06/10/2025
My mother came to the U.S. when she was just 17. She arrived with her parents, but she didn’t stay with them long. My grandfather didn’t like it here. He took my grandmother back to Poland and left my mom behind. Alone.
She built her life here, but it was hard for her. One of her brothers died when I was seven. She never got to see him again after she left. Her other two brothers visited a few times over the years. My grandfather did too. But her mother, my grandmother, became too frail to travel. For 12 long years, they didn’t see each other.
I remember playing a record when I was young. There was one song, “List Do Matki” (“Letter to My Mother”), that made her sob. I didn’t understand it then. I didn't realize how hard it was to not be able to see your mother whenever you wanted. I just knew to skip that song when I listened to that record.
She lost her last brother last week. And she couldn’t go back to say goodbye.
This is what immigration really looks like. It’s not just visas and forms. It’s not just finding a job or making a new life. It’s sitting in a room on the other side of the world while your family gathers for a funeral you can’t attend. It’s missing the last hug. The final goodbye.
This is why I do this work. Immigrants are people, not “illegals” or something to be used to advance a political agenda. They are people who still cry when they miss their mother.
