My mother was born in the United States, and both of her parents were first-generation Americans. My father is a first-generation American himself, and since I know almost everything about his side—and little about my mother’s side—this story will focus on my paternal grandmother Anita, who came here from Poland prior to the Holocaust.

A Polish Jew, Anita came from Poland in the mid-1920s before the onslaught of the Holocaust, which claimed the lives of many of her relatives. When she immigrated to the United States, Anita was only fourteen years old and lived in a rooming house. She worked in an umbrella factory, making umbrellas for what would become one of the very few lucrative businesses during the Great Depression, for only three dollars a week. Her primary challenges were living on her own as a teenager, and learning the English language. She managed to do both while working and gaining real-world skills, although she only made it to the fourth grade.

Her husband, Saul, was also of Eastern European descent, although he was born in the United States. He was a plumber who worked in the ship yards during World War II, and he received an eighth grade education. After the two of them married, they raised my father in a very blue-collar environment. As such, his mother was very careful to save as much money as possible, especially if his father was laid off for six months. Both of his parents were determined to send my father to college since he was a child; he became the first person on his side of the family not only to attend and matriculate college (although, unfortunately, after his parents’ death), but also to start and complete high school.

While my father was not an immigrant himself, many of the lessons he learned are those that many immigrants teach themselves: saving money, having a dream, receiving a quality education, becoming self-reliant, and living a better life. The end result is that my father and our family live much better off than he did growing up, and he has passed down the same lessons to my siblings and me, albeit a bit subdued. He lived in a small apartment in East Flatbush, at the time a primary neighborhood for Eastern European Jewish immigrants, for the first eleven years of his life. When he was eleven, he moved into a two-family house in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. My father has owned the house ever since his parents died, and has occasionally leased it out over the years. However, in 2003, after bouncing around a few houses in a five-block radius, we moved back to his house, owning both floors.

So the only questions remaining are: was it worth it for my grandmother, and did she realize her American Dream? I cannot answer for her, although I would say that she did. Indeed, had she not come here, my father would not have been born, and therefore I would never have been born. But there was more significance to her decision. Although she immigrated in 1925, which was before the rise of the Third Reich in nearby Germany, things were already tense in Poland and Anita survived as someone who most likely would have perished in the Holocaust, if not a “Holocaust Survivor.” Certainly, it had to have been worth it for her.

Lastly, I should note that while she did not fully realize her American Dream, she did raise a man who would. Unfortunately, Anita came down with cancer when my father was only nineteen, and died just two years later. She also always wanted to have grandchildren, although she never did. Nevertheless, just four months ago, my father became a grandparent himself when my oldest brother had a daughter, Sylvia. Therefore, many of the experiences that Anita could not live to see were carried on by my father, so it is safe to say she realized the American Dream.

Growing up, my father raised me and my siblings very similarly to how he was raised. However, since he was born in the United States, he was not under as much pressure to assimilate, so while he has a strong work ethic, he is looser in terms of handling hardships, be they cultural or financial. All of my siblings and I were born in New York City, and I have lived with my family in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, my whole life in an upper-middle class environment. Currently, I attend the Macaulay Honors College at The City College of New York; following a pattern, because everyone in my family has attended a CUNY school.

My parents were both born in Poland in 1962. My father lived in the towering grey apartment buildings that characterized the soviet-inspired architecture of Warsaw at the time. Since the fall of Communism, in the spirit of rebirth, the ugly blocks have been repainted in outrageous pastels and candy colors. His apartment building, where his brother still lives, is now splashed with three different shades of pink, a pale yellow, leaf green, orange, and lavender. My mother grew up in a tiny village forty kilometers away from the border with the Soviet Union (now Belarus). Her mother’s sister and brother and some of their progeny still live there. The village has 20 houses, and little more than half of them have permanent residents. It is one of the last remnants of the traditional peasant world that once characterized most of Europe.

They met while attending the University of Warsaw in the 1980’s. They casually dated on and off for a few years, and when my mother graduated in 1987, she moved to America. A year previously, her mother had gone to Pennsylvania, where her own first cousin, who had been born in America and who she had never met, lived. She married him so she could get a green card. My mother came straight to New York, where she lived in an apartment in Sunset Park with some friends who had graduated university with her. My father wasn’t so lucky. He was still in Poland repeating his sophomore year of college for the fifth time. He didn’t really go to class much because he worked at an underground printing press, publishing and distributing banned books, and anti-communist newspapers and pamphlets. After a few too many run-ins with the police, and seeing as the whole getting a college degree thing wasn’t working out too well, he decided to cut his losses and join my mother in America after a year. At this point the government of Poland was nearing collapse and passports were being given out just to get trouble causing citizens out of the country.

My father waited in a tiny room with one teller and a line of over 100 people to pick up his passport. Communist Poland was notorious for its long lines. People waited hours and days to pick up ration cards, furniture, and food. The waiting lists for cars were months and years. The wait for an apartment in Warsaw often stretched decades. My father stood in line thinking about how America would be different, full of freedom and democracy, and no waiting for hours for basic human necessities. On his third day in America, he went to the DMV and his illusions were quickly shattered. At the DMV in Newark, New Jersey, you could exchange a foreign driver’s license for an American one without taking any additional tests. He had intended to look at the street names and house numbers in New Jersey so he could put down one as an address at the DMV, but had forgotten to do so. When he encountered the “address” line on the form he was filling out, he simply made one up.

My parents moved in together with my grandmother in an apartment in Canarsie. Within 6 months, on tax day in 1989, they were married. They had no idea it was tax day. They were never boyfriend and girlfriend and they were never engaged so I’m not really sure what was going on there but they’re cute together so it’s alright. Being undocumented, my parents couldn’t get official, “on the books” jobs. My mother worked as a housekeeper, and my father started off working construction, moved on the selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door, and finally settled on driving a cab. They kept trying to conceive so they can have a child that was an American citizen, to reduce their chance of being deported. They tried for six years with no success. Because they were undocumented, they had no health insurance, so my mother couldn’t go to a gynecologist to get checked out. In October of 1995, Pope John Paul II came to New York City. My mother went to one of his masses and prayed to conceive a child. A few months later, she discovered she was pregnant with me.

Because she lacked access to health care, my mother didn’t have an obstetrician while pregnant with me. Despite being 34, just a year short of the cut-off for a “high-risk pregnancy”, there were no sonograms or other examinations beyond those that could be provided by a midwife my mother knew. My parents had no idea what gender I would be until the moment I left the womb. When my mother was in labor, she was turned away from the hospital because the receptionist claimed the hospital didn’t accept non-emergency patients on the Fourth of July, and a woman nine and a half months pregnant with contractions was apparently not an emergency. She came back the next day and and after a long labor gave birth to me. I was raised in large part by my grandmother because both my parents worked long hours. On my first day of school, I was confused when I spoke Polish to my teacher and she didn’t understand.

Unfortunately, my parents weren’t able to get green cards until after my little brother was born in 2001. After that, things got a lot better. My mother got a job as a social worker, what she had been trained for almost 15 years earlier. My father started working for one of his friends who had his own business. They were finally able to leave the country without worry of never being allowed back in, so after they saved up enough money, they took me and my brother to Poland in the summer of 2007 to show us where they grew up and the rest of our family. Surprisingly, I felt much more at home there than I did in Brooklyn.

I have lived in New York City for six months. I wake up early some days and feel like I’m still in the Chelsea hotel I stayed in the night before I moved my things into the dorm. Other days I’ll sleep in comfortably like I’ve never been out of the tri-state area in my life. But my true origins are in the Deep South. I was never fond of the South, but since I’ve moved to New York, I’ve become increasingly defensive and proud of where I come from. Growing up in Tennessee, you are taught at a young age that your community needs you. You are not encouraged to leave and explore, and often the ones that do are looked at in a different way. Disregarding this “path”, I left my family in Knoxville for an opportunity to study in one of the greatest cities in the world. As it turns out, my Italian relatives had similar ideas for starting a new life in New York City. After a thought provoking conversation with my grandfather, a second-generation Italian, I’ve learned more about my family and their intentions behind immigrating to the United States.

The immigration story of my family starts with my great, great grandfather, Luigi Celano. Born in a rural village in Southern Italy, his life was incredibly simple. Not the relaxing, peaceful kind of simple. The simple that involves eating rice for three meals a day and sharing clothes with all of his brothers and sisters. His family was living in squalor. According to my grandpa, most of southern Italy consisted of deprived village communities in the 19^th century. He had one relative in America, and when he was presented the opportunity to immigrate, he took the chance immediately. New York was a great place to settle because of the U.S.’s open immigration policy. Any villagers that left almost always went to New York (if they had the money). It seemed to be the location of choice among poor southern Italians. Luigi made the journey from the Neopolitan suburbs to Ellis Island in 1875. He spent twenty-five years working for the city and living in a poor Italian tenement. Today, this lifestyle might seem grim, but to him it was a total upgrade. The job opportunity provided stability and security in his life, topped off with the feeling of American freedom. In 1900, he had a son (Pietro) and became ill. My grandpa’s exact words are “He was told by a doctor to return to warm climate. So where did he go? Back to Italy.” At this point, I’m convinced this story is a folk tale, but my grandpa insists that it’s true despite the flawed logic (Arguing with people over the age of 75 is a really bad idea). My great grandfather relocated back to Italy, except he was an American citizen by law. When Pietro was 17, World War I was beginning and the Italian government began drafting young men into the war. He was desperate to escape the draft, so he used his American citizenship to immigrate back to New York City in 1917.

The real story begins when my great grandfather immigrated to New York, because this time the change was permanent. Pietro settled in a poor Italian tenement in Prospect Park, Brooklyn. He married and had my grandfather and another daughter. He spent his days working as a street cleaner for the city and working any other job to make ends meet. His family was modest but stable. The original purpose of emigrating was to leave the poverty stricken Italian lifestyle behind. During this journey, returning to Italy set him back, but he was determined to have a prosperous life in a land of opportunity. Pietro’s sister was left behind in Naples. She possessed a mentality that led her to stay true to her homeland, much like the Southerners of this country. He did not argue with her because she was starting a family and wanted to remain raise them in a true Italian household. This distance separated their close relationship, and they were not reunited until fifty years later.

Pietro’s decision to leave his sister was not the only hardship endured. Once the Great Depression hit in the early 30’s, Pietro was out of work and had a family to support. He made the tough choice of moving his family to Newburgh, New York. This entirely foreign place sixty miles from the City provided him with no connections like he worked so hard to obtain. There was no Italian sense of community in this new place. But he did have a reliable job in the Depression, and he kept his spirit strong with the will to provide for his family.

My Italian ancestors had humble aspirations in immigrating to the United States. The main goal was simply to be able to eat. Once one has eaten and is finally full, he can realize even greater ambitions that he never dreamed of. This was the case for my great grandfather, Pietro Celano, who was technically born an American citizen, but was raised in the same poverty stricken Neapolitan village that his father had attempted to escape from. When Pietro finally arrived in America, he visualized a life where not only he, but also his descendants could be immensely successful. He pushed his children to take their education seriously, which in turn produced the first two American college graduates in my family. My grandfather adapted the same values and instilled them even more in his children. There are ten degrees among my grandfather’s five sons and daughters. Of course, this tradition of academic excellence is now upon my generation of the family. I am held to a very high standard, especially with my grandfather (who cares more about my grades than my own parents). My grandfather now lives in the suburbs of Naples, Florida (completely coincidental). He tells me that in his old age, his father’s actions are clearer to him: The hunger only begins with food.

Although I am solely a blend of various Eastern European nations, all of which make me Caucasian, there are four main countries from which my ethnicity is derived. My ancestors from Norway, Scotland, Italy and Austria all converged upon the United States in the early 20^th century for a multitude of reasons. The Norwegian farmers sought better in the United States, so did the Scottish coal miners, and the Italian factory workers. Perhaps the most interesting though is my Austrian family, of which only two are known to have escaped the Holocaust, my grandmother included. Each of those four Branches make up a roughly equal share of my heritage and each has a last name which corresponds to the generation that immigrated to the United States.

For example, The Tveter’s were the generation of my Norwegian family that came here to the United States. They were primarily farmers and carpenters as far back as is known by family and owned a farm in the countryside surrounding the Norwegian city of Trondheim. Preceding WWI, my great grandfather Trygve Norman Tveter came to the United States with his mother, father, younger brother and older brother. They settled in Chicago, Illinois and while Trygve’s father remained a carpenter, Trygve himself secured himself a job at an advertising agency. When WWI came around, Trygve and his older brother enlisted in the military. Trygve’s brother was killed unfortunately when German U-boats attacked the ship he was serving on. Trygve himself survived the war. He had served in the 42^nd or “Rainbow Division” of the US military, 149^th regiment, which operated field artillery along the trenches in Europe. After the war, he came home and married my great-grandmother Margie-Ann Hinman and started a family in Pleasantville, NY, a suburb of New York City. They had three children, one of which was my Grandmother Irene Tveter.

Her husband and my paternal grandfather John Maxwell, was born in the United States in Farrell, Pennsylvania in the 1920’s. He was born to a Scottish father and American mother. His father William Maxwell and grandfather Archibald Maxwell had come from Scotland as coal miners in 1864, when the Irish immigrants reduced the wages by taking mining jobs for less pay after the potato famine. Interestingly, William and Archie Maxwell had descended from a chain of Scottish royalty who had eventually gotten the short end of the stick in terms of inheritance. As my father explained it, the eldest son of a household inherits the greatest share of the family fortune, and in a family of eight brothers, the youngest brother ends up with very little. So after several rounds of my ancestors being the youngest sibling, who therefore inherits the least, they became quite poor and eventually had to look for work. So after the work they found became unprofitable, they moved to Western Pennsylvania in the United States where William was once again a coal miner and Archibald began work at a factory that would eventually manufacture torpedoes in WWI. They were able to put my grandfather John Maxwell all the way through college and he was able to obtain first a Bachelor’s degree in Biology from Muskingum University in Ohio followed by a Master’s degree in plant physiology from Ohio State. Following the completion of his education, he moved away for a teaching job at none other than Pleasantville High School, where he met his future wife Irene Tveter.

Irene was 18 and a senior in high school at the time that they met, and John was 27 and had been teaching there for only a few years. Although to some it sounds creepy that a young girl would marry her high school professor, to them it was true love. After my grandmother attended college for a year in Ohio, she dropped out to marry John in Mayville, NY, where he was then teaching. Years later, they had three children, my uncle Darrell in 1961, aunt Mary Beth in 1962 and my father Mark Maxwell in 1964.

Moving to my mother’s side, the Italian Avitabile family (pronounced ah-vee-tah-buh-lay) moved over from Naples in Southern Italy around 1910 to better themselves financially in the United States and escape the unstable political situation. My paternal grandfather and his two brothers and two sisters were all born in the Bronx where my great grandparents had settled. My grandfather Albert and his siblings helped their parents run a produce market in Harlem to support the family. Eventually, Albert was able to attend CUNY (possibly CCNY) and became an Industrial Engineer in the city. On vacation in the Catskills one fateful day, he met my grandmother, Grete Korn.

My grandmother Grete or “Gigi” as I know her and her two older sisters were born in Vienna, Austria in the late 1920’s. The family owned a shop in Vienna that hand made and sold all kinds of brushes from paintbrushes, to shoe brushes to hairbrushes. I have attached a picture of my Austrian family standing outside the shop in Vienna before my grandmother was born. As some reading this may have guessed, my Austrian ancestors were Jewish and were persecuted by the Nazi regime. Austria was one of the first territories to be occupied by Germany, so my family was in very dangerous territory where they were captured and sent to a concentration camp. The exact camp is unknown but it’s known to have been near Brussels, France. My grandmother and one of her sisters Sophie were able to escape to a territory outside German occupation on what was called the Kindertransport, which allowed children under a certain age to leave Germany before the Nazi regime clamped down further on the Jews. Grete, aged eleven, and Sophie, aged twelve, took refuge in London and were able to work for the Allied military translating German letters and eventually attend high school in London. Unfortunately the rest of the family did not make it out of the camps. My grandmother, after the war was educated at Oxford University where she obtained a degree in library science. For her service to the Allied Powers, she was cleared to move to the United States where she became a librarian in Midtown Manhattan.

She met my grandfather Albert, as mentioned before, at a vacation in the Catskills and after dating back in New York City and falling in Love, the two married and eventually moved to Yonkers to start a family where they had my uncle Steven Avitabile in 1959 and my mother Tina Avitabile in 1964.

So while my parents were both able to attend college relatively easily and met at SUNY New Paltz, there was much of a struggle to get them to that point.  Many branches of my family all had to converge from different parts of Europe to the American Northeast in order for me to be where I am today. The Norwegian Tveter’s, Scottish Maxwell’s, Italian Avitabile’s and Austrian Korn’s all eventually ended up in New York in their search for a better life. So here I am, with an amazingly supportive family and countless educational opportunities, attending the Macaulay Honors College in New York City thanks to the survival of my ancestors through all the hardships they endured staring lives here. Some people don’t have the opportunity to work themselves up to a good standing in life, so they do it for the future generations of their family, and I’m proud to say that I’m well off today thanks to the amazing people I’ve descended from.

After 27 years of opening packages of blue jeans and listening to The Beach Boys, my father applied for immigration in 1980. He’d spent his whole life in The Republic of Moldova. As a child, lived on a humble farm in the village of Tsaul’. When he started attending school, he noticed that he was part of the only Jewish family in a village of 2,000.

He faced persecution for his religious background in a vast number of ways. For example, to proceed to higher education he had to take a subjective exam. When the examiner found out that he was Jewish, he discounted my father’s answers. Subsequently, he was forced to go to the Army until he would finally be able to pass the examination. The only thing that got him through the time was American pop-culture that he had learned about through his relatives. He envisioned a place where it would be okay to be Jewish. He envisioned a place where it would be okay for him to pray without fear of the Pogroms. Despite living in a Post-Holocaust Eastern Europe, he had been subject to the anti-Semitic sentiment of the time and felt as if he wasn’t free to enjoy anything. In fact, in the army, he was forced to adopt a completely new culture. Even though he grew up learning Romanian, and was immersed in solely Romanian culture, the army imposed the Russian language upon him as well as Russian ideals that were so contrary to everything that he’d ever been exposed to before. Even before coming to America, he had to completely assimilate into a different culture that was still technically within his country.

The stories that he had heard about America sparked a sense of wonder within him and with that he embarked on the immigration process. Unfortunately, because of the Soviet Union’s strict immigration policies, he was stuck within the USSR for eight years. After eight long years of impatiently waiting for a chance at a life of freedom from persecution, he finally got lucky.

Depending on whom you may ask, Mikhail Gorbachev and Ronald Reagan may not be considered successful politicians for their respective countries. After all, the former was responsible for the dissolution of the Soviet Union, and the latter is criticized as having some of the most flawed economic policies of his era. To my dad though, these two people saved his life. The politicians came to an agreement about immigration policies and finally opened up the borders of the country. My dad finally had a chance.

His journey took months and was incredibly difficult at times, but he knew that there was a light at the end of this unfortunately bleak and long tunnel. He went to the capital of Moldova, Kishinev, and came to Moscow. After two days there, he flew to Vienna. It was his first time in a different country. He stayed there for 7 weeks with his mother. She was too old to work but both of them wanted to escape their homelands as soon as they could have. A Jewish organization funded their food and clothing money, as well as provided a hotel room for them to live in. He then boarded a train to Rome where he spent one week. He walked the grounds of the Coliseum and admired the postal system. From there, he traveled to Ladispoli, a small city about half an hour away from Rome. He spent four weeks there and traversed the volcanic beaches. Then he finally came to the embassy and pled his case for freedom of religion and achieved refugee status.

My mother had a very similar story except that she didn’t come with a parent. Instead, she was a parent. She came with my sister who was seven years old. She had just recently divorced a man and had only lived in Kiev, Ukraine up to that point. Her family disapproved but she dreamed of what it would be like in a city that wouldn’t run out of bread and necessities constantly. She dreamed of the ability to be free from the perpetual discrimination that she had known.

They had a couple of other options. They could have gone to Israel. My mother briefly considered Lithuania. In the end though, they decided upon America. No other country offered the same promise of economic success, stable government, and appreciation of immigrants.

My father came in 1988 and my mother in 1989. They met each other a few years later and decided to start a family after only knowing each other for six weeks.

Sure the country fell short in some ways. It took my mother years to get her medical license back. In Ukraine she was a surgical nurse who had stitched up hearts. She barely got to be a registered nurse here. My father, who had B.S. in computer science, was working as a waiter and a clerk in a department store for years. However, after years of effort, he got to be a computer programmer. But they don’t care.

I literally don’t know how to emphasize that enough. They would do it over again a hundred times if they had to. My mom saw a Banana for the first time when she was 30. She cried because the food tasted so good. She cried because she could have it whenever she wanted to. My father could go to a Synagogue and not be ashamed. It’s no comparison for them. They listened to Led Zeppelin, wore denim jackets, and finally enjoyed the simple pleasures in life. Life wasn’t bleak anymore. They had the ability to leave a place if they didn’t want to be there anymore. They were in control of their own lives for the first time.

Every time I ask my parents about their stories, they cry. They cry because they love it so much here. They aren’t rich tycoons or anything. They’re a regular group of people. But what they have now are rights. They know what it was like to live in an oppressive state, and they appreciate life here so much more.

Sometimes I’m a little bit jealous of them. I was born in New York, and sometimes I feel like that’s so boring. I mean they have such a rich cultural and political history. But I’m romanticizing it. It sucked where they lived. I can sit down and say that I would like to have had an adventure like that growing up all I want, but until I actually experience a life so oppressed and bleak, I will never be able to fathom what it must have been like. I guess I’m really lucky that they met and my life manifested itself here in New York City. Every time I complain about anything to them, they laugh and say stuff like “Cheer up! You’re an American!” and I can’t help but smile.

My immigration story is rather intricate and complicated, as my grandparents on both sides where born in the United States. Growing up, I considered myself almost fully American, with no ties to other countries. In one sense I knew my ethnicity was from several different countries in Europe, yet I was not raised learning a second language other than English, or even celebrating certain traditions or holidays that would be associated with those countries. Instead, my immigration story starts about a century ago, when numerous changes where happening in other countries.

It starts with my great-grandparents on my mother’s side. My great-grandfather William Oldhafer grew up in Germany, and when he was seventeen went to fight in World War I. My great-grandmother Andrea Oldhafer worked at a bakery and was a nanny for Jewish children. After World War I, Germany was facing inflation and a horrible economic recession. My grandma’s father said it took about one thousand marks to buy a loaf of bread. This was the main reason my great-grandfather and great-grandmother decided to leave Germany. However, there was another reason William Oldhafer wanted to leave, and this was a result of Hitler’s rising power. My great-grandfather did not want to fight in another war, and he especially did not want to for Hitler. Thus, he left before he would get involved with World War II. Unfortunately, my great-great uncle was not able to get away before World War II.

My great-grandparents did not know each other before leaving Germany, but actually met on the boat over to America, (I always thought this was very romantic.) They came through Ellis Island, but it was not a pleasant experience. My great-grandmother remembers being treated very harshly and even remembers having to be stripped searched for lice. Once they arrived in America, they bought an apartment in Brooklyn, and my great-grandfather became a printer for a newspaper. After they earned enough money, they bought a home, and made it into a boarding house. Andrea Oldhafer’s job was to take care of the house, and the many people who lived in it. There they had my grandmother, and her older brother. Eventually they moved to Glendale, Queens, and remained there. While they had a difficult experience coming to America, the life they formed was much better than the poverty- stricken Germany they had come from. They were able to build their lives up, and to have enough money to raise a family.

My other great-great -grandparents immigrated from a different country, although there is some controversy over what the actual country was. My great-great-grandfather whose last name was Hostoski, was most likely Lithuanian, and was trying to evade the Cossack’s Army, which was a strong militarist group in Southern Russia. My grandfather’s father, was born in the United States, and married my grandfather’s mother who was of German descent, as her last name was Meyn. Then they had my grandfather, along with four other children. They struggled financially for a long time, and I remember my grandfather saying it was very difficult while growing up. After my grandparents got married, they lived in Glendale, Queens. There they had my mother and her sister.

Investigating my father’s ancestry was even more complicated than my mother’s. Looking into the background, it was hard to be exactly certain of what happened. Nevertheless,I know that my Dad’s great-great grandfather on his mother’s side came from Ireland, probably because of the Irish Potato Famine. My great-great-grandmother had been in America for a long time, but might have been of German descent. My grandmother grew up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and later on met my grandfather in Massachusetts. My father’s great-grandparents on his father’s side came from Austria, and their last name was Waldner, which meant “man of the woods”. On Ellis Island they changed their last name from Waldner to Wallner, which is my last name. Afterwards, they settled in Greenfield, Massachusetts. My grandfather Frank Wallner grew up in Greenfield, and married my grandmother. They had my father and four other children.

My parents both met in college and got married right after they graduated. They lived in the Glendale, Queens, and then bought a house in Woodhaven, Queens. Even though my father grew up in Massachusetts, he was attracted to New York because of the many opportunities for work. My father’s first job was a map-salesman, as before the Internet many people used to buy maps. My mother was a biology teacher, and taught until she started having kids. She eventually had me and my four other siblings. In 2005, we moved out to Long Island. So while I live on Long Island now, I consider myself born in the city, with roots from Woodhaven.

While my ancestry ranges from German to Irish, to Austrian to Lithuanian, I do not really associate with any particular culture. I grew up in a completely American household, with no talk of other countries, especially since both sides of my grandparents were born and raised in America. No one in my family spoke a second language, and my parents never visited the countries we descended from. One of the reasons, I believe, is because when my ancestors came over here they wanted to immerse themselves in America. Even more so, my grandmother’s parents (on my mother side), weren’t in America for that long until War World II broke out, and since Germans had a bad stigma at that time, they did not want to advertise that they were Germans.

Sometimes I wish I had a set culture I identified with, I am proud to consider myself an American, who gets to live in a country full of dreams and promise. It amazes me to trace my ancestry and to see all the hard work they put in for me to get to this point. I like to think of my different ancestors as different threads in a tapestry, which together, form something unique and different. Like each thread, each ancestry was important to forming who I am now.

It has been close to 200 years since my family emigrated from the area that was once the Prussian territories to the guldene medina, the land of gold, America the great. My great-great-great-great-great grandfather Louis, on my father’s side of the family, wrote a booklet of memoirs on his 80^th birthday, a sheaf of typewritten recollections which have been passed down through the generations of my family. Louis describes the highlights of his immigration journey; a journey in which a poor young man dreaming of religious and social freedoms came to a country he would later describe as “this glorious land,” and lived those dreams, all the while remaining true to his vision of equality and human dignity for all.

Louis’s father Solomon, the son of Coshman ben Solomon, married Deborah Kuhn, the Rabbi’s daughter in the early 1800’s. Louis writes with evident pride that his parents married, rather unusually in that era, “for love,” unusual in their community and era. Their love withstood many challenges, the least of which was poverty: “[Though] for a time they were obliged to struggle to make both ends meet, love and harmony took up their abode with them.” Tragically, four of their ten children died in their lifetimes. They also faced religious persecution: Though Prussia had granted emancipation to the Jews living within its borders, 21 territorial laws limited the economic and social mobility of several minorities including the Jews, thereby denying the family full citizenship.

Louis was a restless student, and didn’t much care for Hebrew school. At a young age, he begged his father to to apprentice him to a woodworker in the community. This request granted, Louis proved to be an adept worker, and began setting money aside, helping his parents with their own bills. Recognizing how limited opportunities were for Jewry in Prussia, he decided to emigrate to America. He writes, “I favored a free republican government where certain forms of religious belief were not essential to civil privileges and liberty.” Since it was hard for minorities to receive emigration documents, Louis “resorted to the expedient of forging what was essential to pass along.” He secured passage to the United States; and, after a sad goodbye to his beloved family, proceeded from Demmelsdorf to the port of Bremen on foot, a journey that probably took about a week.

The month-and-a-half-long passage from Bremen to New York was uneventful, and Louis, evidently quite a charming young fellow, quickly made friends with his landsmen, several other young men seeking religious freedom on the American soil. Upon landing, Louis writes, “My companions and I passed the first days on shore in seeing the sights of New York. We found friends and acquaintances and were well received by all of them.” Afterward Louis and some of his friends traveled on to Cincinnati, where there was a growing Sabbath-observant yekke – German Jewish – community, complete with two synagogues and a Hebrew school.

In Cincinnati, Louis earned a living first as a peddler, saving enough money to open two businesses. His first venture failed, but the second, a dry-goods shop, flourished, allowing him to provide passage for his parents and younger siblings to Cincinnati. After joyously reuniting with his parents, Louis courted his future wife Yetta, and married her in a double wedding shared with his best friend, Jacob and Jacob’s fiancée.

Throughout his reminiscences of these important milestones, Louis peppers his narrative with twin sentiments: a deep and abiding aversion to social inequality, and a passionate defense mankind’s inherent right to freedom and citizenship. He says he never looked back at the old country with any love. “My native land did not claim my affection because its laws deprived me of those privileges that should have been the inalienable right of mankind,” he writes. Louis describes proudly attending a speech by Abraham Lincoln before the Civil War and decorating his delivery wagon in Whig colors to show his support of President Lincoln. He notes with pride that his loud opinions against slavery made crossing the Mason-Dixon line, even to sell his high-quality dry goods, a dangerous venture. When visiting Mrs. Weil’s boarding house in New York, he tells of an argument he had with a Southern man at the table. Louis was appalled that the man, a “co-religionist” who had once hailed from the same past as he, could even begin think of slavery as acceptable. The southerner drew his pistol and a fellow Cincinnatian leapt to Louis’s aid. As Louis says, “The Southern gentleman was only too glad to get away.” Shortly after, Louis joined the Union army as a proud American citizen, only to be sent home in order to supply the army with the flannel underwear necessary for the soldiers’ uniforms.

After the Civil War, Louis continued to participate actively in religious affairs and advocate for civil rights and freedoms, never losing his dedication. He would regularly collect charity for the sick in Mt. Sinai hospital in New York, and become known among his friends for a passionate dedication to those less fortunate. In Louis’s obituary, his close friend writes, “[Louis’s] shibboleth was, ‘In this work we are neither Christians nor Jews, it is for our common humanity.’” This universalism was of great pride to Louis, who took care throughout his life to treat all men and women, of every “race, creed and religion” with the same respect, dignity and kind countenance.

200 years is both a long and a short time. In this time Louis’s descendants have scattered across the United States, some leaving the Jewish community over time, and others, my own more immediate family among them, adopting the more stringent practices that the Ultra-Orthodox Lithuanian immigrants brought to America after the Holocaust. My own grandparents are descendants of that original German Jewish community in Cincinnati, but most of the Jewish customs and ideals that I was raised with are traditionally litvish, originating from the customs established over the last millennium by the yeshivas in Vilna. My family has moved over state lines, away from and back to Ohio in their journey to Ultra-Orthodoxy. My brother, a Talmudic scholar, and my sister, a rabbi’s wife, have both settled across the Atlantic in Israel, while I have returned from there to live in New York City. However changed the religious and social landscape is, I see some of Louis’s journey in my own. Like Louis, I am journeying forth from a small insular community, armed with a mixture of pride in my religious roots and a desire to expand beyond traditional boundaries by studying to be an astrophysicist. I only hope that I can undertake my personal immigration story with the same vivacity and deep, passionate integrity that resonate through my great-great-great-great-great grandfather’s memoirs.

Moving to America is one of the biggest decisions any family or individual makes in their lifetime. America is known as the land of opportunity, and offers freedom from oppression, high income jobs, social mobility, a better lifestyle, and of course, money. These are the exact reasons why my parents and I moved to America in 2000.

I was born in Thailand in 1996 in an army hospital, and although my family is originally from Saudi Arabia and Pakistan, Thailand was the location of my dad’s financially stable and growing business. Although I was young, I still remember the area we lived in, Bangkok. It was a nice, quiet neighborhood with huge homes and clean streets. The city was bustling with people and great business. Thailand had the greatest economic growth rate than any country during the late 90’s. Unfortunately, this golden age did not last long, for the 1997 Asian Financial crisis caused countries such as Thailand, Indonesia, and Malaysia to experience great foreign debt and bankruptcy before the collapse of the currency. The economic downturn deteriorated our family’s ability to maintain ourselves financially, which is why we decided to move to America.

America has a culture of its own. Although primarily a mixing pot of different cultures, these cultures combine and unite to create a separate culture from the world. Moving to America was a struggle due to our inability to communicate in English to anyone, and finding a job with a foreign degree is even tougher. Emotionally, my parents, especially my mom, experienced intense anxiety from the move. She constantly worried about finding a job and our ability to settle down in this foreign land.

Our family can also be considered migrants since we traveled from state to state until we finally decided to settle in New York. We moved from California to Florida to Texas to Missouri to New York. Each state had a family member in it, with whom we stayed with in our job and house search. The states did not lead up to our expectations, until we finally decided on living in New York due to the cultural and economic aspect. At first we lived in Brooklyn near a South Asian community, which made the process of assimilating easier due to the existence of others who spoke our language and understood the trouble we were going through in order to settle down.

From Brooklyn, we moved to Long Island when we were settled in with paper work, spoke a little more English than before, and found jobs. Long Island is an entirely different community from Brooklyn. The suburban area is very quiet, and clean, just like the community in Bangkok. However, Long Island is more of a Caucasian area, so my family and I, along with my new born sisters, quickly learned to adapt to American culture, such as the food, schooling, and language. As time went on, we learned about the rapid change of diversity in Long Island, especially in Valley Stream. What was once a Caucasian community is now dominated by minorities of all ethnicities, from South Asian to Asian to African to Hispanic. We realized that immigration has a major impact on the function and progress of the community, and that maybe all immigrants do not travel to one specific area directly, such as Chinatown or Jackson Heights, just to see and meet people just like them.

New York is a relatively easy place to adapt to in comparison to the other states we were in due to the great volume of immigrants just like us who needed to settle down. Along with these lost and confused immigrants are helpful people who can aid in the process and assimilating to the culture. However, 9/11 was a devastating day for all Muslims worldwide, the day we were labeled as terrorists till this day. We were in New York for about a year when the event occurred, and it was a tragedy that severely altered the mental and physical wellness of our family and relatives. I remember seeing my parents in a depressive and stressed state everyday for a couple months. My dad shaved his beard, which has religious importance, in order to decrease the visual appearance as a Muslim. My mom stopped wearing the headscarf, and we even changed our style and wardrobes in order to look more like Americans. In school, I remember being embarrassed about stating my religion and country I was from because I knew that I would be judged for being a part of the Muslim culture. However, the situation enabled us to blend into the American mixing pot of cultures and religions. We were more Americanized as a result of that one day than from living in America for a year.

Before all of our travels and immigration, my relatives formed new relationships and bonds with people outside our ethnicity. Relatives from both sides of my family have created a far more diverse ethnic history than my immediate family. My mom’s side is the source of my Caucasian and Latina ethnicity, and my dad’s side is the source of my Middle Eastern ethnicity. My great great grandfather was born and raised in Spain, and married my great great grandmother, who was from India before it split into Pakistan and India. My grandmother was born and raised in Italy, and married my grandfather, who was from Pakistan. My grandfather from my father’s side was born and raised in Saudi Arabia, where he met my grandmother while she went on a trip to see Mecca and Medina, which are historic and bustling religious centers for Muslims.

Having said all of this, I never realized how cultural backgrounds and stories from family generations ago could be so interesting and crucial to the development of our own sense of pride and identity. It is amazing to think that families face all the hardships and emotional obstacles in order to improve the well being of their immediate family and future relatives. All I can say is, moving, whether it is across a country or across states, is extremely stressful and difficult, but it definitely pays off in the end when you sit down in your cozy suburban home.

It’s a hot summer day, and you’re thirsty, so you try to decide what you want to drink. A water? No, too plain. Some ice cream? No, too messy. A smoothie? Perfect. You go to Planet Smoothie and order yourself a drink with oranges, bananas, strawberries, blueberries and peaches. It’s a conglomerate of almost all of the fruits they have in the store, blended together to make you your delicious and unique smoothie. Essentially, we are all smoothies in a way, however silly it may be to compare us to them. We are all blends of different cultures, ethnicities, and heritages that have combined together to give us our unique identity.

My great-grandmother and grand-grandfather on my maternal side were both born in Austria. In 1935, my grandmother was born in Vienna, Austria. At five years old, political disturbances began to overtake the countries surrounding them, so my great-grandmother, Mutti, as we call her, obtained visas for her and my grandmother, and they immigrated to the United States in 1940. Mutti and my grandmother met up with my great-great Uncle Hugo in Newark, New Jersey. They lived here for about ten years. Meanwhile, my great-grandfather was in a concentration camp in World War 2. He survived, and after migrating to Poland, he joined Mutti and my grandmother in Newark in 1945.

Soon after the three had been settled, they decided to leave New Jersey and head for Brooklyn. They first lived on Ocean Avenue, where my grandmother met my grandfather, Jerry. Grandpa Jerry is an interesting character, because when asked about his heritage, his answer is always American. We ask him where his ancestors are from, or what race he is, and he insists that he is American and that is all that matters. My mother, however, believes his ancestors are from Russia. In 1961, my mother, Dana was born, and my grandmother and grandfather moved to Trump Village in Brooklyn. This is where my grandmother resided for the next forty-three years. My grandmother divorced my grandpa Jerry, and was then married to a man named Maurice. My grandpa Maurice is the one who essentially raised my mother, and I am very close to him. He has German roots. My grandmother and grandfather eventually moved to Manhattan in 2008, where they still live on 80^th street and Broadway.

On my maternal side, I am Austrian. There is the possibility I may be Russian as well although we may never know. I also have a German connection through my grandpa Maurice, although we are not related by blood. My father’s side is quite the opposite. The history on my dad’s side is not as clear as that on my mother’s. I have ancestors on my grandma’s side that came from Hungary and Czechoslovakian. My grandfather’s side is Irish, hence the last name Molloy. Much of the history on my dad’s side is ambiguous. However, I do know that my father was born in the Bronx, and my grandparents, him, and his three sisters eventually moved out to Elm Street in Farmingdale, Long Island where my grandmother has lived ever since.

Both of my parents actually attended Cornell University in Ithaca, New York. Strangely enough, they did not meet there, and actually met after they graduated through mutual friends. 17 days after meeting her, my father proposed, and in 1984 they moved to Fulton Avenue in Hempstead, Long Island. Two years later, when my sister was born, they decided to move back to Brooklyn and settled in an apartment on Haring Street. After four years, my parents felt an apartment was too small, so they looked for a house. They stumbled upon 346 North Virginia Avenue, in North Massapequa on Long Island, which they bought and have lived in since 1990. Coincidentally, my house is only a few blocks away from the house my father grew up in.

Although by blood I am Austrian, Irish, Czechoslovakian and Hungarian, I feel that other cultures have influenced me and helped shape the person I am today. The majority of the people I’ve grown up with are Italian, and many people in my town, including my dance teachers are Italian as well. Even though I am not a “drop” Italian, I feel Italian in some ways because of my mannerisms and the way I speak. Additionally, my sister has always dated Hispanic men, and my brother-in-law is Hispanic as well, so Spanish culture has also become a part of my life. My grandparents dance tango, and my sister studied salsa, bachata and tango as well. I’ve even taught dance classes for the past year at a Latin dance studio. Again, I am not a Latino, but learning Spanish in school, talking to my brother-in-law, and being surrounded by Latin dancing has given me a sense that part of me is Hispanic.

Religiously, I am a mixture of theologies as well. My mother was raised Jewish, had a bat mitzvah, and still practices Judaism today. We go over to my grandmother’s apartment for Rushashanah, Chanukah, and Passover, so I feel a connection to Jewish traditions. My father was raised a Roman Catholic, and we go to my nanny’s house (my father’s mother) for Easter and Christmas. However, I myself was not baptized, did not receive a communion, a confirmation, nor a bat mitzvah. When I was little, I used to tell people my religion was dance because I did not understand why all the other kids went to religious school and I did not. However, looking back on it, I’m grateful I was raised this way, because it has allowed me to develop my own belief system, and allowed me to experience and explore two different religions.

I’ve lived on Long Island my whole life, and I feel very blessed to have been given the life that I have. I love my town, but for college I knew I wanted to be in the city. My town is essentially 95% Italian Catholics, and I wanted to experience diversity and engage with other cultures, which has brought me to the City College of New York. I love walking down the street and seeing so many different types of people, and just a short subway ride can bring you from a predominantly Spanish neighborhood to blocks of traditional Chinese merchants and food.

In turn, I am a messy mixture of many cultures and backgrounds. I have Austrian, Czechoslovakian, Hungarian and Irish in my blood, feel connections to Germans, Italians and Hispanics, and am influenced by both the Jewish and Catholic religions. I am a big smoothie essentially, just a bunch of different fruits mixed together to create a unique flavor. The cultures and heritages from my ancestors have mixed together and have made me the person I am, and I could not be any more grateful.

I am a second generation American of various Asian descents. My mother’s, Iris Lirios, side of the family begins like a cheesy love story. My grandmother, Edita Tiozon, was born in MacArthur, Leyte in the Philippines to a Chinese man and a Filipino woman. Her mother raised three daughters as a single mother, a very stressful feat during that time. My grandfather, Nereo Lirios, on the other hand lived in Tanauan, Leyte. They met in the high school shared by their two towns and began talking because my grandpa was too poor to afford the textbooks for their class but luckily, my grandma was willing to share. When the districts were reconfigured and my grandmother was to attend a different high school my grandpa decided to go there with her. They became high school sweethearts (although my grandma was very stubborn and didn’t give in too easily to my grandpa’s advances). My grandpa would visit my grandmother often and help out the girls with strenuous yard and housework, which ultimately won my grandma over. Then, after they graduated, my grandpa joined the US-Philippines Navy and my grandmother went away to nursing school. For a while my grandpa spent some time in Chicago, Illinois with a close friend of him and my grandmother, Trinidad. After finishing nursing school and working in a rundown hospital for a brief time, she moved to Chicago and there she waited for my grandfather to meet with her. They were the only ones from their families to move to the United States. They married in their thirties and managed to juggle seven children, while constantly moving around the United States and living at various military bases, including in Jacksonville, Florida, where my mother was born in 1968. Finally after living in a military base in Los Alamitos, California, where the high school I attended is located, they found a house in Cypress, California where they raised their kids and currently live.

On my father’s side of the family the story is more of a Romeo and Juliet situation with much less of a tragic ending. Grandma Alice Higa’s family was originally from Okinawa, Japan but moved to Oahu in Hawaii at a very young age. Luckily because of her father’s career and education she did not have to suffer in the Japanese internment camps which were created following Pearl Harbor. Her family did have to make some tolling cultural sacrifices though; all the texts and artifacts, which her parents had managed to bring from Japan were either destroyed or buried. Futhermore, my grandma and her siblings were receiving schooling from their mother on Japanese culture and language but unfortunately they were forced to discontinue these lessons, an event which my grandma is deeply disappointed by. She went on to live in Oahu and work on the Dole and sugarcane plantations when she was in her teens. Similar to my grandmother’s story, my grandfather, Lawrence Sur, is Korean and his parents were originally from somewhere in South Korea but he was also raised in Oahu, Hawaii where much of my family lives now. He fought in the US Military during World War II and eventually met my grandmother. Their parents did not accept their relationship, especially my grandmother’s, as Japanese and Koreans have a history of conflict. My grandma was kicked out of her house by her mother and shamed by her family for falling in love with a Korean man, but regardless she married my grandfather and together they raised seven children. In the 60’s, when my father, Randal Sur, was about seven they decided to move to California and found a house in Garden Grove.

That brings us to my parents who met in California. My father went to school with a couple of my mom’s siblings and in college became best friends with my uncles. He house a regular fixture at the Lirios household and can even be seen in some of their holiday photos from before he dated my mom. My Uncle Wade, who was closest to my father, warned my dad against dating my mom because as he put it “she’s trouble”. Despite my uncle’s advice to stay away from my mom, they began dating in secret. This caused a bit of a conflict but it blew over quickly. They got an apartment together and he helped raise my older sister while finishing schooling at Cal State Fullerton, while my mom went to nursing school in Cypress. After 8 years, they got married in Seal Beach, California and about a year later I was born, on March 20, 1996, during my dad’s midterms. For the first four years of my life we lived in a condominium in Anaheim, California, because of its proximity to my mom’s places of work, Disneyland and Saddleback Memorial Hospital. After my brother was born in 1998, they started looking for a new house and decided to search around the quaint beach town where they got married, Seal Beach. They found a nice house about an 8 minute walk from the beach and there they raised my siblings and I.

Now, after 14 years of living in my sheltered, coastal town of Seal Beach, I have ventured to Harlem, New York City to attend school at the City College of New York.

As a third generation American, I no longer have any living relatives who have immigrated here from abroad. Furthermore, I never knew any of my great grandparents, six out of eight of whom were immigrants. Fortunately for me, my mother is an amateur genealogist of sorts and is very knowledgeable on her side of the family, particularly my grandfather’s side.

My great grandmother (grandfather’s mother), Fannie Nudelman, was born in Chaschevata, (which is now in the Ukraine) in 1896. In 1914, she was sent to America to escape the pogroms. Fannie arrived at Ellis Island on March 27, 1914 on the SS Czar. She soon found work as a sewing machine operator, though she made very money. Fannie did not attend school and finally became a US citizen in 1954, forty years after her immigration. My mother remembers that she was a fantastic cook

My great grandfather (grandfather’s father), Jacob Stanaslofsky, smuggled himself out of the U.S.S.R in a pickle barrel to avoid conscription in the Russian army. He arrived in the port of Baltimore on March 13, 1914 on the SS Rhein. He initially lived with his aunt and worked as a painter in Grand Rapids, Michigan, before moving to Brooklyn in 1917,where he opened a business with his brother; Washington Auto Body Works. Despite owning his own business, a massive accomplishment for an immigrant, Jacob and his family were still very poor. Eventually, his brother took over the business and Jacob became a taxi cab driver. Jacob became a citizen in 1929

Fannie and Jacob met as neighbors and eventually married in 1924. They, along with many other Russian immigrants, were very poor and lived in rat infested tenements in Brooklyn. In the 1940’s they bought a grocery store on Tapscott St. and moved into an apartment on the same block. They sold the store in the late 1960’s and moved because the neighborhood became unsafe.

My great grandmother (grandmother’s mother), Ethel Dalinka, was brought from Pinsk, Russia, to New Jersey in 1911 when Ethel was six months old. Her family moved to Brooklyn in the 1920’s, where her father already worked as a drywall installer. Ethel had four siblings, a sister who died in a fire just before the family departed to the US, a sister Fay and a Brother Joe, who journeyed with Ethel to America, and a sister Sidney, who was born in New Jersey. In the 1930’s, Ethel’s newly married sister Fay collapsed. While running for the doctor, Ethel was hit by a car, but got up and kept on going. Unfortunately, Fay died and Ethel never got over it.

My great grandfather (grandmother’s father), George Levy was born in New York City. His father (my great-great grandfather), Sam Levy, was born in England in about 1872. The only thing my mother knows about his parents (my great-great-great grandparents), Isak Levy & Annie Tetulsky Levy, is that they were born in Russia. They immigrated to the U.S. from England about 1875. George Levy’s mother, Annie Rephan Levy (my great-great grandmother), was born in Austria about 1875. She arrived in the US about 1890. Sam and Annie had four children, Sadie, Irving, George & another child who died in infancy.

Unfortunately, my father never knew his grandparents and does not have a well of information on his ancestry like my mother does, but he told me as much as he could.

My great grandmother, Caroline Cappozzola (my grandmother’s mother), was born in an Italian family that lived in Bangor Pennsylvania. At the age of thirteen, Caroline was married off (my father’s exact words were “sold”) to an Italian immigrant ten years her senior, because her family could not afford to feed her. Her husband (my great grandfather) worked in the slate mines before eventually owning over a dozen houses, a hotel and a car dealership. Caroline and her husband had seven children, but lost one to the influenza epidemic. To this day, the Cappozzola’s (sometimes spelled Cappozzolo) still live in the Bangor area.

My grandfather’s family, came to an Italian enclave in the Bronx from Bari Italy. My great grandfather, Philip Laudo (I come from a long line of Phil’s), owned a shoe store, but lost it in the depression and my great grandmother died when my grandfather, also Philip Laudo, was very young. Unfortunately, this is all my father (yet another Philip Laudo) knows about my grandfather’s side of the family.

In light of everything my parents have told me, I am not only lucky to escape the hardship of my ancestors, but I am lucky to be alive at all. My family had to live in crime-ridden neighborhoods, battle poverty, racism and famine; struggles that I will never know. But like my ancestors, I have a migration journey of my own and although it was nowhere near as difficult a journey, it played a crucial role in making me who I am today.

I was born and raised in New York City. Even though I moved to Merrick when I was seven, the city had left an impact on my impressionable young self. I immediately noticed the lack of cultural diversity in Merrick. When I lived in Manhattan, I would see people of all kinds of ethnicities speaking all kinds of languages in the streets. In Merrick, I was lucky to see people on the streets at all. This was reflected in my high school, where the lack of ethnic and cultural diversity parallels the lack of ideological diversity. I believe that my exposure to culture at an early age is what prompted me to return to New York City for college, instead of going to Binghamton, the Long Island of upstate New York, like so many of my classmates. The reason many of my former friends and classmates congregated at Binghamton, or local colleges, is because change is scary. Part of the reason I wanted to go to college in Manhattan is because it was familiar to me. If people are scared to go to school in a different state, where they speak the same language and share a similar culture, I can only imagine journeying to a different country, halfway across the world, carrying only what few possessions I have and a hope for a better life.

It was at least 3 decades ago when my uncle decided to embark on a journey that many have romanticized through garnishments of riches and fabrications of pleasure. It was the voyage to The United States that intrigued my uncle just as the illusive voyage to India did to Christopher Columbus. However, unlike Columbus, my uncle knew where he was going and had a tangible plan upon reaching the States.

My uncle, about 23 at the time, excelled at his university in Bangladesh and had a plethora of career options to look at. Further, My uncle grew up in a modest upbringing in the suburban parts of Bangladesh. His father had raised 4 sons, my father and 3 of my uncles, as well as 2 daughters, my aunts. With my grandfather’s struggles of having to provide for such a huge household, the pressure was piled on my uncle to capitalize on his talents by being a doctor to help alleviate some of the hardships and perhaps even bring some felicity. Additionally, a doctor in Bangladesh around the 70’s was known to be venerable and affluent, two very prominent and desirable characteristics to my grandfather. Conversely, my uncle decided to take a chance with his talent and do something radical at the time, find his passion.

A radical to my family was a person who decided to diverge from the family’s aspirations and instead pave a path for them. Blinded by his potential and talent, my uncle turned into a radical when he decided not to be a doctor but to pursue interests that he had sporadically. These interests came in the form of pharmacy and drug manufacturing, engineering and at one point even becoming a marine. As time progressed, and as it seemed that my uncle had exhausted of his ambitions, he startled the family again by voicing his desire to come to the United States in search of working for a big company and seeking a better life. The only problem was that this required adequate funds, as it would be difficult for my uncle to settle in a new nation and foster his dreams while having thorny expenses and other restrictions. Nonetheless, my uncles’ brothers, including my father, decided to fund his dream with their hopes of not only gaining something materialistic but also a stronghold in the capricious America through my uncle.

As years passed, my uncle became very tech savvy with skills in computer science as well as what was a booming field at the time, pharmacy. Also at the time, my uncles’ siblings became curious and decided to travel to different parts of the world such as Europe and the United States. My father decided to come to United States to understand the culture as well as to seek the infamous riches. His first steps in this country were still selfless as he lived with some other family and close friends in Texas where he worked blue-collar jobs in order to further fund my uncle’s education. Additionally, all this led to my Uncle pursuing pharmacy and starting his own Pharmaceutical Company.

As time progressed, my father came to settle in New York because of the euphoric landscape. From the bright lights and innovative high raises to the different cultures evident, my father immediately felt relaxed and was at “home”. Perhaps this “home” may not have been the orthodox definition but New York allowed my father to feel appreciated and to fit in perfectly. From residing in Brooklyn for a couple of years, my dad finally started to develop changes in his accents and mentality. Furthermore, the city made him more mature and understanding. Perhaps that level of maturity and complexity was what attracted him to my mother. Consequently, my father left the United States and came back to Bangladesh to get married and shortly went back to the states to convene his life where he left off.

With my mother, my father decided to live in an apartment at Church Avenue, Brooklyn because the rent was affordable, the amenities were close by and because of the congenial nature of the town. After a while of associating with others, sharing bits of our culture from Bangladeshi cuisine to hospitality, my parents began to find good friends in the town and started to develop a convivial reputation. My parents grew even more comfortable of Church Avenue, Brooklyn when my dad’s sister and her family as well as my dad’s older brother decided to move in. All of a sudden such a foreign place became very familiar with close knitted ties everywhere just like back home in Bangladesh.

I was born on October 18^th 1996. I was told it was a Friday. I am glad it was. I love Fridays. I also loved the fact that my upbringing was very stable in a congenial atmosphere with family and some friends. Having family close by was always interesting and it kept me entertained until they moved out to more opulent parts of the city. When that happened, I started to feel like my father did when he first arrived in this country by realizing how difficult it was to being comfortable in an area where our race and culture was not prominent. I remember the difficulty that I had when it came to inviting friends over and going to their houses. However, living in Brooklyn was interesting and it outweighed some of the difficulties I had because of the little niche that my dad created for us in Church Avenue.

If I thought there were some aspects of living in Brooklyn that were difficult, I was in for a shock when my dad decided to buy a larger house in New Jersey and relocate our family there. Despite living in an affluent setting with a larger house as well as with more resources, living in New Jersey was very mundane and uninteresting. One of the key differences between New York and New Jersey was the lack of closeness that New Jersey had. Further, a lack of a community, like the one we were apart of in Brooklyn, made my parents see the consequences of living in big house in rural areas. Additionally, we moved around 2005 and finding jobs was a lot more difficult because there were not many businesses located in suburban areas and in order to find a good paying job, one would have to travel far. Consequently, although the tangible aspects of life may have been more favorable in New Jersey, my parents decided that living in New York was more pleasant. This time my parent’s sights were set on Queens.

I am glad that my family decided to relocate back to New York. Living in Queens, I was able to see the eclectic mixture of cultures again. Queens is known for being one of the most diverse cities in the United States. I was able to see that stat through seeing the South Asian culture in Jamaica, Queens, Russian and Eastern European cultures in Briarwood, Queens as well as South American and Caribbean influences in Hollis, Queens.

We have lived in Queens for nearly a decade and it has become the longest I’ve stayed anywhere. My family’s curiosity in life pushed them to move across continents. Because, we live in a globalized world today entailing global resources anywhere, I might not have to leave the United States for a better life. But that’s not going to tame my curiosity. Perhaps my curiosities will one-day lead me to create innovations in my passion, healthcare.

Immigration is by no means just a simple movement from one country to another. Often times, it involves leaving behind everything and everyone you know. The reasons for immigration are just complex as the actual issue of immigration, with motives ranging from chasing success to escaping political unrest and danger. For my parents, success and safety were just some of the reasons to continue moving around the world, until they eventually reached the United States. My parents only met when they were in the United States, so they both have their own immigration stories. My mother, story is centered on a journey to find the best possible job and lifestyle for her and future family, while my dad’s decision to move to the United States was more for his own safety than anything.

My mother’s journey starts in her home state of Kerala, a tropical state located on the southwest tip of India, in a small town named Avoli. After finishing her primary and secondary education, my mother went on to major in nursing at the Holy Family School of Nursing, a catholic nursing school. Once she had completed her studies, my mother immediately went north to Delhi to secure a well paying job at Genga Ram Hospital. Within her first few months there, she ended up hearing about an even better position in Jordan. After which she immediately applied for a work visa to go to Jordan. The application process took approximately 3 months and she was accepted on her first attempt.

Soon after returning home for a short while, my mother once again left home and went to Jordan to work in a university hospital there. She would end up spending a total time of 3 years in Jordan working as nurse in the university hospital. During her second year there, a few fellow nurses returned from working in the United States and told the other nurses, my mother included, about their amazing time in America. This is was the main impetus in my mother’s decision to come to America; however, the route to that great lifestyle was much longer and harder than she expected. In order to just apply for a work permit, not even a work visa, my mother had to take a special competency test for foreign nurses. After earning her work permit, my mother left for the United States from Jordan.

My mother entered the United States with a job as a nurse’s apprentice at Mount Vernon Hospital. The position as nurse’s apprentice was more of a formality, until she took and passed her licensing exam. The job entailed following and performing duties alongside a fully licensed registered nurse (RN). My mother did that for 6 months and then took her licensing exam. The results took about 2-3 months to process and after which she found that she passed and was now a full RN. Upon discovering that she had passed, my mother proceeded to go do to the American Embassy and apply for her permanent residency card. Thanks to a special grant for professionals, my mother was able to get her permanent residency card in approximately 3 months.

My father story is similar to that of my mother’s; however, my father’s story contains a slight bit of political unrest/danger. My dad was also born in Kerala and grew up in a town called Oonnukal. After finishing his primary and secondary education at Little Flower High School, my father went on to earn his pre-degree from Muvattupuzha College. He then went to Kothmanglam College to major in Accounting. While earning his degree, my father worked two jobs: one as a private tutor for his own tutoring company in Nellimattom and the other as a sales rep for a shutter company. After earning his degree, my father opened 2 businesses: a textiles shop and a sandal shop. The sandal shop worked out so well that he ended up expanding the business to eventually become a wholesale supplier for various other shops all around the state. He continued managing the company while also completing his graduate degree in accounting.

During his graduate program, my father was given the opportunity to work as a high school teacher in Kenya. He accepts the offer and gives the company to his father, who manages the company but then later sells it. While in teaching in Kenya, my father also ends up taking classes at Kenyata University in Nairobi. A short while after, my father gets notice of an opening for a vice-headmaster at a different high school. He is accepted for the position and begins working there. During the school’s summer vacation, my father ends up accompanying his friend while he delivers an expensive package from Mombasa to Uganda. While in Uganda, my dad meets his friend’s boss and ends up getting a job as an accountant there. The company was more along the lines of giant conglomeration. They were dealing in mining, glass making, construction, etc.. After working for a year in their main building, he is sent to work as one of the managers of a regional branch. While working there, the company gets a 10 million dollar grant from the World Development Organization. This provided the company with more than enough money to open up a new sawmill and iron mine. The sawmill used imported English technology and exported large amounts of mahogany and ebony. The iron mine was run almost exclusively using technology imported from Calcutta. Both projects also attracted a lot of European engineers. In addition that, the company also opened up its own private banking business. Ultimately this ends up creating nearly 1000 jobs. Although it may appear as if things were looking up, Uganda was actually in a state of conflict. This internal strife eventually even reached my father. My father’s building was apparently robbed and he was taken hostage at gunpoint. The robbers eventually hijacked his car and left him in the forest to die. Somehow he managed to escape and was able to reach the American Embassy in Uganda. He managed to secure himself a visa to the United States. When he came over he was able to get a job as an accountant with the United Bronx Parents Inc.

My parents actually met while in the United States, during the first year my mother was here. They got engaged after my mother got the results of her licensing exam and applied for a permanent residency card. They went back to India for the marriage, and returned to the United States about a month later. While here they lived first on Dyckman Street, close to the border of the Bronx and Manhattan. Once my mother found out she was pregnant with my older sister, Jasmine, my parents moved to Mount Vernon in order to be closer to my mother’s work. A few months before Jasmine’s birth, my grandma flew over from India, in order to help my mother manage housework, child rearing and hospital work. 6 months after Jasmine’s birth, my parents moved once again this time to our present home in Thornwood. Both my younger sister and I were born and raised in that house.

Having only relocated myself from one borough of New York to another in recent years, I could be considered a migrant but certainly not an immigrant. It was an older generation from my family who would immigrate into the United States and experience a change in lifestyles.

My mother’s side of the family originated in Trinidad and Tobago, specifically Port of Spain, Trinidad. On a map, Trinidad can be found off the coast of Venezuela, the southern-most island in the pair that makes up the nation Trinidad and Tobago. In fact, Trinidad is the most southern island in the entire chain of Caribbean islands that it is a part of. Speaking with my grandmother to get a better idea of what the country was like when she was there revealed the big picture and her motivations for leaving. Despite it being a beautiful country and having only recently graduated from high school there, an institution that she tells me is the equivalent to American college, she had to leave due to the scarcity of jobs. She decided to set out to escape her situation, and as in the classical immigration story, she came to the US to take advantage of opportunities. Thus, in 1968 she left the country that she had grown up in, utterly alone as she lacked the siblings that her future generations would have. She left behind family members such as her mother and aunt, but she was merely paving the way for others who would soon join her such as my grandfather as well as my mother and aunt who were still children at the time.

Too late to experience the joys of being processed at Ellis Island, she instead came over in the comfort of an airplane. Her destination was New Jersey where the sponsor family responsible for helping her immigrate awaited her. She spent her first year in the United States living with them before being able to move out on her own. The beginnings of a culture shift became evident during her first year here. First of all was experiencing winter as the east coast of the US knows it. Transitioning from the hot weather of a West Indies island to the colder climates of North America was a challenge that both my grandmother faced as well as her daughters when they finally came over. Another notable cultural difference for her while she was living with the sponsor family was difference in dining. In Trinidad, lunch was of greater importance with it being a large meal like dinner. Meanwhile over here, it became a much lighter meal with the sponsor family eating sandwiches for lunch. Little things like this may seem meaningless to a native born, but of course they are a world of difference to an immigrant who is experiencing things for the first time. Even after living in New York for so long, my grandmother will complain about the winters, though it is hard to fault her with the snowstorms being as vicious as they are recently.

Nonetheless, she slowly made the transition. She stayed with the sponsor family for the year she had to and finally moved to New York, specifically Brooklyn. She started to work at the phone company. Ultimately she spent twenty years working there and moving up in the ranks. A lot occurred five to six years after her arrival. She received her citizenship in five years. Her recollection of the process to get citizenship was of a process simpler than the one present today. There were questions of course such as “Who is the governor?”, but she affirms that it wasn’t to the extent of the numerous questions that are offered today. A year after this achievement, she would finally leave Brooklyn and reunite with the daughters who she had gone ahead of. Now six years older than when my grandmother last saw them, my mother and aunt had been left in the care of their own grandmother. With their coming over, a new generation had to be able to adapt to the New World. My grandmother and her daughters settled down in Staten Island. My grandfather had come over to the United States only two years after my grandmother. Thus with beginnings on a Caribbean island, my family came to be on Staten Island, the borough that I’ve lived most of my life. Overall, my grandmother found her immigration to America to be a positive experience. Having lived here for 47 years now, she’s accomplished much of what she had dreamed of doing. She has received her citizenship first and foremost. She worked hard to support two young daughters and a third one that would be born over here. She self educated herself and attended school to earn her Master’s degree. After years of hard work and seeking the opportunity that originally motivated her to leave Trinidad, she’s enjoying the quiet life in Staten Island, a mother to three and a grandmother of six. The nice two story house there with walls brimming with pictures of my brothers, my cousins, and myself do little of showcasing her Trinidadian heritage. Only, the foods and drinks that she prepares when her grandchildren come over will reveal that information with there being fried bake, roti skin, and sorrel drink among other things on the table when we arrive.

Although her two oldest daughters are first generation immigrants, they came over at such a young age that it was easy to adapt to their new situation of living on Staten Island. My mother specifically attended public school in Staten Island before going on to earning her Bachelor’s at St. John’s. Continuing to further her family by improving upon her mother’s accomplishments, she went on to attend law school. There she earned her J.D. (Juris Doctor) upon successful completion of the program. All three daughters went on to have successful careers with my mother continuing to inform me of the importance of hard work and dedication.

This whole report has mainly been about my mother’s side of the family. Mainly, this is due to my father’s family having lived in the city for generations. My father grew up in Red Hook, Brooklyn and never really experienced a dramatic shift, geographically or culturally, like my grandparents and their children on the other side of my family did. My parents met in Brooklyn and lived together in Staten Island leading to myself being born and living in the borough for most of my life. In a way, it can’t be said that my father has never experienced the difficulties of moving elsewhere to set up a new life. Even years after I was born, my father would get lost on Staten Island. While I was in the back of the car at a young age, his request for directions from a fellow driver would be accompanied with a “I’ve lived here for x years, and I still don’t know my way around,” Of course in time he too adjusted to new living situations.

As for myself, I’ve only moved around NYC as well as said earlier. Shortly before the start of 2012, my family moved to the Bronx. This was during the start of my sophomore year at high school, and one of the motivators for the move was to get me closer to my school in the Bronx. Compared to what amounted to a one hour car trip for me, the move that my grandparents, mother, and aunt undertook was of a much greater magnitude. They took a chance by leaving the country of their birth and their pursuits paid off as they made the most of their new lives.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was a fine Monday morning; the skies were clear, the weather was fair and my heavy eyelids were crying out-loud for just an hour more of sleep. I, together with my brother and dear mother, had woken up early that day in order to make it on time to the United States embassy. To my surprise, the embassy was already filled with a good amount faces with anticipation written all over them. My family and I secured a spot under a shady tree and waited for what would be the longest hour of my life. Soon enough, a man, whom I inferred to be an American, with a stern look came through the embassy’s huge glittering doors. In his hands was a brown envelope that contained a mini-booklet that would change my life forever.

If suspense were a person, it would be me at that moment. For the next hour or so, I would wait, engorged with suspense and anticipation as the American went back and forth through the embassy’s doors; each time carrying his brown envelope and a new set of passports. Just when I was on the verge of giving up hope, the name “Obeng” echoed in my ears. I quick sprang up, raced and snatched from his hand this green booklet, which supposedly held so much power. I quickly opened a couple pages, stared at the United States Visa, which reflected the heavenly glow of the rising sun, and smiled. From that point thereof, my life would take a new turn.

About fifteen years ago, my father had been presented by one of his relatives with an opportunity to travel abroad. In Ghana, where I was born and lived at for about fifteen years, travelling abroad was deemed the highest level of success a person could achieve. It seemed like a person who had returned from travelling overseas commanded a new form of respect and was revered; such a person was close to a god. This was because of the incorrect ingrained thought that any individual who travelled overseas could become filthy rich in a matter of months. In light of this, my father quickly seized this opportunity and began travelling to several countries: India, the Netherlands, Israel and a host of others. Finally, after about two years of such travelling, he moved to settle permanently in New York. I did miss my father from time to time, but the satisfaction of having a father who lived in the United States and the gifts I received from him outweighed the feeling.

After about six years, my father became a citizen of the United States and quickly cleared the way for three of my siblings to join him in New York. I did envy my siblings but this feeling died out quickly after I accepted the fact that I couldn’t change what had already happened. Also, I enjoyed the freedom that came with the reduced number of adults in the household. Some six years later, my father would call, like he usually did, to tell my mother, brother and I that our papers to enable our relocation to the United States had been approved.

After we had received our visas, it was time to leave the very place I had called home for close to sixteen years. I didn’t think very much about how I will feel at this new place I am moving to, what the conditions will be like, how this action will affect the relationships I had already established in Ghana, etc. This is because I was completely overjoyed by the thought of moving to the United States, probably the greatest country in the world. Although I personally didn’t know very much about the United States, I gathered from the American movies I watched that it is the most amazing place on earth, a place full of hope and opportunities, a place basking in the richness of lavish lifestyles. I could finally skate through the streets of New York, watch the new year ball drop amidst the fiery crowd, ride a train and be a part of high school as portrayed in movies like “High School Musical,” which I would later find out was very inaccurate in portraying school life.

After the horrible airline food and the stressing twelve-hour flight time, I was finally in New York City. I was overflowing with joy and amazement. The first few days were some of my most exciting days of my life. Coming from a third world country, Manhattan was practically heaven. The skyscrapers, the cars, the weather, the air, the food, the people; everything about this place was heavenly. Even the days I spent indoors were equally exciting. I had thousands of TV channels at my disposal; match that with the four mediocre channels back at Ghana, which for the most part only broadcasted talk shows and news. I loved my new lifestyle and didn’t miss home at all.

It was only after I enrolled in high school that the reality of immigration set in. First of all, I realized that high school doesn’t come close to what is portrayed in movies; as a matter of fact, it is much more about learning that it is about fun. But that would be the least of my problems. I quickly realized that I had been thrown into a whole new system of education and a totally different culture of people without any preparation. Naturally, I am an introvert and bit socially awkward. As such, making friends was as difficult as finding a needle in a haystack. And my aptitude for speaking English didn’t help much either. Don’t get me wrong, I knew and perfectly understood the language, I simply didn’t have my way with words like most people do (I still don’t actually). Worst of all, I despised my accent and as such, tried as much as possible to talk only when absolutely necessary. I remember those awful days when I sat at a whole lunch table all by myself; how I hated lunch period! Too bad my stomach didn’t share the same feelings I did. I was introduced to new vocabulary, a new way of dressing, a new way of approaching certain circumstances, a new way of life. At first, I was overwhelmed by all of this; it was as if I had been asked to master rocket science in a matter of days.

But there were better days ahead. After about a year, I got used to this new environment and way of life. Even though I couldn’t get rid of my accent, I mastered the vocabulary and the ‘New York phrases’. I even learned how to navigate through the subway; that is after getting lost several times. I vaguely remember a day when I got lost on my way to school just because I used a different staircase when exiting the subway station; I had to return home with my head buried in shame. And with the right attitude I soon was able to make several friends, some of which I consider family. And even though I, as well as the rest of my family, haven’t been able to completely adapt to New York’s culture and we didn’t become filthy rich like my father thought we would, we still enjoy staying in this country and we consider ourselves New Yorkers. However, no matter how closely related we become to this new way of life, we will still cling to some of our old ways.

Nonetheless, some of these days, I sit back, overcome with acute nostalgia, and reminisce the times I spent back at Ghana and the lovely people I spent them with. I ask myself, “What if I never moved to New York?” as the phantom of my past prostrates before me begging to bring back the days far away in the distance overpowered by the heavy clouds of immigration.

Imagine a tree planted in a small plot of land containing trees that are just like it. Collectively, these trees receive sunlight, water, and nutrients from the fertile soil. The environmental conditions in the area are suitable for the trees to grow, like the average annual temperature, humidity, and rainfall. After several years, the trees grow taller and their roots grow deeper into the ground and branch out in many directions. One day, the farmer decides to uproot one tree from the plot of land because the environmental conditions are changing and are becoming inhospitable for the tree to grow. The farmer only has one choice: to save one or none. Subsequently, the farmer decides to pull the tree out of the ground and transplant it to a different area where the environmental conditions are much different compared to the initial conditions the tree was originally placed in and where the species of tree are radically different compared to this tree. Since the farmer is in haste, he places the tree on top of its roots without bothering to dig a hole to properly place the tree in its new environment. The tree still stands albeit in a very makeshift fashion. The tree faces competition because it has a limited amount of resources to grow and survive, but nevertheless, it still finds a way to adjust in a completely new environment.

My parents were born in India, in a small state called Kerala. At the time when they were born, which is in the sixties, India had only recently gained independence from Britain. The British had established an excellent education system in India and it was quite evident in Kerala since it had and currently has one of the highest literacy rates among all twenty-nine states in India. Education itself in India is not that expensive compared to those of Western institutions, so thankfully, both of my parents were able to obtain an education. Both of my parents were also able to continue past a secondary education to receive a college education. My father obtained his B.A in Economics, History, and Philosophy. Later, he received his M.A in Economics and continued his education further to receive his Bachelor’s in Law degree. My mother studied for eighteen years of her life in Kerala and then obtained admission at the AIIMS (The All India Institute for Medical Sciences) in New Delhi, India, where she obtained her B.Sc. in Nursing and later her M.Sc. in the same field. After receiving their education, my parents met each other as a result of the efforts of my father’s brothers and an arranged marriage was decided for them. After they got married, my father continued practicing law in Kerala and my mother left Kerala to go work in Saudi Arabia.

Not too long after, my parents came to a joint decision to leave Kerala for the United States where economic opportunity was a large possibility, in contrast with the meager opportunities in India. At the time, India was very peaceful politically, economically, and religiously speaking. The only drawback was of the lack of lucrative employment opportunities for those who spent years studying for their bachelors, masters, and postgraduate degrees. Many of those who had done so could not find work that corresponded to the degree they studied for. There were two groups: those who did not have a means to leave and would not leave and those who had the means to leave and did so. Those who chose to stay mostly found odd jobs around town. For the group that chose to leave, many chose the United States or the Gulf countries as a final destination. As for my parents, leaving their families and friends behind to go to a foreign country was difficult yet necessary in order to secure a brighter and better life for themselves and their children.

Arriving and subsequently residing in the U.S. was an interesting yet difficult experience for both of my parents. My parents came to the U.S with only $500. My mother had an employment visa but my father came to the U.S as a dependent. Both of my parents lived in my father’s brother’s house in Queens, NY, for a couple of years. During this time, both of my parent’s visa’s expired and they had a very difficult time trying to get it renewed. It was during this period of time that my parent’s were planning to return to Kerala rather despondently because of the inherent inability to renew their visas. Almost like an answer to a prayer for rain in the desert, an employer was ready to file visas for both of my parents several weeks later. An empty-handed and inefficacious return to India was fortunately averted.

Both of my parents had varied success in obtaining jobs they studied for in the United States. Because my Mom was apart of the medical field, she was able to find a job in a hospital relatively quickly after applying for a license to practice nursing in the United States. My father, on the other hand, had to take twenty-four extra credits and had to take the bar examination in order to practice law in the United States. Even if he had done so, he recognized that a significant language barrier impeded his entry into the practicing law in the United States. He also was cognizant of the fact that he was about to have his first child during this time, so this endeavor would be detrimental in raising a family. At this time, my parents lived in a small apartment in Port Chester, NY. My dad worked as a librarian in a school library, where he worked for a couple of years. He eventually took the civil service exam in order to work in the local government. He eventually took and passed more civil service exams in order to rise higher in the local government.

Recounting the story of my parent’s immigration to America has always been a humbling experience for me. Realizing that a significant sacrifice had to be made by my parents in order to live in the United States serves as a source of motivation to further my own education and become successful in America. I realize that my parents could have potentially been very successful in Kerala, my dad potentially becoming a lawyer there and my mother a medical professional. For the most part, their immigration to the United States was not done for their own betterment, but for a better life for my siblings and I. When they retire, my parents return to Kerala and build a house for themselves so that for the remainder of their lives, they can live happily with their friends and family. They only ask that we become successful here so that they can assure themselves that coming to America to secure a better life for their children was all worth the struggle and sacrifice.

Raphael de Nicola de Maria left Bares Italy around 1909 to come to America. At the tie two of his brothers were already in the US and had told him to come over. Obviously they had found more opportunities and thus more money in the US. At the time Italy was in a economic crises and to further add to the troubles of a poor Italian farmer, universal male suffrage, just male suffrage was not yet a thing. This meant that he was poor, and his government nor him could do anything about it. So like many in Italy around this time the family slowly immigrated to NYC, in waves that allowed the family to remain economically stable and to still get to America. In order to do this Raphael left his wife and 8 kids in Italy, leaving with the intention of one day making enough money to get them to America. The hope was simple to find more economic stability as a farmer, (there was more land to cultivate outside NYC then) and to get the rights that Americans had.

The ride to the US was brutal, the hopes and dreams that he had started with were difficult to keep up with. America isn’t paved with golden streets. My great great grandfather understood that, especially because he already had two brothers living in the US. But he felt that if he tried hard enough those dreams and hopes could some true in America, that the country still allowed for such dreams to come true. Just that the country was not going to spoon feed you it. But the boat ride was indeed brutal. Many died on the way and some were so sick that upon arrival to Ellis island his name was changed and many around him were turned down simply because they were deemed ill. Immediately he was dealt with a major language barrier. There was this rush around Ellis Island, and a heightened level of chaos, so the story goes. My great great Grandfather got off of the boat and was asked for his name. He responded “Raphael de Nicola de Maria” the official looked at him, paused for a moment and said “Ralph Marino, okay.” My great great grandfather was confused. Then he had to find his way off of the island. He looked to the city and saw the huge, towering metropolis. He knew he had to find a way to the main island, and to his brothers. But no one really understood him that could help him, and many did not want to. The first couple of hours in the US were filled with confusion and fear, not exactly the best start.

After a while my great great grandfather got settled in NJ and would later move to NYC. Once he got enough money he sent for his entire family to come back to the US. They slowly became used to living in America, they began to attain more and more money and also had two more kids. Yes they had ten kids overall (surprisingly common back then). One of the two kids was my great grandfather. They also had to become used to something else, other than culture and language. The weather in NYC was completely different from that in Italy. The massive snow storms and the scorching summers filled with humidity. Only in NYC would you have to get used to the weather(the North American continent meteorologically is more extreme than any other part of the world) . Then came the roaring twenties and my great great grandparents and great grandparents, like everyone else in the US lived off of the massive economic growth, and loved it. For them they had finally begun to realize the dream that they had when first coming to the US. However, by 1931 they had lost everything, my great grandfather had to build from the ground up and then began what many did after the great depression. He would hide money everywhere, even in the stock market. He invested in companies like AT&T and Bell and several others that would boom in the future. But then WW2 came and he decided it would be best to pull those investments and just take the money and keep it for his family. He stayed stateside because of him having a young child, my grandpa. The money never really did come back like it did in the 20’s and then my grandpa experienced his recession in the 70’s and lost everything his father had left for him from the stock market (he didn’t pull everything out of his investments).

During the 60’s my mom was born and at a younger age moved from Astoria in queens to Bayside. My grandpa worked for the airlines and worked more than one job. Even decades after my great great grandpa arrived on the shores of NYC my grandpa still found it overly difficult to make money, not even he could yet accomplish the dreams and aspirations that have stayed with the family since the 1900’s. It was proof that the immigrant life style is not one that is easy, in almost every way. My great great grandparents did not receive help from outside their own family, and the prejudice against immigrants back then would ensure that it would remain difficult to get jobs and skills in the future, or even for future generations. At least in the past 100 years progress has been made in terms of our family as we slowly rise up the social ladder from immigrants, to descendants of immigrants, to Americans.

There are other immigrants that I am a descendent of, but on my Irish and German side, and they came here around the 1850’s. So on that side much of the story is lost. I know not whether they fought in civil war. I only have a basic understanding of why they came (Germany: revolutions, Irish: potato famine). I know that their descendants would fight in WW1 and almost WW2. But other than these stories there is only one thing I am certain of from all accounts. That they were all proud to become American’s, to joining a country with such rights and such aspirations. They all truly believed in democracy, and the spirit of patriotism, and for them, it was for a land they were not from, but wanted so dearly to be, for it respected them, and allowed them to dream.