I am a first-generation Macedonian born in the United States (Beaumont Hospital in Dearborn, Michigan to be exact), though I am certainly not the first Macedonian who wanted to stay in America. That credit belongs to my grandfather, Dedo Jordan, who came to Detroit via Montreal in 1925 when he was 16 years old. He loved speaking English and had no intention of returning to his homeland. Various circumstances led him to Pennsylvania, where he worked until 1930 when he received a letter from his father back in village Podmocani, asking him to return home to care for the family’s property. This responsibility would generally fall with his older brother, though Boris was out wandering, nowhere to be found.
Upon arrival Jordan emptied his steamer trunk and traded his dollars for gold coins called Napolianki, the only currency of the time besides barter and trade. Cash was just paper and money exchanges non-existent in this rural country, particularly Podmocani, smaller even than Los Alamos.
With his earnings, Jordan expanded his land holdings and purchased his legendary white horse before he rode into Evla, a neighboring village a half-day away where his sister Lola lived. He aimed to find a bride.
The telephone did not arrive to this region until the late 1970s, though news traveled at high-speed about the handsome bachelor, called beker in Macedonian, recently returned from America. As he rode the cobblestones into the village, Mila stood by the central water fountain, dressed in her best noshnia, her colorful kercheif properly place over her hair. She was casually waiting with the rest of the eligible girls. They all just happened to be fetching water that very same day. In a remarkable moment of bluster, Mila tenderly pushed back her kerchief partially revealing her face and hair. Jordan noticed. They were married soon thereafter.
My father, Kalia, is the youngest of their children, who by another set of unique circumstances arrived in Detroit in the late 1960s at the age of 18 to work alongside his uncle in the garment business. Soon, he met his bride, Dobrila, also 18. She had arrived from Macedonia that same year with her family via ocean liner. They danced on New Year’s Eve and were married February 22. I am their first born.
As newlyweds and young immigrants, they always imagined, unlike Jordan, they would return to Macedonia. Work hard, save money, create a new life. They didn’t. When you revisit your birthplace, that system is now foreign against your new experiences. You are stuck in a purgatory, being pulled back while moving forward. It’s impossible to relive the wistful spaces in your memory. They vanished. You don’t quite fit in anywhere anymore. I have asked my parents to share their experiences in our speaker series several times, only to be brushed away and met with the words, “Please don’t embarrass us.” This burns me to hear this.
My heart bursts with immense pride for my parents’ heroism. They created a vibrant, thriving life amidst the ridiculous challenges of rebuilding everything they had ever known, and could never have imagined, in a new country, without language skills, carrying burdens and hollow pockets. This is a testament to their will, to their community, and to the abundant welcoming nature of so many Americans. Their reflex in not wanting to talk about it in public still today, after more than 50 years in the U.S., is a testament to the overwhelming ignorance of other Americans who remain boorish to the gorgeousness beyond their realm. They are the ones who miss out, trapped inside a small dark box of self-inflicted blindness. The immigrants are the ones who get the prize. Against all odds they made it, though oftentimes amidst their heartbreak, fatigue and rejection, they can’t see it either.
I am proof of my parent’s improbable will and impossible choices. I could never achieve what they have accomplished even if I had three lifetimes. I am a product of their selflessness and their assimilation to the American dream. The dream is real people. It is earned. And its sacrifice is incalculable. To make wine without history in a small hamlet similar to where my family grew up is to welcome the outside in and the inside out. We’ve become something new and fresh. We are 100% Macedonian. We are 100% American. Here’s to the 200%. Now raise a glass and share your story. We all have one. I’m just getting started.