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.

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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 Silvana Cardell

“Living in between cultures and places is an exciting place for me. It makes me appreciate people and their journeys in life. “

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Silvana Cardell is the choreographer of Supper, People on the Move.

I came to the USA twice as a student, first as undergraduate, later as a graduate student. During both stays I considered myself a visitor, not an immigrant. As a visitor I felt appreciated and welcomed. I did not know that my “visitation” would extend into becoming a permanent move. Ongoing decisions were almost made for me, engaging opportunities for my family motivated us to become part of the communities where we were visiting, the decision to stay was gradual.

A sense of adventure motivated me to leave my birth country, as well as thirst for knowledge. As a young dancer, I deeply admired American dance and art as well as the development of higher education. During my first stay in the USA (1986–90) my goal was to immerse myself in the creativity of this culture. I returned in 2002 bringing my family, my husband and my two children. This time I was interested in completing a master’s degree and to immerse my children ages six and nine in a new culture; my goal was too broaden their education and their life experience.

The day I left Buenos Aires, I remember the moment we left, we had two suitcases each, including the children; my mother, brother and father-in-law spread the suitcases in their cars and drove us to the airport. The very moment I left my house was rushed; it was impulsive—many people moving fast bringing suitcases to the cars, rather dark, around 7 pm on a winter day. I can see today that that day I was leaving behind loved ones and familiar places; I remember the sense of detachment as well as an inexplicable excitement.

We traveled by plane, a flight to New York and a rental van to get to New Jersey, to my friend Monica’s house, my old college roommate.

I remember we arrived on July 3. I clearly remember the dichotomy: suddenly I was in festive environment, people were getting ready for the 4th of July festivities. It was summer, leaving Buenos Aires in winter, and in the mist of a rather depressive financial crisis. I was trying to navigate the contrasting experiences.

Leaving Buenos Aires, we had a series of festive lunches and dinners with friends and family. I do not remember the food. I remember that the environment was loving, supportive, and I cried a lot thinking that I was going to be away for a while. I am very close to my family, the hardest thing I have ever done was to move away from my nephews, whom I love dearly.

I feel pulled between cultures, but I feel as if I do not have a choice, I cannot decide where I want to be. If I am in Argentina, I miss being here and vise versa. Living in between cultures and places is an exciting place for me. It makes me appreciate people and their journeys in life. Our moves, our journeys in life have been worth it in many ways, the immersion in another culture is a rich experience, everybody should try to become an immigrant, not only will it open your horizons, it will also open your eyes!


Spanish translation by Elizabeth Pascual/ Traducción al español por Elizabeth Pascual

Silvana Cardell, Coreógrafa, de Buenos Aires, Argentina

Vine a los Estados Unidos en dos ocasiones como estudiante, primero como estudiante universitaria, más tarde como estudiante de posgrado. Durante ambas estancias me consideraba unavisitante, no un inmigrante. Como visitante me sentí apreciada y acogida. Yo no sabía que mi “visitación” se extendería a convertirse en una mudanza permanente. Las decisiones en curso fueron casi hechas para mí, las oportunidades para mi familia nos motivó a formar parte de las comunidades donde estábamos visitando, la decisión de quedarse fue gradual.

Un sentido de aventura me motivó a abandonar mi país natal, así como la sed de conocimiento. Como joven bailarina, admiré profundamente la danza y el arte americano, así como el desarrollo de la educación superior. Durante mi primera estadía en los Estados Unidos (1986-90) mi objetivo era sumergirme en la creatividad de esta cultura. Volví en 2002 trayendo mi familia, mi marido y mis dos hijos. Esta vez me interesé en completar una maestría y en sumergir a mis niños de 6 y 9 años en una nueva cultura; mi objetivo era también ampliar su educación y su experiencia de vida.

El día que salí de Buenos Aires, recuerdo el momento en que nos fuimos, teníamos dos maletas cada uno, incluyendo a los niños; mi madre, mi hermano y mi suegro esparcieron las maletas en sus autos y nos llevaron al aeropuerto. El momento en que salí de mi casa fue apresurado; era impulsivo – muchas personas se movían rápidamente trayendo maletas a los coches, bastante oscuro, alrededor de las 7 PM en un día de invierno. Hoy puedo ver que ese día estaba dejando atrás a los seres queridos y a los lugares familiares; Recuerdo la sensación de desprendimiento así como una inexplicable emoción.

Viajamos en avión, un vuelo a Nueva York y una camioneta de alquiler para llegar a Nueva Jersey, a la casa de mi amiga Monica (compañera de cuarto en la Universidad de licenciatura).

Recuerdo que llegamos el 3 de julio. Recuerdo claramente la dicotomía – de repente estaba en un ambiente festivo, la gente se estaba preparando para las festividades del 4 de julio. Era verano, saliendo de Buenos Aires en invierno, y en la niebla de una crisis financiera bastante depresiva. Estaba tratando de navegar las experiencias contrastantes.

Saliendo de Buenos Aires, tuvimos una serie de comidas y cenas festivas con amigos y familiares. No recuerdo la comida. Recuerdo que el ambiente era amoroso, solidario y lloré mucho pensando que iba a estar ausente por un tiempo. Tengo una estrecha relación con mi familia, lo más difícil que he hecho fue alejarme de mis sobrinos, a quienes amo mucho.

Me siento atraída entre culturas, pero siento como si no tuviera otra opción, no puedo decidir dónde quiero estar. Si estoy en Argentina, extraño estar aquí y viceversa. Vivir entre culturas y lugares es un estado emocionante para mí. Me hace apreciar a la gente y sus viajes en la vida.¡Nuestros movimientos, nuestros viajes en la vida han valido la pena en muchos sentidos, la inmersión en otra cultura es una experiencia rica, todo el mundo debe tratar de convertirse en un inmigrante, no sólo abrirá sus horizontes, también abrirá sus ojos!

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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 Louis Lainé

“My friends and cousins and everybody were on the other side of the gate watching us through the fence. I remember looking up at my mom. She was holding my hand and wearing sunglasses, but I saw tears coming down.”

49. IMG_0521Photo by Jennifer Baker

Louis Lainé is a student at Swarthmore College.

My mom and I came here on Saturday, August 2nd 2003. My dad was already here, he came in 1997 to work, and my mom and I lived in Haiti my whole life. We came here for me to get a better education. The transition was hard. In Haiti I took English classes on Sundays, and I watched Cartoon Network, but had no formal English education. I spoke French and Creole. We speak French at home, except when my mom got mad then it was Creole, same with my dad. What catalyzed my English learning—I did not want to be behind. When you are a kid you don’t want to be an outsider. I listened to speeches by Ronald Reagan, Martin Luther King, and I read Shakespeare history plays. I still know a bunch of the monologues. I came here in fourth grade.

We had a little apartment in Irvington, New Jersey. I didn’t make a lot of friends early on, but I was able to play basketball. Through sports I bonded with other kids. My dad worked at an ink factory and my mom worked two jobs as a nurse in two different nursing homes. My father became a citizen because of Ronald Reagan. I got my citizenship in 2011. My mom just got her passport two months ago.

The day I left home I woke up very early. I went outside. It was still dawn. I remember standing in a field and looking up at the trees and knowing I would never see that view again. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would because I didn’t really know what that meant, to not be where I had been my whole life. But I just I knew it would never be the same. As the hours went on the house became more and more bare. We sold some things, but most we just gave out to people in the village. I walked around holding my basketball, but no one wanted to play.

Around 2 o’clock, we got on a truck and went to the international airport. There was always a long line going in because everyone wants to leave. My friends and cousins and everybody were on the other side of the gate watching us through the fence. I remember looking up at my mom. She was holding my hand and wearing sunglasses, but I saw tears coming down. I started crying too. When I saw her crying I knew this was real. After we checked in and got on the plane, then I got really sick. I knew we wouldn’t be back.

We got to Newark airport and waited for dad to come pick us up. It was really cold. He took us home and we went to sleep. I woke up and it was my new life. It was just weird. I was used to leaving and knowing I would be back home, but this time the going back part wasn’t part of the story. We got here August 2nd and I started school September 8th. I spoke almost no English. I was the new guy. I felt disconnected.

My first impressions coming here: I thought food was free, and light switches work, that was surprising. Food was available, always a surplus. At home food had to be prepared. Getting it and preparing it was a communal effort. As a kid I spent a lot of time cutting up vegetables and even laundry we would do together.

My parents cook traditional Haitian food. Rice and beans with different sauces. But what I really like is Haitian street food—fried dough-y things with meat inside, all different spices. At home, you went to the market—it was a whole day. There were live turkeys, beets, carrots, melons, tomatoes. Nothing ever went to waste.

I grew up in a very interesting family. My grandmother was the mayor of our town so everyone knew who we were. We felt a real connection to where we were from. I grew up in the capital, Port Au Prince, because my mom worked in public health, but we spent a lot of time with my grandmother. She was blind but she always knew when I was there. I wondered how she could not see and be able to do all these things.

My mom didn’t want me to be born here (in the US). She wanted me to have the experience of Haitian culture, it meant a lot to her. It was a good decision, I have my own story, and I am definitely not American even though I have a passport. My mom and I say that this is not home. We keep our connection to Haiti, and I go every other year to visit.

One time I went back to visit, my friends asked me to describe snow and they couldn’t fathom what it was like, so I felt like an outsider. The last time I went was April 1st 2012. I had to give a eulogy for my grandmother’s funeral. Seven priests came, and the whole town. I had to write a formal speech in French. Another student in Haiti helped me to write it. It made me realize how privileged I am to be here, with the resources that that student could have benefitted from. I think about that every day, how lucky I am to be here at Swarthmore College.

I feel like I am performing an American identity. I have knowledge of life in the US but it is a conscious effort. My Haitian heritage is more of a base for me. When I came here to college I was expected to assume an African American identity. I didn’t refute that but it wasn’t who I was. It made me see that I needed to hold on more actively to my Haitian identity. I made friends in the international community more than with the African American students. I get along with the African students. Our parents speak with similar tones even though we are a continent away. I felt a little lost at first because I didn’t know where I fit in.

I went to all boys schools most of my life. In Haiti the best schools were single-sex Catholic schools. For high school I want to Saint Benedict’s Prep, run by a Benedictine monastery. It was very progressive: professing faith through actions and spirituality rather than dogmatic belief. The headmaster was the father figure to so many of us and taught me how to live and how to be a man.

Swarthmore is a free place, sometimes too free—structure is not a bad thing. There’s a lot of room for creativity, but I need a goal, to aspire to something. I received a Truman scholarship—one student, who wishes to dedicate themselves to public service, is selected from each state. I want to work in the Department of Justice. I hope to be attorney general of New Jersey some day.

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 Adrian Plascencia

“To them we were a part of the large set of dozens of cousins and nephews that made up this family but to us they were strangers.”9. IMG_1044               Photo by Jennifer Baker

Adrian Plascencia is a dancer in Supper, People on the Move.

In preparation for this interview, I called my mom who is now living in California. The phone conversation lasted much longer than our average conversations of five minutes, which usually include mundane updates about weather and work. We rarely speak of our personal lives so my interest in the details of her story into this country was jarring for her to recount at first, but slowly she began to soften and I could hear her voice warm and she recounted the memories of her youthful journey to this new country.

Our being in the United States is more my dad’s effort than anyone else’s. He had always thought of coming to the U.S. as a young man, so when a group of his friends were ready to make the dangerous trip to the border my dad was ready to join them. He was nervous to tell his family that he would be leaving but after an explosive argument with his oldest brother his decision was clear and he was on his way to the border the next day. He was seventeen.

Once in the U.S. he got a job working at a tortilla factory and there he stayed for six years. One day, the factory was raided by immigration officials and my dad was deported back across the boards to Tijuana. He immediately returned to the U.S. A week later the officials came back and deported him again. (I should say, that the details of my dad’s crossing into the country are unclear since he was very private about them and never revealed these stories to either my mom or us children before his death late last year.) Upon my dad’s second deportation in a week he decided to go back to his hometown of Léon Guanajuato and it was during his time back there that he met my mother. They got married and quickly had two children, my older brother and me. My dad had still wanted to have a life in the United States and dreamed of going back while my they were still dating but my mom was not into the idea of living in the U.S.

Now married, my father insisted on going back to help support his family and my mom let him go on the condition that it would only be for a year and then he would return. My dad left in January of 1988, just one month after I was born. He and my mom would call each other every week on Sunday evenings to stay connected during this long time apart. After a year, my mom had had enough of the distance and declared that either he return to Mexico or she would go to the U.S. Not wanting to give up what he had spent so much time building up, my dad got off the phone and immediately began making arrangements for his family to come and meet him on the American side of the border. By the next day it was all arranged; my mom would take a bus to the airport and fly from Aguascalientes to Tijuana. Once in Tijuana she would meet with a man who would give her false credentials to pose as an American who was simply visiting Mexico and now returning to the U.S. My brother and I would then be passed on to different families and pose as children of these American parents returning to the country. We would all rendezvous at in San Diego with my dad and from there drive up to the San Francisco Bay Area where my dad had lived for the past year.

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My brother, who was three at the time, was coached to give a false name if he was asked by an immigration official. I was a little over a year old and was given allergy medication to sleep through the entire experience and not raise suspicion by crying in the arms of a woman that wasn’t my mother. We both crossed the border as planned as a part of separate families. My mom, however, got held up when they discovered that her credentials were false. She was rejected entry into the country and was asked to turn around and go back to Mexico. They now had to decide on a different and possible more dangerous method of crossing her over.

That night she was packed tightly into a small car with four other women who had found themselves in the same situation of not being about to cross the border on their first attempts. The car drove through a less patrolled area of the border and they were dropped off on a dark beach and told to walk to a 7-eleven four hours away. This long, late night trek was challenging for my mom. She had had asthma since she was very young and this made it hard to breathe in the cold night air. Dry coughs exploded out of her and she tried to muffle them with the thin sweater she was wearing but the other women with her urged her to remain silent on the quiet beach.

There was no way for them to communicate to anyone that they had arrived at their 7-eleven rendezvous point; they were just left to wait. The wait for my mom wasn’t long, as she recalls, and was picked up and driven to where my dad, brother, and myself had arrived the day before. When my mother got to us she says that my brother would not respond to his own name for a week and would instead “correct” people by telling them that his name was the one he was coached to say. For me, the effects of the allergy pill worked well and I didn’t not wake up for more than 24 hours. From our meeting place in San Diego we drove up to San Mateo in Northern California where we were welcomed into my father’s one bedroom, fully finished apartment.

My mother remembers these first few days in the United States as very odd. She had been in a relationship with my dad for some time by this point but they had been separated for a year. Not only by distance but by culture and experience. In that year my mom had to raise a newborn while having a toddler that was not yet two and was surrounded by family for support. The environment, landscape, people, language, were all different now and the only link to this world was a man that had only been a voice over the phone for the last year. My dad had always been more independent and had grown accustomed to the way things worked here. He was enjoying his life and the new adventures that this country offered him.

My dad was granted amnesty in 1989, which meant he received a Permanent Resident Visa or green card. He then took advantage of the Family Reunification laws at the time to grant my mom and both me and my brother permanent resident statuses as well. By 1994 we were all legal residents.

In 2001 my mother applied for American Citizenship and after passing her exam was granted citizenship as well as citizenship for me and my older brother. My younger brother was born in the U.S. in 1995 and is the only one in our family who is a naturalized citizen. As for my father, he chose never to become an American Citizen. He maintained a head strong loyalty to his Mexican Nationality and would not let himself assimilate too much into American culture. My dad never fully grasped the language and would get upset when my brothers and I would speak English around him. He encouraged us to maintain a close link to our Mexican heritage. We attended Spanish church services so all I know about the Catholic church that I was raised in is in Spanish. All prayers and rituals I only know through a Hispanic filter.

After working in a tortilla factory for so many years, my father decided to start his own business. It is a successful small business in San Mateo, California, that my older brother now runs after my dad’s passing in 2014. He had always wanted to return to Mexico, so when he died he was cremated and his remains were flown back to his home town and set in the same church where he was baptized, confirmed, and married.

When I asked my mom if this was all worth it she despondently said, “. . . I don’t know.”

For my parents, their families were always a major part of their lives but for my brothers and myself we never really connected with our larger extended family. My mom is one of fifteen and my dad one of eight so there was a lot of family that we kids never really got to know given that we lived so far away and only visited once every couple of years. We grew up in a completely different world and were privileged with many different opportunities and could not in our naive young heads think of why everyone didn’t just move to the U.S. because things are clearly so much better here. To them we were a part of the large set of dozens of cousins and nephews that made up this family but to us they were strangers. Family we never saw and were pushed into hugging and kissing after quickly connecting the dots from mom or dad to generic relative. They all knew their roles well in the larger family dynamic but I felt out of place with my only real connections being between my brothers. There was no reference point to this world that they lived in or any link to their familiar characters. Our Spanish, though fluent, was not good enough to catch references to popular culture or trends in slang. We got lost when it came to jokes and grammatical word play. Though I was born in Mexico, it was not my home. The Mexico of my parents was not my Mexico.

I am beyond grateful for the journey and struggles that my parents went through to get into this country and to create a life for our family here. This project has opened my eyes to the true peril that came in the decision to cross the border and I am honored to be a part of it.


Adrian Plascencia

Bailarín, de México

Que estemos en los Estados Unidos se debe más al esfuerzo de mi padre que al de cualquier otra persona. De joven siempre había pensado en venir a los Estados Unidos, así que cuando un grupo de sus amigos estuvo listo para hacer el peligroso viaje a la frontera, mi padre estaba preparado para unirse a ellos. Tenía 17 años.

Ya en los Estados Unidos, consiguió empleo en una fábrica de tortillas, y trabajó allí durante 6 años. Un día, los funcionarios de inmigración allanaron la fábrica y mi padre fue deportado a Tijuana, cruzando la frontera. Volvió de inmediato.  Una semana después, los oficiales regresaron y lo deportaron nuevamente. Luego de la segunda deportación, mi padre decidió regresar a su ciudad natal, León Guanajuato, y fue allí donde conoció a mi madre. Se casaron y al poco tiempo tuvieron dos hijos, mi hermano mayor y yo. Mientras estaban saliendo, mi papá todavía quería hacer su vida en los Estados Unidos y soñaba con regresar, pero a mi madre no le gustaba la idea de vivir allí.

Ahora estaban casados y mi padre insistía en volver para ayudar a mantener a su familia; mi madre se lo permitió con la condición de que solo fuera por un año. Mi papá se fue en enero de 1988, apenas un mes después de que yo naciera. Él y mi mamá se llamaban todos los domingos por la tarde para seguir en contacto. Después de un año, mi mamá se cansó de la distancia y le dijo que él volviera a México o ella iría a los EE. UU.  Como no quería renunciar a todo aquello que le había llevado tanto tiempo construir, mi padre colgó el teléfono e inmediatamente comenzó a hacer arreglos para que su familia fuera a encontrarse con él del lado estadounidense de la frontera. Al día siguiente, todo estaba arreglado: mi madre tomaría un autobús al aeropuerto y volaría de Aguascalientes a Tijuana. Una vez llegada a Tijuana, se encontraría con un hombre que le daría credenciales falsas para hacerse pasar por estadounidense. Luego, pondrían a mi hermano y a mí con diferentes familias y nos harían pasar por hijos de estos padres estadounidenses que regresan a su país. Nos reuniríamos todos en San Diego con mi padre y desde allí conduciríamos hasta el área de la Bahía de San Francisco, donde mi papá había vivido.

En ese momento, mi hermano tenía tres años y lo entrenaron para dar un nombre falso en caso de que un funcionario de migraciones le preguntara. Yo tenía poco más de un año y me dieron medicamentos para la alergia para que durmiera durante toda la experiencia y no levantara sospechas al llorar en brazos de una mujer que no era mi madre. Ambos cruzamos la frontera tal como estaba planeado, como parte de familias separadas. Mi mamá, sin embargo, fue detenida cuando descubrieron que sus credenciales eran falsas. Le denegaron la entrada al país y le dijeron que tenía que regresar a México. Ahora tenían escoger un método diferente y, posiblemente más peligroso, para cruzarla.

Esa noche viajó apretada en un automóvil pequeño con otras cuatro mujeres que tampoco habían podido cruzar la frontera en sus primeros intentos. El automóvil pasó por una zona menos patrullada de la frontera; las dejaron en una playa oscura y les dijeron que caminen hasta un supermercado que quedaba a cuatro horas. Cuando mi madre llegó, dice que mi hermano no respondió a su propio nombre durante una semana y que, en cambio, “corregía” a las personas aclarándoles que su nombre era el que le habían entrenado para decir. En mi caso, los efectos de la píldora para la alergia funcionaron bien y no me desperté durante más de 24 horas.

Mi madre recuerda que aquellos primeros días en los Estados Unidos le parecieron muy extraños. Para aquel entonces, ella había estado en una relación con mi padre durante un tiempo pero llevaban un año separados. No solo entre ellos, sino también de su familia, que era su apoyo. Ahora el entorno, el paisaje, las personas, el idioma, todo era diferente y el único vínculo con este mundo era un hombre que solo había sido una voz en el teléfono durante el último año. Mi padre siempre había sido más independiente y disfrutaba de su vida y de las nuevas aventuras que el país tenía para ofrecerle.

A mi padre se le concedió la amnistía en 1989, lo que significaba recibir una visa de Residencia Permanente o una tarjeta verde. Más tarde, aprovechó las leyes de Reunificación Familiar de ese momento para otorgarnos también a mi madre, a mi hermano y a mí el estatus de residentes permanentes. En 1994, ya todos éramos residentes legales.

En 2001, mi madre solicitó la ciudadanía estadounidense y, después de aprobar su examen, le concedieron la ciudadanía tanto a ella como a mí y a mi hermano mayor. Mi hermano menor nació en los EE. UU. en 1995, y es el único en nuestra familia que es ciudadano de nacimiento. En cuanto a mi padre, él decidió nunca convertirse en ciudadano estadounidense. Mantuvo una firme lealtad a su nacionalidad mexicana y no se permitió adaptarse demasiado a la cultura estadounidense. Después de trabajar en una fábrica de tortillas, decidió comenzar su propio negocio. Es una pequeña empresa exitosa en San Mateo, California, que mi hermano mayor lleva adelante desde la muerte de mi papá, en 2014. Él siempre había querido regresar a México, por eso, cuando murió, fue cremado y sus cenizas llevadas a su ciudad natal, a la misma iglesia donde se bautizó, se confirmó y se casó.

Cuando le pregunté a mi madre si todo esto había valido la pena, me contestó desanimada que aún no lo sabía.

Para mis padres, sus familias siempre fueron una parte importante de sus vidas, pero mis hermanos y yo nunca nos relacionamos de verdad con nuestra gran familia extendida. Aunque nací en México, no fue mi hogar. El México de mis padres no era mi México.

Estoy más que agradecido por el viaje y las dificultades que pasaron mis padres para llegar a este país y crear aquí una vida para nuestra familia.

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 maria urrutia

“Once we landed everyone was given flip flops because when our first boat sank we lost everything, and so no one had shoes.”

20. IMG_9869Photo by Jennifer Baker

maria urrutia is a dance artist and educator. She performs in Supper, People on the Move.

My family left Cuba during two different migration periods, my aunts in the 60s when The Peter Pan Flights took children from Cuba to the United States and my grandparents, father, mother, aunt, and I during The Mariel Boat lift that took place between April and October in the year 1980.

These choices of migration were made for political reasons.

Our migration story took place in June of 1980. In order to leave the country, family from the U.S.A had to travel by boat to “claim” their relatives from the beach area in Cuba known as Mariel. In our family my uncles took on this dangerous task. They and a friend, who also had family he wanted to claim, borrowed a boat and undertook the journey of 90 miles—a stretch that my uncles had not traveled since leaving the island a decade before.

There were over 124,776 people that migrated during that time, and not all were people who had family that claimed them. In order to empty his jails, and the island, of any individual opposing his rule or causing trouble, Castro used this exodus to his advantage. For every one person that was picked up, two political prisoners were also added to the boats cargo. This additional and unexpected cargo was the cause of not only our boat to sink, but many other families to experience death in the deep blue waters that sit between freedom and restraint.

Our migration left behind my mother’s family, which was a choice they made. This choice was always difficult for my mother to fully accept. She was only twenty years old when we left Cuba with my father’s family. The night the government officials came to escort us to El Mariel my father had to beg to bring my mother’s parents from a few houses away so that they could say their farewells—no one knew if they would ever see each other again. My mother’s farewell was quick and full of sorrow. She chose to leave in order to give me opportunities in life, and I could not be more humbled by this tremendous sacrifice.

20. maria urrutia2

maria with her grandmother.

As it turns out the government did not take you to El Mariel first. They actually had a waiting area known as El Mosquito (the mosquito) where we were held for several days. In this location no food was available unless you had money to purchase it and luckily my grandfather had the foresight to bring money. After several days we were taken to El Mariel for our departure. My grandmother vividly remembers that in order to relieve herself the government set out planks on the water that you had to walk onto; this was to experience humiliation.

After a few days in El Mariel we all boarded the boat, in the middle of the night, I was two years old. My father sent my mother, grandmother, aunt, and I into the belly of the boat. Yet shortly after departing El Mariel my father suddenly came down and handed my mother, grandmother, and aunt life vests. He realized that the boat was taking in water and would begin its decent into the depths of the ocean soon, and because there were not enough life vests for everyone he wanted to insure they had them. My grandmother was in her sixties and did not know how to swim.

I am told that in order to relive the pressure my father punched out the glass. He escorted all us all to the top of the boat and even had to push my grandmother off the boat because she did not want to jump. The boat was sinking fast. He still to this day talks about how shocking it was to see such a vessel go down so quickly.

My mother handed me to my father and jumped, which left him with me, a bloody hand, and no life vest. Once my father was in the water my mother was able to beg from a political prisoner that was on our boat to give my Father the floating piece of wood so that I could be placed upon it. We sat in the ocean with screams for Ausilio (help) for what probably felt like eternity, but in reality was only 30 minutes.

My father says that the pacifier in my mouth saved me when we jumped into the ocean. I think it was his drive, skill, and determination that did.

We had not made it into American waters, but both the Cuban and USA Coast Guards came to our rescue. However, since we were still in Cuban waters we were forced to board the Cuban vessel and return to the island. In the chaos I ended up in the American boat, the rest of my family in the Cuban boat. The American Coast Guard said to my father you’ll find her in the U.S., which was not acceptable, and he forced the boats to come together so that I remained with my family returning to Cuba.

This experience terrified my mother and she said she would not be boarding another boat and that she wanted to remain in Cuba. My father’s response was “You can’t go back, we have nothing left.”

Coincidentally the night our boat sank, another boat with the same name also sank, and everyone from that boat died. Our family in the U.S. didn’t know if we were the ones that lived or died. This made it difficult for my aunt, who had not seen her family in over fifteen years. As they lived out of a van for days in Key West awaiting news we went back to Cuba to begin again.

In Cuba we waited to see if another opportunity would arise to board another boat. And after three days it did with the captain of a boat from California whose family they would not release to him; the name of the boat was Second Chance.

Again we boarded a boat in the middle of the night. This boat was also filled over capacity and began to have troubles, but we were luckily in U.S.A waters. The captain of the boat called the U.S. Coast guard stating our troubles. We were airlifted into a helicopter, and then transported onto a U.S. Coast Guard battleship. Once we landed everyone was given flip flops because when our first boat sank we lost everything, and so no one had shoes. I only had a cloth diaper, which had been on my body for over three days.

The other items handed to my family were a bite to eat—a can of Coca Cola and an apple. My mother speaks of this as her first taste of freedom.

Once we were placed on U.S.A soil our family had to spend several days in make shift housing in order to be cleared as legal to enter the country. A thourgh investigation had to be completed in order to clear my father because all men under the Castro regime had to serve in the military. As the historical timeframe lays out, my father was in the military during the Bay of Pigs. When he was cleared after a few days we were all united with my aunt and uncles. And since that moment I have worked to take advantage of every opportunity this country has presented me with.

As for my identity, I feel rooted in Cuban culture and experiences, but after so many years find myself looking at the world through an American lens.


Maria Urrutia, Artista de baile y educadora de Cuba

Epígrafe: María con su abuela en Cuba en 1979

Mi familia partió de Cuba en dos tandas migratorias diferentes: mis tías, en los años 60, cuando los vuelos Peter Pan llevaron niños de Cuba a los Estados Unidos, y mis abuelos, padre, madre, tía y yo durante el Éxodo de El Mariel, entre abril y octubre de 1980. Migramos de esa manera por razones políticas.

Nuestra historia migratoria comienza en junio de 1980. Para poder salir del país, familiares de los EE. UU. tuvieron que viajar en bote para “reclamar” a sus parientes en el área costera de Cuba conocida como El Mariel. En nuestra familia, mis tíos asumieron esta peligrosa tarea. Ellos y un amigo, quien también tenía familia que quería reclamar, pidieron prestado un barco y emprendieron un viaje de 145 kilómetros, una distancia que mis tíos no habían vuelto a recorrer desde que abandonaron la isla, hacía una década.

Durante ese tiempo migraron 124.776 personas, y no todos, tenían familias que los reclamaran. Con el objetivo de vaciar sus cárceles, y la isla, de cualquiera que se opusiera a su gobierno o causara problemas, Castro aprovechó este éxodo para su propio beneficio. Por cada persona recogida, se agregaban dos presos políticos a la carga de los barcos. Esta carga adicional e inesperada fue la causa no solo de que nuestro barco se hundiera, sino de que muchas otras familias experimentaran la muerte en las aguas profundas que se encuentran entre la libertad y la reclusión.

Al migrar, dejamos atrás a la familia de mi madre, una decisión que ellos tomaron. Para mi madre siempre fue difícil aceptar completamente esa decisión. Ella solo tenía veinte años cuando abandonó Cuba con la familia de mi padre. La noche en que los funcionarios del gobierno vinieron a acompañarnos a El Mariel, mi padre tuvo que suplicarles que trajeran a los padres de mi madre, que estaban a unas pocas casas de distancia, para que pudieran despedirse: nadie sabía si volverían a verse. La despedida de mi madre fue rápida y llena de tristeza. Ella decidió irse para darme oportunidades en la vida, y yo no podría sentirme más conmovida por semejante sacrificio.

Resultó que el gobierno no nos llevó directamente a El Mariel. Tenían una zona de espera conocida como El Mosquito donde nos retuvieron durante varios días. En este lugar no había comida disponible a menos que tuvieras dinero para comprarla, pero por suerte mi abuelo fue previsor y llevó dinero. Mi abuela recuerda claramente que, para ir al baño, tenía que caminar sobre tablones que el gobierno había colocado sobre el agua: una práctica que hacían solo para humillarlos.

Después de unos días en El Mariel, todos nos subimos al barco en la mitad de la noche; yo tenía dos años de edad. Mi padre nos envió a mi madre, a mi abuela, a mi tía y a mí a la bodega del barco. Sin embargo, poco después de partir de El Mariel, mi padre bajó de repente y le entregó chalecos salvavidas a mi madre, a mi abuela y a mi tía. Se dio cuenta de que estaba entrando agua en el barco. Mi abuela tenía sesenta y algo y no sabía nadar. Me contaron que, para descargarse, mi padre le pegó a un vidrio. Nos acompañó a todas hasta la parte superior e incluso tuvo que empujar a mi abuela del barco porque no quería saltar. El barco se hundía rápido. Hasta el día de hoy, ella habla de lo impactante que fue ver que tamaña nave se hundiera tan rápidamente. Mi madre me pasó a los brazos de mi padre y saltó, dejándolo solo conmigo, una mano ensangrentada y sin chaleco salvavidas. Cuando mi padre estuvo en el agua, mi madre pudo suplicarle a un prisionero político que estaba en nuestro barco que le diera a mi padre un pedazo de madera flotante para que pudieran ponerme sobre ella. Estuvimos en el océano pidiendo auxilio a los gritos durante lo que probablemente pareció una eternidad, pero en realidad fueron solo 30 minutos. Mi padre dice que el chupete que tenía en la boca me salvó cuando saltamos al mar. Yo creo que nos salvó su impulso, habilidad y determinación.

No habíamos llegado a aguas estadounidenses, pero tanto la guardia costera cubana como la estadounidense vinieron a nuestro rescate. Sin embargo, como todavía estábamos en aguas cubanas nos obligaron a abordar un barco cubano y regresar a la isla. En medio del caos, yo terminé en el barco estadounidense y el resto de mi familia, en el cubano. La Guardia Costera estadounidense le dijo a mi padre que me encontraría en los Estados Unidos, pero no lo aceptó y obligó a los barcos a juntarse para que yo permaneciera con mi familia en el regreso a Cuba. Esta experiencia aterrorizó a mi madre, quien dijo que no abordaría otro barco y que quería quedarse en Cuba. La respuesta de mi padre fue: “No puedes volver, no nos queda nada”.

Casualmente, la noche en que nuestro barco se hundió, otro bote con el mismo nombre también se hundió, y todos en aquel bote murieron. Nuestra familia, en los EE. UU. no sabía si nosotros estábamos entre los vivos o entre los muertos. Esta situación fue difícil para mi tía, que no veía a su familia hacía más de 15 años. Mientras ellos vivían durante días en una camioneta en Key West esperando noticias, nosotros volvíamos a Cuba a empezar de nuevo.

En Cuba esperamos una nueva oportunidad de subir a otro barco. Después de tres días, la oportunidad llegó con el capitán de un barco de California que tenía recluida a su familia. El nombre del barco era Second Chance (“Segunda Oportunidad”). Una vez más, nos subíamos a un barco en mitad de la noche. Este barco también estaba sobrecargado y comenzó a tener problemas, pero ya estábamos en aguas estadounidenses. El capitán del barco llamó a la Guardia Costera. Fuimos trasladados en helicóptero a un buque de guerra de la  Guardia Costera de los EE. UU. Cuando aterrizamos nos dieron chanclas a todos porque al hundirse el primer barco habíamos perdido todo, y nadie tenía zapatos. Yo solo tenía un pañal de tela, que llevaba puesto desde hacía más de tres días.

Además, mi familia recibió algo de comer: una lata de Coca Cola y una manzana. Mi madre habla de aquella situación como la primera vez que sintió lo que era la libertad. Una vez que tocamos tierra estadounidense, nuestra familia tuvo que pasar varios días en una vivienda improvisada hasta recibir autorización para ingresar al país. Después de pocos días, nos reunimos todos con mi tía y mis tíos. Desde entonces, he trabajado para aprovechar todas las oportunidades que este país me ha brindado.

En cuanto a mi identidad, me siento enraizada en la cultura y las experiencias cubanas pero, después de tantos años, sé que miro el mundo a través de una lente estadounidense.

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.