The beginning of my book…

Letters from USA is a story of a 20-year old immigrant coming to Chicago from Poland in 1984. Unfolding throughout the 80s, events take the reader through years of discovery and living the American dream.

Based on nearly 1000 letters written to Poland between 1984 and 1991, consisting of more than 2600 pages faithfully reporting her experiences in the American land, this book is an insightful depiction of the American life in the 80s. First impressions and events are presented through the eyes of the young immigrant, from learning her first words in English to completing her Master’s degree at Northwestern University.

She will take you on a journey through her experience of American life.

The First Steps
“You should publish these letters,” said Mr. Kowalski, my mom’s friend, in 1992.

“Mom, maybe I should look into doing something with these letters,” I said fifteen years later.

I found myself in 2009 remembering the conversation with my mom two years before. Reading the first letters written in 1984  brought back memories about my every step on the American dreamland.

…

A nice man next to me explained that there will be a noise when the airplane gear prepares for landing, so not to be afraid.

“In a short moment, I’ll meet my dad after over four years living apart. He is waiting at the Chicago airport for my arrival,” I thought with anticipation. Exhausted after more than a dozen hours of traveling, I continued to wonder about the unknown life ahead of me.

I remember a dream-like feeling caused by the mixture of tiredness, enormous airport with foreign signs all around, and my dad waiting for me with a bouquet of flowers. I hardly recall getting into a big car and arriving at my dad’s apartment. Greeted by many guests invited for my arrival party, it didn’t take me long to retrieve to my new, own bedroom. With $150 dollars received from the guests, I curled up for my first nap on the American land.

This first night, I learned about a tradition of giving gifts and money to newcomers for a good beginning, along with wishes for a happy and prosperous life here. I considered $150 a very good beginning.

Waking up at midnight wasn’t a surprise since it was 7 a.m. in Poland. This was my first experience of time difference and jet lag.

My dad was awake with only two guests remaining, one of whom was our roommate. He took me for a ride to a supermarket. What? The stores are opened aaa night? And on Saturdays and Sundays?  Entering the supermarket with never-ending rows and selections of any product imaginable, made my head spin with amazement. So many brands, types, and sizes. A simple action as choosing a shampoo was an impossible task for me. What happened to one brand, one type, one size, and hours of standing in line hoping the supply doesn’t run out when it’s finally my turn at the counter?

The first night was topped by driving a big American Pontiac dad bought for me. With sofa-size seats, the car seemed four times larger than the little Fiats I was used to in Poland. It only had a gas pedal and breaks, with no need to shift gears. Unimaginable. And how something this large could be driven using one finger? “Power steering,” my dad explained laughing.

The first weeks were spent exploring Chicago with its immense buildings, including the tallest 140-story Sears Tower. The buildings made me feel tiny, but there was a powerful and uplifting energy emanating everywhere. “The city lives and has a soul,” I thought. With my neck hurting from keeping my head up to check out the magnificence of each skyscraper, I kept bumping into people on the crowded downtown streets.

I remembered my eight-grade geography book with a black and white photo of two round buildings in Chicago. Since then I knew this was a very special place. Who else in the world would be so daring to build round skyscrapers? What I didn’t know then was that I would be able to take such a close look at them.

I felt at home in the Polish neighborhood. You really don’t need to know English anywhere around Milwaukee Avenue (or “Mealvaukee” as the Polish immigrants pronounce it). A multitude of Polish stores, stuffed with products I only dreamed of. Bookstores filled with publications impossible to buy in Poland, including dictionaries, encyclopedias, works by Sienkiewicz, and all other famous Polish poets and writers. Every magazine and newspaper published in Poland along with many published in America. Everyone was up to speed on happenings in the homeland, most likely more so than the people who actually lived there. 

Oranges, bananas, chocolate, ham, everything scarce in Poland was readily available here. No half-a-mile-long lines and no worries that the product is going to run out by the time it’s my turn to buy. The refrigerator was always filled with goodies, making the choice what to try next a very difficult task.

Choices, choices, and more abundance of choices. This was the first surprise this country presented. The second surprise was that everything was big, humongous, from cars and televisions to stores and homes. I could play soccer (or rather football) in my dad’s apartment. Every day, it felt as if I’ve made miles traveling between the living room and kitchen.

All experiences were so new, but the foreign land was welcoming every step of the way. Not knowing even a syllable in English, I was watching countless TV channels mesmerized. How could I have lived with two black and white channels and programming ending by 10 p.m. every day? How deprived I was watching movies from the Second World War packed with heroic actions of Polish soldiers fighting against the far-outnumbering German army. Here I had MTV with Madonna and Michael Jackson, in full color.