In January of 1968, fifty years ago, brandishing a CR1 (conditional resident) visa, indicating marriage to a U.S. citizen, I legally entered the United States. I did not expect gold-plated sidewalks. However, I was ill prepared when I arrived in New York in the middle of a protracted garbage strike. First impressions do matter. I did not linger long, and proceeded to California, to my wife's home in San Carlos.
Immigration is not for the fainthearted. It does help to be a bit naïve. I left The Netherlands because I felt that the country had become provincial and somewhat narrow-minded. This perception had probably more to do with the country's size, population density, and the area in which I grew up, than with its culture. I arrived with a high school level English language proficiency, $300 in my pocket, and an offer of temporary lodging from my in-laws, people I had never met. While I focused on the promise of, ill defined and still intangible, future opportunities, I gradually began to realize that I had left my Dutch family and all my friends behind. I had moved from the relative comfort of a familiar environment for one presenting new challenges at every turn. My life in Holland had been fairly uncomplicated, and could potentially have become financially secure in a rapidly expanding family business. I surrendered the security of universal healthcare, and the cradle to grave protection of the Dutch welfare state. And I quickly found out that I had transitioned from being part of a relatively tolerant culture to being immersed into a more fractious one. Yet, I was fully convinced that I made the right decision, and I looked forward to showing the people back home that I had moved to the promised land.
Idealism transitioned into a challenging reality soon enough. Having served two years in the army in The Netherlands, a NATO partner, I was, by treaty, not obligated to serve in the U.S. military. However, I was required to register for the draft. A few weeks after I submitted my registration I received the news that the Draft Board, in its wisdom, had decided to give me a 1-A classification, meaning that I was "available for military service." The TET offensive in Vietnam kicked off January 31 that year, and, at the time, every week more than 500 U.S. service members were killed in action. Needless to say, I had to get this obvious error corrected, or catch the next flight back to where I had come from. I had no intention of becoming part of that statistic. Since I could not take care of this over the phone, I confronted the responsible clerk in San Francisco. She exhibited her ignorance when she admitted she could not find "Holland" on her list of NATO countries. I pointed at "The Netherlands," indicating that that was one and the same. I still remember her asking me if Denmark was the same as well.............
I also quickly found out that my limited vocabulary affected my self confidence. My father had admonished me that I did not need to get a car right away, that I should use public transportation. The reality on the ground dictated the need to acquire my own transportation, however, this meant getting a driver license. Passing a driver's test in Holland had always been very involved. I was uncertain that I really wanted to go through this over here, especially since my father-in-law had provided us with a car twice he size of anything I ever drove in Europe. After essentially memorizing a study guide, I took a deep breath, and walked into the DMV. They did not make me drive, and I aced the written test. Challenge overcome.
It took a while before my level of confidence improved appreciably. I reluctantly recognized that I needed to overcome obstacles native-born citizens were not confronted with. Finding work proved difficult. However, the more you interview, the more proficient you become. Sears finally hired me as a sporting goods salesman, and after circling the Admin Building at De Anza College several times, I finally got up the nerve to walk in to register for an English class - even though I felt offended when I was forced to take a remedial class instead of English 1-A. That decision initiated a life-long affection for the academic life.
And so it went.
In the mean time, 1968 developed into one of the most turbulent years of the 20th Century. The TET offensive changed the course of the Vietnam war. On March 16 U.S. troops from Charlie Company rampaged through My Lai, killing more than 500 Vietnamese civilians. On March 31 President Johnson withdrew from his bid to be re-nominated as a candidate for re-election. On April 4 Dr. Martin Luther King was assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee. Riots followed, and 46 people were killed. On June 5, in Los Angeles, Sirhan Sirhan assassinated Robert Kennedy, who was well on his way to become the Democratic Party's nominee for president. During the Democratic National Convention in Chicago in August, when Hubert Humphrey was nominated , violent demonstrations and street fights with Chicago police anchored the event in full view of the entire world. And in November that year Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew were elected to take over the White House.
Normally, these events would have prompted my European family to question my sanity, were it not that in Europe that year France, Italy, Northern Ireland, Czechoslovakia and other countries were also on fire. The world changed in 1968. It became a year of seismic social and political change across the globe. Buried in the midst of it all were the trials and tribulations that changed my life.
Over time I managed to eke out a career, and after some personal setbacks during the later seventies, I met and married a beautiful individual with whom I will celebrate a 38-year partnership in 2018. Fifty years later, I am more comfortable at home in my adopted country than in Holland. However, its history and culture will always remain part of my DNA.
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