Portrait of Marlene Rangel

“If it wasn’t for DACA, I know that I wouldn’t be in college.”

BMC_118Photo by Steve Mann

Interview by Karen Lopez, Spanish translation by Marlene Rangel

I was eight years old when I left my home.  I remember my parents waking me up to leave, but I didn’t know where we were going. We had to walk for a long time and then cross a river. That’s when it hit me and I realized we were actually going somewhere far. We rode a cold train, and then flew on a plane. I remember wanting to sleep, but my parents wouldn’t let me because they were afraid that I would get hyperthermia and not wake up again. They would hug me close to keep me warm, but I remained cold and hungry.

Once in the U.S. I started school, but I didn’t know how to speak English. My dad would come to school with me for the first weeks so I could get used to it. It was so hard to adjust and get used to everything especially because I had classes with mostly English speakers. I did have one classmate who was Hispanic. He and I became very good friends, because we both spoke Spanish and understood each other well.

I finished the school year, and passed to the next grade level. I then took summer school and that helped me catch up on my English. I had to learn English because I wanted to get along with my classmates and make friends. As the years passed, my English improved and I adjusted to the American culture.

Everything had fallen into place and I was comfortable feeling a part of the American society. It wasn’t until my junior year of high school, where things changed and reality hit me. I came to find out that I could not go to college because I was undocumented. This whole time I knew that I wasn’t from here, but I didn’t know that I couldn’t go to college for that same reason. This was really hard for me because I wanted to go to college. I wanted to be a nurse and it was heartbreaking to find out that my dream wasn’t going to be easy to achieve.

My parents have remained my motivation to keep myself in school. I know that if my parents would have had the opportunity to go to college, then my dad wouldn’t be working in construction and our style of living would have been different. My dad has always told me that if he would have had the opportunity to go to college, his dream would have been to become a mechanic.

In 2012, Obama passed the executive order, DACA (The Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals). This 2-year permit granted young undocumented individuals a temporary license and social security number with the condition that all applicants fulfill certain requirements. If it wasn’t for DACA, I know that I wouldn’t be in college. This made it easier for me to be accepted in community college and afford it. Perhaps I would have eventually gone to college, but it would have been harder to afford.

After graduating high school in 2013, I continued my education. As a DACA student, I couldn’t get into the nursing program or obtain a practice license. Knowing this, I still maintained myself in school hoping that one day the community college would change its policies for DACA students to be allowed practice licenses. I now know that anything is possible. I have the opportunity to be what I want and do what I want. I have to take that opportunity and not waste it.


Marlene Rangel, técnica médica, originaria de la ciudad de México, México

Tenía ocho años cuando salí de mi casa. Recuerdo que mis padres me despertaron para irme, pero no sabía a dónde íbamos. Tuvimos que caminar por un largo tiempo y luego cruzar un río. Fue entonces cuando me di cuenta de que en realidad nos íbamos a algún lado lejos. Nos montamos en un tren frío, y luego en un avión. Recuerdo que quería dormir, pero mis padres no me dejaron porque tenían miedo de que yo tuviera hipotermia y no me despertara nuevamente. Ellos me abrazaban para darme calor, pero no era suficiente para mi aun permanecía fría y con mucha hambre.

Cuando llegué a los Estados Unidos comencé la escuela, pero no sabía cómo hablar inglés. Mi padre vendría a la escuela conmigo durante las primeras semanas para que yo pudiera acostumbrarme. Fue muy difícil adaptarme y acostumbrarme a todo, especialmente porque tenía clases con niños que hablaban un idioma diferente al mío. Con el paso del tiempo me encontré con un amigo Hispano lo cual supe que tenia una oportunidad para no sentirme sola. Él y yo nos hicimos muy buenos amigos durante muchos meses.

Terminé el año escolar y pasé al siguiente nivel de grado. Luego empecé la escuela de verano y eso me ayudó aprender inglés mas. Tenía que aprender inglés porque quería llevarme bien con mis compañeros de clase y hacer amigos. Con el paso de los años, mi inglés mejoró y me adapté a la cultura estadounidense.

Todo había caído en su lugar y me sentía cómoda sintiéndome parte de la sociedad estadounidense. No fue hasta mi tercer año de la secundaria, donde las cosas cambiaron y la realidad me golpeó. Descubrí que no podía ir a la universidad porque no tenía documentos. Todo este tiempo supe que no era de aquí, pero no sabía que no podía ir a la universidad por la misma razón. Esto fue realmente difícil para mí porque quería ir a la universidad y tenia las calificaciones perfectas para atender un colegio de cuatro años. Quería ser enfermera y fue desgarrador descubrir que mi sueño no sería fácil de lograr.

Mis padres han seguido siendo mi motivación para mantenerme en la escuela. Sé que, si mis padres hubieran tenido la oportunidad de ir a la universidad, entonces mi padre no trabajaría en la construcción y nuestro estilo de vida hubiera sido diferente. Mi padre siempre me ha dicho que, si hubiera tenido la oportunidad de ir a la universidad, su sueño habría sido convertirse en mecánico.

En 2012, Obama aprobó la orden ejecutiva, DACA (The Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals). Este permiso de 2 años otorgó a las personas jóvenes indocumentadas una licencia temporal y un número de seguro social con la condición de que todos los solicitantes cumplan con ciertos requisitos. Si no fuera por DACA, sé que no estaría en la universidad. Esto hizo que fuera más fácil para que yo fuera aceptada en una universidad comunitaria.

Después de graduarme de la escuela secundaria en 2013, continué mi educación. Como estudiante de DACA, no pude ingresarme al programa de enfermería o obtener una licencia de práctica. Sabiendo esto, todavía me mantenía en la escuela con la esperanza de que algún día la universidad comunitaria cambiara sus políticas para que los estudiantes de DACA pudieran obtener licencias de práctica. Ahora sé que todo es posible. Tengo la oportunidad de ser lo que quiero y realizar mis sueños y ser una enfermera. Tengo que aprovechar esa oportunidad y no perder la esperanza de algún día curar a mi comunidad.

Black Mountain College Museum + Arts Center presented the performance of Silvana Cardell’s Supper, People on the Move, accompanied by Jennifer Baker’s exhibit Portraits of People on the Move, in October of  2017 at Randy Shull and Hedy Fischer’s 22 London Rd. Studio in Asheville, NC. 5 new portraits — “People on the Move” in western North Carolina by photographer Steve Mann and UNC Asheville journalist Karen Lopez — were added to the exhibit.

 

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Portrait of Diego Vargas

“I just focused my mind on the future and what I wanted to achieve.”

BMC_043 1Photo by Steve Mann

Interview and Spanish translation by Karen Lopez

My father left my mother when I was a baby. He left her with three children to raise on her own, so we weren’t financially stable. My family and ancestors in our town had always been poor and humble. Food, clothes, money, and everything had always been scarce. People worked and continue working to only make enough for the day’s sustainment.

My mother wanted to give us a better living and future. So she took care of us for a few years until I was old enough to be independent. I was eight years old when she left for the U.S., leaving my brother and I with our grandparents. But my family would lie to my mom saying that they were taking good care of us. My mother would send us money, but they wouldn’t give it to us or buy us anything with it. They would maltreat us, and discriminate against us because we were different; we were children of a man they did not like. My brother ended up becoming the father figure in my life. He was the one who cared for me and raised me, to the best of his ability.

I was 11 years old when my 13-year-old brother and I had to drop out of school. We didn’t have the resources and money to keep ourselves in school, because our grandparents wouldn’t help us. We didn’t have money to pay for the public school’s fees, transportation, uniforms, and school supplies. Our childhood was rough. We had to leave school to work to make enough money to eat. I would work for my grandfather by raising and taking care of his cows. After a year, my brother and I had saved enough money and we fled to Tijuana, Mexico where we had an aunt to receive us. We had heard about Tijuana having many job opportunities and how it was a frontier city next to America.

It was hard for us to flee, because we were underage and didn’t have an adult with us. I can’t remember if we paid security to let us go, but I remember telling them that we were heading to Tijuana, and my brother was the oldest and the one in charge.

Once we arrived in Tijuana, we contacted my mother in the U.S. and explained everything that had happened to us and why we had fled. My mother was in such despair after hearing the news. She decided to leave everything she had in the U.S. to reunite with us. My brother and I continued to work in order to make a living, so we never went back to school.

I had always desired for us to have a house of our own, for my mother to live better, and for me to have my own things too. I was now 17 years old, so I decided to immigrate to the U.S. I remember having a lot of thoughts in my head before leaving home. I had heard many things about people dying or getting kidnapped at the frontier. I prayed for the best and asked for my mother’s blessings. I didn’t know if I would be back or if something bad would happen on the way there. I just focused my mind on the future and what I wanted to achieve. In my head I thought, ‘I want to go to the U.S. I have to go to the U.S., no matter what it takes.’

I remember my mom cooking a delicious authentic farewell dinner, pork with green salsa. My mother blessed me and told me not forget about her or the family, and for me to not change and always remain humble.

Once in the U.S., I arrived in North Carolina after a month of travel. I had uncles and cousins who already lived there and they helped me obtain a job at a restaurant. I have been working ever since and now work in construction. My mind continues to be set in giving my mother and my future family a suitable living.


Diego Vargas, originalmente de Piedra Verde, Michoacán de Ocampo, México

Mi padre dejo a mi madre cuando yo era un bebe. El la dejo con tres hijos para criar sola y por eso no teníamos dinero. Toda mi familia y mis ancestros en nuestro pueblo siempre habían sido pobres y humildes. Nunca teníamos dinero para la comida, para ropa, ni nada. La gente de mi pueblo solo trabajaba y continua trabajando para apenas ganarse lo del sostenimiento del día.

Mi madre nos quiera dar una mejor manera de vivir y un futuro mejor. Ella nos cuidó por unos cuantos años hasta que tuvimos la edad suficiente para ser un poco independientes. Yo tenía 8 años cuando ella se fue para los Estados Unidos y nos dejó con nuestros abuelos. Pero mi familia le mentía a mi madre diciéndole que estábamos bien. Mi madre nos mandaba dinero pero la familia nunca nos lo daba ni nos compraban nada. Casi no nos daban de comer, no teníamos ropa, ni que calzar. Nos maltrataban y nos discriminaban porque éramos diferentes; éramos hijos de un hombre que no querían. Mi hermano termino siendo como un padre para mí porque él me cuidaba y me crio a su mejor manera.

Yo tenía 11 años y mi hermano tenía 13 años cuando tuvimos que dejar la escuela. No teníamos los recursos ni el dinero para seguir asistiendo porque nuestros abuelos no nos ayudaban. No teníamos dinero para pagar las fianzas de la escuela pública, transportación, uniformes, ni útiles escolares. Nuestra niñez fue muy dura. Tuvimos que dejar la escuela para trabajar y tener suficiente dinero para comer.

Trabajaba para mi abuelo criando y cuidando sus vacas. Después de un año mi hermano y yo habíamos ahorrado suficiente dinero para escaparnos hacia Tijuana, México en donde teníamos a una tía para recibirnos. Habíamos escuchado que Tijuana era una ciudad fronteriza con Estados Unidos y que había muchas oportunidades de trabajo.

Fue difícil escapar para nosotros porque éramos menores de edad y no teníamos a ningún adulto con nosotros. No recuerdo si le pagamos a seguridad para dejarnos ir, pero si recuerdo que les decía que íbamos para Tijuana y el mayor era mi hermano y el único encargado.

En cuanto llegamos a Tijuana, contactamos a mi madre en Estados Unidos y le explicamos todo lo que nos había pasado y porque nos habíamos escapado. Mi madre se angustio después de haber escuchado la noticia. Ella decidió dejar todo lo que tenía en Estados Unidos para reunirse con nosotros. Mi hermano y yo tuvimos que seguir trabajando para sobre vivir, y por eso ya no pudimos regresar a la escuela.

Siempre había deseado tener casa propia, tener a mi mama viviendo mejor, y tener mis propias cosas. Ya tenía los 17 años y entonces decidí inmigrar a los Estados Unidos. Recuerdo que tenía muchos pensamientos en mi cabeza antes de irme de casa. Había escuchado muchas cosas sobre la gente que se moría o los secuestraban en la frontera. Yo ore para que me fuera bien y a mi madre le pedí sus bendiciones. Yo no sabía si iba a regresar o si algo me podía pasar en el camino. Yo solo enfoque mi mente en el futuro y en lo que yo quería obtener. En mi mente yo decía, ‘Yo quiero ir para Estados Unidos. Y no importa lo que pase ni lo que me cueste yo quiero ir a los Estados Unidos.’

Recuerdo que mi madre cocino una deliciosa y autentica cena de despedida; carne de puerco en salsa verde. Mi madre me dio su bendición y me dijo que no me olvidara de ella ni de la familia, y que siempre me mantuviera una persona humilde.

Tarde un mes en la frontera para cruzar a los Estados Unidos y llegando me trajeron para Carolina del Norte. Yo tenía primos y tíos que ya vivían ahí y me ayudaron a encontrar un trabajo en un restaurante. Desde entonces yo siempre eh trabajado y ahora trabajo en construcción. Mi mente continua firme en darles una vida estable a mi mamay mi futura familia.

Black Mountain College Museum + Arts Center presented the performance of Silvana Cardell’s Supper, People on the Move, accompanied by Jennifer Baker’s exhibit Portraits of People on the Move, in October of  2017 at Randy Shull and Hedy Fischer’s 22 London Rd. Studio in Asheville, NC. 5 new portraits — “People on the Move” in western North Carolina by photographer Steve Mann and UNC Asheville journalist Karen Lopez — were added to the exhibit.

Portrait of Carolina Perez

“I will always help my community to the best of my ability, therefore I wish to continue my education and obtain a graduate degree in social policy.”

BMC_013Photo by Steve Mann

Interview and Spanish translation by Karen Lopez

I was two years old when my mother and I flew into Miami, Florida. My mother had just divorced my biological father back in Mexico and she needed time to cope. She had family in North Carolina so we decided to travel up north and stay in Hendersonville. I don’t remember much of when we came to the U.S., but I remember my mom telling me that coming into the U.S. for her was like coming into a whole new world.

We lived in a housing complex for several years. My mother then remarried, marrying a migrant farmer and causing us to move into migrant housing apartments for farm working families. My parents didn’t get much education. My stepfather never finished high school. I remember that as a child he had 2 jobs. He worked in a factory and as a janitor while my mother worked cleaning homes and attended school to learn English and obtain her GED. Even though we were an undocumented farm working family we worked hard enough to have a decent living. It amazes me to think that what my parents earned during that time to raise a family was always enough.

My mother has always valued education, therefore she dreamed of obtaining a degree. But the community college system didn’t offer opportunities for undocumented individuals during this time and her English wasn’t proficient enough to continue a higher education. We then started to travel to Florida for migrant farming purposes and moved about 3 or 4 times a year. Watching how hard my parents worked to get a living income motivated me to pursue a different lifestyle. My parents have always been supportive of my education. I remember my parents taking me to the thrift store every weekend to look for a computer that I liked and would best suit me. I was an interesting child because I didn’t own many toys, instead, I owned books and liked to write.

Most of the cousins in my family that were my age were born in the U.S. For the longest time I thought I was like them. It wasn’t until the age of 15 when I found out that I was different, and was denied the opportunity to get a job and obtain a driving permit. I was in complete utter dismay as I found out the reality. That was the moment I realized that it was going to take a more than average effort to just be normal. And I didn’t want to be normal. I had always been an overachiever; a competitive individual with high expectations for myself in what I can do, give, and achieve.

In 2008, North Carolina passed a legislation that prohibited undocumented individuals to attend universities and community college systems. I was in 10th grade during this time. I remember the newspaper coming out with an article and overhearing a lot of undocumented upper classmen in school talking and expressing concern about the legislation that had passed banning undocumented students from state college systems. This didn’t stop me from dreaming. I knew that I was going to go to college. I didn’t know how, but I knew that I would go.

I spoke to my parents about continuing my education and they supported the idea. I researched and found a university in Florida that was offering full scholarships to undocumented students and I fulfilled all of their requirements. But a year before I graduated, a huge market crash occurred in Florida. This affected the university causing it to cancel my scholarship and all of the other scholarships and help to undocumented students. I then had to look for other options. I had to apply to other universities and colleges that were near so I wouldn’t have to pay for unaffordable housing. All of the colleges that I had applied to accepted me and later sent me international student financial affidavits. But I couldn’t apply for financial aid. I didn’t have a social security number.

In 2010, legislation passed that allowed undocumented students to attend community college with certain conditions. This is when I decided to attend Blue Ridge Community College in Hendersonville, NC. Undocumented students had to pay out-of-state tuition and only register for classes on the first day of school. I remember getting the leftover classes, because the rest were full. This legislation was for undocumented students to not take the seats of those that were documented. As an undocumented student, I couldn’t apply for financial aid and my family didn’t have the money. I had to get a second job and work full time as I went to school full time.

After community college, I continued to pursue a bachelor’s degree and transferred to Brevard College. This college was the best option as it offered half tuition for local students. But obstacles continued to rise in my college journey. I had to buy a car to drive to school and I didn’t have a license. School became more expensive when I received my first bill for the semester of $9,000.

I was enrolled in the education program at Brevard to become a high school teacher. Before taking the teaching exam, I came to find out that I couldn’t take the test because I was undocumented. This meant that I could have a degree, but not be able to teach in a public school. I had to switch my major, but I couldn’t afford to stay any longer. I had to choose a degree that best fit with the classes that I had already taken, and the best option was English literature

In June 2012, Obama passed the executive order, DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals). This temporary permit allowed undocumented students to obtain a social security number and a license. I applied and received the permit. And after graduating Brevard College, I applied to Eastern Tennessee State University to obtain a master’s degree. I was now a DACA student, but the university still denied my scholarship for the same reason. Tuition was still going to be out-of-state and I could not afford that so I ended up not going to graduate school.

The time away from school has helped me realize where I stand in American society. I realized that no matter where you go, your calling is going to follow you. I will always help my community to the best of my ability, therefore I wish to continue my education and obtain a graduate degree in social policy.


Carolina Pérez, originaria de la Ciudad de México, México

Tenía dos años cuando mi madre y yo volamos a Miami, Florida. Mi madre acababa de divorciarse de mi padre biológico en México y necesitaba tiempo para sobrellevarlo. Ella tenía familia en Carolina del Norte, así que decidimos viajar al norte y quedarnos en Hendersonville. No recuerdo mucho de cuando llegamos a los Estados Unidos, pero recuerdo a mi madre diciéndome que venir a Estados Unidos era como entrar en un mundo completamente nuevo.

Vivimos en un complejo de viviendas durante varios años. Mi madre se volvió a casar. Se casó con un granjero migrante y nos hizo mudarnos a apartamentos de viviendas para familias que trabajan en agricultura. Mis padres no recibieron mucha educación. Mi padrastro nunca terminó la preparatoria y cuando era niño tenía 2 trabajos. Trabajó en una fábrica y como conserje mientras mi madre trabajaba limpiando casas. Aparte de eso, mi madre asistía a la escuela para aprender inglés y obtener su GED. A pesar de que éramos una familia de granjeros indocumentados, trabajamos lo suficiente para tener una vida decente. Me sorprende pensar como lo que mis padres ganaban durante ese tiempo siempre fue suficiente para sostener a la familia.

Mi madre siempre ha valorado la educación, por lo tanto, ella soñaba con obtener un título. Pero durante este tiempo, el sistema de los colegios de la comunidad no ofrecía oportunidades para las personas indocumentadas. Y su inglés no era lo suficientemente competente como para continuar una educación superior. Después comenzamos a viajar a Florida por cuestión de trabajo en la agricultura. Teníamos que mudarnos 3 o 4 veces al año. Ver lo duro que trabajaron mis padres para obtener un ingreso vital me motivó a seguir un estilo de vida diferente. Mis padres siempre me han apoyado en mi educación. Recuerdo que mis padres me llevaban a la tienda de segunda mano cada fin de semana para buscar una computadora que me gustara. Yo era una niña interesante porque no tenía muchos juguetes, en cambio, era dueña de libros y me gustaba escribir.

La mayoría de los primos en mi familia que tienen mi edad nacieron en los Estados Unidos. Durante mucho tiempo pensé que era como ellos. No fue hasta la edad de 15 años cuando descubrí que yo era diferente. Me negaron la oportunidad de conseguir un trabajo y obtener un permiso de conducir. Estaba totalmente desconcentrada cuando descubrí la realidad. Ese fue el momento en que me di cuenta de que iba a tener que esforzarme más que lo normal solo para ser una persona normal. Pero yo no quería ser normal. Siempre eh sido una gran mujer de gran esfuerzos. Una persona competitiva con grandes expectativas de misma, como en las cosas que puedo hacer, dar y lograr.

En el 2008, Carolina del Norte aprobó una legislación que prohibía a las personas indocumentadas asistir a universidades y sistemas de colegios comunitarios. Estaba en el 10 ° grado durante este tiempo. Recuerdo que en el periódico salió un artículo sobre esto. Y escuchaba a muchos estudiantes hablando en la escuela y expresando su preocupación por la legislación que había sido aprobada. Pero esto no me impidió soñar. Sabía que iba a ir a la universidad. No sabía cómo, pero sabía que iría.

Hablé con mis padres sobre la continuación de mi educación y ellos apoyaron la idea. Investigué y encontré una universidad en Florida que ofrecía becas completas para estudiantes indocumentados y cumplí con todos sus requisitos. Pero un año antes de graduarme, se produjo un gran colapso del mercado en Florida. Esto afectó a la universidad y causó que cancelara mi beca y todas las otras becas de ayuda a estudiantes indocumentados. Luego tuve que buscar otras opciones. Tuve que buscar universidades y colegios cercas de mi porque no tenía dinero para una vivienda universitaria. Todas mis aplicaciones que mande a universidades fueron aceptadas. Pero después me mandaban solicitudes para obtener declaraciones financieras de estudiantes internacionales. Pero no pude solicitar ayuda financiera. No tenía un número de seguro social.

En 2010, se aprobó una legislación que permitía a los estudiantes indocumentados asistir a la universidad comunitaria con ciertas condiciones. Esto es cuando decidí asistir a Blue Ridge Community College en Hendersonville, Carolina del Norte. Los estudiantes indocumentados tienen que pagar el doble de la colegiatura. Y solo registrarse para las clases el primer día de clases. Recuerdo que siempre me tocaban clases sobrantes, porque el resto de las clases ya estaban llenas con estudiantes que si eran de estado legal. Esta legislación fue creada para que los estudiantes indocumentados no tomen los asientos de aquellos que si son documentados. Como estudiante indocumentada no pude solicitar ayuda financiera. Mi familia no tenía el dinero, entonces tuve que conseguir un segundo trabajo. Trabajaba tiempo completo y estudiaba tiempo completo.

Después de la universidad de la comunidad, continué estudiando una licenciatura y me transferí al Brevard College. Esta universidad fue la mejor opción ya que ofrecía media beca para estudiantes locales. Pero los obstáculos continuaron aumentando en mi viaje a la universidad. Tuve que comprar un automóvil para conducir a la escuela y no tenía una licencia. Y La escuela se volvió más costosa cuando recibí mi primera factura para el semestre de $ 9,000 dólares.

Estuve inscrita en el programa de educación en Brevard para convertirme en profesora de preparatoria. Pero antes de tomar el examen de enseñanza, descubrí que no podía realizar el examen porque yo no era documentada. Esto significaba que aunque yo obtuviera un título universitario, no iba a poder enseñar en una escuela pública por el hecho de no tener un seguro social. Tuve que cambiar de carrera pero yo no tenía dinero para quedarme más tiempo en la universidad.  Entonces tuve que elegir una carrera que mejor se ajustaba a las clases que ya había tomado, y la mejor opción fue la carrera de literatura inglesa.

En junio de 2012, Obama aprobó la orden ejecutiva, DACA (Acción diferida para llegadas infantiles). Este permiso temporal permitió a los estudiantes indocumentados obtener un número de seguro social para empleo y una licencia. Aplique y recibí el permiso. Después de que me gradué de Brevard College, aplique a la Universidad Estatal del Este de Tennessee para obtener una maestría. Ahora era un estudiante de DACA, pero aun así, la universidad me negó mi beca por la misma razón. El costo de la universidad iba a seguir siendo el doble como lo es para los estudiantes que son fuera del estado. Yo no tenía dinero para seguir pagando más, así que no pude continuar a la escuela de posgrado.

El tiempo fuera de la escuela me ha ayudado a darme cuenta de mi posición en la sociedad estadounidense. Me di cuenta de que no importa a donde vayas, tu llamado te seguirá. Siempre ayudaré a mi comunidad con lo mejor que pueda. Por lo tanto, sigo deseando en continuar mi educación y obtener un título de postgrado en política social.

Black Mountain College Museum + Arts Center presented the performance of Silvana Cardell’s Supper, People on the Move, accompanied by Jennifer Baker’s exhibit Portraits of People on the Move, in October of  2017 at Randy Shull and Hedy Fischer’s 22 London Rd. Studio in Asheville, NC. 5 new portraits — “People on the Move” in western North Carolina by photographer Steve Mann and UNC Asheville journalist Karen Lopez — were added to the exhibit.

Portrait of Oana Botez

“I was suffocating in a country that felt it has no future.”

Oana_Botez_by_Baranova_2016_045.jpgOana Botez is a costume and set designer from Bucharest, Romania.  Photo by Maria Baranova

I was suffocating in a country that felt it has no future. The toxicity of a totalitarian system that took over so many generations and penetrated to a level that felt like generations had to pass by in order for Romanian people to find a new personal independent democratic voice. A voice that was inclusive to all the ethnic groups, where it will protect gender equality, a non-corrupt voice that will respect basic human rights.

What do I remember from the day I left? Leaving behind my family.

I flew into New York. It wasn’t my first visit. I always loved the dynamism of New York and the fact you can get lost in a world of a variety of humans coming from everywhere. The life force of New York is unique.

161109TDMDreamPlayREH-555.jpgA Dream Play by August Strindberg, adapted and directed by Daniel Kramer                                        Set and costume design by Oana Botez, at Farkas Hall, Harvard University

Portraits of People on the Move tells the stories of Philadelphia-area immigrants through their own words on the Supperdance.com blog and was first shown as an exhibition in 2015, at the Gray Area of Crane Arts in Philadelphia. The exhibition was created as a companion work to Supper, People on the Move by Cardell Dance Theater, a dance inspired by themes of migration.

Portrait of David U’Prichard

“At New Year 1972 … we’re driving through the night in this big, old car and listening to AM radio. I still remember the station call letters, WLW Cincinnati, WLS Chicago. That you could go for hundreds of miles traveling long, long straight roads, Interstate 70. I’d never seen a road that goes on for a thousand miles. And I’m thinking, “Oh boy, this is America” and it was all the little kid’s fantasies of the space and the distance.”

David in Turkey 2006.jpgPhoto by Lisa U’Prichard

My father’s father emigrated from Northern Ireland to Glasgow in Scotland where I was born and spent the first 20 years of my life. My mother was German and she and my dad met in 1945 when she was 19. It was the end of the war – my father was a captain in the British Army during the occupation – and he had to find an English-speaking secretary. So he interviewed a whole variety of young girls and he liked my mother. Well obviously, he liked my mother’s looks, but also she was really, really smart and she spoke decent English. My dad brought her to Scotland a year later. Eventually she ended up going back to college and teaching.

So there was immigration on both sides, which gave me a feeling of “well, I’m not exactly rooted here.” There’s more to that. I had to defend my mother’s honor as a kid in Scotland after the War when feelings still ran high, and kind of got beaten up quite a few times. When I was 22, I immigrated to London like all little Scottish boys with any sense — because the opportunity there is so much greater. I was going to grad school at University College London, and I met this American girl, Eleuthera (Terri), who ended up being my first wife. Terri’s father was an American spy, and her mother a young French resistance fighter, then living in Istanbul. We fell in love, and I got a bee in my bonnet about going to America.

How do I describe my immigration? Well, I was not a refugee. It wasn’t even for economic reasons at all. I was a hippie. I didn’t care where I landed in America. I thought, “Okay, I just want to go there and experience it”. I expected to finish my PhD degree in a couple of years and then we’d go back to Britain. Well, that didn’t happen.

I said to Terri, “Where should we go?” She said, “Why not Kansas?” She grew up as a little girl in Florida, but she somehow wended her way — she was a hippie too — to Kansas and she worked in the KU Pharmacy School in Lawrence. I said, “Why not?” Terri and I meanwhile got married in the summer of 1971 in Scotland and all of her tribe came from America and Istanbul. The mother, the mother’s young fourth husband the artist, Terri’s sister and younger brother, and their spouses. They all looked really, really strange in the Scottish setting. My mother and father were startled, but game.

So I told my dad in the fall of 1971, “Well, I’m actually not very happy down in London, I want to go to the States.” I told him that I was going to go to Kansas and his response was, “Well, watch out for the Indians.” And he was a serious, well-educated man, and that was not a joke. Foreign perceptions of America can be really strange at times.

I was a student. Terri wasn’t earning a lot of money. We kind of tilted that university stuff off so that we could work part-time in a bar in London to save up a few hundred pounds to get on a ship because we couldn’t afford airfares or anything like that.

We did work in a strange little bar for six months. It was a bar for Australians in London, just around the corner from the Australian Embassy. In Australia, they had just changed their liquor laws. It used to be — the bars were only open for one hour, five until six. And so, young Aussie boys and girls would go to the bar at five o’clock and they would drink like a fish for one hour, and get totally smashed. The bar was run by a flamboyant, gay manager and it was raucous every night. And in the middle of the flower fights and tossing cans of Aussie lager, a kind of point of stillness was a little old, English lady who came in every night and sat nursing a small glass of sherry for five hours.

We saved up some money and got a passage on a very famous old ship called the Stefan Batory, a Polish ship named after the Prince of Transylvania. It had seen service as a troup ship in World War II. The ship left Gdańsk in Poland with 700 Poles heading to relatives in Toronto and Chicago, and stopped in Southampton to pick up a few British people.

My father drove Terri and me from Glasgow, Scotland down to Southampton in the south of England. That was then a long 10-hour drive and we superficially chatted but there was a great weight in the air – not great sadness, that would be too strong – but a weight in the air that something was irrevocably changing.

We made our way to the docks in Southampton. I still remember my father standing very straight at the end of the pier — he had good posture from his army days — stoically waving to us as the boat left. I was excited about this whole adventure about coming to America. And my father was happy for me, but also sad because he knew he was losing me. My mother had a far more balanced view of things because she had done this, separated herself from her country and her family and now she was seeing me do the same. It weighed less heavily with her. I’m not saying she took it lightly but unlike my dad, who I could tell was infused with feelings of loss. She was more hardheaded about it, saying, “Okay, he’s taken off on his adventure.” My dad died in the mid ‘90s at the age of 86. He was a strong father and I left him when I was 20. We never were tremendously close after that. I was always closer to my mother, but 3,000 miles distance over decades loosens ties.

This was December 1971. The ship was going to Montreal so we sailed across the North Atlantic and then down the Saint Lawrence River. December, you start to get icebergs, so we’re kind of all a little nervous about the icebergs. That was a very riotous week of sailing. All the Poles drank a lot of vodka, danced a lot of polkas, and threw up over the side of the boat a lot between drinking bouts. I learned to play bingo in Polish but I could never win because I couldn’t remember the numbers in Polish fast enough.

So, halfway across the Atlantic, I was a smoker in those days, I’m up on the deck and I’m sharing a cigarette with the only American on the boat, a nice fellow. I’m telling him my life story and about heading to Kansas and he says, “Well, I guess your first stop is going to be with your local draft board.” And I said, “Do what?”

I had gotten a green card already in London. It was a whole lot easier in those days if you were married to an American, but it wasn’t plain sailing, I had to go to the U.S. Embassy in London maybe half a dozen times, getting seriously interviewed. And I remember one time, some embassy attaché or whatever — with a three-ringed binder and he flips it open and he looks me in the eye and he says, “Look at these pages. Are you or have you ever been a member of any of these organizations?” I came from a left-wing family and had seen the McCarthy hearings in TV when I was little. I’m thinking, “Holy moly!”

What I had no sense then was that green card holders were eligible for the draft. So I said to myself — I said if I get a number lower than 200, I’m out of here. Well. I got a 280.

Coming over, I had $200 in my pocket from working at the bar. We had one steamer trunk that was full of kitchen utensils, pots and pans and some clothes. That was all we had. I was going to Kansas on the vague prospect that I might get a teaching assistant job. Nothing was guaranteed at all but I didn’t care.

The boat made it to Quebec City, and we got on the Greyhound Bus to Columbus, Ohio to stay with Terri’s sister, a grad student there. Our US port of entry was Detroit. So, we get to the bus station in downtown Detroit at about one o’clock in the morning and we have a three-hour layover before the next bus to get to Columbus. That was the only point where I said, “I might turn around” because the Detroit bus station in 1971 in the middle of the night was a not very nice place to be at all.

In Columbus, I spent 125 bucks out of that 200 getting a ‘62 Buick Electra station wagon. It was a wonderful old thing, only five cylinders worked. It was all black, about 23 feet long, with fins. Already it was almost 10 years old and not in good shape, but it was big, lots of chrome, red velour interior and power everything – windows, steering, brakes; you could just rotate the red steering wheel with one finger. I had never seen this before! And the reason that we got that big station wagon was basically to hold the steamer trunk. I sold it the following spring for $75.

We spent about a month in Columbus. To make some money, I tried telephone sales but my Scottish accent was too strong. I had no luck at all. As soon as they heard me, they said, “No, you’re not going to make it in sales.” For a few days, I did get up looking for manual labor at four o’clock in the morning and this was a really cold winter. I didn’t have a lot of luck with that either. In fact I had no luck. Terri was doing better because she got a job at the local Polish Men’s Club in Columbus, waiting tables. That Christmas we spent dancing polkas, and I will admit that in the backroom there, that’s where my daughter Zoë got conceived.

At New Year 1972, we got in the car heading off from Columbus to Lawrence, Kansas. That is still a magical moment – we’re driving through the night in this big, old car and listening to AM radio. And I still remember the station call letters, WLW Cincinnati, WLS Chicago. That you could go for hundreds of miles traveling long, long straight roads, Interstate 70. I’d never seen a road that goes on for a thousand miles. And I’m thinking, “Oh boy, this is America” and it was all the little kid’s fantasies of the space and the distance. So we get to Lawrence, Kansas, very charming collage town, a bit of a hippie hotbed at that time.

I was able to resume my studies. We couldn’t afford normal housing so we lived in a 60 by 12 foot trailer on the bad side of town. The previous owner of the trailer had thrown an ax at his wife right in the trailer. We couldn’t afford to fix the hole from the ax, so we just hung a picture over it. It did let in a lot of wind. And then a year later, we graduated to a 14 by 70 trailer and finally to an apartment before we left Lawrence.

So in Kansas, I like to tell people I learned to sail. How do you learn to sail in Kansas? Well, back in the Roosevelt era, the Army Corps of Engineers, as part of the WPA project, damned all of these rivers, and it created large lakes. You needed to watch out for the tornadoes and stuff, but you can sail. I’d never done that before. I learned to ride horseback, and I’d never done that before either. I would do those three years in Kansas all over again. It was like parachuting into the most American America that you could imagine. Kansans are absolutely wonderful people. They were really, really curious about me. They didn’t see a lot of foreigners back then.

I learned that I had to consciously modify my English. They’d say, so polite, “Excuse me, sir. Could you repeat that? Can you say that again?” They wanted me to take the TOEFL test, the Test of English as a Foreign Language. That insulted me. I considered myself very well read. My father especially spoke English beautifully. He knew all the big words, knew how to use them. So, TOEFL, you got to be kidding me.

The intention had been to be there for two or three years, wrap up the degree and go back. But life happened and my daughter came along very soon in Lawrence. Little by little, we stayed. I finished my PhD in pharmacology. I wanted to do a post-doc and — it was a real shot in the dark, but I applied to some very famous laboratories in area of neuroscience and a famous neuroscientist named Sol Snyder at the Johns Hopkins Medical School out of the blue said, “Yeah, okay. Why don’t you come?”

We lived in Baltimore for three years. In 1978, I got an academic faculty job at Northwestern University in Chicago, and my son Gavain was born. During the 70s, we were able to save money to go back to Europe in the summers, two or three times, to see our folks in Scotland and Greece.

Five years in Chicago as a tenured associate professor, I was doing fine. I had students and visiting scientists in the lab and grants from the NIH. But, I wasn’t satisfied. Actually I liked the teaching and research and I loved Chicago. I got into the Chicago Blues. I could even tolerate the weather and we saw some heavy duty winters about then. It was the narrowness of the academic career. I kind of had a crisis and said to myself, “I don’t know what I’m going to do next, but I don’t like what I’m doing now.”

So I went in to my department chairman, a famous scientist, old-school Japanese, Toshio Narahashi. I said to Toshio, “I am resigning my faculty position.” He said, “Where you going?” I said, “I don’t know.” And I’ll never forget what he said. He said, “David, you are a samurai” and I didn’t quite know what he meant then, but now I fully understand what it meant. And I think now that was a perfect response.

My old mentor Sol Snyder called me up and said, “I’m starting a company. I have money to start a biotech company.” This was the beginning of biotechnology. “Do you want to come back to Baltimore to help?” Sadly, Terri and I, with the strains and stresses of married life, not much money, were separating. And I said to Sol, “Yeah, I can come back.”

Terri and I were separating — I was going to Baltimore and she was staying in Chicago. I got this call from my laboratory and it’s a woman, Lisa Swerdloff, a freelance medical and science writer hired by the new company, who said she wants to interview me. She said, “Can I interview you over the phone?” And so, we conducted this interview and I got totally schizophrenic because a part me was very professional and was giving her the story and the other part of me was saying, “This is one sexy voice.” I am a romantic, and I imagine this young New York freelance reporter girl with a kind of smoky sexy Lauren Bacall voice. So I said, “This is not working. Get the first flight out of LaGuardia to O’Hare tomorrow morning so that we can finish it off in person,” and she did. We continued the interview and both of us realized we didn’t want this to stop. The rest is history. I brought her to Baltimore and here we are 34 years later, happily married.

Fast forwarding in my career, from 1983 to 1986 I helped set up Sol’s company. I then got attracted to one of the big pharmaceutical companies that was based in Wilmington, Delaware. We get in our car, Lisa and I, she is a Manhattan girl, and we’re driving up I-95 and the job is in Wilmington but we don’t stop, and we get to Philadelphia. We turned off in Society Hill and Lisa’s looking around here and she’s saying, “I like this,” and so we ended up here.

I had a career with two pharmaceutical companies. Starting at Wilmington, running the US R&D of a British company called ICI Pharmaceuticals, nowadays AstraZeneca. In 1990, my English boss told me that he wanted me to come to England, what they call a secondment, like a sabbatical – we want you over here.

It was supposed to be for two years. It ended up being four and a half years, didn’t make Lisa terribly happy but it was a good career step. We moved to England in 1991 and until then for 20 years I had said to myself that when I was old and grey, I would go back to Scotland. I felt sentimental about that. But actually moving back to Britain after having been away for 20 years, it had changed a lot and I didn’t empathize with it. It would be too strong to say, “I didn’t like it.” But a lot had happened in 20 years and it was quite a changed country. I had lived in America, where I could breathe deeply and the idea of going back late in life to “a tight little island” didn’t appeal.

I had a conscious thought. “No. I do not want to finish my life over there. I’ll stay here.” And that was when I applied for my citizenship. I had had the green card for 20 years, and I became a citizen in 1992. It was a very conscious decision at that time.

I moved in the late ‘90s to SmithKline Beecham, another Anglo-American company, now GSK. I have always been happiest having a foot on either side of the pond. It felt psychologically right.

Although I never wanted to go back to live, I actually kept my UK passport. In those days, the Americans were pretty strict. You were supposed to relinquish your old country passport but they didn’t look over your shoulder. The UK passport turned out handy because I could travel all over Europe and the airport lines are shorter! Now that all may change with Brexit. But perhaps Scotland will become independent and stay in Europe. I’m up for that.

Zoë and Gavain, my children, they of course see themselves as Americans, but they have a wider perspective on things. I don’t know if that will last through the next generation. I know second, third generation immigrants generally — people lose their ties to the old country.

When my mother in the fall of 2005 called me up to say she’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer and had six months to live, I dropped everything I was doing here to go back to her and I spent the last five months that she had with her. That was not only a deep immersion into our relationship, but a deep immersion back into Scotland, the Scotland of my youth, because I was dealing with things; I was not just passing through as a tourist or for a day or two. That was probably is the most intensely emotional period of my life. She died away from her original home and I had come from my new home back to her.

I’m very clear about where I want to be, which is right here. But I also feel myself quite European and on occasion, sentimentally pretty Scottish. I can also feel quite German as well and I’ve wrestled with that part of my heritage and having a Jewish wife.

When people think about immigrant stories, there’s a simple motto, “We came from the old country, country A and we move to America,” black and white. But because of my personal life and family, I’m very, very attuned to layers. So I’m Scottish, I’m British, I’m Irish, I’m German, I’m American, my wife is Russian and American. My ex-wife is French and American.

Nobody, at least nobody in the first generation, becomes 100% American. The melting pot is a myth.

Portraits of People on the Move tells the stories of Philadelphia-area immigrants through their own words on the Supperdance.com blog and was first shown as an exhibition June 25–28, 2015, at the Gray Area of Crane Arts in Philadelphia. The exhibition was created as a companion work to Supper, People on the Move by Cardell Dance Theater, a dance inspired by themes of migration.

Portrait of Ime Inyang

“I was standing at the bus stop shaking, shaking. A Nigerian woman came up to me and said, ‘My sister, put God aside. You are going to die. I will come to your house and show you how to dress.'”

50. IMG_0531

I came here because my husband was here before me. He thought it would be easy for me to come, but it took 10 years. It wasn’t easy. I believe it was 1987. Before I came, I did gardening, I was a farmer. And I worked in the ministry as a radio translator. I had two children that I took care of. We grew many different types of vegetables, that is what we mainly depended on. In order for me to get enough food to feed my children I would get up very early in the morning and buy from the farmers before the food got to the market. Without that I wouldn’t have been able to sustain my children and myself. I tried to keep my children from going hungry.

We were raised in Ghana, but then Ghana sent us back to Nigeria. There was fighting and they said all foreigners should leave the country. My father had been in Ghana for almost fifty years, but he was originally from Nigeria. My mother was taken away by my grandfather to Ghana when she was five years old.

My father decided he wasn’t going to leave. I had a scholarship to school because of my athletic and academic abilities. My mom was a tailor and also sold produce. Usually after school I went to the market to relieve my mom because she had been there since 5:00 a.m. One day when I came back she was crying and said they had sent a big truck and were going house to house asking if any Nigerians were living there and the police took my father. She said she didn’t know where they took him. It was very frightening. The Ghanaians had turned against us. Even our friends started saying it is time for you to leave the country. They took the men to the police station and they put them in cells. When they had enough men they packed them into trailers like sardines and shipped them somewhere unknown. My father was in jail. I quickly took the bus to Mr Chu’s office—the Mayor of our province—and told him. He called the precinct and told them he wants my father out right away! Meanwhile the Nigerian government was sending ships to Ghana to take people back to Nigeria. My father had initially refused, but after he was released from jail he said to himself, “If I don’t go they will kill me and my children.” My father took what little things we had and went to the university where my two brothers were and said we are leaving right now. And that is how we came to Nigeria.

Thanks to the Lord we came with the last ship. When we came we were at the wharf in Lagos for more than a week. We slept where they laid out the rice and it was filled with rats. When we were leaving Ghana they put all of us in a refugee camp. There were women and girls who were raped by soldiers. The camp conditions were horrible; we had absolutely nothing. We stayed there for three months. Many people were sick with diarrhea. When we arrived in Apapa (the Lagos port) my sister was there. She had left school because the teachers beat us. So she married early and that is why she was back in Nigeria. When we arrived we were left on our own. So my sister who lived far away would bring us food once a day.

When we came home to our village it was very sad. If you passed the market you passed my father’s house—a small little thatch house. My father looked at it and said I should have stayed and died in Ghana. My mom’s village was the next village and somebody said we should come there. We lived in the house of Papa, the school principal, and they really welcomed us. But Nigeria was very hard. If we ate food once a day we were blessed. My father couldn’t put me in school so our education was halted. That was when I was put into an arranged marriage. It was the hardest decision for my father and I. There was female circumcision back then and they wanted to do me and my father said it was not going to be me. Life was bad with nowhere to go. I couldn’t go to school. This man appeared to marry me but I didn’t want to. That was when Papa’s wife said this man is very intelligent, he has education, if you don’t marry you have to leave this house. This is a very good man. My father said don’t force her, but my mother supported it and Papa’s wife demanded it. That is how I ended up marrying. When he came here he brought me.

There wasn’t a wedding. My people were poor. There were days my mom didn’t have food for my brothers. My mother would beg food from her relatives and we had to farm just to eat the little we could. But if it wasn’t for Papa who knows where we would have ended up? Papa was special.

I couldn’t bring my two sons to the US because of the system and money. You have to come and go through all this complex and costly paperwork. When I left my children I saw my second son crying, “Mama, what should we do when you are gone?” I didn’t see them until my daughter Affi was born, ten years later. When they came, Affi was a year old. If I had known it would take so long I would not have come. We lost so much time together. We wrote letters.

I came in the winter. First time I saw snow was in Amsterdam. When I came we were in Cleveland I didn’t want to wear pants, I thought women don’t wear pants. When I started going to community college, the cold was getting into my system and I was standing at the bus stop shaking, shaking. A Nigerian woman came up to me and said, “My sister, put God aside. You are going to die. I will come to your house and show you how to dress.” So one day she came, “See how I dress? One long john, two long johns, three socks, that’s how you dress!” I was so skinny and the wind felt like it would take me away. It took about a year for me to get my papers together to go to school. I worked at night. My husband decided we should move to Philadelphia where he went to school but then he couldn’t find a job, so I had to take two jobs. We agreed that when he finished it will be my turn. He graduated from Temple, got a job at Savannah State, and then went to visit his ailing mother in Nigeria and suddenly died.

I have been going home every couple years and I take my daughter Affi with me. I usually go whenever there is a burial. Lots of relatives depend on me. I have one brother who is disabled with 4 children. We talk on the phone almost every day. It is much easier to keep in touch now. Everyone has cell phones. I love my culture but there are certain aspects that confuse me. I cook African food—Jelloff rice, fufu, black eye peas, mui mui, and I garden. I make sure I buy land back home, if America makes us leave one day I don’t want to go back and have nowhere to stay.

Photo by Jennifer Baker

Portraits of People on the Move tells the stories of Philadelphia-area immigrants through their own words on the Supperdance.com blog and was first shown as an exhibition in June 2015, at the Gray Area of Crane Arts in Philadelphia. The exhibition was created as a companion work to Supper, People on the Move by Cardell Dance Theater, a dance inspired by themes of migration.

Portrait of Allan Irving

“When Dianne and I moved to the US, friends held a ‘bon voyage’ party for us. They gave us two sculptures, an Uncle Sam statue with an American flag and a Canadian ‘Mountie.'”

Allan with daughter Beatrice in Toronto.

Allan Irving teaches in the social work programs at University of Pennsylvania and Bryn Mawr College.

I moved to the US from Toronto, Canada, in 1998 with my wife, Dianne and son, Dylan, when I accepted a faculty position at Widener University’s Center for Social Work Education. After teaching at the University of Toronto from 1984 through the late 1990s in social work, I decided I was ready for a change. A major factor in deciding to leave the University of Toronto was the rapid corporatization of the university and how this was negatively affecting and undermining its academic purpose. I became involved through the faculty association—I was chair of the academic freedom committee—in many anti-corporate protests on the campus.

Dianne’s family was located in the Philadelphia area and Dylan would have more family here. This decision meant leaving my daughter, Beatrice, to be with her mother, which proved very challenging. That, along with my ambivalence about life in the United States in the early 2000s led me to accept another faculty position at the University of Western Ontario in 2003. In 2011, after many trips back and forth and much uncertainty, I returned to the US where I now teach part time in the social work programs at the University of Pennsylvania and Bryn Mawr College. During the years that I travelled frequently between Canada and the US (2003–2011), I had many confrontations with immigration officers on both sides of the border. Once I was denied entry back into the US because I refused to answer questions I felt were inappropriate and intrusive. I have, since I was young, challenged and opposed arbitrary authority.

There are many reasons for my ambivalence in leaving Canada. Though the countries seem similar, their differences are profound. The most notable difference involves universal healthcare. It was fully implemented in Canada in 1968. It is much more equitable. No matter your financial situation, no necessary care is excluded, and anything covered by the public system cannot be provided privately.

I also had trouble with the extent of American racism. I notice it all the time. Canada is not without it, and has had many problems with the treatment of indigenous peoples. As in so many societies, racism presents a range of challenges; I truly believe there is greater openness to social justice in Canada. When Pierre Trudeau was elected as Canada’s Prime Minister in 1968, it was on the promise of creating a just society. Fundamental to Canada’s constitution is that it supports and promotes a multi-cultural society, in its commitment to “peace, order and good government.” In the 1960s, 60,000 Americans moved to Canada. One of my closest friends in the 1970s was an American draft dodger. And Canada was the destination of many escaped slaves through the Underground Railroad. Canada has often been a haven for—and welcomed—American dissenters.

Canada also has much greater public support for the arts. In the 1950s, there was great concern about too much American influence on the arts in Canada. In 1954, government support of the arts and a publicly funded film industry were firmly established and continue into the present. Since 1933 the Canadian Public Broadcasting System was a way to hold the country together through communication. Even people who live in the far north listen to the CBC. It is significant that one of the 20th century’s most prominent philosophers of the media of communication was the Canadian and University of Toronto professor Marshall McLuhan.

The attitude toward government in Canada is much less antagonistic. Though it is changing, unfortunately, I think that seeing the government in partnership with the citizenry to achieve greater social good is more prevalent in Canada than it is here. More people participate in elections. America is a great democracy, but statistics indicate that people don’t vote.

I love Toronto. I am still a Canadian citizen. I have a green card and do not, at this point have plans of becoming an American citizen. But I do I love Philadelphia, with its vibrant cultural scene; to be able to hear one of the world’s great orchestras live on a regular basis is a pleasure I once only imagined.

I feel pulled by different cultures. Canada and the US are not the same. The US had a revolution to become a country; Canada became a country through consensus and agreement with Great Britain. I think that accounts, to a large extent, for the differences in the cultures. An undergraduate history professor of mine published a book, Canada, the Peaceable Kingdom, which influenced me considerably years ago.

When Dianne and I moved to the US, friends held a “bon voyage” party for us. They gave us two sculptures, an Uncle Sam statue with an American flag and a Canadian “Mountie,” and insisted, “You’ll be back.” We often contemplate that return. We’ll see.

Portraits of People on the Move tells the stories of Philadelphia-area immigrants through their own words on the Supperdance.com blog and was first shown as an exhibition June 25–28, 2015, at the Gray Area of Crane Arts in Philadelphia. The exhibition was created as a companion work to Supper, People on the Move by Cardell Dance Theater, a dance inspired by themes of migration.