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title: Boo medium: pencil on paper

Standing at the gate of the American Embassy in Warsaw in the line of tourists who desperately wanted to visit United States of America, I raised my eyes as though asking someone from above for help. Don't reject me, please! My tacit request seemed to work because a few hours later I left the Embassy with a broad smile on my face and a blue and red stamp in my passport. The stamp was a ticket to the world. I'd made a first step to freedom and in my opinion to a better life. But the excitement was shadowed by a lot of unanswered questions: How would it be? Would I be able to manage? How would I cross the language barrier? The air of freedom which filled my lungs as I stepped down from the plane at the Kennedy Airport didn't differ from the air I had inhaled back in Poland. My answer,  "No," said in perfect English, impressed the custom officer who had asked whether I brought any kielbasa with me. The door to paradise stood wide open, and I was glad to get an answer to at least one

After a few disorganized days and sleepless nights during which I was in two minds -- whether to go back to Poland or to stay here -- I decided to take the bull by the horns. After all, this was a country of an opportunity for everyone. There were a lot of people who had come here the same I'd come, and they were still here. I could try to do the same.

First on my list of things to do was to improve my English to the point that would allow me to communicate with people without someone else's help. After a few days of intensive study, I was ready to check where I was standing in that matter.

"Help Wanted" signs displayed in windows of various stores cheered me up. The job market was huge, and it shouldn't be any problem in finding livelihood, I thought. As a visitor I wasn't allowed to work but at the same time I had to do something to make my tomorrow better than yesterday. Some of the business managers weren't convinced about my ability to do what they expected but my persistence in finding anything landed me a job at two stores. At last I was making some money.

At one store I was paid $2.18 an hour and at the other $3.25 an hour. It wasn't much but it seemed to be enough to pay the rent and to fill up my stomach. I didn't have any qualms of conscience because I'd taken a job on a tourist visa. There were others who'd done the same. People hired me because of two reasons -- either they weren't able to find an American to do the job or the paycheck was too small for the American. So, I didn't steal anybody's job. On the contrary, I tried to help the American to do his job and taking money for what I was doing only made me feel better. It convinced me that I wasn't a burden to the public and what's more that I was worth something.

A dream about a brighter future almost came true but there was something that was hanging over my head. That something was a new law issued by the US government which made my life miserable. According to the law I was a potential candidate for deportation and my employer could be fined for hiring an illegal alien. There had to be a solution. After all, America was a country of immigrants and everybody came here from somewhere else. 

At one point my employer expressed his willingness to ease my worries and decided to sponsor me. After a few telephone conversations, he approached me with news that completely confused me.

"I can't sponsor you because you don't have a Social Security No.," he sounded mysterious.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"You have to pay taxes," his explanation confused me completely. "Without that number you are not allowed to work here, and I can't hire you. I am sorry."

After that conversation, my dream about a brighter future collapsed, and although I didn't know exactly what he was talking about, one thing was clear to me - I WAS IN BIG TROUBLE. I also didn't understand how come other people like me worked  and I couldn't. Did they all have numbers? My investigation in that matter led me to the conclusion that I had to buy a number.  One hundred twenty dollars was the price for a rectangular piece of paper which bore my name and a long number below it, but despite of having what I had to have, I felt uncomfortable. It is said that money can buy anything, but I still wasn't able to buy myself peace of mind. Something wasn't right. I came to the conclusion that it would be better for me to solve the problem some other way. I found an organization which was helping people like me to settle in this country. After a long conversation with the manager of that office, I got a job with a promise from the

. title: Solerno medium: acrilic on canvas .

"I won't throw you out on the street," she said trying to cheer me up. "You may stay here until we find something else for you." Looking at my reflection in the mirror later that day, I found a few gray hairs on my head and deeper than usual wrinkles on my forehead. I'd lost a job and a roof over my head in New York, and now, although not on the street, I had again lost a job on Long Island.

A signature on the sponsorship papers meant so much to me that every time we talked I tried to switch our conversation to that subject. But either they didn't know what I was talking about or they pretended not to understand my point. When the eighty six year old lady I'd worked for on Long Island called one day and said that she needed me back and that she would sign any papers, I didn't think twice. 

One month of humiliation and intimidation was enough for me, and when I noticed her reluctance in fulfilling her promise to sign sponsorship papers, I decided to look for another job. What I didn't know was that the old lady found a particular pleasure in playing with other people's feelings. It appeared that I wasn't the only one whom she hired, fired, and rehired. It seemed that to her people were like gloves - she would change them anytime she wanted without a blink of an eye and in accordance with the mood she was in.

The couple whom I'd left so abruptly in order to return to the Long Island job expressed their willingness to take me back. It made me think that either they weren't able to find anybody to replace me or they liked my performance of duty. Whatever the reason was, I took the opportunity to go back to them. But this time I decided not to talk about a sponsorship leaving the idea to unfold byitself. Two months later my heart jumped with joy. 

"We would like to help you with your legal status in this country, so we will sign any papers you need," my employers told me.

"Thank you very much," I almost exploded with happiness. "I don't know too much about the procedure of sponsorship, so I think I would have to find a lawyer."

"My husband is a lawyer. He will be able to help you," the wife said proudly. "Would you, darling?" she turned towards her husband who nodded yes.

"That's great! What shall I do first?" I asked. 

"I don't know," said the lawyer. "Ask your friends how they did it."

"It costs five thousand dollars and it would take about five years," a lawyer in New York City said.

For consultation in connection with immigration matter involving visa status in US I owed the lawyer $70.00. If I was born again I would become a lawyer Working at the store in Brooklyn I was making t$2.18 an hour. That was roughly thirty two times less than what I had to pay for ten minutes of my lawyer's time. My ignorance appeared to be very expensive, but the train was already rolling and I was a passenger on it.

I called my lawyer the lawyer and told him to begin the immigration procedure. A large envelope arrived two weeks later containing an application for alien employment certification. Filling out those forms I was rubbing my hands with pleasure - at last I had someone who knew what to do and how to make me feel better. My feelings changed drastically the very next day after I opened another envelope from my lawyer. For consultation, preparation and general work in connection with application for alien labor certification I owed my lawyer $1500.00. This time I didn't find any pleasure in rubbing my hands. The fee was huge and I didn't understand what kind of consultation he'd hadand with whom he'd had it. All I had received from him were three blank forms which I had to fill out with the information about myself.  "The fee is so high because of opening your case," was the lawyer's explanation when I called him. "The next fees should be less painful," he assured me. "By the way, I am sorry I can't proceed with your case, so I passed it to my associate, and you'll deal with her from now on."

. title: Jumping Horse medium: acrilic on canvas .

I felt as if I was a ping pong ball, but at least I was in good hands, I thought. If my lawyer knew what to do, he knew what he was doing passing my case to his associate. It seemed like my situation wasn't so difficult after all if anybody from the lawyer's office could take care
of it.

Another large envelope arrived a few days later. Inside were a couple of official forms that had to be signed by me and my employer. There was also a sample of a letter that my employers should send to the Labor Department explaining why they needed me as live-in domestic help. We also had to place an ad in the local paper which would say that they were looking for help.

The idea of the ad in the paper scared me to death. What would happen to me if the caller was the perfect candidate for the position I was applying for? Would I be fired? Would I have to start everything from scratch again? The ad had to run for three days, and those three days were the longest days in my life.  For consultation, preparation, research, and general work in connection with immigration matters, I owed the associate $1300.00.

One of my many duties surrounding my current employment was answering the telephone and taking messages. It was a chance to improve my secretarial skills and at the same time a chance to talk to other people and improve my English. The three days during which we were expecting calls from potential candidates for my position were nerve racking.

The first call came on the first day of the appearance of the ad in the paper. Usually it was me who picked up the receiver, but that day my boss was sitting at the phone. When it rang he jumped on his feet and nervously looked at his wife.

"You pick up," he said.

"No, you pick up," she responded.

"No, you're better on the phone than I am," praising her ability to talk to people.

"Well, what shall we do?" She turned to me while the telephone was ringing continuously. "What shall I say if somebody is calling about the job?" she spread her arms in desperation."

"Ask that person for a telephone number and say that you will call her or him back," I made a suggestion. My experience had taught me that. Whenever I'd looked for a job I always was asked for my phone number with a promise that I would be called back, but it never happened. After a while, it was clear to me that asking for a phone number was a polite way to say I don't need you.

"You pick up," the lady of the house said to me. "Maybe it is not about the job. Maybe our friend is calling."

After I answered the phone, the person on the other end of the line was asked about the ad in the paper. "Hold on, please," I said and handed the receiver to my boss. "It's for you."

He listened for a while and then said, "Well, you sound very good, but we have other people calling, so could you leave your telephone number and we will call you back.' Then abruptly he said, "Hello! Hello!," and returned the receiver back to the phone.

"What happened?" his wife asked. 

"He hung up on me!" he exclaimed.