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.
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