remember my parents can finally breath a sigh of relief with me having started college, and them not struggling financially in every aspect of their lives. Like my ancestors shaped my past before me, I have no doubt that this immigration to America, will shape my children, and eventually their children. The truth is, I honestly can’t wait to see how the rest of my future will shape out.

Immigration and/or assimilation in my family are two concepts I have spent very little time contemplating.  The reason for this is simple – I am a fourth generation Puerto-Rican American whose family has been in the United States for nearly 70 years.  Although Puerto Ricans do not technically qualify as immigrants, the trip three of my grandparents (and one great-grandparent) made to New York City certainly qualifies as a great journey.  The fourth grandparent, my maternal grandfather, was a Sicilian immigrant, but I sooner consider myself to be Puerto Rican.  My maternal great-grandmother made the original journey that placed the first member of my family in the United States.

My grandmother was seven years old living in Guyama, Puerto RIco, with only her mother when my great grandmother made the decision to come to New York.  It was only the two of them – my great-grandmother was a good seamstress and that was what kept them relatively stable.  She had split up from her husband and decided that she was going to find a better place for my grandmother to grow up in.  Their family had friendly correspondents in New York, the Bronx more specifically, and they told her that a seamstress could do well in their area.  So, my great grandmother saved up money over a period of time and was able to purchase fare for herself to travel to New York.  Originally, she could only afford her fare, so she left my grandmother with my great-grandmother’s sister until she later returned for her in 1945.  The two settled in the Bronx as they together learned English and went to work/school.  Luckily Spanish wasn’t the least common language in New York City, so their assimilation could have been harder than it was.

My grandmother grew up in the Bronx and moved in with her husband, my Italian-immigrant grandfather, in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn.  He supported her with his bread business and together they had my mother as one of five children.  At the same time my mother was growing up in Bay Ridge, my father was doing the same in the same place.  My father, his sister, and my paternal Puerto Rican-immigrant grandparents also lived in Bay Ridge at this time.

So, it has been a very long time since my immediate family has lived in another country.  Since then, we have unfortunately preserved very little of our original culture; however, we have largely embraced the culture of America.  My paternal grandfather has been a huge Elvis Presley fan since his rise to fame, and my maternal grandmother has loved American television shows such as I Love Lucy since their original air dates.  Only one member of my entire extended family (ending with first cousins) still speaks Spanish.  I’ve decided that this is neither something “good” nor “bad,” it simply is…although I do wish I had the opportunity to learn such a useful language when I was younger.  At the same time, I am very thankful I am not constantly being pulled between two cultural identities. Essentially, I am very happy to be a fourth generation American.

My father is a second generation American. His father, Thomas Neumann, emigrated from Budapest, Hungary to Vienna, Austria, then from Vienna, Austria to Paris, France, and then from Paris, France to New York, New York. Although, my Grandpa Tom was a child while this moving was going on. His father, Gabor Neumann, was a successful banker who was ushered out of Budapest when he refused a job as finance minister of the newly Communist Government of Hungary. When my great grandfather refused the job, he did not realize that there were going to be consequences until his wife pointed out that the Communist Government would not let him off that easy. So he and his wife and my Grandpa Tom fled to Vienna. In the late 1930s, my great grandfather and his family had to flee once again when the Nazis started taking over Vienna, because they were Jewish. This time they fled to Paris. Then, once again, my great grandfather and his family had to flee because of the Nazis, and that is when they immigrated to America. When my great grandfather came to America he and his family were forced to change their name to Newman because Neumann sounded too German during a time when Germans were not particularly popular. My Grandpa Tom was relatively young, so adjusting to American life was not hard for him. My great grandparents, however, had a tougher time letting go of Hungarian traditions. My Great Grandpa Gabor left behind a successful career, an apartment building that he had owned in Budapest, and his relatives. My grandmother’s family, on my father’s side, has been in America for as long as my father can remember.

My mother’s mother, Mildred Milligan, was a second generation American. Her mother’s last name was Huddy, and she emigrated from County Cork, Ireland to Liverpool in the early twentieth-century with her husband-to-be, whose last name was Tuohy. After a couple of years in Liverpool, the couple immigrated to Yonkers, New York in order to find work. My great grandma worked as a maid at Lyndhurst, a mansion in Tarrytown, New York, and my great grandpa worked as a furniture mover at the department store, Wanamaker’s, in New York City. They were both solemn people, emotionally distant from both each other and their children. The both of them had lived in poverty before they came to America, and they both had hoped that America might change that. It did, to a certain extent, but the two of them felt that their hope for a better life was never completely fulfilled. My grandfather’s parents met each other in America after they emigrated from their respective home countries. My great grandfather, last name Milligan, came from Ireland in the early twentieth century looking for work. My great grandmother, last name Kuntschmann, came from Germany also looking for work. The two thoroughly enjoyed their time in America, perhaps a little bit too much because they left their son, my Grandpa Fred, with his Paternal Grandmother in the Bronx.  My great grandmother’s family eventually immigrated to America a couple of years after she had. My great grandfather’s mother was the only member of his family to come to America, and she came a year or so after he had.

In my poverty-stricken hometown of Korce, Albania, electricity, water, and heat were scarce. There were daily blackouts that lasted for several hours. Opportunities for a better future were granted to only those who had connections in the corrupt government. My parents, grandparents, sister and I resided in a small, two-bedroom apartment with no heat. Surprisingly, shortly after moving to the United States, where we had electricity and water everyday, I still wondered if my life would have been better had my family and I had stayed in Albania, rather than immigrating to a foreign nation. Many might find it absurd that I would contemplate such a thought. Who would want to go back to a place where there were no basic necessities? However, the drastic change from the familiar Albanian language and culture that was comforting to me to English and American culture, which was strange, brought me distress. Looking back, I am shocked that such feelings ever existed, as now, after living in the United States for approximately eleven years, I see that American culture has a great influence in my everyday life.

Having completed only one month of first grade in Albania, I was immediately put in second grade upon arriving in America. I failed to speak and understand a single word of English. I did not have any basic reading, writing, or math skills in any language. I felt as though everyone was talking about me because I did not look, dress, or act like every other student. I felt even more of an outcast, and that prevented me from obtaining a meaningful education. The stress, frustration, and humiliation built up rapidly so that I became physically ill. Every morning before school, I would have severe stomach pain, without realizing what was causing the problem. It was comforting to be home, where I did not feel like an outcast.

However, soon afterward, I started learning English, which was uplifting.  I realized that learning a different language was exciting, especially because it meant I could communicate with those around me. I began practicing my speech and writing. With my newfound confidence, I began to socialize more—making new friends. I no longer felt physical pain, but instead, felt as though I was a part of society.

However, while I became accustomed to American culture, I felt that my bond with Albanian culture was beginning to vanish. I learned English well and performed above average in school. Without realizing it, I distanced myself from my Albanian culture and grew less comfortable with speaking Albanian. At family gatherings, I would feel like a pariah because I had trouble understanding certain idioms and Albanian traditions. At school, I would sometimes feel isolated because I was not familiar with American sports, cartoons, and general culture. My childhood significantly differed from that of my friends because they were all born in the United States.

The two cultures clashed, created an idea in my mind that I did not truly belong to either.

I found it hard to accept that I belonged to two cultures and that it was acceptable to be different. Instead of trying to hide my uniqueness and edge, I started to embrace who I was. Different traditions, languages, and life-styles shape my current hometown of New York City; they make it memorable and irreplaceable, just as my different background differentiates me from the rest. Similarly, my culture and lifestyle as an Albanian-American influence my perception and point of view.

Clearly, I have gained invaluable experiences that have shaped my life significantly. I would have never guessed as a young, frightened immigrant that I would be diving into a course discussing the works of literature written by immigrants, depicting stories similar to mine. Perseverance defined who I am today rather than the difficulties I faced. The constant struggles led to my accepting of myself and achieving my dreams. I am grateful that I have had the opportunity to be a part of two incredible, yet distinct, cultures.

Neil Armstrong was the first man to walk on the moon. George Washington was the first President. I am the first son of the first generation of the first family members of my family to step foot in America. Like the many other firsts before me, I have been gifted with the opportunity to be the leader, the trendsetter. I am the first of my family to travel blindly into the American Society: the society that has devoured the souls of men leaving them empty husks for recycling. This way I can be the first to set off the mines and traps society has lain before me. I have been truly blessed.

In all joking aside, I am truly the first of my family to be born an American. My parents came from Guandong, China the unofficial dim sum capital. As my mother described life there, “It was a simple life, we farmed, we harvested and we try to avoid the leeches in the rice paddies. But there was nothing more or less to this kind of life.” Eventually the desire for a better life drove my grandparents and parents to immigrate to America. My parents finally met in college and a few years later married. Then I came along. Unfortunately, I did not come with an attached instruction manual.

My parents, although lovingly raised me, may not have had the clearest idea of how to raise a child. My first few years, my family and I lived in Queens with my paternal grandparents due to financial issues. Eventually, my parents saved up enough money to buy an apartment in Brooklyn. For a while, everything was literally all fun and games. However, when school started so did the “problems”. My parents only experienced the last fourth of the K – 12 education system and their English was still shaky. As a result, my English never truly developed. I wound up in ESL until second grade. Culturally I was more Chinese than American and in a primarily white and Latino neighborhood that led to a lot of unpleasant nicknames and bullying from classmates. Later I “escaped” when my parents moved to Bayside, Queens for the better schools there. Fortunately, my labels and accent stayed behind in Brooklyn. But my parent’s lack of knowledge began to show itself. The specialized high school exam and community service were common information to most parents. I had to constantly pester my friends and counselor for information. In high school, I stumbled my way through the college process, the SAT, and FAFSA all of which have changed since my parent’s time.

Yet, even with all of the bumbling around I did, I still managed to make it to college. Although, I wish I had had half of the information I gave to my little brother. He is enjoying not having to blindly feel his way to college. Yet, I still appreciate the pain and agony my journey brought me. Without it, I would not have the willpower to try to be the first in my family to go to graduate school. I guess being the first does have its perks. If I get into graduate school I can secure bragging rights in my family.

         My maternal great-grandmother, Olga Carew, was born in Tobago in 1902. At the tender age of one, her father, Conrad Carew, a successful pharmacist, was poisoned and died. Soon after, her mother died as well and Olga was left with her eight brothers and sisters. She was passed from relative to relative during her childhood and attended school in Wales and then in Trinidad. At eighteen, Olga boarded a ship to the United States and set sail for Boston to live with her sister Irma and to finally feel at home.

            After a short stay in Boston, Olga moved to New York City with her sister where she got a job dancing the Charleston on Broadway. She immediately met my great-grandfather, Bruce Iles, who was a handsome man from a good family in Trinidad, and after a brief courtship, they married.

            Olga and Bruce had three children: Gloria (my grandmother) in 1924, Grace in 1926, and Horatio in 1928. They raised their children in Washington Heights. When my grandmother, or my Lala, talks of her childhood she says, “Alexis, those people had the nerve to ask me where I came from.” Lala replied and asserted that she was born in America. In her mind, the city rejected her and her identity as a West Indian woman. Today, Lala wonders if I struggle with the challenges she faced growing up. It is true that all my life, people have asked me about my heritage, but unlike my grandmother, I encourage the questions she detested.

            In 1954, Lala married my grandfather, Edward Allen. Eddie was a childhood friend who grew up in the same building as her. His family is of purely Irish decent. Eddie was an intelligent, loving man who dedicated his life to teaching 8^th grade English in Harlem. He was beloved by all. I am proud to say that my grandparents married outside their ethnicity. They married for love and not for what society said was right. Lala and Poppa had my mother, Diane, in 1956. Two years later they had my uncle Frank and another two years later, they had my uncle Tony.

            In 1961, Eddie and Gloria left Washington Heights with their three children and moved to Hicksville, Long Island. Their primary reason for leaving the city was to find a better school system for their children. My mother and uncles spent most of their childhood in suburbia, a town mostly inhabited by Italians, Irish, and Jews. Again, people would ask my grandmother what country she came from: “The neighbors would stare at me and your mother, Alexis.” It was true, my family looked different than the rest of the people in Hicksville, but the discrimination didn’t prevent my mother from marrying the person she loved. Just like my grandparents, my mother disregarded the opinions of her neighbors and married my father, Thomas Romano, a man from Maspeth, Queens who had an Italian father and an Irish and German mother.

          My parents eventually moved to one of the only two cities on Long Island, a place called Long Beach, on the south shore. Long Beach is an incredibly diverse community in which me and my older brother Sean spent our whole lives.

“All crab fine dey hole,” is what my  Lala’s cousin, Gordon, told me on my recent trip to Trinidad. The saying means that everyone finds their place in life. My mother and I went back to Port of Spain, Trinidad this passed January. We felt at home.

Tracing the lineage of the Herrmann/Elstein…I guess it would be simple and sensible to start with the great-grandparents.

In Germany, around the 1920s, Werner Herrmann was born to two German parents.  Despite the tumult of Germany during this time period, the real reason my great-grandparents decided to leave was for a “personal” reason.  They wanted to be together and build their relationship and family in a new place, so they came to Manhattan when Werner was only twelve.  He was drafted for World War II in his early twenties, and granted citizenship on the exact same day (neat little short-cut, isn’t it?)  Somewhere in all this, he met and married my grandmother, Agnes.  She grew up in a coal-mining town in Pennsylvania before moving to New York with her family.  Werner and Agnes moved into the Bronx and started a family together, consisting of my father Peter, and his three other older siblings.

Flash back to Europe, but this time during 1930 and in Warsaw, Poland.  Here we meet my Jewish great-grandparents on my mother’s side, who had just welcomed Esther as their youngest child of three.  Esther’s story is devastating and heart wrenching, but I will attempt to summarize it justly.  Her town-turned-ghetto was occupied by the Nazis when she was just a young girl, and as the families were being rounded up to board trains to the concentration camps, Esther’s mother pushed her out of the line when the guards weren’t looking.  Her Aryan complexion of blond hair and blue eyes acted as a shield for the duration of the war, but especially in that moment when the guards were convinced she wasn’t a Jew and refused to let her back with her family.  Esther desperately wanted to be with her family, even if it meant dying with them, but knew when her mother made that decision that it would be the last time she would ever see them.  Esther was an orphan at twelve, and struggled trying to survive; being so young and alone, hiding that she was Jewish, working as a nanny or maid.  Even after the war ended, Poland was not a safe or welcoming place for Jews, and Esther no longer saw it as home.  She met and married Abba, a Jewish doctor, and together they immigrated to a place they knew would be welcoming of their religion: Haifa, Israel. They had my mother Ziporah there, but moved to Mount Vernon, a town in Westchester, when she was nine.  They saw America as a place they could both broaden their occupations and family.  They had another child, and Esther, being an amazing seamstress, opened a lingerie store.  New York, for the Elsteins, was a place of growth and escape from a difficult past of religious persecution and degradation.  They hoped, and were successful, in finding a place to raise children in a welcoming environment with good education where they too could explore options of higher achievement.

I had never realized how much war shaped my existence, and I think it’s incredible that both of those countries from which I am descended were in such conflict, yet still produced a solid union.  Its always interesting to watch the expression on someone’s face when I tell them I am of German and Israeli descent, but I know that under the circumstances of both of my parents being primarily American, it’s really not so odd.  Given, it was not easy for Ziporah to convince Esther to be open-minded about her boyfriend, but I think in some way, knowing that he was a good man with pure intentions helped break down her bias.  After all, New York was the destination for all looking for a new start, and everyone could relate to that dream.

Even though I am technically not an immigrant since I was born in Brooklyn, I can relate to what it feels like to be an immigrant because of my childhood. I was born in Brooklyn in December 26, 1995; there I spent a majority of my first year. However as my family was having financial hardships, they found it very to difficult to find the time and money to provide and care for me. So, when I still wasn’t a year old, I moved to Poland to live with my grandmother. I spent approximately three years in Poland only coming back to the US for a few weeks in the summer to see my family again. In Poland, I was raised to be Polish with Polish morals and attributes, influenced by Polish culture. As I grew up around the age of 3, I could already read, write, and speak fluently in Polish. I would’ve also went to my first year of school to Polish pre-K but my mom decided that it would be better for me to wait until American pre-K. I understand that she didn’t want me to get too accustomed to living in Poland but the damage was already done.

When I returned to America for good about 4 years old, my whole world turned upside down. These children here didn’t speak Polish like the ones in Poland. I had no way of communicating with them yet other than a few lines of broken English that were well known and commonly used in Poland. I felt like I was born again into a new world this time. I got so used to calling Poland my home that when I was uprooted I went through shock. Nothing mattered to me anymore because I wasn’t in Poland. By the time I began to accept my new surroundings is when I realized that I would have to start all over again. This gave me the motivation to do well in schools here. Even before I started, I forced my mom to teach me simple things like the alphabet and numbers. In school, I struggled for a while both with academics and friends. The way children interact in the two countries was so different in my mind. In Poland, children would be so much more open with each other. They would horse around and rough house and weren’t afraid to get dirty. Yet here, everyone was afraid to touch anyone almost.

Growing up I still had somewhat of an identity crisis. I was not sure where I belonged, whether I was Polish or American. However as I grew older, I began to meet more kids in the same situation as me that they came to America at a young age too. Together we began to form our own hangouts and our own slang. Soon enough we felt we have achieved our own identities as Polish-Americans and did not have to rely on each other as much when it comes to making friends and being independent.  I feel like I have learned so much from being both Polish and American and that I have both of my heritages to thank for the excellent position I am in now in life.