Indiana Joan

The story of the poor immigrant that comes to America to pursue the Million Dollar Dream is a tale as old as time. 

“Cliché” said the NY Times, “Overplayed” said the Boston Globe

Yes, yes I know! But it happened to me…

Portugal had barely gotten out of the dark ages: superstition, witchcraft and strangling religious beliefs reigned supreme. The old stories of cruel landowners, little girls forced to work, abandon school and walk barefoot even in the bitterly cold winter. And hunger, so much hunger. Realities that would make Dickens shudder, only a few years in the distance.

Portugal had emerged from a dark period of dictatorship, where Family, Football and Fatima were forced on values. Abject poverty, famine and disease were the masters. Fear was the only familiar comfort. My country had only been a democracy for 12 years before I was born and my parents were that strange generation born captive but allowed to roam free as adults. The country was engulfed in a severe dictatorial regime for 48 years. Freedom wasn’t even a word in the dictionary

It’s a fantastical realization that so close to me, through my parents and grandparents, fear, ignorance and evil were abundant. Women weren’t allowed to go to school, information and art were heavily censored and any sense of individuality or opinion squandered at infancy.

I could walk everywhere in the village, as nothing was ever more than a few minutes away. The local grocer, owned by my grandfather's brother, my elementary school, helmed by a third cousin of sorts, the field plower, monopolized by my next door neighbor. The kids in school… we all knew each other's houses and afflictions and what they did and how they prayed and who they were born out of, and what dinner would be that night…

There weren’t that many places to hide, not many places to imagine and play characters. You see, Imagination requires privacy.

Early enough, I started distancing myself from the world not finding anything amusing about repeated conversations and reiterations of old, old fears.

I had very little in my precious, small mind at the time. My Dreams, and God. I would walk over to our chapel, conveniently located at the front steps of my house, and pray. I cannot present you with a good enough explanation for my devoutness. It was familiar, to be sure, religion plays a central part in the Portuguese way of life. But I was never indoctrinated into it. At least, I don’t feel like I was. Catholicism was never really a choice but one I would gladly make, over and over again.

Faith was and is the provenance of all my stories, by the way. Without a strong, exercised sense of faith you won’t have enough belief in yourself to make things happen. It’s a muscle that needs to be worked on diligently.

By my pre-teen years, after seriously considering a life of service (that’s a story for a completely different newsletter), my mind began to wander to a land far, far away… A land of possibilities, freedom and imagination. A place where we had the right to dream even the silliest of dreams… A place where we could choose our own destiny. For someone like me, the expectations were set. Study, get a good job, marry a good man, raise a good family. Hope you don’t die too early. Nor too late, for anyone’s inconvenience. Don’t speak too much, don’t aim too high, don’t laugh too loud. Your lot is fixed. 

“Maybe one day, if you work hard enough, you can become a teacher.”

A death sentence. In my mind, they already had me in a casket and I was barely 10. 

Introduced to me through shows, movies and the advent of MTV, the American flag started coming to me in my dreams…Waving itself in the wind. Seducing me with it’s alluring dance. It was an appeal too hard to resist. I studied it, I inhaled it.

The American way of life became an institution for me. It’s Language, a Prophesy. It’s Traditions, my future Memories. Their Law, my Scripture.

I tried my best to keep this desire hidden but sometimes it would overflow, like something I just could not keep inside anymore. I kept to myself most times, I was fully aware of what my desires would trigger in others. Nothing is more irritating than a Dreamer…

“One day I’ll go to America and be a millionaire. It can happen there, you know. There, in America, anything can happen. They even let you Dream.”

My desires were met with confusion sometimes. Sometimes with disdain. Most times, with silence. “One day, I’ll go to America and be so rich. And everyone will know my name. It can happen there, you know. And it will happen to me.” Every day, like a repetitive parrot no one finds amusing.

I would write in my dairy all the ways that it would happen to me. The clothes I would wear sketched out, the date of my arrival, my favorite hairstyle.

My 25th birthday was the chosen date. “I’m going to college first, and then I am going to work very hard and save all my money and get very, very organized. And then I will go. I will get on a plane. And then I will be there. And I will be… well, according to my math 25 makes sense. I’ll be an adult by then so I won’t have to ask permission to any single one.”

The Brooklyn Bridge was my chosen destination. That was my plan. To spend my 25th Birthday on the Brooklyn Bridge. It seemed feasible to a 14 year old. It kept seeming feasible to an 18 year old. And 20. And 24…

“One day, I’ll go to America and make so much much money and everyone will know my name. One day, when I’m 25 I will go. Anything can happen in America. God told me.”

I did graduate college… at 24. I did want to work very hard but no jobs were available as Portugal was in the midst of a great recession (this was 2010). I did try and save all my money, if I had any. I tried hard to get very, very organized. I even wrote a Going to America To Do List: Get Plane Tickets; Get Visa; Get Job; Get Room; And then I would stare at that list, scratching my head on how would I get any or all of these things.

“One day I’ll go to America… God said…” The closer my 25th birthday got, the further I felt from my Dream. The clock was ticking, the needle not moving. I was still in my childhood bedroom, confused and with no idea how to magically get to New York.

“One day I’ll go to America…right? It can happen to me… right? God? Will I ever go to America? What if I never go to America…”

The phone rang.

One day, it happened to mee…

*The following advice is intended for mature audiences The purpose of this newsletter is to inform and entertain and inspire.

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I am Real Estate agent licensed in the State of NY with Keller Williams of Greater Rochester.