My First Trip Had a One Way Ticket – I’m Proud to be an Immigrant

Millenium Park in Chicago

Last Updated on 02/02/25 by Rose Palmer

As I celebrate another birthday, I can’t help but reminisce a little. Fifty five years ago, at the age of nine, my family and I emigrated to Chicago from Romania.

Anyone who says that being an immigrant is easy, needs to give it a try.

I dare them to leave behind their parents, their siblings, and their friends, not knowing when, or if, they will see them again.

I dare them to leave with nothing but one suitcase.

I dare them to go to a country where they barely speak the language.

I dare them to go without any money in their pocket because their country’s currency was worthless.

I dare them to start a new life without the internet, and without a cell phone – with just a small address book of names that were friends of friends.

I dare them to drop their child off on the first day of school, barely speaking the language, and hope that they will thrive.

My parents (on the left) and family friends celebrating my birthday. The crib in the back is where I slept in the one room I shared with my parents in our home in Romania

My father had been born in the US but was raised in Romania by his grandmother. His lifelong dream was to go back to the country of his birth. The US recognized his citizenship, but the communist Romanian government did not acknowledge his birthright. This was during the height of the Cold War when the Wall between western and eastern Europe was high and difficult to cross.

After thirty five years of trying, at the age of 50, my father finally got the approval to leave Romania legally. When I reached 50, I was working on my exit plan to retire, not to start a new life half way around the world.

We were lucky because we had legal passports and were allowed to leave, though we could not take much with us (certainly no valuables). Most immigrants from the eastern block countries put their lives at risk to illegally escape to the west. And they also put the families they left behind at risk of repercussions as well.

Like all immigrants, my parents dreamed, hoped, prayed, for a better life. We certainly didn’t leave much behind. We shared an apartment with another family (because in communist Romania you lived where the government told you to). My parents and I had one room, and we shared a kitchen and a bathroom with the other family.

I remember that the grocery store shelves were empty. To put food on the table my mother got meat on the black market (which was technically illegal), or she went to the farmer’s market to buy a scrawny chicken, killed it, plucked it, and then cooked a week’s worth of meals from it. Those living in villages in the countryside (like my grandparents) could grow their own gardens and their own livestock and had it a little easier than those of us living in a city.

So, we said goodbye and boarded a plane for the first time. After flight delays and mechanical issues, our flight finally reached Chicago late on a mid summer night. As we got off the jet bridge, the heat and humidity that we were not used to hit us like a wall of bricks.

We were met at the airport by a representative from the organization that had sponsored us. She gave us a little cash, and then dropped us off at a hotel. Her job was done. Only years later did I understand that that particular hotel was more appropriate for booking by the hour than staying the whole night.

This is where that little address book came in handy. My parents called one of the contacts that lived in Chicago, and without hesitation took us in. They put us up for two weeks, helping us get on our feet. Another contact in the address book was a janitor at a large apartment building. He had a cheap studio apartment with a murphy bed. He also had spare household items for us that tenants had left behind (including a mattress for me).

Within two weeks, my mother had found a job in Chicago’s German neighborhood, working at a delicatessen. My mother’s heritage was German, so this job was ideal since she didn’t speak a lot of English yet and the customers expected to be waited on in German. Eventually, my father also got a job, in a factory I think.

You can’t succeed as an immigrant without hard work. And my parents worked very hard and scrimped and saved. There were no luxuries, only necessities. And education was a necessity. From day one, I went to a Catholic school because the Chicago public schools were not known for their good education.

Sadly, two years after coming to the US, my father had a heart attack. I imagine the stress of starting a new life didn’t help – I don’t think he expected it to be so challenging. His health continued to decline, and in 1980, barely 10 years after reaching his dream, he passed away from a number of health issues.

My mother, on the other hand, thrived. She was 45 when we came here, and she was a bundle of energy. For the first time in her life, she had a job, and she loved it and excelled at it. She loved the financial independence. She learned English. She made friends. And she learned to drive a car. Through hard work, determination, and sheer willpower, she made a better life for herself.

After retiring, my mother indulged her lifelong passion for travel. She took a couple of dozen cruises that took her to dream destinations all over world before she passed away at age 93 from the complications of dementia.

As with most immigrant families, it’s the second generation that benefits the most and I certainly did. I was young and picked up English like a sponge. I was driven to do well in school (nature or nurture, or both?), and I did. I went to college and then to graduate school. I married a fellow grad student, had two kids, and a good career. The companies I worked for benefitted from my patents and my project leadership skills, all of which helped their bottom line. I was happy to retire early and now I too indulge my passion for travelling.

My children have their own careers now and are positively contributing to society. My two grandsons are bright and bursting with energy, and I have no doubt that they too will leave a positive mark one day.

I am thankful for the life and opportunities my parents gave me. Would I have the courage to do the same? I don’t know, because I know how hard it was. I lost my childhood once we arrived in the US. We lived in marginal neighborhoods at first so going out to play was out of the question. Without family nearby or a support network, my parents were too busy for play dates or after school activities. And as an only child, I quickly learned to be self sufficient.

I have nothing but admiration for all those that leave everything they know behind them and choose to emigrate for a better future for themselves and their children, and I wish them well. Their courage needs to be applauded and encouraged, because it’s America’s history of immigration that makes it great.

 

Thanks for visiting.

Rose