Your Stories are Our Stories

Before they were my parents, they were two beautiful teenagers. Katheryne and Nicholas. When they walked into a room, people noticed.

My father was tall with dark hair, penetrating dark brown eyes, and a classic tall, dark, and handsome. He had a low voice and an accent that made people lean closer. My mother was tall too, strawberry-blonde and fair-skinned, with hazel eyes, a steady gaze, and a warm laugh. She had an easy way of standing on her showgirl legs that made her look in charge or above it all.

But really, he was unsure of his English. And she was shy. Resourceful. Charming. Smart. Together, they looked certain of themselves, as if the world would welcome them and open every door. They looked as if they knew everything was going to be okay.

On a Labor Day weekend, when the traffic around the city was quieter than usual, they were married in secret.

They sat in a hotel room overlooking Central Park. The marriage certificate lay flat on a polished table. The window was open just enough to let in the end-of-summer air. Streetlights blinked on, one by one. The moon hung pale above the trees, lighting just the edges of the leaves. From that height, at that moment, everything looked peaceful. Contained and expansive, too.

They were alone at the church. No one from either family stood beside them. No sisters. No parents. No arguments. No blessings. They signed their names. They stayed the weekend. Then they went home as if nothing had happened.

Then they went home as if nothing had happened.

They met at the bank where they both worked. By day, they counted other people's money. At night, they went to school. My mother was an Irish-Catholic. She was studying art at the Art Institute. My Greek father studied finance at City College. He said he was agnostic. He believed in thinking things through.

Both families disapproved.

In my mother's family, you showed up for one another. So she would bring coffee to her Uncle Matt in the Bowery for her mother, Eileen. She'd give him a hug, one from her and one from his sister.

You carried what was needed. That was what daughters did. That's what families do.

My mother's parents left Ireland long before I was born. Each with their own reasons, each with no other choice. Each left because of the fighting and the conditions it created. Mostly because of the danger of staying.

I never met my grandfather. He died a year before my parents met.

When his name was spoken, faces changed. They softened. The air in the room seemed to get lighter. I could understand the sentiment in the song "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling"; their smiles carried something deeper when they spoke of him.

My grandmother's mouth would lift slightly at one corner, as if she were remembering something bright. Her gaze drifted somewhere beyond the room.

They said he sang at the piano and that people gathered when he did. They said even animals followed him down the street.

There was fighting in Ireland. There was fear. Some stories stopped halfway through and were not finished in front of children.

In that house, he was a hero. In Ireland, too. He fought the British to keep Ireland Irish.

My grandmother and my grandfather met in New York after they had immigrated. I wondered if they would've met if they had stayed in Ireland.

On my father's side, there were other stories.

His parents also married against their parents' wishes. Before the war, there had been a large house on the coast near Athens with balconies and high ceilings. There were servants once. There was silver laid out on long tables. Flowers everywhere. Enough for everyone.

My father told me they owned several silver mines. It was the kind of thing said plainly, as if it were just a fact.

Then the Nazis came.

He told me they were locked in a closet while soldiers dragged their furniture to the big fireplace and burned it for firewood, after they'd taken and burned down all the trees.

He said they could hear it breaking. He loved his home.

Yiaya once told me he sobbed.

I tried to imagine the darkness of that closet. The three of them locked together while their home was being dismantled, burned down, from the inside out.

I could imagine a house emptied of chairs, tables, and beds. I've seen that, but the charred furnishings, scorched walls, and floors. The ashes. The silver gone, their mines no longer theirs.

They lost more than a house.

They felt they had no choice but to leave. The Greek government could not help. They came to America and started again.

My father loved America. He said here, if you worked, you could build something back. Here, he said, the disabled, the downtrodden, were taken care of so that everyone had a chance to survive, even thrive.

All of them left their homelands for the same reasons.

To be safe. To survive. To thrive. To be free.

America.

Murphy Thomas

I left my country, México (México City), not to escape any hardship, but to experience life in different countries and cultures, with my heart wide open. I came from a protected and enviable social status with many traditional pathways open to me. But I wanted something else. Something more. I wanted to experience the world on my own. It was more than adventure. Something was calling me, and it was a driving force from within me to answer that call each day.

I had been to the United States, to Los Angeles, at a young age, on a summer vacation. There I saw people connected together from all levels of society. That was fascinating to me because, in my country at the time, all classes and economic levels were separate. I also noticed something else in LA that surprised me. Even in the middle class, women in the US seemed to carry so much on their own shoulders. At that time in my country, even families with little money lived differently: mothers stayed home gladly, and women didn't carry that same weight. That contrast stayed with me. I wanted to learn how to be completely independent, without my family's money, without anybody's help.

My family had the resources and offered to support me, but I wanted to challenge myself to see what I could achieve entirely on my own: going to a different country, living inside a different culture, and learning from old cultures too, as I ended up traveling all over the world. That became my main goal: to liberate myself from all the conditioning about women being dependent. I knew women could be independent and do what they wanted. I witnessed women go after their dreams with their own two hands. I wanted to manage my own life using my abilities independently. More importantly, I wanted to live from my heart, and I knew that meant I needed to explore the world outside my community.

My exploration began in California about 45 years ago. I traveled back and forth to Florida in the beginning, where my sister lived. Then I lived in the Florida Keys for about five months. It was there I was offered the opportunity to work on a schooner which a British friend of the family owned; I was going to travel around the world. It would be leaving from Florida. I moved quickly to take advantage of the offer and went to México City to update my international papers. When my papers were in perfect order, I flew back to Miami, first to meet my family, who were celebrating a big real estate sale, and then to board the schooner to see more of the world.

But when I landed in Miami, I was stopped by customs agents. I had to stay in the immigration facilities for nearly nine hours for no legal reason. I had all the necessary documents, including a valid visa provided by the Embassy of the United States. They denied me my right to call my parents or a lawyer. They asked me questions and searched me; one agent bullied me and treated me like a criminal. He canceled my visa. The other agents were kind and tried to help me; they told him to let me go. At the start of the day, I cried and felt helpless, but as the day progressed, I stood up for myself and demanded my passport. I don't know what happened to my visa. When they couldn't find a reason to hold me, that same aggressive agent grabbed my purse and took three hand-carved pens my niece had made for me to give as gifts. He said it was proof that I was selling or exchanging them for money, that I was doing business illegally. Finally, he gave me a choice: go to detention, or voluntarily return to México. I chose to return, because I was not going to spend the night detained.

The next flight to México went to Cancun. Before I boarded, I had to pass through a counter where a woman would mark my departure as voluntary or as a deportation. She spoke a little Spanish to me and asked me a few questions, then refused to mark my departure as a deportation, since I had chosen to leave voluntarily. It was a great sigh of relief after a fearful day. The two agents escorted me until the plane departed. One was extremely kind, and apologized for everything I'd experienced. They waited at my seat until it departed. I was seated next to a girl who asked what had happened. When I told her, she was clearly moved, and gave me twenty dollars, since my money was in my luggage. I'll never forget her kindness.

When I arrived in Cancun, my luggage was not there; it was lost, like I was, to a degree. Alone, on the streets, I had nowhere to go, with only the little money that wonderful girl had given me. I called a sister, and she told me to call someone she knew, someone she'd met briefly many years before. I found safety there, and also connected with my best friend from childhood, who was living in Cancun at the time. Then I went back to México City to meet my family. I learned they had no idea where I was when I was stopped in Miami. They were clearly upset, and hired an attorney to restore my visa. Sadly, I missed my chance to sail around the world on that schooner.

I was able to return to the United States nine months later. I became a silent observer, always staying aware of danger, and of genuinely helpful connections. As I traveled carefully, my experiences included people who treated me with real kindness, and others who were cruel. Just like the customs agents, some were horrid to me, and some were kind. But bias was not new to me. I had seen it before, in my own country, to a degree.

During my travels to and within different countries around the world, I learned many skills to earn my way without asking for help. I was able to accomplish all my dreams by exploring the world through different styles of travel. I traveled whichever way was open to me, from backpacking to luxury passage, and stayed wherever I could as well, from ashrams to five-star hotels. This grew my confidence and my sense of self, and pushed me to do and be more. I was blessed with people always there, everywhere, who lifted me up, inspired me, and shared their joy with me.

The people I met, and one in particular, in the Florida Keys, pointed me toward my life's work. This was early in my travels, and it shaped so much of what came after. There are people who can ask you a question that reveals the answer to the bigger question underneath: what am I here for? Her question showed me, perhaps without her knowing it, my life's purpose. She helped me find the foundation of my life's work. It had always been there. I just hadn't recognized it. Since I was a child, I have had a deep connection with animals. I never thought of my love for animals as a sign or a calling. I just loved them. And in that one conversation, I finally knew the answer I had been holding in my heart all along.

I began working in hospitality in Florida, and then took another path, working for refugees and immigrants near DC. My journey continued as I opened five nonprofit organizations in India and México. It continues to be an incredible journey, all these years, traveling and living all over the world.

This was the path to building my dream and meeting my purpose. I have been an international animal rescuer and an activist in all parts of the world for more than twenty years. And it was only possible because I moved out of my comfort zone. I was determined to face and manage whatever came my way. I had no idea I was looking for my purpose, but I found it, and my life has been blessed through every hardship I had to endure to do the work I love, to live with passion and love. I once thought there was no net to catch me if I fell. I found instead that the falling was part of my path. I always seemed to land safely on my feet, with friends all over the world.

L.G.

My loving father is the reason I immigrated to the United States. He believed that no matter what profession I chose, being bilingual and speaking English, one of the most widely spoken languages in the world, would open doors and create opportunities that otherwise might never exist.

Forty years ago, I arrived in the United States with excitement, hope, and determination. My first goal was to improve my English, and once I did, I devoted myself to a career in teaching. It became more than a profession, it became my calling, allowing me to inspire others while building a fulfilling and successful life.

As I look back on this incredible journey, my heart is filled with gratitude for my father's vision, wisdom, and unwavering belief in me. His advice changed the course of my life, and every opportunity I have had is a testament to the gift he gave me. He was absolutely right, and I will be forever grateful.

VC