Discrimination

One of my childhood friends was a beautiful blue-eyed blond, Ana. She lived two doors down from my parents' one bedroom apartment. There were five people squeezed in a two bedroom apartment with a tiny bathroom and a kitchenette. She had the typical aspirations to become a famous actress and, despite every one's poverty, she dressed differently and used make-up, both luxuries neither she nor her family could afford. She was looking for some knight in shining armor to save her from poverty and she was determined to find him. Ever anxious to fulfill her dream, she ran off with the circus five times from the age of fourteen. She would either be with the trapeze artist, the lion tamer, or the circus clown. The police would bring her back every time she tried to run away. Not that she would get very far without a passport. Heartbroken and locked up on the concrete balcony, she would plot her next adventure. It had not donned on her yet that there was no escape from a communist country.

One day an elegant, handsome African man appeared in our neighborhood. He was hard to miss since nobody had ever seen a black man before. He was well spoken, knew Romanian quite well, and very polite. He paid a visit to Ana's family and the patriarch, Stan. We had no idea how she found this man, it was obvious, Max was her ticket out of Romania. He was one of the first students from Sudan at the newly established Petroleum Engineering School in our hometown of Ploiesti. After a very lengthy and tumultuous courtship, Ana and Max decided to get married. She was so desperate to escape, it did not bother her that her future husband-to-be was extremely jealous, flying in violent rages at the slightest provocation. She also had no clue what her life will be like as the wife of a rich Muslim who had an assortment of other wives. She did not realize that her total lack of obedience and rebelliousness to rules might come in the way of marital bliss. He courted and supported her for the entire length of his studies and, when he graduated, they got married in a very lavish wedding. Ana left for Sudan and we thought, we would never see or hear from her again. Six months later, she returned very ill, she could not tolerate the African desert heat, all the usual tropical diseases, and the harem rules. She almost died, and, when recovered, she divorced her Sudanese husband in a hotly contested split. They loved each other but she chose living in a communist country over certain death in Africa. Many other girls since then have taken Muslim husbands to escape poverty in Romania. Their babies have become a glaring example of the insidious Islmaic occupation of Europe. The Ottoman Turks have terrorized and ruled Europe by scimitar, extracting tribute in gold and grain from the locals for 500 years, in exchange for "peace." Christians eventually defeated them and pushed them back to Istanbul. Islam is now succeeding their conquest that started hundreds of years ago, without firing a shot, through demographics and generous European welfare that supports them financially.

We were born and raised to accept everybody, we were not divided by skin color and religion, the word discrimination was not part of our vocabulary, it was foreign to us. We deplored the apartheid in South Africa and we knew that our society would never treat people with different skin pigment so atrociously. The communist party tried in vain to teach us to hate Jews but we paid no attention. Our parents instilled a fear of gypsies into us, but it was not based on skin color, it was based on their frequent practice of kidnapping small children to raise them into their culture of theft - they needed fresh converts to make money for their nomadic tribes.

The government did no issue statistics based on race, we were all Romanians. There was always a fringe percentage mentioned, called the rroma because they refused to adhere to society, remained illiterate, and kept their nomadic ways. We recognized instinctively economic discrimination because we could see the elite ruling class living so much better than the rest of us, the proletariat. We knew gender discrimination existed because men were always paid better than women. Women were more pampered at work and took more time off with full pay. They had generous maternity leave, while men could only take off if really sick. There was no such thing as age discrimination, everyone was treated equally bad.

As soon as I became part of the American society, I realized that everything is compartmentalized by gender, race, tribe, age, handicap, religious preference, political preference, sexual preference, income, education, intelligence quotient, emotional quotient, beauty, weight, social status, fame, and athletic ability. Every textbook I've ever read used discrimination statistics to make certain points and constant comparisons as if we were in a race. I realized then the American obsession with discrimination. There was a real industry of victim hood, rights, and entitlements based on discrimination coming from the leftist academics, ACLU, NAACP, ACORN, NEA, the Southern Center for American Poverty, et al.

I encountered discrimination almost on a daily basis, especially living in the south where people did not have much exposure to foreigners, but I did not allow it to affect who I was and how I conducted my life. It was not a compliment to be told that I looked exotic. If I sun-bathed in summer time, people asked me if I was black. If I shopped with mom and we spoke Romanian, store clerks would follow us around as if we were shop-lifters. Some shop owners would go as far as asking us to leave because they did not welcome foreign customers. Colleagues from southern towns would tell me that I did not count if I was not seven generations from that area. Memberships to social clubs that raised money for good causes would be denied to me because "they just did not take anybody off the streets." The woman who said this to me was a high school drop-out. She had married into money, to a man who owned a boat dealership, therefore she felt entitled to discriminate because she saw herself as financially secure. If I asked female colleagues about the meaning of Greek sororities and fraternities, which were totally foreign to Europeans, I would be dismissed with, "you would not understand," she did not want to waste her time. In other words, I was too dumb to understand. If I asked pointed questions, I was told that this was not how women behaved in the south, they were submissive and kept their mouths shut. It was the men who made policy and financial decisions. If I applied for a job and I was among the front runners, a person of color or the wife of someone with connections would get the job. It was never based on education or ability as advertised. Affirmative Action was prevalent, not meritocracy. Mediocre students of sub-standard ability and employees would be chosen at various universities/companies over better qualified students/employees based on their ethnicity. The communist regime at least pretended to have written exams by all applicants for a job, and then, instead of hiring the person with the highest score, hired someone based on nepotism. Similarly, the college entrance exam, although very fair, allocated admission based on communist party nepotism in spite of lower exam scores.

Did I get discouraged in my new country? Did I feel discriminated against in America? Certainly, but I persevered, I did not sue, I did not complain. I got up, dusted off, and tried again, even harder. I never allowed myself to become a victim.

My first trip to the hospital

My husband and I drove to Tupelo in his grandfather's old beat up 1962 Chevrolet Impala. I learned how to drive in this car around the pastures on the farm in Woodland, terrorizing the stampeding cows. It was the color of puke green and the seats had seen better days, oozing rubber from every vinyl crack. It baked in the sun while Sterling went fishing. We were glad to have the old car, it was heavy, burned a quart of oil a week, but it always cranked and took us where we needed to go. I covered the seats with towels, to make it more comfortable to ride in. When we went to parties or church, people were too embarrassed to ride with us.

My in-laws had decided for me that I had to have my tonsils removed. I was scared to death since I've never been admitted to a hospital before and I did not know what to expect. I had heard horror stories under communist care and I saw the results of Romanian surgical skills hopping on crutches, deformed, maimed, or worse, in graves. I was frightened and I thought I was going to die.

I've always had issues with tonsil infections growing up. I was given so much Streptomycin, I am still surprised that I can see, hear, and smell. Moving to a totally different climate, a sub-tropical, extremely humid and hot, created challenges that my body was unable to fight off very well and exacerbated any symptom I've previously had. I was plagued by more infections and severe nose bleeds from allergies to plants and flowers unknown to my immune system.

Here we were going to Tupelo - I felt like going to the scaffold. I had asked my husband to buy me a meal at KFC, it was the only food that somewhat resembled the fried chicken I ate in Romania, and, if I was going to die, I wanted to have comfort food as my last meal. He refused, since surgical patients cannot eat and drink hours before surgery. Sam* was laughing all the way, having a good time at my expense.

We did have insurance, so they were going to kick us out of the hospital shortly after the procedure unless complications arose. Everything seemed like a luxury hotel. The friendliness of the admission personnel and staff in general was a sharp contrast to the insulting rudeness and carelessness of the Romanian medical corps. The bed was clean, comfortable, I did not have to bring my own sheets, I had my own room, nurses checked on me every so many minutes, the doctors were friendly, knowledgeable, did not reuse needles and bandages, I had my own bathroom in the room, I had a TV, and the walls had been freshly painted in a "cheerful" grey color. Even so, it beat the Romanian hospitals where layers of paint from World War II were still chipping everywhere, revealing water, rust, and blood stains. And the floor was a mosaic of dubious marks. Imagine that, a TV in my hospital room - I had to wait until twelfth grade in high school in order to have a black and white TV with two channels playing mostly communist propaganda. It was lunchtime, the aroma of cooked food was everywhere, and I thought, "great, they are bringing my last meal."

Slightly drowsy and feeling no pain, I thought I had died and went to heaven and I just did not know it yet. I gave my husband my last wishes before they put me to sleep, firmly believing that I would not wake up again as I was counting backwards from 10. I had written a good-bye letter to my parents. In typical independent young person fashion, I had not told them I was having surgery - I did not want them to worry unnecessarily - there was nothing they could have done since I was 8,000 miles away.

I woke up in the recovery room, fire in my throat, and I thought, "oh, I did not go to heaven, I must be in hell and it hurts so badly." There were some angelic faces in a bright light telling me to wake up, the surgery is over. I closed my eyes and wished it all to go away. I spied a beautiful bouquet of flowers next to my bed, sent by my friend Lois, and I really thought I had died. But every time I swallowed my saliva, a volcanic burn enveloped my throat. I asked for water and they brought me ice. I was shocked since I remembered my little cousin Rodica having the same surgery and being given hot tea. I was offered ice, ice cream, and slimy jello. Rodica was in misery for weeks, it was probably the hot tea causing her slow and painful recovery. I was pondering my demise from so much burning pain. Ice cream was truly a miraculous cure.

Romanians and Europeans in general have this fixation with cold drinks causing sore throats and stomach cramps. That is why everything served there is room temperature. Waiters give customers dirty looks if they ask for ice and bring demonstratively only a cube or two. A doctor performing a tonsillectomy there would never give ice or ice cream to a patient - not when I was growing up.

There were no complications and they sent me home the next day. I called my parents to tell them about my brief encounter with the American medical care. They were incredulous about my descriptions - they thought I was fantasizing and delirious from my surgery and describing an expensive hotel. Until my mom saw the inside of an American hospital with her own eyes, she never believed me. To this day, she says, American medicine is very advanced and futuristic, while socialized medical care standards in Romania are still fifty years behind.
*Not a real name

Cultural differences

As an 18 year old in Romania, it has never occurred to me that cultural differences can doom a marriage. As a typical naive teenager, I truly believed that people were the same, no matter what country they came from. We laughed, cried, experienced emotion, hurt, love, and enjoyed the simple pleasures in life the same way. What can cultural differences possibly do to one's relationship with another human being of the opposite sex? Quite a lot, I found out along the way.

For starters, growing up with freedom and taking it for granted, made enduring the indignities of living under a dictatorship quite unbearable. As an American, one can enter pretty much any official or government building. Not so under communism. I was shocked the first time I was allowed to enter a U.S. air force base and move about without ever being asked who I was or what I was doing there. We had clearance and business to enter. In Romania we were not even allowed within miles and miles of a military base, a sort of area 51, no man's land. If you dared approach the forbidden area, you did so at your own risk, you would be shot. Government buildings were off limits to its citizens, but particularly to foreigners. My American husband could not understand why he was not allowed to enter government buildings. His frustration grew and grew with every new rule and regulation he encountered that stifled his freedom to move about, to be who he was, a free man. He took out his frustration on the nearest person who was always beside him, me.

Traveling through Romania was a challenge and quite expensive. Every time we spent the night in a hotel, we had to reserve two rooms, one for me, and one for him. It was not that we were going to have company or lavish parties. We could ill-afford to pay for two rooms when we were going to use only one. The law dictated, since I was a Romanian citizen, although married, I could not spend the night in the same room in a hotel with my American husband, a foreign national. We had to present our passports each time and receive reservations separately. Interestingly, room rates were double what Romanians were paying. This put a strain on our daily serenity and our budget. One hotel in Mamaia at the Black Sea was across the street from the police precinct. We were envisioning what would happen when the police came to arrest us since I was not spending the night in my room but in his. Only under communist tyranny, from their desire to control every aspect of the citizens' lives, such strife and discomfort would be created between husband and wife.

Food was always a bone of contention in our marriage. I approached grocery shopping as a list of things I wanted to cook for the week. He shopped for food based on perceived basic needs. Having been a farmer's son, an abundance of food came from the fields, canning, farm animals, and other farmer's markets. Luxuries came from the store. I grew up as a city girl and our food was scarce most of the time. On every grocery trip, I picked up extras, as if next time the shelves would be empty. This angered my husband as he thought these groceries unnecessary lavish spending.

Saving money was sacrosanct and was decided by the husband - generations of Smiths* have done so quite successfully. Women were not perceived as smart or worthy of going to college. Leaving finance up to women was derisive and degrading to a man since it indicated loss of control over his family. We were really poor in Romania and, if we had extra money, we were hard-pressed to save it in the only existing bank, the National Bank, knowing that the government could step in at any time and confiscate our savings. Shortages of most basic things meant that each family kept a lot of cash on hand in order to spend it on short notice on perceived future needs, not necessarily current ones. Hoarding was encouraged and desired as it provided a safety net for the very real possibility of famine. Thus our opposing views on saving became a source of distress at times. Living for the moment to me, as a survival mechanism, was more important than living for a distant time in the future.

My orthodox religion and faith were considered heathen, only baptists were the real children of God. My mother-in-law expected us to re-marry in the baptist faith in order for our children to be recognized as legitimate heirs. This prospect gave me great pause since we had already married twice, once in a civil ceremony for the sake of the government and once in the orthodox church, for the sake of our family and our faith. A third marriage to the same man? Impossible. Did it cause a lot of problems? Certainly, in many ways, not the least of which was the baptism of our two daughters. We compromised, after all, my husband was a descendant of the McNeil* clan, and he chose the Church of Scotland - both became Presbyterians as babies. I fully expected them to change their religious status as they matured and chose for themselves. There was a strain in our marriage that I could cut with a scimitar worthy of the Gordian knot.

My parents emphasized education as a way out of misery, poverty, and dire circumstances. The Smiths* believed that a woman's place was in the kitchen, barefoot, and pregnant. Trying to pursue a doctorate put a strain on our marriage since my husband wanted me to wait until we raised our children, he finished his education, and we had enough money to pay for it in cash. I knew that time was of the essence and I could be a mom, a student, and a wife. I had youth and boundless energy on my side. I proved it - I finished three degrees in the time it took him to complete his bachelor's. I mothered my children and took care of the house quite well. I slept very little but I was determined to succeed and prove him wrong. The only casualty to my success was our marriage. I received my doctorate by the time I was 29 but the victory was bitter and Pyrrhic. My doctorate euphoria bubble was burst quickly when, my well-intentioned uncle Gelu, mom's oldest brother, God rest his soul, announced to my Romanian family that I had printed the graduation invitation and commencement announcement in my kitchen. I could not convince them that young people in a free America could actually pursue and obtain doctorates in any fields. Communists had made it so difficult that only old people were accepted into doctoral study and they had to have the approval of the communist party. Non-members were not allowed to apply. The president's wife, Elena Ceausescu, a woman with only elementary education to her name, in her delusional megalomania, had given herself a Ph.D. in Chemistry.

Child rearing was also vastly different in our two cultures. The Smiths* were strict disciplinarians and punished their children severely for minor offenses. I, on the other hand, rarely spanked my children. If I grounded them, I would soon forget and not follow through with the entire length of the grounding sentence. My husband took beatings from his dad with a belt and he understood that to be the only way to keep children compliant. I disagreed vehemently and forbade him to punish our small daughters in such a cruel way. As an only child, that was all my parents could afford to feed, I was cherished by my parents. Mike* thought such coddling would raise a spoiled, bratty child.

Our values in general were so different that I could not fathom why I had married him in the first place. He loved country life in the middle of nowhere, preferably a desert, with no noisy or nosey neighbors. I loved people, grew up in a bustling city that slept through curfews and lots of neighbors and loud kids. The thought of having to spend another day on a lonely, deserted farm brought me to tears and depression. Violent storms scared me to death, tornadoes and straight winds were a part of everyday southern life. Uprooted trees and totally demolished homes were unnatural and frightening to me. Creatures that I had not seen before became part of my nomenclature of dangerous animals to avoid - poisonous snakes, alligators, poisonous spiders and, the nuisance of them all, the huge cockroaches or Palmetto bugs. Stifling humid heat made everything feel like a hot oven - I could not breathe outside for several months until my blood adjusted and thinned. The misery index escalated with the soft water that was so soapy, it was impossible to rinse. I was grateful to have water all the time though, without interruptions from the government.

Dinners were strange and ritualistic, with the oldest male presiding over the meal and dishing out insults to women, foreigners, and pretty much anyone who was not Scottish. I am not sure the insults were intentional or malicious, it was just an accepted way of life. We ate with real sterling silver, a luxury which I found ludicrous and out of place. This was at a time when a complete silver setting cost as much as $3,000. No to mention that it had to be shined weekly. I was so happy to have plenty to eat that I would have used plastic cutlery or even my fingers all the time. Sometimes the favorite dogs from the twenty plus big mutts milling about the farm would circle the dinner table for scraps. I never owned dogs before and found this habit to be unsanitary - we kept dogs outside for protection not as pets. Food was very different in appearance and taste and my in-laws were very impatient with me - I was supposed to like everything overnight and not have any preferences whatsoever. To decline something to eat was a personal insult to them. I had an arduous road ahead of me if I was to survive in this culture, this family, and keep my identity and sanity.
* Not their real names

Daughters

Children are a whirlwind gift from God. My two daughters made me richer, happier, and more fulfilled in so many ways. They've been my life and my very reason to exist for 29 years. My blue-eyed Snow White beauty with curly tresses received the unique gift of a beautiful operatic voice and perfect pitch. My green-eyed brunette with angel kisses on her cheeks received the gift of a scientific mind and a soprano voice. Both learned to play instruments at an early age and were quite gifted with languages.

I am an only child and always yearned to have siblings. My parents told me that the stork was tired and too poor to fly to our house and drop a sister or a brother. I searched for years to find a stork that could bring siblings and plenty of food. My parents said that this particular stork took up residence in the Far East and was unable to fly back to us. How credulous and hopeful kids can be!

I never had to share toys or food. Food was scarce around our house and I could count toys on one hand with room to spare. There were not many material possessions to become selfish over or share. I suppose hoarding food to stave famine was a selfish expression. It happened in some families, within a thriving black market for hard cash.

Communist children, even an only child, were not often coddled or made to feel special. Hugs were rare, public display of affection was frowned upon, and parents did not usually say "I love you" to their children. Life was too hard and harsh to spend it on fluff. People hugged at funerals, at weddings, and, if they had not seen each other in a long time. Since people lived in the same town or village their entire lives, long-term separation was non-existent or unheard of. Three-year compulsory military service for boys created a vacuum in the family unit and a need for hugs upon their safe return and release from duty.

In recent times, as Romania became part of the European Union, the possibility of employment in Spain, Italy, and Great Britain, emptied villages and families, breaking up the tight-knit communities, and leaving children almost orphaned in the care of elderly grandparents, themselves in need of care and protection. The far-away parents, earning a decent income in other lands, left children feeling abandoned and bereft of parental togetherness. Some children could not cope with this form of abandonment and committed suicide, others tried unsuccessfully, crying for love and attention.

If there is anything positive to be said about communism, and there is scant little, is that it forced families to be close, very close, and stay together. Divorce was unheard of and seldom permitted. It took around six years of waiting on the disposition of a petition for divorce and often times the answer was NO. However, forced cohabitation of people who had psychological problems and irreconcilable differences gave rise to a lot of spousal abuse, child abuse, alcoholism, adultery, and even murder in the heat of argument or passion.

When I decided to marry Sam,* my parents were against it for a very simple reason - I would have to leave my home town and go so far away that they would never be able to see me again. Being a selfish teenager, I never gave it much thought how I and my parents would feel emotionally being suddenly torn apart and separated from our family unit that had been so close-knit for 18 years. Our entire universe revolved around a 20 mile radius, give or take a few miles, with one uncle living about 100 miles away.

I was too ignorant and young to give much thought to the vast cultural differences that would eventually lead to divorce as my husband and I had absolutely nothing in common. We were as different in our life experiences as night and day. Our only common denominator would be our two beautiful daughters.

I was always told to respect the opinions of our elders and parents in general, but, as a teenager, when it came to the affairs of the heart, I decided early on that I would not listen to my match-making grandmother or my parents. My mom had married my dad on advice from my grandfather although she was deeply in love with another man, much more educated than she was and Jewish. My grandfather objected because he felt that Niculina was much less educated than the man she loved and he would eventually lose interest in her for lack of intellectual equality. Additionally, he was Jewish and my mom was Romanian orthodox. Which religion would the children be raised into? A very important issue and tataia Christache was a very wise man. Grandpa felt that my dad was closer to mom's schooling and thus their marriage would be a happier one. As my mom still talks today about her first love, I believed my grandparent's criteria to be a false premise for marriage. I was not going to repeat mom's mistake. I did not want an arranged marriage, I wanted to marry someone I was in love with, whether he was my educational equal or not, and make my own mistakes, which I did. In retrospect, my granpa knew a lot more than I gave him credit for at times.

My marriage was a disaster and doomed from the very beginning, I was too proud and stubborn to admit it. Ignorance and stupidity in my choice exacerbated the problem. Neither Sam* nor I had dated much and married against our parents' wishes. His parents wanted Sam to marry the farmer's daughter next door so that their adjacent lands would someday make for a larger farm with more pastures and cattle. My parents wanted me to marry the Greco-Roman champion wrestler from our hometown. This young man worshipped the ground that I walked on and my daddy and his family greatly approved of a possible marital union. They just forgot to tell me.

Divorces were seldom sought or granted in our family but more casual in the west. As a matter of fact, I was the second person in a family of over 300 members to get a divorce. I was so ashamed of this statistic that I never disclosed the very sad truth to my daddy. He died thinking that his little girl was happily married and his son-in-law was taking care of her as promised.

I was not going to admit defeat, I was going to fight to keep us together at all costs. Mom knew the sad truth that I was abandoned with two very small children in a foreign country, to fend for all of us. She came to help me raise my two daughters and never left. In a way, she is a defector of heart because of her love for us, her daughter and two granddaughters. From our symbiotic relationship, mom received shelter, love, and care for thirty years, and my daughters had a second mom who was always home.

I took responsibility for a third person in my life; it was never easy since she never learned to speak English and could not function outside of home. But she enriched our lives and helped carry the linguistic tradition to my children. I hope they will never lose the ability to speak Romanian - it was mom who patiently opened up their horizons and encouraged them to be proud of their Dacian/Roman heritage.

The Spoiled Americans

I never fully understood the term "to be spoiled." To me the phrase had insidious negative connotations, a rotten food, not worthy of consuming, or a bad person on whom everything is lavished and wasted because they are so self-absorbed and egotistical.

Romanians thought spoiled ("rasfatat" is not really a direct translation) meant unconditional love and devotion to their children and protection from harm at any cost. It never had any connection to material possessions provided to a child. I remember the phrase used to designate an only child treasured by parents for his/her mere existence.

American "spoiled rotten," an idiomatic expression, eluded me as it did not exist in the Romanian language at the time. Perhaps it does now, 32 years after my departure. Language evolves and acquires neologisms and idiomatic expressions every 25 years and Romanian is no exception, it acquired a lot of English words that replaced perfectly good Romanian phrases. "Rasfatat stricat" would be a direct translation, however "stricat" can mean "not working" or, in vulgar vernacular, someone who is of ill-repute.

Do Americans really understand how fortunate they are to live in the best country in the world? Given the level of malcontent among young people, it seems that they are not aware of the standard of living in most countries or the level of misery they experience day by day just to survive.

As some of us recognize, U.S. is still the best country in the world to be poor and spoiled in. My family in Romania had no idea how unfortunate they were because the governing elites made sure they had no connection to the rest of the world. They were cut off from any outside influence except "Voice of America" and "Europa Libera" via short wave radio. My dad would sit huddled every night in front of his huge radio, the size of a dresser, trying to adjust the dial so that we could hear the words clearly, without any static interference. The commies went way out of their way to scramble the waves as much as possible but we were still able to receive some transmissions. We knew there was a better life and a better way in America, "the shining city on the hill." We wished to have a glimpse of this paradise someday and spoke in whispered tones about the wondrous life in such freedom. Dad used to say that he would kiss the ground if he could be there for one day before he died - he wanted to feel free.

Americans have slowly become a nation of entitlement seekers. Everything they do, from the time they are born until they die, is a right, an entitlement. They say with a straight, angry face and a loud voice, they are entitled to cradle to grave nanny state. They don't care who is going to pay for it, or where the money is coming from, they want it, and they want it now.

My own former students had grown more and more demanding over the years - they did not just want good grades for lack of effort and learning; showing up and paying their tuition in full were good reasons to get an A. As I was not accommodating such expectations, there were charges of bigotry and racism from time to time. Nothing came of them, as they were not true, but it was a waste of my time, the dean's time, or the president's time, depending on how far the student would go with his/her outrageous claims. Society would vilify and lawsuits would punish teachers who dared not comply with disingenuous demands.

I loved teaching and most of my students were good. It was a rewarding profession and I took pride in watching them become the leaders of today. But there were always bad apples in baskets of beautiful, fragrant ones.

I parked my car many times in full light to keep it from being vandalized; I was threatened by students, mothers with guns, or irate fathers over deserved grades; I had to deal with mentally disturbed students who had no business being in college much less among people, they belonged in a mental institution. I had students who had previously been in gangs, had tattoo markings, yet they had redeemed themselves; I loved touching their lives in a positive way. Who knew that I could have run for political office instead of being a teacher, it would have been much easier and it would have required less schooling!

It was human nature to be constantly dissatisfied with the current condition, but Americans took it to new heights and exaggerated the reality they experienced. This was true of liberals who vilified society and everything it stood for, negating all the accomplishments that America contributed to this planet. They were intent on re-creating America in their twisted image and drug-induced logic, apologizing for everything wrong America may have done, by destroying it bit by bit and installing an Utopian society that never existed or survived very long - an Utopian society they've read about in history books.

These were children who were encouraged to dream, were raised on the coddling of self-esteem as being paramount even though they may have failed miserably, children who were never told no to anything, and whose lives were shaped by money and protection from harm and disappointment at all costs. These were children who were given awards just for participating in an event or for not tripping across a stage.

Furthermore, the very young "progressives" who benefited from the "evil" capitalist system, were willing to destroy it in the name of social justice. This social justice, of course, was not meant in any way to include them. I didn't see any people in Hollywood giving away their entire wealth in the name of social justice. They just wanted to give away other people's money. What will happen when other people's money runs out? Whose money will be then confiscated? Did they not realize what "useful idiots" they were? What made actors in Hollywood such experts on socialism/Marxism or environmental science when they were mouthpieces who memorized lines for a living in front of a camera? Most of them were high school drop outs, never attended college, or dropped out after one semester.

Most of the participants in violent protests around the country were spoiled young liberals with a trust fund who never worked an honest day in their lives; they had all the time in the world to organize mayhem and disrupt society who had to work for a living. They were the perfect marionettes to be manipulated by a few very powerful men who wanted to control the world.

Would it not be divine providence and intervention if they were sent to live in the very countries they so admire and aspire to install in America? I am sure, they would change their tunes upon return and kiss the ground of this free country. It was this very freedom won with such loss of blood by many selfless, nameless, faceless Americans that gave them the license to spit upon the symbols they so despise. They truly are spoiled Americans who don't realize the depth of their ingratitude.

Living under Monarchy

Mom recounts what life was like under the rule of Kings: Carol II and Michael. She was a child and has vivid memories of the Princess Moruzi who ruled the fiefdom which included the ancestral village of Tirgsor.

Carol II (15 October/16 October 1893 – 4 April 1953) reigned as King of Romania from 8 June 1930 until 6 September 1940. Eldest son of Ferdinand I, King of Romania, and his wife, Queen Marie, a daughter of Prince Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh, the second eldest son of Queen Victoria. He was the first of the Romanian royal family who was baptized in the Orthodox rite.

Michael (born 25 October 1921) reigned as King of the Romanians from 20 July 1927 to 8 June 1930, and again from 6 September 1940, until forced to abdicate by the communists backed up by orders of Stalin to the Soviet armies of occupation on 30 December 1947. Beside being the current pretender to the throne of Romania, he is also a Prince of Hohenzollern. A great-great-grandson of Queen Victoria by both of his parents and a third cousin of Queen Elizabeth II, he is one of the last surviving heads of state from World War II.

Their home was castelul Peles in Sinaia. A historical monument, Peleş, inaugurated in 1883, is a Neo-Renaissance castle located in the Carpathian Mountains, in the county of Prahova, on an existing medieval route linking Transylvania and Wallachia, built between 1873 and 1914.

King Carol I (1839-1914) visited the region and future site of the castle in 1866, and fell in love with the rugged but magnificent mountain scenery. So, in 1872, a total of one thousand "pogoane", approx. 1,300 acres, was purchased by the King and Piatra Arsa region became The Royal Domain of Sinaia, destined to be a royal hunting preserve and summer retreat for the monarch. On August 22, 1873, the foundation for Peleş Castle, the city of Sinaia, and indeed for the country of Romania itself was established.

This princess owned most of the land and hired the villagers to plant and harvest the crops. The peasants were paid quite well. Each family received annual gifts of grain, vegetables, and fresh meat; they could hunt on the property free of charge; there was a village doctor paid by the princess to tend to the villagers' medical needs. Nobody starved, construction needs were met, banking needs were addressed, and a school was funded and staffed by the princess through the eighth grade.

When people passed away, Princess Moruzi paid for the funeral through an established fund to help the grieving family, the widow, and the children. Most received life-long pensions.

I asked mom how she would describe the overall feelings of the thousand or so families living in Tirgsor and she chose proud and content. Everybody labored to earn their keep and took pride in their lives and the feeling of belonging to a close-knit community. Weddings, baptisms, funerals, and holidays were occasions to celebrate life in a simple, pastoral setting.

Mom was born in 1932 and, as a teen, she remembers vividly when the Russians invaded their tranquil life in the name of "liberating" them from the Germans in 1945. Under the guise of liberation, the Russians pillaged their village, including the princess' personal belongings, furniture, art, until there was nothing left but the bare walls of her masion ("conac" in Romanian). Then they set it on fire. Princess Moruzi was forced to move to Bucharest with her daughter and died there of old age.

The Russians did not just steal everybody's valuables, they stole their hope. By the time the "liberators" returned to Mother Russia, all that was left in Tirgsor was the land which Romanian communists gladly confiscated in the name of wealth distribution (collectivization), and the Soviet Marxist ideology of enslavement.

Many villagers would have gladly stayed under the German occupation since they were treated so much better. The average Romanian citizen did not have any choice in their alliance with Hitler, the Prime Minister Antonescu dragged them into the war, but benefited from the kind treatment of the German garrisons during the occupation. There were many refineries surrounding Tirgsor and my hometown of Ploiesti. The Germans needed gasoline for their war machine. They would have occupied Romania with or without Antonescu's permission. This way, Antonescu was generously rewarded and so was the monarch.

The bells toll for Nicuta

Forty years ago, aunt Nicuta found a two month old baby discarded on a concrete slab at the farmer's market. It was late October, harvest time for grapes, apples, pears, quinces, and plums. She was swaddled in a dirty blanket that had seen better days. The stench of urine was overpowering - the cloth diapers must have been soaked. Nicuta asked about the baby's mother and an elderly man pointed to a young, pregnant peasant woman who was selling apples. She asked her gently about the name of the baby who was wailing pitifully - it had been crying for hours. It was very cold outside and she was very wet. The mother said she did not have a name yet, she was only two months old and she did not have time to name her, there were two others at home and one on the way. Nicuta approached her again and asked if she had considered adoption.

Aunt Nicuta could not have children of her own and longed to raise a baby. She and her husband Nicu were comfortable by Romanian standards, had a little house in the village, a small plot of land, a cow, a pig, chicken, a cat, a dog, and some money in the bank. She was a gifted weaver, made beautiful wool rugs and tapestries. She was certainly passed the age of caring for babies, but something tugged at her heart about this yet unnamed little girl. Nicuta felt that the child deserved a better life and she was just the woman to provide a happy home. She was told no but was undeterred.

She returned the second day to find the woman selling apples and ignoring the crying baby while tending to her stall of apples. She was oblivious to the needs of the child. She watched her for hours. The baby was never diapered, fed, or given milk the entire time. The tiny baby was so malnourished that her face was transparently ghostly white, with blue veins running across. Again, she was told no.

On the third day, Nicuta returned with a policeman and a representative of the local orphanage. Under communism, there were plenty orphanages for unwanted and abused children, as well as for those who truly did not have any parents or were abandoned because they were imperfect. My aunt, mom's oldest sister, wanted the baby to be taken to a proper home even though it might not have been hers. Questions were asked and the woman was invited to the police precinct the next day. Aunt Nicuta had to return home to Tirgsor that day. She was happy that she could help a neglected child. She left her address in case the police wanted to ask more questions.

She went home but the image of the baby was burned into her brain and could not sleep well the following nights. She told us about it, she wished she could have taken her home. She stopped talking about the incident but it remained in the back of her mind. She could not shake the feeling that she should have done more.

Two weeks later, a village policeman knocked on the door and told her that the baby she saw in Transylvania at the farmer's market was now under the custody of the state, and, if she was interested, she could apply for adoption. The mother had willingly given the baby up to the orphanage since she was overwhelmed and unable to care for it emotionally and financially. Aunt Nicuta could not say "yes" fast enough.

An attorney drew up the paperwork and before the ink was even dry, uncle Nicu and aunt Nicuta were back on the train on their way to Transylvania, to claim the baby from the orphanage. She was reunited with a slightly warmer baby but still very much underweight and malnourished. She had brought beautiful embroidered little hats, clothes, and blankets that she had sewn with her own hands years ago in expectation of a pregnancy of her own. The little baby was lost in so much lace and wild eyed from all the sudden attention, cuddling and forehead kissing. They named her Monica before they left the orphanage. She was to be baptized in two months when her overall health and weight had improved. A government worker was to supervise her mothering skills every day for the next six months to ensure the welfare of the child. The visits were impromptu and quite disruptive to their lives.

Monica grew up like a little princess, the apple of her parents eyes. She was sent to dental school and became a dental prosthesis technician. She married and had her own two children. She never searched for her biological mother, she always said Nicuta was her mom. Her siblings, after extensive search, found her recently, but, aside from meeting them, she had no interest to pursue a familial bond. She was totally devoted to her adoptive mom and dad. Nicu died a few years ago, he was partially deaf and blind but Monica and her husband took care of him until the end. He was the gentlest man I have ever met.

Two weeks ago, Nicuta, now 84 years old, with limited mobility from arthritis but otherwise healthy, was placed outside in the sun by her nurse who promised to return in 45 minutes to take her back into the house. Four and half hours later, when the nurse finally returned, without water and shade, my loving aunt had died of sun stroke. She had tried to get her walker which was leaning against the wall, but it was too far for her to reach. There was nobody around to ask for help, Monica and her husband were at work. She died in agony, alone.

The church bells toll for the beautiful life of Nicuta who died from socialized medicine nursing care neglect and abuse. Will the nurse be punished? No, human life has no value under socialized medicine. She was worth everything to us, her family, and especially to her loving and devoted daughter, Monica.