I have wanted to see the world for as long as I can remember. I was in Russia, Ukraine, and Germany but didn’t go to America because my daughters were born. My sister’s husband went to the U.S. first. He wanted to take my brother, but my brother said that he could not survive without his family.
Then I volunteered: I will go because I don’t get along with my husband. I got an invitation in May, but I decided to apply for an American visa in October, so my mother and my sister would finish the harvest and then could look after the children. My sister and I went to the police to sign the custody of my daughters, who were nine and seven years old. I got a tourist visa for six months.
Were my daughters sad? Sure, they were, but I was sad too. Later, in America, one dinner one did not eat, lest I have not wondered if these children had food. Those were the times.
I came to Greenpoint in 1980. My neighbors picked me up at the New York airport and drove me to 131 Dupont Street, where I lived with two ladies. Teresa and Halina were from Biłgoraj.
Both came three years before me; they were still working and good people. They told me how to get to Mrs. Regina in Williamsburg, who was handing out jobs for cleaners. Good for me, because at that time I didn’t speak English.
Regina gave me a piece of paper with an address on Central Park West, 55th Street, to Jennifer, a businesswoman who doesn’t have time for anything. I was supposed to clean up the apartment and look after her baby — a whole week for a hundred dollars. I stayed there for six months.
I only had Thursdays off, so I asked Regina to find me an extra job for Thursday. I went to Hasidic Jews in an electronic warehouse. I saw these ladies with whom I shared my apartment for maybe two hours a day. Good morning. Good morning; how are you? Are there any letters? When I finally sat down, I prayed: God, give me strength. At that time, I was leaving at 7 am and returning at 11 pm. First by metro G, then by bus 61.
As I said, I was earning little money. But every week, I put the paycheck into a book, and every three weeks, I went to a Polish bank to deposit it and send money to the children. When I wasn’t working or sleeping, I wrote letters. There was time for shopping and sending parcels on a Sunday afternoon, but I did not work. I couldn’t call Poland because there were no phones, only the one at the priest in the parish. I prayed: I hope I will endure these six months somehow.
After six months, I managed to call my sister. She said there was no future for me in Poland. She encouraged me: if you can stay – stay, even illegally. It was not only my decision; we made it together. The girls and I felt sorry.
The saddest were Christmas, birthdays, and the end of the year. It was hard. On their first communion in Poland, I went to church in Greenpoint, made dinner, and sat at the table with my roommates. But it’s not the same as with the family. These ladies and their kids were older and already used to not having moms around. I haven’t seen my daughters for seven years.
In 1984, on bus number 61, I met ‘Jurek‘ – George from Guatemala. It was raining, and Jurek had an umbrella. This is how our relationship began. He studied at Polytechnic University, and after school, he went to work. His family sent him abroad because there was political unrest in Guatemala, and he was in danger.
He rented a room with Irena Klementowicz, whom everyone knew because he fought against environmental pollution in Greenpoint. I did not think then that Jurek was just a Latin American and that there could be problems because of this.
I already saw that people lived together, even though one was such and the other was different. There were only Latinos left behind Huron Street. Some of my friends dated them, but only some feared them. Few people made a difference in what country they were from.
It happened that groups of young Puerto Ricans accosted women returning from work. Especially on Fridays, when they were carrying with them their payments. I explained to them: pay a dollar and take the bus from the subway station to your place. Then you will be safe; the dollar is not a fortune.
And here, my daughter Victoria was born. She will be a politician in Greenpoint.
Go to Victoria’s story: https://greenpointtales.com/stories/victoria-1