Everything changed so suddenly – one morning, as with many before it, I woke up to the warm, tropical air of Puerto Rico. Later on that night, I was tucking myself into a new bed, breathing in the foreign scents of New York. It was November, and the air was much cooler here than it was back in Guayanilla. I deliberately slowed my breathing, tasting the air on the back of my tongue, becoming more and more conscious of my breath with every inhale. Simultaneously, I became more conscious of my thoughts.

There had been so many of them scrambling in my mind the entire day. All of them competed for my individual attention, but instead their frequency and intrusiveness just threw me into a haze. My day felt like an endless blur, filled with excitement and nervousness. Distinctly, I recalled the lumps in the back of my throat as I kissed my mother and each of my siblings goodbye, eyesight blurry as I fought back the tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks. Yet there was still a reason to smile. Most of my family was going to stay behind in Guayanilla, but as I boarded the plane and took one last look at the country I called home for the past 19 years, I felt excitement gather in my heart. I was finally going to the best place on Earth – Nueva York!

I sighed deeply and rolled over, allowing my body to sink into the bed as the day’s events caught up with me. My eyelids, finally heavy with sleep, gratefully shut and in only a short time I felt myself drifting off. Half of me wondered if it was real, if I was truly in the place I had wished to be since I was a little girl. The other half of me dared to think hopefully of the future – the people I would meet, the opportunities I would be given, how perfectly I would speak English, how easily I would become a true New Yorker. I pulled the sheets around me a little tighter, and fell asleep thinking about the job I would start in just a day.

Back home, my father and I worked in a shoe factory. We decided to stick with our trade when we made the big move to New York, so just two days after my arrival in the city I started work at 8AM sharp at Palizio Shoes. My father was always on time, if not early, and so we planned to leave at 6:45 AM. I had woken up at 5:30 AM, body rested, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. I rose before the sun and began a routine I would go through for years to come. After a fresh shower, I put on dress pants, a blouse, heels, makeup, and jewelry. While I had worn all of these things before, today they felt new. My elevated mood made everything feel exciting, and I could feel the energy in my movements as I put on my coat and wrapped a scarf around my neck.

We took the 6 train from 116^th street and rode down the spine of Lexington Avenue. Past 110^th, past 86^th, past Hunter College on 68^th, and through Grand Central! Mentally I counted how many streets we passed between each stop of the train, and came to a total of 93 streets by the time we reached our destination – 23^rd street. My father and I ascended the stairs, side by side, and walked half a block to Palizio Shoes. It took about 7 minutes, and within those 7 minutes, I was nearly overwhelmed with everything I was experiencing. I heard the sound of cars passing, sirens honking, people talking, and yet the click of my heels against the concrete managed to stick out to my own ears. I studied the people that filled my environment in the fleeting moments before they walked past me, melting into the same anonymous sea from which they appeared. All of them looked busy and confident, as though they had a special place to be, to talk with important people about serious matters. I straightened my back and walked taller, realizing that in a city where no one knew your name or your background, I was just as important as them. I had a place to be, at a certain time, to do a particular task for very important reasons.

The position I occupied at Palizio was not a fancy one by any means, but I worked with pride. My job as a laborer required that I organize the shoes made at the factory. Working in a group of 3 to 4 people, I checked to make sure the shoes had no stains, no threads sticking out, and were paired together with another shoe of the same size and style. At around 11:30 I would break for lunch. It felt good to breathe in the outside air and experience the movement of the city as I walked down the block to a nearby deli. There, I would order a coffee to go with a sandwich, a granola bar, or a piece of cake brought from home. At around 12:30 I would return to my job, which, after a week or so, I performed with confidence.

While I frequently spoke Spanish, I took every chance to speak English – if someone was willing to listen to me, then I would be willing to try. It started off simple – I greeted my co-workers with “Good morning!” and bid them goodbye with “I’ll see you tomorrow!” I would say “please” and “thank you” when I ordered coffee at the deli, “excuse me” if I accidentally collided with someone on the street, “Bless you!” if someone sneezed. Every day I learned new words or phrases, repeating them over and over to make sure I wouldn’t forget. As the years went on, I spoke, wrote, and thought in equal parts Spanish and English.

My mother and my younger siblings arrived in New York a few months later in January. We quickly relocated to Coney Island in Brooklyn, and my commute was extended. I took the D, got off at Atlantic, and transferred to the 6, now riding in the opposite direction to get to work. In the few months that it was only my father and I working in New York, I felt that I had really grown. Other people in my position may have had their hopes dulled by the faithful routine of my job, the search to find their place in a huge city, and the struggle to bridge the language gap. But my personal progress served as the motivation to get me out of bed each morning. I became more skilled at my job, able to work faster and able to form personal relationships with my coworkers.  I could see a difference in my English now compared to when I first arrived on that chilly evening in November. And though I hadn’t been here for long, I had felt at home on the first day. My name is Sonia Gutierrez, and I was born to be a New Yorker.

“We all live in the traces of one another’s lives,” said Richard Rabinowitz.¹

 It’s a curious concept the idea of an area evolving over time, but those central themes and characteristics remain obvious to anyone who can decipher the evidence.  The Lower East Side was the primal homeland for most Jews, and although the neighborhood has lost so much of that palpable culture, there is still an existing connection.

Getting of the train at Grand Street, I pass through what has become Chinatown; Chinese groceries, small stationary stores selling origami and beautiful floral notebooks, dumpling and noodle bars.  This is definitely not a Jewish district anymore.

 But as I step into the century-old tenements, I can feel the history.  I see not only the physical artifacts, but also the preserved memories of a family that moved from their home to a complete unknown city and had to assimilate.  It was evident that circumstances were tough, money was tight, and sacrifices had to be made, but what was also clear was the vehement attempt to keep their old culture alive.  I can’t help but think of my grandparents moving to Mount Vernon from Israel; what if they had moved to New York City instead?  This is the place so many came in a similar situation; religious persecution, looking for a place of acceptance, opportunity, and a fresh start.  Wouldn’t they have moved into a tenement in this Jewish neighborhood, and lived in a similar fashion?  My grandmother is a seamstress; is that sewing table in the corner where she would sit all day and do her work while her husband went out into the city to work?  Is that shared cramped bedroom where my mother Ziporah and uncle Erwin would play and distract themselves between school and sleep? 

 As I depart, I walk along Orchard Street, the shops morphing into their previous layer; bohemian cafes and pricey boutiques fade into Russ & Daughter’s, Ezra Cohen Overstock Emporium, and Gertel’s Bakery.  I think as if I were Esther in this new world…

The smell of fresh breads awakens memories from home, and it’s comforting to know authentic challah could be found right next-door.  I miss being in Israel, but I’m not alone, and knowing that our culture from home is recreated in this new world assuages the wistfulness.  Maybe I’ll pick up some baklava for Ziporah and Erwin as a treat when they get back from school. 

I leave and walk over to Houston Street.  Practicing the kosher diet was one thing we all feared would be difficult when moving to America, but the delis like Katz’s and are a haven.  In the Lower East Side, they understand the predicament, respect the need, and support it.  Jews from all over the city can come here and find multiple places to buy high quality kosher meats among other foods.  Some of the restaurants are quite progressive; Schmulka Bernstein is a kosher Chinese restaurant.  I feel welcome here.

 A few blocks more and I find J.S Hosiery.  I want to compare their supplies with the ones in my own store.  The storeowner and I chat in Yiddish about their children and school, and going to the synagogue.  Just speaking the language again makes me feel more like myself.  I walk to Eckstein’s on the corner of Orchard and Grand, a store stocked with affordable clothing.  Many of the local clothing stores understood that the circumstances of poor immigrants; there is no shame; everyone scrambles around looking for Levi jeans, Mary Janes, and stockings.  You have to haggle for lower prices and be smart enough to play the back-and-forth game.  The salespeople don’t reveal the cheapest price right off the bat, but the Jews are known for being skilled at the sport of bargaining.  It’s a talent I’ll never loose.

Next stop; Guss’ Pickles.  Founded by a fellow-Pole, Isidor Guss, this is one of eighty or so local pickle shops in what is, no surprise, known as the “pickle district.”  Guss’ pickles are authentic, New York Style, and gaining notoriety.  He is an archetype; an immigrant who came here for opportunity, and found lasting success.  He is an inspiration to the community, and with business growing as it is, maybe he will be here some ninety years from now…

 Guss’ Pickles opened in 1910, and closed about twelve years ago.  It is one of the more well known Lower East Side Jewish businesses, but I personally find Gorelick’s more inspiring.   Gorelick’s clothing store is one of those old-time places, like Louis Kaplan’s or Levine & Smith, that were run by master tailors that sold extremely well made articles, but also did beautiful repairs.  That kind of craftsmanship is lost on today’s generations; why go invest in these small stores, why even bother getting a nightgown patched when you can just go to a big-name and get a three-pack for less?²

Bernard Gorelick has owned this store for seventy years, and today, it’s windows carry signs that read “Going Out Sale.”  The steel shelves carry cardboard boxes packed with underwear.  No computers, paper bills, a calculator.  It feels exactly like my grandmother’s store in New Rochelle.  She had mannequins that looked like fifties housewives with their hairdos and postures.  The ceiling was adorned in the same style that I saw on the ceilings of those tenements, there were paper and plastic boxes of garments with index-card descriptions, a massive cash register with buttons that looked like those of a typewriter.  All the elderly customers that came not only bought something, but also stopped and had a full conversation with Esther about life.   Some of them speak in Yiddish, and all I understand is their laughter. 

My walk through the Lower East Side has deepened my understanding of Esther and her struggles, but my understanding of Esther has simultaneously deepened my understanding of Jewish immigrants in the Lower East Side.  Like Bernie Gorelick, she built up a life inspired by a culture, and thus created a business that is more sentimental and deeply connected than one would realize at first glance.  However, peel back those layers, and it becomes a major key to the past. 

 Citations

1. Rasenberger, Jim. “Searching for Charles.” The New York Times. The New York Times, 19 May 2001. Web. 12 Mar. 2014. <http://www.nytimes.com/2001/05/20/nyregion/searching-for-charles.html>.

• Berger, Joseph. “Crisscrossing Generations on the Lower East Side.” The World in a City: Traveling the Globe Through the Neighborhoods of the New New York. New York: Ballantine, 2007. N. pag. Print.

The first time I took the train from Buffalo to New York was about one year ago. I came up with my mom to make sure that City College was the right school for me and to see if I could handle New York. However, this was more of a courtesy for my parents since I already knew I was made for the city. There has always been something about New York that drew me here. I knew since I was little that this is where I would end up and when I visited in the forth grade, I vowed to go to school here. 

            Every train ride to New York starts the same way. My mom drives me to the station and we always run a little late. I catch the 7:41 train from the Buffalo Depew train station. I find the strongest man in the vicinity to heave my luggage onto the rack above my head. Then I spread out across two seats and enjoy the eight hours I have to myself to do absolutely nothing.

            Doing absolutely nothing is actually my favorite thing about the train. It isn’t very often that I have the time to relax and think without rushing between one thing and the next. So many people dislike the train because it takes so long, but I love those few hours of relaxation. I put my headphones on and watch New York State go by out the window.

I watch the abandoned buildings of old, decrepit canal towns pass by. I’ve always considered everything between here and Buffalo to be “the woods.” Farmland and the occasional one-stoplight town can be seen out the window between stops.

I think of all the places I could have gone to school. Places where I could have the traditional college experience. A school in the middle of “the woods” where everyone is the same and the most diversity you encounter is which beer you drink that night. Sometimes I envy the simple party lifestyle of my friends at those schools; at least they have more of a community than City College. However, then I have moments where I remember why I chose to come to school in New York anyway. Moments like when I went to Chelsea on a Thursday to go gallery hopping with my friends, or that time my roommates and I danced in an empty C train car. I realize how special my experience is when I spend my weekends at the Met or go to Carnegie Hall with my uncle. My college experience may not be traditional, but it sure beats getting blackout drunk at a frat party every weekend.

We stop in Rochester, then Syracuse; the biggest cities until Albany. It’s so amazing to see all of New York State, since so much of it is farmland. I think a lot of people born and raised in New York City forget that. The world is so different outside of the city’s borders, but it’s home to millions of people. Those who enjoy the slower pace of life outside a major metropolitan area.

The trouble now is that I’m not sure which home is home for me anymore. I guess that’s the trouble with moving away from the place you grew up. Buffalo is where everything I know is. My whole family, the house I grew up in, my friends from preschool to high school; they’re all there, suspended in memory when I’m not around to witness them changing. Yet each time I return, my siblings get older; my little brother starts kindergarten, my sister starts dating a boy who can drive. New stores open where there was nothing or my old neighbors have moved away.

My friends from my high school mostly stayed home for college, or if they did go away, it was only far enough away where they could still go home every weekend. They all hang out with the same people they knew and spend their time doing exactly what they did in high school. Chances are, they will never move away. They will marry each other and send their children to the same schools. They will live within their small cliques, even in their nursing homes sixty years from now. They’ll be happy with their lives, but I can’t live like that.

The Hudson River always seems to sparkle no matter the weather or what time of year it is.  The trick to riding the train is to sit on the right side of the car so you can watch it. If you leave the city in the evening and head towards Buffalo, you can watch the sun set over the river. Small mountains cradle enormous houses that overlook the river. There is even a decaying castle on a small island that I always watch for. I wonder how it got there.

We pass under the Tappan Zee Bridge. We’re getting close now.

The train makes a small turn and there it is. My beautiful city outlined against the sky. It’s like seeing an old lover again, the one you never really forgot. I’m immediately filled with nervous excitement, ready for my new adventure. Everyone aboard can feel that we’re close, it’s as if there’s a completely new energy now, restless and excited. The passengers shift impatiently in their seats.

Just as the train enters the city, it dips underground. The lights go out and there’s an air of anticipation around us. Since I take the subway, I won’t see the city until I’m already where I need to be. I love this part since it makes going above ground at your destination even more exciting. There’s nothing quite like running through Penn Station and seeing everyone living their lives, off on some new adventure, just like me. It’s mind blowing to think that everyone there has a life and a story and a home. I’m just one of those stories in New York, the small town girl here to follow her dreams, and although it’s cliché, I know I belong.

After leaving Morocco, my family lived in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. Bay Ridge is home to many Arab-Americans. Every time I walked around the Bay Ridge Avenue subway station, I felt less nostalgic to Morocco. The presence of Arabic words on store signs and the friendly Arab voices made the new atmosphere a lot more welcoming. The large Arab population in the nearby zones schools helped my three siblings and I make new friends. Outside of Bay Ridge, my family struggled to understand non-Arab cultures.

Just three stops away from Bay Ridge Avenue on the R train is 95^th Street. I worked there every weekend at a small pharmacy to help my father pay the bills. The surroundings of this station are totally different from what I am used to seeing twenty-five streets away. The people spoke unfamiliar languages, dressed differently, and ate differently. Right across the street from the train station stood a Roman Catholic Church. That was the first time I saw a church up close. Being predominantly Muslim, Morocco has very small numbers of Christians and churches. On Sunday mornings, a dozen people entered the church as I watched them from the other side of the street. I questioned why other Americans from the neighborhood did not join them inside the church. If many Americans are Christians, why do more people attend the small mosque on Bay Ridge Avenue than people attend this church? The small mosque on Bay Ridge Avenue was very crowded that I always struggled to enter it. The church was approximately three times the size of the mosque. This means that more people can easily fit inside the church. This question baffled me for a long time. It was later in school when I learned that urban areas have less religious people than rural and suburban areas. This did not answer my question. Before coming to America, I lived in Casablanca, Morocco. Casablanca is a very large and technologically developed city. Despite its urban setting, Moroccans prayed five times a day at the call of the Azan.

During my first school year in the U.S., I visited Times Square and Rockefeller Center with the rest of my history class. That trip marked my first visit to Manhattan without my parents and siblings. On the train, I was amazed at how different ethnic groups coexisted in the same space. In North Africa, it is unlikely for Moroccans to coexist with Algerians and indigenous Sub-Saharan people. My observation agreed to the relationship between setting and liberalism. However, it did not explain why urban Americans are tolerant towards those who are different.

The teacher told the class to exit the D train at Rockefeller Center. While the other students just followed the teacher, I was walking around myself in circles. I started to think that my definition of “an urban city” might be different from the American definition. In Morocco, I never saw that many people use mass transportation. The only time half of these people were gathered was either at a street festival or a parliamentary election queue. In Morocco, people seemed to know each other very well. In New York, everyone seemed anti-social and unwilling to start conversations. Is this because New Yorkers have a lot on their mind? Or is this because not all New Yorkers speak English?

When I left Rockefeller Center station, a whole new world opened to my eyes. I was surprised to find so many cars and people on the same block. People did not have a chance to talk to one another. There was no space for two or three people to gather in a corner and start a conversation. Everyone walked down the street at different speeds without paying attention to others around them. Taxi drivers were either waiting for a green light or were racing each other down the avenue. Everything was very dynamic. As I walked to Times Square, I got dizzy from the bright lights on tall buildings and the noises from the cars rushing past me. It is unfair to consider Casablanca an urban city after coming to NYC. Even Brooklyn was very distinct from its neighboring borough. Brooklyn was a lot quieter and had less people on its streets. Brooklyn did not have as many people, cars, and tall buildings near its subway stations. Brooklyn was just a dead borough if I had to compare it to Manhattan. When I returned back to Brooklyn, I was very fatigued. I did not ask my family members about their day. I was sure their day did not involve as much action as mine. After silently eating, I went to play basketball with my friends in Leif Ericson Park until dusk.

Brooklyn was home to about two million people. Since Brooklyn was mostly residential, many people from Brooklyn went to Manhattan for work. The commute from Manhattan to Brooklyn was very tiring, slow, and long. Many people from Bay Ridge took the R train and transferred to an express train to reach Manhattan. Most of them worked five or six days a week from morning till evening. By the end of the day, many people sleepwalked on their way home. Friday was the only day when people had a dull smile on their tired faces. The weekend was a time for people to restore their energy and be ready to return to work on Monday. This dry and monotonous lifestyle gave a more logical explanation for the lack of miscellaneous activities. At the end of the day, everyone was more concerned about having food on the table. People had no time or energy to show their dislike towards other ethnicities. Everyone lived in New York just to make money. Money was the only thing people lived for. 

            Exiting my parent’s house, I turn left and walk down East 40^th Street to the end of the block and make another left, onto avenue D. I realize that in just turning the corner and walking down about three blocks, I’ve already passed by three different churches. Three churches within three blocks of each other, and another two several blocks up in the opposite direction. Each one approaches God in its own unique way. I’m reminded of all the churches I’ve been to in my life: lively and musical Pentecostal services, reserved Jehovah’s Witness services, and once, an even more reserved Catholic service. That’s how my family saw church. It didn’t where you went as long as you could feel close to God. There were exceptions, such as my aunts, who went to two different churches and joked that the members of the other church were going to hell, but generally, the most important thing was faith. As I make my way down the street, I think about how important religion used to be, and how different things are now. My mother is still very religious, but rarely goes to church because of work.  The rest of us barely go because of lack of interest. After walking down a few blocks further, I make a left left onto Nostrand Avenue.

            Nostrand Avenue stirs up a strange mix of emotions for me.  It’s noisy, and not very appealing to the eye. At the same time, however, there is so much to enjoy: a variety of restaurants, clothing stores, game stores and more recently a Caribbean bakery that makes small, soft, delicious beef patties for only one dollar. I have a feeling they’re Haitian beef patties, because they’re nothing like the Jamaican beef patties at the Golden Krust across the street, which I often ate while growing up. Seeing Golden Krust honestly creates a feeling of disappointment in me, not because it tastes bad, but because it reminds me of when my Aunt Tully and Aunt Sharon would visit from Jamaica and bring real Jamaican beef patties. They were frozen, but after a little time in the microwave, they came out better than any beef patty I’ve ever had before. To me, they were even better than “Juicy Beef” patties, which the rest of family consistently says is the best in Jamaica. She also brought sugar cane and fried fish, (made the good way, by frying it with vinegar, sweet peppers and onions) the memories of which only makes seeing Golden Krust even more of a disappointment. The taste is similar, but definitely not the same, and it brings back the nostalgic memories of when my aunts used to visit. Aunt Sharon passed away and Aunt Tully hasn’t visited in some time now, but I still remember how much fun it would be when they did visit, and how amazing the food that they brought tasted.

            Aunt Tully and Aunt Sharon were businesswomen who bought shoes in America to sell in Jamaica. As I approach the Newkirk Avenue train station, I’m reminded of when I took the train with them one day to visit the man they bought their shoes from. It was one of the few times, when I was younger, that I took the train in a direction that would bring it above ground at one point, and I remember being surprised as I saw light entering the car I was in as it was coming out of the tunnel. When they met with the man, they were always very happy to see each other. Then the heckling began. No matter how “good” things were going back home, or how the family was doing, when it came to buying shoes, both parties suddenly became broke. Each had kids to feed. For my Aunts, it meant they couldn’t afford to buy the shoes for too high a price. For the salesman, it meant that he couldn’t afford to sell them for too low of one. One way or another, after some complaints, bargains, lowest offering prices, and deliberation, shoes were bought in bulk to be shipped back to Jamaica. I’d been to the store in Jamaica as well. It was essentially my Aunts and their business partners sitting near the entrance of a rainbow colored tunnel, trying to avoid the heat. The entire tunnel, containing every color of the rainbow along with blacks browns and grays, was filled with shoes. Every color to match whatever dress or purse you could have.

            As I enter the train, I look around, searching for a seat, but also for interesting characters that might give me a story to tell my friends later. Fortunately or unfortunately, it’s a quiet train, so I take a seat and pull out a book to pass the time. Time passes, slowly but surely, as do the stops. Eventually I’m at Nevins, where I wish I could get off and go to Junior’s Cheesecake, where my parents used to get cheesecakes for my brothers and I on our birthdays. To my stomach’s discontent, I actually get off one stop later, at Borough Hall. As I walk towards the escalator, not in the mood to walk up the three different sets of steps, a woman with an accent that I can’t quite distinguish stops me and asks how to get to the 4-train. I explain that they have to walk all the way to the other end of the platform and then take the stairs. Even though they look like they understand me, I still feel a slight urge to take them all the way the 4-train platform. I think about how many times my mother and grandmother got lost on the train, and how much easier their lives might have been when they first came if they’d had someone to give them directions. At the same time, I remember how afraid I was to ask for directions when I first started taking the train, and how many times I ended up missing stops or getting lost as a result.

            I exit the station onto Court Street and begin walking toward Atlantic Avenue. I see vendors seeing organic fruit and pastries and question whether I should buy some apples for my mother. My mother’s always liked all types of fruits. While sugar cane and mangoes probably top the list of her favorite fruits, she has always really liked strange fruits, or just fruits from other countries. I remember how she told me that one of the best gifts my dad ever got her while she was still in Jamaica were some American apples. Not only did they taste good, but their rarity in Jamaica also brought prestige with them. While I’d like to get her something, there isn’t anything I think she’d find interesting. I’ll try Sahadi’s on Atlantic Avenue instead. Similar to Nostrand Avenue, Atlantic Avenue has a plethora of interesting restaurants and shops to see. Sahadi’s in particular imports all kinds of sweets, nuts, and vegetables from around the world and somehow manages to sell most of it at a reasonable price. My mother loves to buy cashews from here, and I decide to buy a pound for her before I head to my real destination. After paying for my purchase, I exit, walking down Atlantic until I reach Henry Street. Crossing the street and turning left, I walk down until I see it. Cobble Hill Health Center: My mom’s former job and where I currently volunteer in the Recreation Department. It hits me again, as it often does, just how hard my mother had to work to get where she is today, and just how little I tend to appreciate it. All the long hours she had to work just so that more than 19 years later, I could volunteer here for fun. I’m glad I bought her the nuts, because I realize even more at this moment just how much she deserves them. 

I leave my Writing for Science class at 12:15 pm. I walk out of Harris Hall and out into the mid-March sun. I begin my lunchtime walk to Remas Deli on Amsterdam Avenue. I quickly arrive on Amsterdam Avenue, a Toyota Prius is parked to my right. I see Policemen standing in line with students at one of the many Halal food trucks littered about the campus. I hear, to the left of me, a Hispanic woman with her two children, a boy and a girl, frantically talking on the phone in a melodic mixture of Spanish and English.

I walk across the street, sit down on a stoop, and begin rolling a cigarette. Absorbed in my task, I don’t notice a Vietnamese man quietly assume a position next to me. He asks in broken English, “Can I roll cigarette, please?” I promptly finish rolling my cigarette and hand him the rolling machine and pouch of tobacco.  He refuses the rolling machine, and seems insulted. “I teach you how to roll,” he proudly says, his eyes beaming. I find this friendly man’s proposition hard to refuse. upon my acceptance he sets about teaching me the art of rolling a cigarette. His geniality is infectious, and I can’t help feeling a certain comradery with this jolly and strangely insistent, middle-aged man.

The man begins instructing me, but struggles to find the right words for each step in the procedure. He becomes frustrated, tormented even, and the situation takes a dark turn. In him I see a slightly defeated man, tortured by demons unbeknownst to me. I absent-mindedly listen to his disjointed instructions until he finishes. He looks at me and the proud glow returns to his weathered face. I politely thank him, stand up, and continue my walk.

Right before I arrive at Remas Deli, I pass by a damply-lit Chinese Restaurant. Hordes of students have collected inside, and a delivery man emerges from the mass of people. His pale, thin arms are lined with delivery bags. Each bag has Thank you and below an unconvincing smiley-face, Have a good day, printed on it. The man walks quickly, masterfully balancing the bags with a grim determination as he dons a dilapidated bike. His indifferent, focused look contrasts sharply with the jovial and well-meaning message that lines his two arms.

I finally arrive at my destination, Remas Deli. I enter the small, inviting store and a familiar smell reaches my nose, that of chopped ground beef frying on a griddle. It is invigorating. 

Behind the counter stand two welcoming Yemeni men. One of these men, Al, stands eager to greet me. “Hello my friend,” he says under a thick Arabic accent as he reaches out his hand, fist clenched. I bump it, I wouldn’t have it any other way. “How many girlfriends you have now?” he asks inquisitively to which I cheerily respond, “None.”

This question is recurring, and although it may be seen by some as offensive, I see it differently. The question is Al’s big joke, his making sense of the flurry of conflicting American ideas that assault him everyday. I can’t tell if he is sarcastic or not, but it doesn’t really matter. Either way the question represents the same thing.

I ask for my sandwich, a Chopped-Cheese, and Al resumes his place at the griddle. He throws the hamburger patty on the griddle, and after a while he starts chopping at the beef patty with his spatula. The movements are frenzied, staccato in nature, and violent. Al enters a zone, the dark rings under his eyes become even darker, he is somewhere else…

I open my eyes, hear the sub-bass throbbing underneath me, and am reminded almost immediately that I am not back in Yemen. Outside of the window there are two dogs fighting and two men trying to separate them. My apartment is small, tiny in fact, and my amenities are few. I remember that there is some saltah in the fridge and I throw some khat in my mouth before I go to reheat it. As the saltah heats up, the smell of fenugreek and lamb drenches my kitchen. I am hit hard by this odor, it reminds me of Yemen, and that I am nine months away from my return. It reminds me that I am here, on 117^th Street, and not back in Sana’a. It reminds me of my future wife, and the money for the mahr, I must earn.

I pass a man begging for money on 120^th Street. His coat is torn in multiple places, and it reads Adidas in faded-white letters on the front. His glasses are crooked and his mouth is puckered. He looks out into space as if he were blind, and mutters, ”Can ya’ spare a dollar?” in a withered, raspy voice. He reminds me of a man in my old neighborhood in Sana’a, the Shu’aub District. The man’s name was Harbi, and as a child I would examine the man as I walked past him after school. I would say to myself, “I don’t want to end up like this man, I want to escape this man,” and then I would look briefly into his eyes. His stare was forlorn, and his face was mangled. He bled sadness, and I sense that the man next to me on 120^th Street bleeds sadness as well.

On 127^th Street I pass a mosque, Muhammad’s Mosque Number Seven. A friend of mine, Phillip, stands outside. He greets me, “Hello my brother! Will you be in the Mosque tomorrow morning?” I stop and respond, “Maybe, I don’t know yet.” I was never the most devout Muslim but Phillip is nice and part of me wants to take him up on his offer. I don’t know.

I finally arrive at work, Remas Deli. Ali, my coworker, gives me a nod and tells me As-salamu alakykum or, “Peace be upon you,”  as I walk in. Above the cash register I see Yemeni currency, rial, bearing messages such as   bit-tawfiq or, “Good Luck!” I stand and stare for a moment before Ali interrupts me, “You’ll be home soon enough, don’t worry too much.” He is right, I will be home soon enough, I shouldn’t worry. He continues, “Only nine months,” only nine months…

At first, my trip to Greenpoint is the same as my commute to school. However as pass through the stop where I usually get off and I start to get butterflies in my stomach. It is the same feeling like during take off on an airplane where your body rises but your stomach stays in place. Soon I transfer on 4 Ave. – 9 St. for the G train and my world slowly begins to change. The train itself changes, being only half the length of a normal change. I know that soon enough I’ll be back in Greenpoint where I have been dozens of times before but with each time being different and unique. There is always something changing, for better or worse, in Greenpoint just like everything is changing all over the city. These changes are already visible as the G train pulls into the station. The train that would usually be crowded with older men and women with a majority being from Poland is now crowded by younger, up-coming, people that are from a wide variety of countries.

However, as I get off the train at Nassau Ave. I realize that some things cannot possibly change. For example, the street of Manhattan Ave. is so narrow yet always filled with cars, bikes, and buses brings me joy because I know that there is no way it can change. As I walk down the street, I see the same situation that happened on the train where when once the sidewalks were always filled with many dialects of Polish but now they are few and far in between each other.

There are still a lot of shops that bring back old memories. There is the candy shop that sells a many old Polish candies. I loved being in that shop as a kid because of all the cloyingly sweet smell of chocolate and sweets. Now, I love the old fashioned set up of the store where all the candies are in bins and you can bag them up and are charged based on weight. Not many stores do this in the USA with many candies being prepackaged, however in Poland this is a common practice and I loved being able determine how much candy I want. As I continue walking I pass the old church where I used to spend major Catholic Holidays. Most of these memories are from Christmas Eve and Easter where mass was held at crazy hours, 5:00 am and 12:30 am, respectively. When there is no mass at church it is filled with older women, usually praying for the well being of themselves and their families. The church has a cool feeling to it with a light draft caused by the windows open near the ceiling. The ceiling, high and vaulted, covered in a mosaic that I remember constantly looking up at as if I was looking at God.

Further down Manhattan Ave. there is Greenpoint Ave., what I consider to be the life of Greenpoint. I turn to the left and find the main branch of the Polish-Slavic Federal Credit Union or just PSFCU. Looking at it, I notice that it has remained untouched throughout all these years. It is still supported by its white stone columns that make the entire building seem important, like it’s the White House. Right next to it is my favorite Polish restaurant, Karczma, which translates simply to inn or pub. This is my favorite place to eat because of the atmosphere. The walls are bare brick and dimly lit by lighting fixtures in the wall meant to look like candles. The tables are made out of old, gnarled wood and surrounded by benches instead of chairs. The whole place looks old-fashioned and I love it. Everything in the place reminds me of Poland, the appetizers come out on thick wooden cutting boards instead of plates just like how my grandma would make me lunch. I also remember how this is the first place I thought of when my old girlfriend asked me to take her somewhere Polish; “It doesn’t get more Polish than this”, I told her.

Next place I walk to is an old bakery, Syrena, where my grandfather used to work at when he came to America in the 50’s to make some extra money to send back home. I don’t know how it looked 50 years ago but I like to pretend it did not change. I look at the place now and imagine that is how he saw it when he was coming in to work at 4 and bake the bread for the morning masses. I hope that the only thing that changed are the faces, however I don’t know how if this is true. All I know is that whenever I ask anyone inside about my grandfather that they never heard of him not even the managers. It is a strange feeling knowing that he was there at one point put left no trace, similar to a ghost.

Walking back to the train, I feel prideful of what I saw that day. I am proud that Polish people have set up a small part of the city where I can feel closer to Poland than America. I know that many immigrants strive toward assimilation, however I am sad about the culture they leave behind when they “become American”. I remember streets in Bensonhurst that would be lined with small Italian businesses that now have been replaced by a lot of chain stores and the old businesses are a dying breed. It makes me proud of the Polish people in Greenpoint for sticking around for this long even though they are also slowly dying out. I hope that my children will be able to experience the same memories as I in Greenpoint.

As I pass by Dyker Heights and see the elaborate houses decorated with Christmas lights and ornaments, I regress to an eight-year-old immigrant child. The first memory that vividly paints itself in my mind from December 22, 2002 is of the winter wonderland and bright lights of lavishly decorated Brooklyn houses. Yet, the same excitement and curiosity ceases to exist. The image of my eight-year-old self quickly disappears; an indifferent expression replaces the innocent, bewildered eyes. The culture shock has slowly faded over the past eleven years, as I have become desensitized to the “glitz and glam” of American culture. 

As I walk around 81^st and 82^nd street of Dyker Heights, Brooklyn, bundled up with my hat and gloves, I feel safe—too safe. I have seen these festive houses decorated for the holidays the past eleven years. I don’t feel the need to stop and stare in surprise. I don’t feel the need to even look up to wonder what the ruckus is about. I already know which houses place a blow-up Santa Clause on their front lawn and which one wraps multi-colored lights around its trees. This year is not any different. The garland, ornaments, and audience of this spectacle are always the same—I’m the only one who has changed.

 I nonchalantly walk past them, dodging tourists and visitors who are in awe with the inundating decorations. I wonder how silly it is for tourists to come from other states and even countries to witness this.

I was once that “tourist.” Oh how times have changed! I wonder if the city has made me heartless. Have I grown up too much to appreciate this? Can one ever grow up ‘too much’? These flashing lights, which once brought me the same thrill and amazement as these tourists, now only stir up feelings of confusion and frustration.  

Perhaps I have become ungrateful. Maybe this land of hope and opportunity molded me to be as durable as the paved streets. They’re definitely not paved with gold—just hard, cold, cement. Who would have imagined cement being an accurate reflection of my life? I wonder how my eight-year-old self would think of this newfound rashness.

 In Albania, I appreciated the slightest fortunes—when the power turned on or warm water was running. Now, not only do I expect those necessities, but also take magnificence for granted. I wonder, is that the New York bravado? The hectic, fast-paced lifestyle transforms people—for better or worse.

I forcefully shut my eyes, hoping to regain the same passion and spirit of the little girl who stood here eleven years ago—half confused and half excited to be in a new world. What I wish to have her back. Yes, she spoke no English, abandoned her family in Albania, and didn’t quite understand what severe impact this move would have on her life, but she was innocent. She was sweet and naïve and these pretty lights made her happy. They made her new world look beautiful and exciting. Of course she still had knots in her stomach and didn’t know what to expect, but in that moment, she felt whole.

She was awe-struck to see the colorful lights flickering on and off. Light was a luxury in Albania and these strangers were brightening the outside of their houses with it. Yet, that little girl sat inside of the car with her parents, sister, and “American” grandparents, and passed no negative judgment. She was reunited with her grandparents whom she hadn’t seen for several years, and that made the butterflies in her stomach settle down.

‘Ooh’ and ‘ahh’ filled her head, as she could not verbalize what she was feeling. The kaleidoscope of images inundated her mind, causing her to succumb to its beauty.

She seems like a distant image now—or a dream—not a part of me. I can’t whole-heartedly refer to her as “me” because she seems like a mirage. Perhaps that is the reason why I struggle with memory—because I’m quick to detach myself from the past. I’m quick to move on and forget. Sometimes it’s easier to repress the memories than admit that I have changed—for better or worse.

But as I pass by the ornate houses, I’ll choose not to categorize the change as ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ All the miniscule details that I can recall from my past serve as tiny, colored glass squares to the mosaic of my life. Although the fast-paced, repetitive nature of the city life has desensitized me, I don’t view it negatively. It is merely a motivation to search for something new and exciting, rather than fall back to a mundane life style. Although the streets are not paved with gold, you can paint them yourself. You can choose to walk in the same, worn down streets day by day or explore new territory. I choose to pave my own streets and see what the journey holds.

As I hurriedly rush down 82^nd street, I’m not interested in experiencing something for the twelfth time, but looking to explore something for the first time. I realize that it is not heartless or depressing to swiftly pass by these aesthetically astounding houses because I’m giving someone else the opportunity to experience it for the first time. I’m passing the baton to someone else, in hopes of filling his or her life with wonder and joy. 

Although I love the spirit of that bewildered immigrant girl passing by those houses in awe, I have to find other ways to quench my curiosity and stimulate my passion. I have shifted from experiencing life as a bystander, to actively and keenly living it. The rose colored glasses of the little girl and the kaleidoscope shattered to fit in my grand mosaic, which has barely taken form.   

As the D-train screeches to a stop, I step off onto the platform adorned by a tiled wall that once was pristine white. The words Grand St. were painted along the walls, announcing the destination of the passenger. Moving rapidly out of the station, the train blows a gust of warm air filled with a distinct odor that many Asian New Yorkers grew up with: a mixture of pollution and Chinatown. I am not of Chinese descent, or at least, not directly. Because of my physical features, I can probably pull off by saying that I am a crossbreed between Chinese and Spanish. The only thing that can give-away my lie would be my nose, a type that is mostly common in Southeast Asian countries. Despite being able to identify myself as a mix of two very different ethnicities, I am more comfortable with familiarizing myself with people of Chinese descent. This was especially evident in my high school as I collected Chinese friends of different origins; Vietnam, Malaysia, Guangzhou, and Hong Kong are just a few of these examples.

            Of course my taste of friends does limit itself to only those of Asian descent; I expanded my connections and befriended classmates whose culture differentiated so much from my own. Even if this is the case, I tend to gravitate towards people whose origins are fairly close to mine. Upon arriving in New York nearly ten years ago, one of the first places I visited was Chinatown in Brooklyn. Just over the Verrazano Bridge, “8^th Avenue,” as it is most commonly known in the Asian community, teems with the smell and noise that is only distinctive to Asian markets. Walking down the street in the midst of the Sunday bustle, I remember thinking that this was the closest I will ever be from my homeland. The aroma of fresh vegetable aligning countless stalls, the sound of customers haggling with the vendors over the price, the sight of no one flinching at the pungent odor of fish markets, and the shrill voices of food cart owners over the crowd. These aspects congregated together offers a place in which I can reminisce about my past, a life in which the energy of the people supersedes the poverty of the neighborhood.

            Life for most people in the Philippines was impoverished if compared to the American standard. Thousands of people find their homes in small shacks that are made out of scrap wood and sheets of metal. One after the other, these homes sprung up across Metro Manila, the capital of the Philippines. Much like the current rise of gentrification in New York City, many of these inhabitants, called “squatters,” are being forced out of their homes because of the rapid increase of real estate values. Regardless of this, however, these Filipinos are resilient, remaining positive even in the midst of trouble. It is not difficult for them to build their shack homes in another place because knowing that wherever they go, they are welcomed by hundreds who share their same lifestyle. I guess this is why I have such a strong affinity towards Chinese people. They remind me of my people, the people who make the best out of what they have, no matter how little.

            Just like New York Chinatowns, Metro Manila brims with life. The equivalent of Canal Street of Manhattan is the Divisoria Market of Manila, and by sheer comparison, it is still unparalleled. The main difference of the two is the layout of the neighborhood. Just imagine placing all the nooks and crannies of Chinatown streets and placing them into a very small space. It is similar to a street fair in the city, except the streets are half the size and the number of stalls are three times greater. Natives and tourists alike merge themselves between the vendor stalls, browsing through cheap quality-made goods and even cheaper price tags. On the outskirts of the market lie the food stalls; even from afar, one can smell a whiff of the nearby barbecue cooking on kerosene-ignited grills or hear the subtle pops of fish balls frying in oil that has been unchanged for too long. Local farmers and fishermen also try to make a living amongst the third-world country consumerists, laying out their daily haul for passing customers to admire and hopefully buy.

            Although great in size, the vitality of these markets does not compare to the spirit of the people. It is the lifestyle of the people of Chinatown that I feel such a strong affinity for. Like my Asian counterpart, I have developed a mindset that is shared by lot of children of immigrant parents. The core of this mentality can be found in frugality. Although it is often categorized as an Asian stereotype, it is neither a lie nor truth, but rather a misconception. For me, knowing my family’s history and journey has taught me to value that what is less is truly more. I have a clear understanding of the difference of what is wanted and what is needed, and that indulgence should always be practiced moderately. And every time I visit Chinatown, these are the qualities I see in its people. Even greater than this is the sense of community, of belonging, an essence that can never be bought but can always be shared. 

I remember waking up some days not knowing where I was, to the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the distant sound of Tom and Jerry on the television. These were the summers of my early childhood, the lazy mornings spent in Kathy’s apartment. Standing at 5’ 6” in heels, tights, a grey pencil skirt, a white knitted cardigan over a cashmere sweater, pearl earrings, and an auburn updo, Kathy looked like one of those old Hollywood actresses who simply refused to let age touch her. She’d see me walk into the kitchen, give me a kiss on the forehead, and make me a bowl of Cheerios while I joined my brother to watch cartoons. In her living room, I was transported to a whole ‘nother world, traveling back in time to the 1940s: the dark wallpaper, that antique smell, the plush, soft brown carpet. There were these lamps with these weird diamond-like decorations hanging from them. I loved taking them off and observing how shiny each one was, almost like if I stared hard enough, I could see into the future. I wish.

As I stroll down the block of my old apartment building, I think of her, the life she lived, and the selflessness she exuded. When my father had been diagnosed with brain cancer, my mother had to work longer shifts to provide for our family, visiting him at the hospital whenever she could. Because of this, she had to find someone who would watch over her two young kids during those absences. Seeing her dilemma, my mother’s long time friend and next-door neighbor, Kathy, offered to look after us, practically becoming our second mother. After breakfast, we’d wait for her to get ready and then follow her out into the street with a grocery cart, latching on to her wrinkled hands. On the nicest days, she’d take us to the Toys R Us on 82^nd Street, saying, “Now ya can each get somethin’ fuh five dollas!” with a warm smile on her face. Sometimes I’d see a toy that cost eight or ten dollars—something that I’d really like—and ask her if I could get it. And even though she was retired from her job, she’d buy us what we wanted every time.

Overhead, the 7 train roars by, and Colombian pastries from the bakery to the left saturate my nose. I pass by electronics and shoe stores; in front of one of them, a lady selling churros rings a bell every couple minutes. Making a right at Roosevelt and 82^nd, I see the pharmacy’s big bold sign that once read “Genovese”, though Kathy still called it Genovese even after it was renamed Eckerd and later Rite Aid. The Toys R Us is gone, replaced by a T-Mobile store, and a City Jeans has opened up where Hallmark used to be. Going further down the street, I reach 37^th Ave., and make a left towards the corner deli, passing by one of the few restaurants that’s been around since before I was born, Jahn’s. Briefly peering into the diner, I remember the countless summer afternoons spent sharing a sundae with my brother while Kathy caught up with the waitress. Though most of the staff has changed, the restaurant seems to look the same from what I can tell. Now, as I go into the deli and order a lamb gyro, I recall Kathy’s voice asking Sal for a pound of salami over the counter, back when the store was known as Italian Farms, or Sal’s, as she called it.

Like most of Jackson Heights’ earliest immigrants, Kathy had completely lost her original British accent, mainly as a result of being married to an Italian man and immersing herself in his family’s culture. She’d have coffee for breakfast, tea and biscuits for lunch, and spaghetti for dinner. On her dresser were numerous black and white photographs of her husband in his Navy uniform. In her bedroom closet was a faded American flag, about five feet long and four feet wide when unfolded. I’d often wrap the flag around myself when playing pretend with my brother, or use it to make forts. I was always amazed by the sheer size of it, as well as the rarity of such an object. Colombian flags, Ecuadorian flags, and Mexican flags were everywhere in the neighborhood, even then. But American flags, you had to look for.

At the time, Kathy knew many of Jackson Heights’ other longtime residents and storeowners by name, and through her, they came to know us. I barely see any of these people anymore, their friendly expressions replaced by indifferent and unfamiliar ones, the large family businesses taken over by smaller ones of the recently immigrated. In a short period of only twelve years, everything has changed, and as I take a bite out of my Middle Eastern meal, I find myself struggling to find a connection with my surroundings. The part of her that lives on in me misses the old Jackson Heights, where corded phones were bought from RadioShack, rather than iPhones from T-Mobile; where toy stores were always crowded and birthday cards cost less than a dollar, plus a free lollipop from the man at the cash register.

I walk on, making my way home, all the while picturing a Kathy in her mid-thirties walking these very streets. I glance at the Asian restaurants that begin to appear on 78^th St., wondering if they were once ice cream parlors or barbershops that she knew when she was younger. And as I look more and more into the glass windows of places such as Aruni Thai and Spicy Shallot, I start to realize that my reflection is not too different from the faces of the workers inside, that we share the same role in shaping a newer, more diverse Jackson Heights—a role I was given the moment my mother stepped off the plane from the Philippines. Coming to the entrance of my building, I hold the front door open for an elderly Indian woman and go to the elevator, where I am greeted by one of our neighbors. She talks to me in my mother’s tongue, forgetting that I can’t speak the language, and we get off at the 5^th floor, where a mix of Filipino and Indian cuisine leaks out from under every door. We say goodbye as I turn the key to our apartment, suddenly welcomed by the mouth-watering smell of chicken adobo. I think faintly about Kathy and her strong coffee, about flags and the power of time. And while I still don’t know which roots to call my own, I look out the window at the great mosaic of the city, finally feeling like all of me is where it belongs.

I’ve always loved walking down 31^st avenueand Ditmars Boulevard in Astoria, Queens. It’s the one place in New York that makes me feel like I’m back home again. It used to be that no matter what direction you turned your head to, you would always see an elderly Greek man smiling at you, or a typical Greek scene where his wife is yelling at him, and telling him to hurry up

The winds of change though pass through every single place on earth. Astoria was no exception.

I was always extremely proud of my heritage while growing up. I thought (and still do) that being born Greek is probably the coolest thing that could happen to a person. I mean. Come on. If you ask any Greek they’ll tell you that we invented civilization. What could be cooler than that? This is why these next few words that I’m about to write, are quite honestly the hardest words I’ve ever written in a paper The Greek community, or at least the Greek community that I’ve always known (in Astoria) is slowly dying.

            While I have no doubt that the Greek people in New York have simply moved to different locations. Many have relocated to Long Island. It hurts me a bit inside seeing that an area that used to be almost exclusively Greek now has hints of other cultures such as Indian, and Middle Eastern. AlthoughI am in no way against this cultural diversity, it’s disappointing  that I can’t stand in the middle of the street, close my eyes and let the smell take me away and make me imagine that I’m in the middle of Athens. Within five seconds of closing my eyes I’d hear the most typical Greek thing of all: me getting cursed at in Greek to get out of the way. But now things are different. I wouldn’t get cursed at in Greek anymore.  Now there’s a good chance that the person that yells at me does so in English but it just isn’t the same.

            I usually take little walks in the neighborhood, just to get to enjoy the sights and smells of the area. I’d pass stores that have been there for what seems like forever. A few examples consist of, Stamatis, Telly’s Taverna, and Kyklades. But now, I see newer restaurants as well. Restaurants that are more modern. More American. In the infamous corner of 23^rd Avenue and 31^st Street, there’s now a Bareburger. It wasn’t always a Bareburger though. This corner has probably my single fondest memory of Astoria.

            It was in 2004, but to me, it feels like yesterday. Greece had just beat Portugal 1-0 in the finalof the European Cup in soccer. In that moment, when the final whistle was blown, I, along with every other Greek person that happened to be in Astoria at the time ran out into the streets. People were cheering, and singing. Cars were honking their horns, but for once not to tell someone to get out of their way. The whole area seemed to have been instantly painted white and blue. And then there was my dad. In the corner that had the Barebuger was the restaurant that he worked in. At the time it was called Anna’s Corner. It was there that I remember seeing my dad outside of the front door jumping up and down smiling at me. This was paradise. It is pretty safe to say that I wasn’t the happiest person in the world seeing that restaurant close, even though my dad didn’t work there anymore at the time of its closing.

If I walk up 31^st street, then I’ll come to the one place, that hasn’t changed. Agora Plaza. This translates to “Market Plaza.” In this little plaza is where my parents used to, and still do most of their food shopping for Christmas. There’s a Mediterranean Foods, Aphrodite’s Bakery, and of course my favorite store of them all, the butcher’s shop. My dad’s a well known person in the plaza, having worked nearbyfor so many years, thus causing me to become well known in the area as well. Of course I’m still just “Peter’s kid,” but it’s better than nothing.

It’s at this plaza that I decide to turn my walk around. There isn’t much to see up farther. Just houses. I’m only eighteen. I want to be in the middle of everything, not looking at houses. As I turn around I take a long look at the plaza, and at what used to be Anna’s Corner. For all I know they might be completely changed the next time I come to Astoria. As I walk farther I pass the local coffee shop, Lefkos Pyrgos, I greet the elderly men that are sitting around playing backgammon, and they smile and wave to me,asking me how my day is. Then I come around to the best pizza place in the world. Franky’s Pizza. Okay, it may not be the best in the world, but its pretty darn good. I eat pizza relatively often and I must say, this is the one place I’m actually willing to wait twenty minutes for a slice. It may not be a Greek restaurant, but it’s been there so long (since 1958) that it’s embedded into the community.

Suddenly I hear the roar of the train above me, which wakes me up, from my little fantasyland. I then begin to realize that I’m nowhere close to Greece. Even more importantly I realize that I have to go meet my friend for her birthday. But I really don’t want to leave Astoria. For about half an hour, I forgot that I was in New York. At the same time though, I knew that my walk couldn’t last much longer. There aren’t many exclusively Greek locations left in Astoria. Most have a mixture of other races that live and own stores amongst the Greeks As I walk up the stairs to the N train, I think to myself: I’m not sure how much more change I could take to Astoria. I still think it’s perfect. Maybe a bit less than it was ten years ago, but it’s still close to perfect in my heart.   

Every weekday morning, I walk along St. Nicholas Terrace to the City College campus on 135^th Street and Convent Avenue. I often listen to music, call my mother, or finish up a reading assignment, but sometimes I let myself think. I smile, too, because I think of my maternal great-grandfather, Bruce Mackinnon Iles, who lived here in Harlem for most of his adult life.

Bruce was born in 1902 to a wealthy family in Port of Spain, Trinidad. His father, Henry Mackinnon Iles, was a prominent attorney and owned quite a bit of land around The Savannah, a beautiful centerpiece of Port of Spain. The Savannah is like Central Park in New York City. It’s where world class cricket is played and where Carnival is hosted annually before Lent. Henry also owned the land in which the famous Hilton Hotel, also called “The Upside Down Hotel,” stands today. The lobby of the hotel is on the top floor and guests travel down the elevator to reach their rooms. (My mother and I stayed at this hotel on our recent trip to Trinidad.)

My great-grandfather Bruce spent his early childhood in Trinidad. For a wealthy family, the eldest son goes into his father’s occupation and the second son is destined for the military. Bruce was the second male child. His older brother Julian, though, left Trinidad for law school in London. He left at the right time for their father, Henry, had many mistresses and illegitimate children. Bruce’s mother, Julia Grace, had enough and packed her whole family’s bags to accompany Julian to London. Henry Mackinnon Iles was left in Trinidad with all his mistresses and children. He eventually died there.

Once in London, Julia and her children were living lavishly through Henry’s money. Unfortunately, after myriad bad decisions, Henry succumbed to debt, lost his license to practice law, and also lost all his assets. The family in London no longer had adequate funds to stay in luxury. My great-grandfather Bruce decided to move to New York before his family were to accompany him. New York, to them, was a land of opportunity.

I walk through Central Park every Friday afternoon. Sometimes I close my eyes and dream of The Savannah in Trinidad. I see old men playing chess, university students bickering over politics, cricket players, children, young women swinging to calypso during Carnival. I see Bruce, a child, crying over melted ice cream and my great-great grandmother, Julia Grace, saying, “Baby, that’s the way the cookie crumbles.”

Bruce came to New York City on a ship from London, England. He had long ago abandoned the idea of a military career and was too distracted by the potential opportunity to be found in New York. Immediately, he met my striking great-grandmother Olga Carew and after a quick courtship, he married her. They started a family of three children: my grandmother (or my Lala) Gloria, Grace, and Horatio (H.O.). They all were born within a six-year period from 1924 to 1930. Bruce’s family, including his mother and sisters, eventually made their way to New York. They all lived together in an apartment in Harlem.

For them, and for most of the families at that time, money was an issue. Bruce could never hold a steady job. He worked as a floor finisher, a photographer during the WPA (New Deal) period, a laborer in the Brooklyn Navy Yard during World War II, and even as an actor. He had a booming voice and British accent. But of all de special talents dat we Trinis possess is de way we talk dat ranks us among de best. Although he could never hold onto a job for long, his most impressive positions were brief stints as a staff photographer for Life and Look magazines. My Lala always talks of her father’s photography talents.

In all the photographs I’ve seen of my great-grandfather Bruce, he always looks angry. He was at odds with everyone; Bruce was abusive to his wife Olga and his children. My Lala says he was “a spoiled brat, but could never afford to be one” and she talks of his terrible temper. Although Bruce was bad-tempered, perhaps I understand why. I think of all he had to deal with: constant moving, family drama, problems with money, missed opportunities. Bruce was undoubtedly a violent and angry man, but he was also a frustrated intellectual and photographer who could never rise to his potential. He was unhappy. Of course, his unhappiness can never be an excuse for his behavior and the damage to his family that ensued.

Bruce led a solitary life; he read alone in his room despite the large size of his family. In 1956, the year my mother Diane was born, my great-grandmother Olga left Bruce to live with my Lala and help with her first (and only) granddaughter. Bruce finally knew what it felt like to be truly alone. Now, we laugh when we talk of Olga leaving Bruce. We say that she embodies the old Trinidadian saying: Better fish in di sea dan wha get ketch. The saying means that there’s always a better lover than your current one.

My great-great grandfather’s life was sad for he had promise, but could never overcome his own disappointment. He let frustration run his life. In 1983, Bruce died from a combination of arthritis and complications caused by consuming too much aspirin over the years. He was eighty-one years old.

I asked my grandmother Lala if he was ever content. She answered, “You know, he was sometimes. I only remember him smiling when he was taking pictures or organizing his materials. He was a brilliant photographer, Alexis.” I finally saw some of Bruce’s photographs. My favorites are those taken of my grandmother in Harlem in 1942. I look through them on my way to class at City College. My Lala, beautiful and eighteen years old, smiles and stands next to Shepherd Hall in one of the pictures. In another, the light catches the left side of her face as she sits on the quad near the Compton and Goethals building. And for a moment, I think it’s me.

Upon hearing Fadi’s story, I realized that the American Immigrant’s  story has not really changed since the opening of Ellis and Angel Island, and the creation of the classical American Immigrant’s Story. There may be new technology, new methods of communication, new venues for the media, but none of these seem to destroy the myth that America and a better life are consistently synonymous. There is a distinct tragedy in this myth, as it almost always sets up whoever immigrates to America in pursuit of a better life, for disappointment. I also realized, however, that this myth creates a deep-seated determination that does not dissipate once an immigrant’s illusions of American Life are destroyed. Fadi’s family was assaulted with these twisted notions of America and its advantages in their native country of Egypt, thus inspiring his father and mother to immigrate to America, with Fadi in tow, in the fall of 2004.

When Fadi arrived in America, he was nearly ten years old with only a basic grasp of the English language. His father, Ameer Habashy, was the driving force behind the family’s move. Ameer fell in love with America in his thirties, most likely due to the media’s distorted portrayal of it. The primary motivation behind their move was Fadi’s future for which Fadi’s parents had high hopes.

Both of Fadi’s parents, Ameer and Emas Habashy, went to four-year universities in Egypt, and both of them have degrees in Engineering. They both grew up in Egypt, and subsequently, their lives were in Egypt. Up until the move, Fadi’s life was also in Egypt. When the Habashy family left Egypt, they left behind their friends, extended family (aside from Fadi’s aunt and two cousins, who had moved to America three years before Fadi moved), and for Fadi’s parents, their careers.

When Fadi first arrived in Borough Park, Brooklyn, his frustration began. He entered the fourth grade, and although a top student back in Egypt, his sub-par English held him back academically. On top of that, he was thrust into an ESL class, which although helpful, made him feel humiliated and stupid. His primary teacher was not of much help, denying Fadi the extra attention he needed as an immigrant in favor of passing on the responsibility of helping him adjust to the teacher in his next year of school, which was the fifth grade. Fadi felt abandoned by his teacher, and his peers offered him no consolation. They did not have the aspirations that Fadi did, and the fact that he was new and confused made him an easy target for harassment.

Fadi’s parents did not fare much better than Fadi in their first year. When they began their job search, they found out that the Engineering Degrees that they had worked so hard for back in Egypt, did not apply in America. Discouraged but not disheartened, they took jobs that they were extremely overqualified for. Through this, they remembered that they came to America primarily for Fadi, and that some sacrifices had to be made in order to aid their son.

In my interview with Fadi, he often talked about the fact that his parents came to America for him. Although noble of them, it seems that Fadi feels this constant pressure to excel. He is an only child, an important fact because he is the sole focus of his parents, magnifying the pressure to do well exponentially. It is a strange situation in that Fadi did not ask for what his parents did for him, yet he cannot get angry because he acknowledges that what they did for him was exceedingly selfless.

In fifth grade, Fadi had a much more pleasant experience. His English improved, his teacher was incredibly helpful, and his peers seemed as keen as he was on school. The seeds of American optimism began to take root in Fadi’s eleven-year old self.

Then came middle school. In sixth grade, Fadi was surrounded by delinquents determined to undermine every teacher they had. They would feign fights and scream in class. During one instance, Fadi recounts that two of his classmates began to spit at one another, and when his teacher tried to intervene she was caught in the crossfire. Fadi’s optimism faded during these years, and he was forced to adapt to his surroundings. This meant that he often joined in on the ruckus, his young mind unable to resist the temptation. But perhaps it was better that Fadi adapted, he already felt like an outsider and by joining in, it not only diminished his alienation, but it created a sense of comradery with his lawless peers.

In the eight grade, Fadi excelled. The chaos that had governed the previous two years of his academic existence was extinguished when the option to take advanced classes was presented to him. In these classes, he felt that the other students were of a similar caliber academically and behaviorally. Both the advanced classes and the stimulating academic atmosphere carried over into his years at FDR High School in Borough Park. Now, like the rest of us, Fadi attends City College through the Macaulay Honors Program.

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.