The final assignment for “World History:  from 1500 to the present” is an oral history with an immigrant.  It is a scary assignment for most of the students; after all, the majority take that class in the first semester of their first year.  They were in high school only three months prior.  The most frightening part is having to find an immigrant and ask them about that aspect of their life.  I do not allow students to interview fellow students.  They have to find someone older and with more experience.  That makes the assignment nerve-wracking.  How do you go up to an “adult” and ask her to talk about such intimate and potentially traumatic time in her life?  The oral history is due at the end of the term, after we have reached the twentieth-century in the textbook, with its upheavals, wars, and drastic economic changes.  The students know the context for their subjects’ lives and what led them to leave the land of their birth and their communities behind.  When it is all done, students are truly glad they did the work.  They learn so much from listening to just one person’s story.  Their single story puts a human face to the texts they read and the news they hear or see in the media.  Migration is not a sound bite anymore; it is real people revealing the reasons why they left behind everything they knew and love to venture into the United States.  What you will read here is just a sampling.  The compilers of the stories are: Marelize Meyer, Madeline Haun, Riley Drummond, Collin Kopchik, Colin Jones, and Adam Mills.  All except for Adam are first year students. 

Professor Myrna Santiago
Saint Mary’s College of California

---

From Odessa to the United States

I was born on October 18, 1985, in Odessa, a city on the Black Sea in Ukraine.  My family is Ukrainian and of Russian descent. Most of my early memories are from daily life with my family. My parents both worked hard. My father was very loving and supportive. He was a policeman and now retired, and my mother stayed home to take care of us. I grew up with my older sister, who has always been one of the closest people in my life. My childhood felt ordinary in the best way. I went to school, I played some sports, and had friends. I learned Russian and Ukrainian at home, and later I picked up some Romanian, English, and German at school. I never imagined how important languages would become for my future.

Before I left Ukraine, my life was stable. I lived in a nice, pleasant, and small apartment with my husband. My family lived nearby, so it was very easy to see them often. After finishing school at university, I first worked as an assistant at the local college, and later I took a job at a shipping company doing accounting work. That was where I met my future husband. My husband and my sister eventually became professors. She taught at the local university, and he taught at the local college. I am proud of them both. Our life was predictable, which I appreciated. We had routines, gatherings, holidays, and the traditions that make up the culture I grew up with. Nothing felt fragile at the time, and I think that made the changes to come harder to accept.

Even before the war reached our region, there were signs of instability. Everyone talked about Russia’s aggression becoming more dangerous and even though Odessa wasn’t affected immediately, the way some eastern cities were, the tension was weighing over everything. When the war escalated in 2022, the feeling of uncertainty became more intense. I didn’t want to live under occupation, and I became more worried about my son. His safety was my priority and I knew his opportunities would be limited if we stayed. Many educated Ukrainians were already leaving because they didn’t see a future for their children at home. I understood why.

The hardest part was realizing I had to leave what I knew behind and without my husband. We had many conversations about it, but the truth is that I can’t fully describe how he felt. We both just knew it was necessary for our son, and that understanding helped us through the hardest part. Still, leaving my home, my husband, my parents, and my sister was very painful. I kept thinking about everything I was giving up, but I also reminded myself why I was doing it. My son didn’t speak Romanian, so even though my company could have transferred me, that wasn’t a real solution for him. I wanted him to have a real future, one not shaped by bombs or fear.

I arrived in the United States in June 2022. The exact day is a little blurry. There was so much happening. The journey didn’t feel real until I was halfway through it. I flew through a small airport in Romania, then had a very long layover in Germany, it was Munich to be exact, before boarding the eleven-hour flight to California. I was exhausted, terrified, and very unsure about my English. I had only my son with me, and every hour felt heavier because I was responsible for both of us. Waiting in the airports was very confusing, and at times very frightening, but I kept reminding myself that someone I trusted was waiting for us when we landed. We just had to get there. That thought helped me stay focused and hopeful.

When we finally arrived in the United States, I felt overwhelmed by the size of everything.

The roads, the noise, the spaces; it all felt huge compared to Europe. The United States is just so big! I have seen maps but I still can’t believe how large the country is. I also didn’t really understand how different the states could be culturally and politically. I learned what it meant to be conservative and liberal. I learned I was fortunate to be going to a state that was more accepting of immigrants. At the time I understood America was more welcoming of immigrants than other countries. I didn’t know California was known for being more welcoming too.

Everyone seemed friendly, especially seeing my young son with me, which helped very much, but I could not stop feeling unsure if I was understanding everything correctly. It was very hard to grasp the language completely and I felt that way almost all the time.

I remember I wanted to sleep for days, but life here began right away. The hardest adjustment was definitely the language barrier. Even though I knew some English, speaking it every day was stressful. I worried constantly about misunderstanding something important or making the wrong decision for my son because I didn’t know the right words. There are so many words in English that mean the same thing or can have another meaning entirely even when those words sounded similar and that has taken some time to understand. But my son adjusted very fast. He is 13 and thankfully smart. He likes the American customs, the food, and the safe community where we live. He made friends very quickly. He now speaks both Russian and English fluently, and he feels very at home here. We also met other Ukrainian and Bulgarian families through school and some County services. There is an organization called Project Second Chance and it helped us build a small but strong community, and that support has mattered more than I can say. It keeps me and my son connected to Ukrainian and Russian culture. It can be very comforting to me.

I stay in touch with my husband and the rest of my family through phone calls and voice messages. The time difference makes it difficult, but hearing their voices, especially my sister’s, keeps me steady. I listen to her and it helps me feel connected to the life I left behind.

Today, my life looks very different from what I imagined years ago. I work at a daycare center, which was not what my education originally prepared me for, but I find happiness in it. The children make me laugh, and the families have been kind. The owner has helped me very much. I also rent my home from her, and her support has made my transition easier. I have improved my English through work and working with a tutor I have with Project Second Chance. I think it’s funny to learn American expressions, like “easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” that don’t seem like real sayings, but when I said that one time that person understood what it meant and laughed that I knew it. Work and community have been so important to my life here. I know I am more fortunate than others. And I am thankful. But even with this stability, I still worry about deportation. My son and I are here under temporary protected status, and the future feels uncertain. I check updates online every day and throughout the day and talk to others in the same situation because I want to understand what might happen. My visa is up for renewal, and I don’t know what the next steps will be. That uncertainty is always on my mind.

What I want most is simple: I want to stop feeling like I’m in survival mode. I want a stable, peaceful life for my son. I want him to grow up safe, educated, and able to choose his own future. I hope one day we can all be together again, my husband, my parents, my sister, and me, but I know that may take time.

Leaving Ukraine has taught me that life can change without warning, but also that people can change in ways they didn’t know could be possible. I am not the same person I was before the war. I’ve learned to navigate fear, distance, and uncertainty. I’ve learned a new language, built a new life, and watched my son grow stronger because of everything we’ve been through. I am so proud of him. 

What I want others to understand is my situation was probably different from other immigrant stories. My husband’s best friend had immigrated with his wife to California many years before I came here. They helped me understand what to do about school and how to find healthcare. I was very lucky to live with them for a year until I got a stable job and found a place of my own. I learned so much from them. I look back and think about what I left behind: my home, career, family and my culture and it was so hard, but I know others had it worse. As immigrants we all carry a lot inside us that we don’t always show.

If l could offer one message, it would be to hopefully treat people with patience. You never know what they have survived, or how hard they’re trying to rebuild. My hope is that our future becomes a little more secure each year, and that someday I won’t have to worry about papers or borders. Until then, I will keep working, learning, and taking care of my son, because he is the reason I started this journey and the reason I keep going.

.

---

 Migration Story from Russia

 I was born on March 3, 1980, in Saint Petersburg, Russia. I entered the world just as the final curtain was coming down on the Soviet era, and I spent my entire youth navigating the chaotic, unpredictable aftermath, the true dawn of a new Russia. What defined those years wasn’t a clear political doctrine; it was a constant, relentless uncertainty. I suppose that feeling of deep, inescapable instability is the core reason I eventually decided to leave. 

My childhood was a study in contrasts. I remember the simple, enduring comforts, the taste of sunflower seeds bought on the street, the familiar rumble of the tram cars, the camaraderie of playing football after school in courtyards surrounded by old, solid buildings. But these moments of normal life were just windows in a house built on sand. Below the surface, the adults were terrified. As the old Soviet framework dissolved, hyperinflation devoured people’s life savings. Crime rose quickly, and basic things, like stable pensions, just disappeared. Even as a child, you absorb that fear. You can sense that the floor is about to fall out. 

My parents were tireless professionals, my mother a nurse, my father an electrician. They worked their full schedules, but in the late 1990s, their salaries were constantly devalued by inflation. It felt like running on a treadmill. You earned your wages, but before you could spend them on anything meaningful, their value had halved. I remember the financial strain being a constant, low, exhausting dread in our home. 

When I finished school, I decided to pursue computer science. My thinking was simple: technology was new; it was modern. Maybe it was a place where corruption and economic collapse couldn’t reach. I graduated in 2002, fully qualified, yet the job market was a broken landscape. I could only find piecemeal, low-wage work, repairing networks, setting up personal computers. I had a valuable degree, but I couldn’t secure the one thing that defined success: a predictable, stable career path. My life was not about moving forward; it was about surviving the current month. 

The decision to migrate was triggered not by a single financial crisis, but by witnessing the total collapse of the social contract. In 2006, I saw something in public that I can’t forget. Outside a busy area, a young man was violently attacked by several men, some of whom were clearly posing as police, because he refused to pay what everyone knew was “protection money.” The true, visceral shock was the crowd’s reaction. Total, absolute silence. No one moved. No one dared to call the real police, because they might be involved. In that moment, I realized the full, terrifying truth, you had zero institutional protection, and you had no communal support. Fear was the only thing governing public life. 

This realization, combined with the fact that several friends had already successfully moved to places like Canada and the UK, forced my hand. I wasn’t motivated by grand political ideals; I was motivated by an existential need for peace and stability. I needed a country where my effort would actually translate into a secure life. Leaving Russia became a necessity, the only way to exchange a chaotic, high-risk existence for a stable, growth-oriented one. 

In 2008, I submitted my application for a work visa to the U.S. I wasn’t running from persecution; I was running toward possibility. When the visa was approved in early 2009, I was stunned. It felt like an impossible lottery win. I arrived in the United States on September 12, 2009, landing at San Francisco International Airport. I had a single bag, six hundred dollars, and a fear so deep I couldn’t name it. My first language was Russian; my second was survival. 

That first year in America was a brutal lesson in humility. I worked crushing hours, cleaning offices, repairing electronics late into the night, just to cover the rent. Everything was unfamiliar: the language, the expectations, the way people interacted. I felt displaced and profoundly exhausted. But over time, through sheer persistence, I secured an IT support job, finally using my skills. The most significant shift I experienced wasn’t the external one of changing countries; it was the internal, psychological one. In Russia, my mind was always on guard. I was cautious, suspicious of authority, and constantly alert to danger. Here, I slowly, cautiously, began to let go of that burden. I was learning to trust institutions, something entirely foreign to my experience. 

The moment that perfectly illustrated this change was my first visit to the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV). I went in prepared for the inevitable bureaucratic snags and braced myself for the subtle, or not-so-subtle, demand for a bribe to speed things up. When the workers simply performed their duty and processed my paperwork efficiently and honestly, I was truly astonished. It was a tiny, mundane interaction, but it signalled a massive truth: the system was designed to serve, not to extort. This allowed the constant tension in my mind to finally dissipate. 

The culmination of my entire migration story arrived in 2016 when my son was born. Holding him, I understood the profound responsibility I now carried. My purpose shifted entirely from just securing my own life to ensuring his future was built on a foundation free from the instability and constant fear that had shaped my own childhood. Migration was not the end of my story; it was the essential tool I used to create a new, stable legacy for my family. I want him to inherit opportunity, not caution. 

My story isn’t about escaping a war zone. It’s about facing the broken realities of modern life, economic chaos, systemic corruption, and the feeling that your life’s efforts could be nullified by forces beyond your control. Leaving was not an act of betrayal. It was an act of profound, existential hope for stability. 

My identity did not shrink when I came here; it expanded. I remain Russian, I speak the language, I cook the food, and I miss my city’s beauty, but I am also someone who made a deliberate choice to build my future on stable ground. That single choice reshaped my life, my opportunities, and the entire trajectory of my family. 

If I could speak to my younger self, I would say this:

You are not abandoning home.

You are carrying home with you into a better future. 

.

Next two stories on Thursday