"Dodji! Dodji!" ("Come here!
Come here!"), my mother yelled, in Serbian first. Then she spurred
us in German, "Schnell, schnell, kommt doch hier!" ("Hurry,
hurry, come here!") Between the two languages, I guess she thought
we would listen to at least one.
My sister, Maria, and I wanted our legs
to move in response to the thrill, but they were still a little shaky.
Our stomachs were also still churning from our long, hopscotch airplane
ride. Now it came time to turn in our airplane wings for sea legs. We
were in this boat, swaying and bobbing on the water in New York harbor.
Just what we needed. It was a ferry taking us from the airport to a refugee
intake center. Ellis Island, the long-time Gateway to America, had closed
eighteen months prior to our arrival, so we were examined and chronicled
at another immigration station.
Our family left Munich, Germany at 9:30
a.m., April 4, 1956, and was admitted into the United States around noon
on April 5th. I know it was around noon for two reasons. One clue was
that just a bit earlier, on the last leg of the flight, I lost the breakfast
I worked so hard to get down. The other indicator was that we were given
a sack lunch upon arrival. Inside the brown bag were a sandwich and the
biggest, reddest apple I ever saw. A few days before leaving Munich we
were living in a refugee camp in Salzburg, Austria. I don't recall having
even a little red apple there.
We flew out of Munich on Flying Tiger Airlines.
Back then Flying Tiger was primarily a freight carrier-and maybe that's
what we were seen as. It carried us from Munich, to Scotland, to Newfoundland,
and finally to New York. Flying Tiger was infamous for some harried flights
in the growing air travel industry. Ours was one of them. On top of that,
my sister and I were not used to engine-driven motion. We had almost no
experience with trains, planes, boats, or automobiles. So, any flight
would have been a roller coaster ride to us. The apple would be the first
food in some time to stay down.
My sister and I moved across the deck of
the ferry as quickly as our stomachs allowed us. We had more enthusiasm
than we could muster and more amazement than we could express. But, our
timing was just right.
As we came to where my mother and father
stood, the bow of the boat began to turn so that we could face and easily
see our mighty greeter.
We had seen impressive pictures and heard
inspiring stories about America and the Statue of Liberty. But none defined,
portrayed, or lived up to the word of awesome like being in her presence.
I don't remember if the air was filled with
fog, mist, rain, or tears; but it paused and then seemed to part like
an opening curtain, right on schedule, revealing her highness. Truly awesome!
Our legs steadied and our stomachs settled.
As I looked up at that magnificence, I deeply
felt the passion described in the words of a song by John Denver that
I learned later in life, "Coming home to a place he'd never been
before." After four years of fleeing from country to country, it
was a relief to come home yet dreamlike when it was to a place we'd never
been before.
Sure, we had to learn our third language
and our fourth culture. Certainly, we would be far away from any family
and friends. But we were being welcomed home, as well.
Besides being awed, I was overwhelmed. Given
the opportunity, I would not have been able to describe my feelings then.
Now I have the opportunity, and it still is difficult for me to articulate
them well.
A much better writer than I wrote a most
profound and accurate homecoming theme, "Life, liberty, and the pursuit
of happiness." Plus, they are "unalienable".
But my childhood awe created a simpler description.
Coming to America felt like being picked up, dusted off, and hugged after
a bad fall; someone finally choosing you on their side for a big game;
new friends inviting you to play at their house; the doctor looking at
you, smiling, and saying "You're going to be just fine"; a soft,
warm bed after a long winter hike; or a small square of very dark, bitter
chocolate slowly melting in your mouth.
Today, even more than when my childhood
awe and security needs ruled my thoughts, I believe the U.S.A. welcomes
people, from all over the world, home to a place they've never been before.
We do, and we always will. We keep willing to help turn fear into hope.
Those offers of opportunity coupled with the acceptance of responsibility
are the bonds that nourish the American character.
Having lived in and traveled to various
parts of the world, I know why so many people want to call America home.
Having my own roots transplanted and helping numerous new arrivals adapt,
I also know the transition is not without pain and sacrifice.
This April 5th was the Golden Anniversary
of our awesome homecoming. Fifty years in the U.S. and what a trip!
Sometime this year I want to hold a homecoming
parade, or maybe a football game, or maybe a little party. I want to thank
my benefactors and share with my friends. I want to reinforce the enthusiasts
and remind the unaware. Like they have so many times before, the people
I care about will laugh and cry with me. They'll continue to show unparalleled
grace and mercy in opening their minds, arms, and especially their hearts
to the kid from Montenegro.
But, I'm going to have to keep the parade,
party, and being homecoming king in my head. To those who care, except
for my 'interesting' name, my integration is fairly complete. To them,
I'm just another American.
So, on April 5th, as well as most every
other day, I was very satisfied to just sit back and reflect about another
day in paradise; looking out at the spacious skies, the purple mountain
majesties, and my blessed family. Coming home to a place I'd never been
before has given me much more than I ever hoped for.
Don't get me wrong, I realize the assimilation
journey is more like the Flying Tiger flight than a glide on smooth ice.
There is plenty of 'motion sickness'. However, other than sometimes more
extreme, that feeling is not reserved to groups of immigrants, or individuals
like me. It's just a matter of degree. All of us have jarring bumps and
blind curves on our roads.
Yet, I think every bump and every curve
helped confirm my belief in the sonnet, The New Colossus, written by Emma
Lazarus and inscribed in bronze at the base of the Statue of Liberty.
I thank God, and I thank the people of the
United States of America. Now, even more than when my childhood awe and
security needs ruled my thoughts, I believe in the American soul; the
spirit that is alive and well and says:
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land:
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost, to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
By Rodo Sofranac
