From 1985 on, we had to come to grips with some facts about our situation. We were unwanted and illegal aliens. I hated that. Although my dad kept working with the immigration departments in San Antonio, TX to get it all worked out and we are able to remain here legally, the process was surprisingly lengthy and unorganized. We were not allowed to leave the country. I thought about it when my husband (then boyfriend) and I were spending my Senior High-School Spring Break in South Padre. I had that rebellious spirit then, and wanted to cross on over to Mexico just to see what happens. But I got scared, and never ventured south of the border then or ever since. I think the love for travel and seeing the world is embedded in my bones. I feel it. I want to experience life in different cultures and take my family around the world to teach them about life first hand. But to feel like a bird trapped in a cage - although a very big and beautiful cage - it's still crippling. I have missed out on one of my best friend's wedding in Mexico. I have missed out on incentive trips and company trips with my husband. I have missed out on cruise opportunities with my husband. I wanted to go back to where I was born and visit the grandma who raised me as her health is declining. I wanted to show my husband Daniel my place of birth, and the house where I grew up in. I wanted to go back when my grandpa, my hero, died. I could not leave though. If I left, I could not re-enter back for at least ten years or maybe never be able to come back again. And that would have been even worse torture.
I had to come to grips with the fact that we may always live like this. I may always feel unwanted and alienated. But there was an exception to this that I found at a small church we went to for a short while, called Austin Bible Church. My favorite memories during the early years revolved around here as I witnessed something different. The people seemed very nice to us and thus my parents became very involved. We went to the pastor's home for lunches, hung out with the other church leaders as well in their homes and I got a glimpse of community. My mom cooked and baked for the pot-lucks and everyone loved the ethnic foods and praised her for it. I remember pulling up to our apartment door one day and finding bags and bags of groceries in front of our door, with an unanimous note. Some church members bought us a ton of stuff and left it at our door. I did not understand why - were we poor and needed food, or am I witnessing some random act of kindness I am so unaccustomed to? The youth pastor bought a New Testament Bible in Serbian for me so I can understand it better and I read it all the time. He even gave me a really fancy leather-bound Bible in English with my full name inscribed on the front of it, too. I accompanied some kids in decorating the Christmas tree with strung berries and popcorn and I found out what going caroling meant. It was nice. Almost too nice. We stopped going there though, for reasons I don't know, and we were back on our own trying to find community with other Serbian people we have met in the area.
I don't know about other Serbians or Yugoslavians, but in my family there always seemed be an issue with people. I wondered why we had to leave friendships and not talk to people anymore. For example: We met a very nice Serbian family who quickly became our new godparents. They treated us like they knew us for life and we have always been family. We loved each other like family. I loved being in their home because it was beautiful and richly decorated, and they had a pool as well. It made me feel like I had a wealthy family that I could talk about to friends and felt a little bit better about who I was. The family friendship was short lived though and I have not spoken to them in many, many years. My mom has a story here, but maybe one day she can tell it.
So we had no family, no friends, and it seemed there was something so wrong with us; that somehow we had a Scarlett Letter "U" and we were unwanted, untouchable, unemployed, un- whatever.... It seemed that all of our problems originated with the immigration situation, and all of our heart's desires were for being accepted as a citizen or permanent resident of this country. If my dad could legally work, he would have a better job in his field of engineering or architecture and we would have more money, a nicer place to live and less stress over how to make bills and pay for food and clothes. If we were legal residents, we would not have to fear being "picked up by the police" all the time and live freely. If we were legal, my parents would fight less and fear less and be less stressful.
I learned English quickly, and read all the time. I became a better speller than most of my friends. I tried to do everything I could, to fit in. I even worked hard to get all A's and get my first crack at designer clothes - stonewashed Guess Jeans. Yeah, buddy. I stayed up late recording top forty songs off the radio on my recorder (yes a recorder) and replayed them back dozens of times until I learned the lyrics. It's so much easier now, jeez. I wanted to be a part of the in-crowd. I wanted to be popular and not feel ashamed for who I was. I battled with self esteem issues and thought of myself in such a negative way. It seemed that in our school, the popular kids had parents who were very involved in their lives. Their parents could afford their designer clothes, cheerleader uniforms and extra curricular activities. My biggest concerns were fitting in and impressing friends at this time. I remember how many times I got in trouble at school just trying to do dumb things to make people laugh. Only to to be liked.
I even thought if I just could get on the cheerleading team maybe I could be a part of the crowd I looked enviously upon. I did not know many gymnastic moves although I tried every day to perfect hand stands and round-offs. I chickened out to try out for cheerleading, but actually showed up to try out for the school mascot instead. This ended as I was only told my behavior was so out of hand and I had too many "E's" (I think that was the letter for misbehaving on the report cards then) that I had to leave. This scarred me as well, and now I was through with trying to overachieve and be involved. I wanted to hide even more.
My parents used to be very involved when I was younger in Yugoslavia, and I missed that. My mom was now forced to work two jobs just to provide the basics for us and did not understand to speak or read and write in English. My mom tried going to night classes to learn English, but they began to interfere with her job schedule so she quit. Also, I think they were too hard, and overwhelming, and she had no assistance. Shortly after we came here, my mom began working odd and end jobs, like stuffing envelopes, counting metal tidbits for some machines, and babysitting our neighbor's son. During my middle school years, my mom worked full time at K-Mart and in the evenings at a local grocery chain, HEB, as a bagger. I hardly ever saw her because she worked two jobs for most of her life to make sure we had what we needed. I was left to take care of my sister, and I resented being an overseer, since I was not ready to give up my childhood yet. And this is how my intense decline in morality and my behavior began.
I was ashamed of our heritage and even wanted my dad to drop me off far from the school so I was not seen getting out of the brown Gremlin and with him. He has a very dark complexion, like me, and everyone thought he was of Middle Eastern or Hispanic descent. So then naturally, most people thought the same of me. So now not only was I ashamed of my own heritage, but ashamed of being Hispanic or Middle Eastern too, even though I'm not! I wanted us all to be a light skinned, light-eyed Americans! Isn't it funny how we think we know best about how we should look and try so hard to be someone we were not made to be? I used to be embarrassed when my mom spoke to me in Yugoslavian in public, and when my friends came over. I just wanted to be "normal." I refused to speak Serbian and even answered my mom back in English or pretended I didn't understand her. I got pretty good at this, that one day I woke up and truly could not communicate. I had forgotten to speak in Serbian, and even though I may have acted proud of this, deep inside I knew I was sorry. We try to hide from who we are, and many times go to extreme measures to achieve this, but eventually we are found. One way or another, we cannot escape from who were created to be.
Why could not my dad make more money and have a better paying job? I did not understand. Although he always seemed busy and working, going on business trips and such, we never seemed to have enough money. A struggle began in my life against money at this time, and money won. I became a slave to it and succumbed to the love of it. I wanted to have the lives of my friends' and envied them. I blamed the American government for my poor life, although I always had enough food, clothing, and a roof over my head. I suppose I learned the need for more, and began to compare with the Joneses, the Smiths, the Williams', and even the Rodriguez'. Comparing with others is a HUGE mistake for anyone, but one very easy to make.
I understood now about social security cards and work authorizations. Although we had legal social security numbers and cards, there was an imprint on them that they were only allowed for work in conjunction with a work authorization card. Somehow, when my mom applied for jobs, this part was overlooked. But
with my dad, shortly after the initial hire, the employer found out he was working on a short term authorization card, and my dad would be let go. Maybe it was because his positions were paid more. Back then it was not cool and sought after to hire contractors and foreigners. My dad's experience in many types of engineering, architecture, teaching, and even soccer refereeing was reduced to him working at Home Depot for a while, restaurants as a dish-washer, even Pottery Barn and K-Mart as a stocker and clerk. All these jobs were short lived and my dad's credit took a nosedive. His demeanour changed, and he became disillusioned with the American Dream. He drank more, smoked more, and went out often. We have come to know what debt is and our family was plagued with it. His expensive suits were replaced with jeans and free, event t-shirts. He no longer even went out to expensive restaurants and hotels to sit and pretend this was the life he should be living. He stopped taking photographs. He took his lot in life. He was an unwanted illegal, unable to produce a lasting legacy of any kind for his family. His venture for a better life backfired. His life was wasting away before him, he had no hope of retaining a job, and he gave up. It has been so hard on my sister and I to watch and witness the decline of our family.
There are so many factors that contributed to my parents separation. I can speculate on what really did it, but to say that they were not happy would be an understatement. It oozed out of their pores. After many back and forth attempts, my parents finally divorced. The thought of a new baby even came about, but my little brother died shortly before his time to be born. The ordeals which happened around this time can be summed up in their own book. It felt like there was something missing from the equation, a common thread that could bring my family together in diversity instead of us facing it alone and breaking apart during the sufferings and trials. We had lost hope.
My parents became scared that while in the deportation process that we have been in since our visas expired, we would get "picked up" and deported. My sister and I have feared this so much, that our hair rose up and our stomachs turned at every corner. When we heard the sirens of even ambulance or fire trucks, we assumed it was the police coming to get us. We had no idea what we have done, just believed that for some reason we were bad and unwanted so we had to "keep it on the down-low." We lived in fear as did my parents. As I grew up and had my brush in with the police with many speeding tickets and such, the rebellion in me caused the attitude of "you don't scare me." I developed somewhat of a hatred for the law as did my sister. My sister was so little at the time though, that the fear really injected itself in her and she has spent most of her life afraid of being arrested, publicly humiliated, and detained. I will later write about how this came to pass just like that - in 2009.
The facts I knew of about my immigration situation I hid from everyone I knew. I had become so hardened by now that I think I lived in a disillusioned world in which I was a permanent resident. I was an all-American party girl, with a leather jacket, Marlboro's, and a kick-butt attitude. By high-school, I had blended in pretty well, and all I had to occasionally answer was that I was not of Hispanic descent. One man even got angry with me because I did not understand when he spoke Spanish to me, and cursed at me saying I was denying my heritage and should be ashamed. I laughed and told everyone, and found comfort in the fact that all I had to do was prove I was not Hispanic.
I even hid my shame from my Daniel. I met Dan after moving back to Texas, and we began dating when I was 16. I never talked about immigration with him, and although we kept everything - and I mean everything- in the open about what happens with us, I kept this secret from him. I married Daniel and hid this even then. I guess I lied from the beginning when we initially talked about it, or maybe it was that he heard me tell others, I don't remember. We never discussed it for some reason, and that was okay with me. It was too late to talk about it years later, so I just kept on hiding my past, and putting covers on the roots of rejection. I began to forget why I would get so angry at times and jealous of others. I completely forgot why I felt such a huge weight of shame over me, and usually blamed it on alcohol and such.
Years have passed, and I wanted nothing to do with immigration. I didn't want to hear the word, talk about deporting, immigrants, foreigners, even other countries. I was done and so rebellious at this time that anger spewed out at the most inopportune times. I held resentment and downright animosity against America although I did not want to and hid it out of embarrassment. I wanted to be a part of this country, be accepted, and wanted. I wanted to love it like so many patriots including my husband and his family. I acted as if I did, but there was so much hurt that I could not deny.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
My Life Beginning...
I will begin my story of an immigrant - now that you must say again with a good Slavic accent - by giving a little bit of my background. I wrote an entire book depicting it in greater detail, but for the sake of staying on task - which I must discipline myself to do, since I tend to chase rabbit trails a bunch - I will try my best to concentrate on details which pertain to the particular story of a struggle for freedom... You see. There I go again - over explaining as my husband, Daniel says I do... :) anyway...
I was born in a small town of Nis, in the state of Serbia, Yugoslavia, on the family holiday of St. John the Baptist along with the first snow of the year. Instead of being named Jovanka or Joanna, to go with the religious flow, for some reason my dad named me Olivera. The meaning in Serbian is symbol of peace; derived from the olive tree and considered an emblem of beauty, prosperity and religious privilege. I am holding on to that :) That was a blessing in disguise, since I hated my name throughout my childhood.
As a young child in Yugoslavia, I thought I had everything I needed and could ever want. My parents worked, but we lived with my grandparents, so I always had family around. I enjoyed my family, friends, and many travels. My aunt was my favorite because she always took my side instead of my sister's. I loved playing outdoors in the summer until past dark. I loved the smell of newly watered gardens, and picking apples, cherries and apricots off our trees. I loved listening to music with my dad, especially rock, and English beats like the Beatles. I mean, if "All you need is love, love is all you need." Although my parents fought, they always seemed to get along when it counted. I played pranks on my sister and she played my parents to get me in trouble. All the men in my life drank heavily and smoked but I was their favorite and I loved the attention. I went to school with good friends, and started to learn the German language in 5th grade.
It was in the early 80's that my dad became bent on a conquest for a better life and began looking for possible job transfers in other countries. I think it was a brave quest for freedom, hope and opportunities we did not have in Yugoslavia. Switzerland did not work out, but America did.
My mom's cousin and her family had just visited our home in Nis, and suggested my parents move with them to America, specifically Fort Wayne, IN. Friends my parents met vacationing in Serbia, also suggested my family move to America, but to Austin, TX. So the US seemed like the place to be. My dad packed up and moved, with the understanding that once he settled, he would bring my mom, my sister and I with him. This didn't happen.
The following year, after hearing that my dad was moving from Ft. Wayne and cousins' to Austin to accept a better job with the friend he had met back in YU, my mom sold all we had and bought plane tickets. She spoke to their new friend and my dad briefly, and without a word of English on her lips she left all she has ever known to follow her love. My sister and I were 6 and 11, and we landed in New York on a visa on February 16th, 1985. We had small suitcases of a few pieces of clothing, a toy a piece and a very short supply of personal items. Apparently my dad was not ready for us to come. The "paperwork" was not finished.
I remember my first day in the US. I loved tasting Sprite for the first time on the airplane to Austin. I was amazed at the lights and billboards on the highways. I loved that Baskin Robbins' banana split on the way home from the airport! But all I knew to say in English was "hello"and "I love you." I have missed my dad and was happy my family was back together.
Now, as our life began in America, we had to undergo serious changes. We slept on a futon in a South Austin duplex and all of our furniture was hand me downs. Coming from a place where I thought I could have anything I wanted and so much love and support around me to feeling like we were poor and underprivileged in so many ways was hard. As a small kid, I just wanted my family back the way it was and where it was. But I knew that America was our home now and I had better act American and impress my family and the people I met. It's like I could not be myself anymore because I was scared of rejection. It was as if I started life all over again and I got (or had to be) to be someone different to appease society.
My clothes obviously were nowhere near the designer type - actually most were handmade by my mother. My hair was short and I wore no makeup. I did not fit in in a lot more ways than one and I wished I was someone else. I wished I was blonde and blue-eyed - even as my sister who has light brown hair and green eyes - and I wished I was born here in the States. I wished I had "normal" clothes, a house in the suburban neighborhoods, and my grandparents and extended family and cousins around. I wished my parents did not have accents and did not drive that ugly brown Gremlin. I did not want to be set apart then, I just wanted to blend in.
My dad quickly plugged me into the local elementary school, where I learned English using a curriculum for Spanish-speaking students who also did not know the language. Somehow, it worked and I adjusted quickly. It was so hard for me to hang out with kids and have no idea what they were talking about though. When they laughed and looked my way I almost always thought they were making fun of me, but pretended they were not. Sometimes I understood this, when they pointed to my hairy legs, lips, and arm pits, or at my mismatched "I just stepped off the boat" clothes. I knew who I wanted as my friends, but instead felt as an afterthought, and an outsider. I certainly felt like I did not belong. Even the Hispanic kids had each other to mingle with and talk to. I was the only Yug. But there was always someone who genuinely liked me as a friend no matter the barriers. In my first elementary school it was a girl name Rhoda. She had a great big heart and tried to teach me about the ways of America. She showed me some Southern hospitality and I am very thankful for her.
It was also a time of the United States' rivalry with the Soviet Union, and I often got grouped into to whole communist ordeal. Yugoslavia was indeed a Communist country then, which had a great deal to do with why my dad wanted to leave. But as young as I was and so not in tune with the the news of the world, I became scared to admit I was from Yugoslavia because I didn't want anyone to think I was a communist. From what I learned about it, it wasn't good. Kids and adults alike would try to engage into conversations with me about politics, at which I tried my best to lie my way out. I honestly did not care about any of that - I just wanted to belong and be a kid. I wanted friends. I wanted a place to call home. I wanted my family to be happy. I wanted what my friends seem to have - security.
I began to understand a little about the immigration procedures then. As far as I knew, you had to undergo a process to become a citizen. So I lied to people and told them I was one. That's because they always asked. They asked a lot. And I wanted them to like me and I didn't want to feel the shame which so sneakingly began to overtake me. Shame for not being an American. I felt ashamed for being a foreigner. For the first time I felt like an alien, and this title became what the US government would call me for the next 26 years. An alien, with a long number after it.
The more I tried to hide who I was and my identity, the more people became interested. I got so tired of explaining why we moved here, and why I was here still, and if I had my green card or not, to people who did not even know me. Why did they care so much? I made up stories most of the time to get people to back off and change the subject. My usual was that "my dad came searching for work and a better life for us (which he did) and he got his Green Card and citizenship and then brought us over". Which he did not, but I believed that. I wanted to know that was true. What was this citizenship business anyway, and why was it happening to me? What did I do to deserve this humiliation I did not understand anything about? Why didn't we just stay in Yugoslavia like so many people so rudely suggested as they would tell us to just "go back home?" If I did not think about it, maybe it would all just go away.
What I had come to believe was that we were unwanted here. There were people who could come and apply to stay legally and be granted this privilege, but then there were those of us who were told to leave and were not welcomed here. It's like showing up to a party with some friends and the host asks a few to come in, enjoy and have fun, but tells you and another to get lost. In your mind you're thinking stuff like: "I'm never coming to another party again; I should have worn something else; I should have helped him with that homework; I'm so embarrassed; I'll never live this down." So much shame and rejection was placed on us, but it was only the beginning. My dad had filed for an extension of our visas but it was denied. He kept petitioning for an extended stay, permanent residency and all of that, but this process does not come together and work easily for everyone alike. We were denied and asked to leave. But my dad wanted to stay and fight, because he did not want to go back to our old life. This is the Land of Opportunity, where people come to find the American Dream. As unreal and far fetched this dream seemed to our family, we knew this was our home and we wanted to stay. To go back on what my dad set out to do would be total failure to the eyes of everyone in his family and his friends back in Nis. I don't think "to fail" was part of his vocabulary.
I was born in a small town of Nis, in the state of Serbia, Yugoslavia, on the family holiday of St. John the Baptist along with the first snow of the year. Instead of being named Jovanka or Joanna, to go with the religious flow, for some reason my dad named me Olivera. The meaning in Serbian is symbol of peace; derived from the olive tree and considered an emblem of beauty, prosperity and religious privilege. I am holding on to that :) That was a blessing in disguise, since I hated my name throughout my childhood.
As a young child in Yugoslavia, I thought I had everything I needed and could ever want. My parents worked, but we lived with my grandparents, so I always had family around. I enjoyed my family, friends, and many travels. My aunt was my favorite because she always took my side instead of my sister's. I loved playing outdoors in the summer until past dark. I loved the smell of newly watered gardens, and picking apples, cherries and apricots off our trees. I loved listening to music with my dad, especially rock, and English beats like the Beatles. I mean, if "All you need is love, love is all you need." Although my parents fought, they always seemed to get along when it counted. I played pranks on my sister and she played my parents to get me in trouble. All the men in my life drank heavily and smoked but I was their favorite and I loved the attention. I went to school with good friends, and started to learn the German language in 5th grade.
It was in the early 80's that my dad became bent on a conquest for a better life and began looking for possible job transfers in other countries. I think it was a brave quest for freedom, hope and opportunities we did not have in Yugoslavia. Switzerland did not work out, but America did.
My mom's cousin and her family had just visited our home in Nis, and suggested my parents move with them to America, specifically Fort Wayne, IN. Friends my parents met vacationing in Serbia, also suggested my family move to America, but to Austin, TX. So the US seemed like the place to be. My dad packed up and moved, with the understanding that once he settled, he would bring my mom, my sister and I with him. This didn't happen.
The following year, after hearing that my dad was moving from Ft. Wayne and cousins' to Austin to accept a better job with the friend he had met back in YU, my mom sold all we had and bought plane tickets. She spoke to their new friend and my dad briefly, and without a word of English on her lips she left all she has ever known to follow her love. My sister and I were 6 and 11, and we landed in New York on a visa on February 16th, 1985. We had small suitcases of a few pieces of clothing, a toy a piece and a very short supply of personal items. Apparently my dad was not ready for us to come. The "paperwork" was not finished.
I remember my first day in the US. I loved tasting Sprite for the first time on the airplane to Austin. I was amazed at the lights and billboards on the highways. I loved that Baskin Robbins' banana split on the way home from the airport! But all I knew to say in English was "hello"and "I love you." I have missed my dad and was happy my family was back together.
Now, as our life began in America, we had to undergo serious changes. We slept on a futon in a South Austin duplex and all of our furniture was hand me downs. Coming from a place where I thought I could have anything I wanted and so much love and support around me to feeling like we were poor and underprivileged in so many ways was hard. As a small kid, I just wanted my family back the way it was and where it was. But I knew that America was our home now and I had better act American and impress my family and the people I met. It's like I could not be myself anymore because I was scared of rejection. It was as if I started life all over again and I got (or had to be) to be someone different to appease society.
My clothes obviously were nowhere near the designer type - actually most were handmade by my mother. My hair was short and I wore no makeup. I did not fit in in a lot more ways than one and I wished I was someone else. I wished I was blonde and blue-eyed - even as my sister who has light brown hair and green eyes - and I wished I was born here in the States. I wished I had "normal" clothes, a house in the suburban neighborhoods, and my grandparents and extended family and cousins around. I wished my parents did not have accents and did not drive that ugly brown Gremlin. I did not want to be set apart then, I just wanted to blend in.
My dad quickly plugged me into the local elementary school, where I learned English using a curriculum for Spanish-speaking students who also did not know the language. Somehow, it worked and I adjusted quickly. It was so hard for me to hang out with kids and have no idea what they were talking about though. When they laughed and looked my way I almost always thought they were making fun of me, but pretended they were not. Sometimes I understood this, when they pointed to my hairy legs, lips, and arm pits, or at my mismatched "I just stepped off the boat" clothes. I knew who I wanted as my friends, but instead felt as an afterthought, and an outsider. I certainly felt like I did not belong. Even the Hispanic kids had each other to mingle with and talk to. I was the only Yug. But there was always someone who genuinely liked me as a friend no matter the barriers. In my first elementary school it was a girl name Rhoda. She had a great big heart and tried to teach me about the ways of America. She showed me some Southern hospitality and I am very thankful for her.
It was also a time of the United States' rivalry with the Soviet Union, and I often got grouped into to whole communist ordeal. Yugoslavia was indeed a Communist country then, which had a great deal to do with why my dad wanted to leave. But as young as I was and so not in tune with the the news of the world, I became scared to admit I was from Yugoslavia because I didn't want anyone to think I was a communist. From what I learned about it, it wasn't good. Kids and adults alike would try to engage into conversations with me about politics, at which I tried my best to lie my way out. I honestly did not care about any of that - I just wanted to belong and be a kid. I wanted friends. I wanted a place to call home. I wanted my family to be happy. I wanted what my friends seem to have - security.
I began to understand a little about the immigration procedures then. As far as I knew, you had to undergo a process to become a citizen. So I lied to people and told them I was one. That's because they always asked. They asked a lot. And I wanted them to like me and I didn't want to feel the shame which so sneakingly began to overtake me. Shame for not being an American. I felt ashamed for being a foreigner. For the first time I felt like an alien, and this title became what the US government would call me for the next 26 years. An alien, with a long number after it.
The more I tried to hide who I was and my identity, the more people became interested. I got so tired of explaining why we moved here, and why I was here still, and if I had my green card or not, to people who did not even know me. Why did they care so much? I made up stories most of the time to get people to back off and change the subject. My usual was that "my dad came searching for work and a better life for us (which he did) and he got his Green Card and citizenship and then brought us over". Which he did not, but I believed that. I wanted to know that was true. What was this citizenship business anyway, and why was it happening to me? What did I do to deserve this humiliation I did not understand anything about? Why didn't we just stay in Yugoslavia like so many people so rudely suggested as they would tell us to just "go back home?" If I did not think about it, maybe it would all just go away.
What I had come to believe was that we were unwanted here. There were people who could come and apply to stay legally and be granted this privilege, but then there were those of us who were told to leave and were not welcomed here. It's like showing up to a party with some friends and the host asks a few to come in, enjoy and have fun, but tells you and another to get lost. In your mind you're thinking stuff like: "I'm never coming to another party again; I should have worn something else; I should have helped him with that homework; I'm so embarrassed; I'll never live this down." So much shame and rejection was placed on us, but it was only the beginning. My dad had filed for an extension of our visas but it was denied. He kept petitioning for an extended stay, permanent residency and all of that, but this process does not come together and work easily for everyone alike. We were denied and asked to leave. But my dad wanted to stay and fight, because he did not want to go back to our old life. This is the Land of Opportunity, where people come to find the American Dream. As unreal and far fetched this dream seemed to our family, we knew this was our home and we wanted to stay. To go back on what my dad set out to do would be total failure to the eyes of everyone in his family and his friends back in Nis. I don't think "to fail" was part of his vocabulary.
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