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An old Romani story tells of a girl who completes challenges to find a hidden treasure. The girl travels with a satchel full of shoes and along the way, she changes into a new pair whenever hers falls apart. For the different obstacles the girl encounters during the day and night, a new pair of shoes is ruined and replaced. Whenever I heard the story, I came to think that all one needed to succeed was a sturdy pair of shoes. I was born to a Romani father and a Romanian mother, both with distinct cultures and both presenting distinct challenges (HOW DO I REPHRASE THIS?). I grew up learning from textbooks that in a very straight forward manner referred to me using the derogatory term of “ţigan.” I was denied acceptance to schools due to my Romani background, and my parents had to teach me the first few years. Following a particularly violent assault and house invasion, my father changed our Romani names and told us to speak only Romanian in public. I could not understand why I had to be two persons, and why people did not treat me as maliciously when I did not tell them my real name. I grew up constantly running away from security police due to my family’s affiliation to the Romanian Orthodox Church, and in 2000, I was granted political asylum by the United States government. I wore a pair shoes while being chased away by local Romanians calling me a “thief,” and changed into a new pair every time we went to safe houses to hide from the government agents. I changed my shoes at night, and during the day, never failing in the face of obstacles.
From an underdeveloped country thousand of miles away (HOW TO REPHRASE?), the American dream seemed like the ultimate goal, but in the first few years it became clear that reality was different. Our family had no monetary funds, and in the first year we stayed at homeless shelters or with various host families. Due to my immigrant status, I was unable to enroll in high school. I watched the yellow buses that I had only seen in movies and was amazed they actually existed. I wanted to learn, and never again be denied access to education or read prejudiced stories about my father’s culture and ancestors. Having come so close yet not being able to take advantage of all the opportunities available, I was prompted to actually do something and change the situation we found ourselves in (IS THIS ENDING GRAMATICALLY INCORRECT?). With the help of an immigration agent, I learned English and helped my father file documentations for permanent residence. Amidst dozens of faces, extensive interviews, and endless regulations, I was motivated to persevere, learn from previous mistakes rather than giving up, and eventually succeeded in being granted resident status. The day I received the letter of approval from the immigration office, I rushed to a neighbor’s house and asked to be driven to the nearby high school to enroll. My parents’ existing health conditions worsened and although I worked to support my family, I was able graduate high school and was accepted to college in Washington D.C. I was ready yet again to change my shoes and continue the adventure, but unlike the girl in the story, I was somewhat afraid. My sister was beginning her freshman year in college as well, and my father was unable to work. School counselors recommended that I should take a few years off and help my family, but I had a satchel full of sturdy shoes so I had hope that I could successfully balance my duties toward my family and my ambitions to learn.
I was mesmerized by the new academic environment, the numerous clubs on campus, the exceptional people, and all that college had to offer. I struggled at first with the new, more technical language, but always carried my translation dictionary (SHOULD I SAY TRANSLATING..?), constantly seeking to learn and to know more. I had difficulty adjusting to the demanding work schedule during the day and night, but with personal discipline and tremendous enthusiasm, I found myself looking forward to attending class, working, and participating in the groups I had joined. I sent money every month to my parents and my sister, glad that I could offer support, happy that I could now follow my dreams, and proud to openly embrace my background as a Romani. I found that my American dream meant succeeding academically, working during the day to help others, running a campus wide publication, and at night, cooking delicacies with renowned chefs. I can no longer sit and let time pass but rather seek to spend every moment catching up on everything that I have missed. I want to be part of a group of individuals with unique experiences that I can learn from, and in turn, I wish to inform others of my obstacles and successes. After finishing her tasks, the Romani girl in the story ultimately finds the hidden treasure, discovering that it is only a satchel full of shoes, meant to guide her in future adventures.
