Monday, February 15, 2010

Dhimitri Kuçi



It is 1917. You are a 22-year-old man named Dhimitri Kuçi. You were born in Vlonë, Albania, on February 15, 1895. When you were twelve you were sent to Italy to attend school. Now you are on your way to America to try to find your older brother. Someone took this photograph and put it on your passport.

Although you search, you will not be able to find your brother. Eventually you will settle down in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Seven years from now you will become a naturalized citizen of the United States and your name will change. Two years later, when you are 31 years old, a friend who runs a butcher shop will persuade you to return to Albania to marry his 19-year-old niece, Ksanthipi Rista, and bring her to the United States. Her widowed grandmother will come along on your honeymoon.

When you are 36, Ksanthipi will bear a son, who will be named after her uncle. When you are 40, she will also give you a daughter, whose godmother decides should have the same name as the wife of the President of the United States.

During the Great Depression, you will move your family to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. To support them, you will make and sell snow cones from a pushcart. During World War II, Ksanthipi will also become a naturalized citizen of the United States and her name will also change. You both will work in a defense plant for a while until you decide to open a restaurant outside a Marine base in Philadelphia. After the war ends you will move your family to North Carolina. Your son will graduate from college there and marry a North Carolina girl. Your daughter will graduate from nursing school.

When you are 66 years old, you and Ksanthipi will move to Orlando, Florida. Your daughter will marry a Texas fellow who joined the Air Force and was sent to McCoy Air Force Base. He will take your daughter to exotic places like Bellevue, Nebraska, and Poughkeepsie, New York, and Boca Raton, Florida, and Marietta, Georgia.

You will tend to the citrus trees in your backyard and every day you will walk around the block with Ksanthipi. Eventually your children will give you five grandchildren.

You will live to be 88, a ripe old age, and when you die you will be buried in what was once an orange grove. Three years later Ksanthipi will join you there. Eventually there will be six great-grandchildren.

But today you know nothing of this. It is 1917 and you are 22 years old and you are on your way to America.

Today -- the real today -- is the 115th anniversary of the day you were born.

Happy birthday, Pop!

12 comments:

Putz said...

essentially, this is the story of my grandpa ernest

Reamus said...

RWP,

Wonderful story. Thanks for sharing it.

A Lady's Life said...

How true!! :)
Happy Birthday Dad!:)

Putz said...

oh, happy birthday ole dad

Rosezilla said...

How lovely! The true stories are the best. Thank you.

Jim said...

That's a good story, RP. I am wondering if you remember him, and if so, how much?
I am glad his daughter visited Bellevue, Nebraska. That is about 50 miles south of my birthplace.
..
Also wanted to tell you that Dr. John died, today I believe.
Good-bye, Pastor Dr. John
Dr. John's Fortress blog
..

rhymeswithplague said...

Thank you, everyone, for your comments and for visiting my blog yet again.

I do remember him and very well indeed. I met him in 1961 and married his daughter in 1963. He died in 1983.

And thanks, Jim, for telling me about Dr. John (Dr. John Linna of Neenah, Wisconsin). I have left the following comment on his last post: "Like everyone else posting here, I will miss Dr. John so very much. His body may have 'waxed old like a garment,' but his spirit grew younger every day. In his Sunday postings, especially, he left a treasure for us all. He fought the good fight, he finished his course, he kept the faith."

Yorkshire Pudding said...

I love the way you wrote that Robert. The directness of the address gave the tale added poignancy. I guess that it is just one of a multitude of American immigrant stories that never usually get told. And obviously heartfelt.

Egghead said...

This was wonderful.

Katherine said...

Ahhh, lovely. Thank you.

Ruth Hull Chatlien said...

Oh, having read the story of Dhimitri earlier, I am so glad to see his photo.

All Consuming said...

I love the way you've written this, it's such a touching tribute to your dad.