We are a nation of immigrants. We should never forget that.
That year was special, being our nation’s bicentennial. As July 4 rolled around that weekend, a few campers around us had some fireworks to shoot off, but it was an anemic display. Being away from the big city meant we were missing out on the huge 30-minute shows, especially that year. This made us kids a bit grumpy—after all, what’s the 4th of July without a giant fireworks display?
Lois would not be deterred; she managed to maintain the spirit of the holiday and was trying to get us to see the big picture. She was excited that our nation was 200 years old and was feeling it. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you guys. I’m feeling very patriotic! You don’t realize—this is a big deal.”
At the time, just crawling out of my teen years, I couldn’t do much more than roll my eyes at her. I took everything for granted—my freedom, my future, the idea that in America we could become anything we wanted to be. I couldn’t imagine an America where these things wouldn’t always be true.
My American story is a story of immigration. In 1870, my ancestor on my mother’s side, Jan Riske, escaped Poland and conscription into the Russian military, legally immigrating to America. He brought his young bride and a young cousin with him, and was one of the pioneers who helped settle the Dakota Territory, what would become North Dakota. My sister Mary Ellen Barton wrote an excellent historical fiction about their journey—the hardships they faced and their remarkable resilience.
On my father’s side, the immigration story is more murky. We know that my grandfather Joseph Budzeak came to America illegally, also from Poland. It was in the early 1900s, and the story we were told was that he was also escaping conscription into the Polish army and World War I. His desperate solution was to become a stowaway on a passenger ship to America. Catholic nuns helped hide him on the ship, surreptitiously providing him food and water until the ship entered port.
That book will probably never be written, as dramatic as the story sounds. We don’t know how he managed to board the ship without the captain’s permission or why he wasn’t on the ship’s manifest. We don’t know why he wasn’t discovered at port, why he wasn’t detained or sent back, or how he handled the inevitable health inspections. Details of his early life in America were never written down and most of his children (my aunts and uncles) are now gone.
But this is what I do know: it was a kinder, gentler America back then, especially toward immigrants. Maybe a century ago, America needed them as much as they needed a safe harbor. Whether these two men came over legally or illegally, both became productive members of society and established extensive families. I would not be here today if not for these men. I would not have attended UND if not for the work of these pioneers.
Today, we seem to have a different attitude toward immigrants, and it makes me terribly sad. We’ve forgotten where we came from. We’ve forgotten the enormous contributions immigrants have made to this country, and that we are richer for them.
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Now, I’ve got 50 years of lived experience between that teenage girl who was still in college, and the woman who is in semiretirement. As we celebrate our 250thanniversary, I think I understand the point my sister was trying to make all those years ago. I see how fragile our democracy is, and how our freedom is not guaranteed. Those of us who thought we had bright futures—for some it panned out and for some it did not. Harsh realities I could not even imagine at 18 years old have turned many of our worlds upside down.
My sister Lois passed away a few years ago and has missed this 250th anniversary. Her husband Ernie followed her just a few months ago. I wish I could tell them: “I was too young back then, but I finally get it!”
Happy 250th to us! Let’s not take anything for granted, shall we? Let’s fight to protect our freedoms, our way of life, our environment, our opportunities, and our role as protector of the downtrodden.
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I’m collecting immigration stories! If you have a unique story tied to your family coming to America—either a journey you made, your parents made, or your ancestors made—and you’d like to share it, I’d love to hear it! I’d like to compile these stories for a future blog post.
The story doesn’t have to have a certain kind of ending: happy, sad, or anything in between is all fair game. It just has to be true, and if you use real names for those who are still living, please get permission in advance.
Contact me and let’s chat! You can also forward this post to others who may want to share their story and they can contact me.
