A single act of kindness throws out roots in all directions, and the roots spring up and make new trees.
~Amelia Earhart
My mom gave away every single toy I owned except for one doll. Then that doll was accidentally decapitated by my brother riding his bike.
“You will have plenty of dolls in America,” my mother assured me as she wiped away my tears. “The streets are paved with gold.”
Mom, my brother and I were emigrating to America. We had to pack lightly as if we were going on a visit because no one was allowed to leave our Eastern-European country permanently. I was too young to understand why the government wouldn’t allow my stepfather to go with us. “Mamko,” I asked again, “why can’t Daddy come with us?”
Mom answered again. “I told you, darling. It’s forbidden for citizens to travel out of the country.”
Imagine being told: “You can’t leave the country with your family.”
My brother and I were permitted to leave because Mom was a U.S. citizen.
We arrived at a New York City harbor, leaving behind an oppressive Communist regime. My first vision of the Statue of Liberty is still vivid in my mind. She stood at a distance, appearing so majestic. I’d heard about her from Mom. She symbolized liberty for all — an unequivocal contradiction of what we had left behind.
We observed the “Welcome to America” signs at the pier. The customs agent who checked our documents and passed us through echoed, “Welcome to America!” “Welcome” was the first word I learned in English.
“What does it mean?” I asked Mom.
I don’t remember her exact words, but I soon learned its true meaning by the actions of Americans. They are the most welcoming people on Earth.
My grandparents met us at the pier. Before we all crammed into the waiting vehicle, I took a moment to check the sidewalk. Then this innocent eight-year-old concluded sadly, “The streets are not paved with gold.”
We were moving into our grandparents’ modest home in Queens, New York. It was full of relatives and tenants. When we pulled up to the house, everyone was waiting outside, cheering, “Welcome home!” A lady from next door greeted us with a bowl of spaghetti and marinara sauce. Another neighbor brought a pot of matzo ball soup.
The tiny bedroom that Mom, my brother and I shared had a sign over the bed that my cousins had colored with red, white and blue crayons. It said: “Welcome to America.”
I attended school with my American cousin, Millie. Fortunately, she spoke my native language. Walking to school, we’d encounter people who greeted us warmly with a hello and a smile.
“Do you know them, Millie?” I’d ask.
“No,” she replied.
“Then why are they smiling at us?” I wondered out loud.
“They’re just being friendly. That’s what we do,” she explained.
But I was suspicious. That’s not what people did in my old country. There, people walked with heads bowed, avoiding eye contact, afraid of their own shadows. The government encouraged neighbors to turn in neighbors, and family members to turn in their own relatives, out of fear. People withdrew from each other. It was safer.
I wasn’t yet aware of the billions of dollars America donated each year to foreign aid or that the U.S. was always there to offer assistance to nations experiencing national disasters. As a little immigrant girl, I was only aware of how Americans treated me.
At school, the kids were so supportive.
“Let me help you with that lesson,” said a child who approached me the first day. At least, that’s what I thought he said. I didn’t understand the English language, but I inherently understood the unspoken language of kindness.
I think I must have seemed like a hungry puppy, staring longingly at my classmates’ lunches, when one little girl offered: “Want my sandwich? I’m not hungry.”
Was she kidding? Peanut butter and jelly on white bread! When you’re eight years old and you’ve never tasted peanut butter and jelly, there’s nothing better! The simple snacks American kids took for granted, I considered amazing. They certainly beat my mom’s day-old bread smeared with lard.
Mom went to work in a factory, sewing sleeping bags and bathing suits. She’d never sewn before, and it was the first job she ever had, but she never complained.
My clothes were hand-me-downs from Millie. Although we were the same age, I was four inches taller. The skirts were way too short, but Mom added colorful facing to the hems. When I grew some more, she added another row of facing. My long pants soon became Capri pants. Thank goodness I was as skinny as a rail, or the hand-me-downs would have been too tight and funny looking. Maybe they were funny looking, but I never knew.
No one had much in our new, lower-middle-class neighborhood in Queens. Maybe there wasn’t money for fancy clothes or luxuries, but no one ever starved, and everyone shared what they had. And they helped each other in any way they could. It was more than a neighborhood; it was family.
Still, from time to time, I’d recall my mother’s words, “The streets are paved with gold.” And once again I would examine the concrete on the sidewalk and wonder why she had said that.
At the age of ten, I started earning my own money by walking dogs and babysitting. One day, Mom dropped by my babysitting job carrying a platter of freshly baked kolaches. I was delighted, thinking they were for me.
“Oh, no, darling. You’ll have yours at home,” she explained. “This is for the family here. It’s time for us to give back.”
“Give back? What’s that?” I asked.
“It means that Americans have been so generous to us when we needed it, and now we hope to show our gratitude by returning the good deeds. You have to give back, too.”
“Me? But what can I give? I have nothing.” I didn’t understand.
And then it occurred to me that I didn’t have to give material things. Occasionally, I could walk the dogs and take care of some children pro bono. And so I did. It made me feel like a true American.
I’ll always be grateful for the blessings bestowed on my family in the early years. Nowadays, when newcomers arrive in our country, our church or our neighborhood, I strive to extend to them the same warm welcome we received upon coming to America.
Decades later, the little doll without a body rests in my jewelry box, among more expensive — but not as valuable — trinkets. It’s a constant reminder of how little material things mean if you don’t have the kindness of friends and family, the freedom and the good fortune to live in America.
Under the jewelry box where no one can see — but I know it’s there — is that simple sign of red, white and blue that our relatives placed over our bed when we arrived in this country. I don’t have to see it to know it says: “Welcome to America.”
No, the streets in America are not paved with gold. But they are paved with kindness and love.
~Eva Carter
