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Our changing face
10:41 PM CDT on Saturday, October 22, 2005
By ISABEL MORALES / Al Dia FARMER'S BRANCH -- Ana Dithurbide bought a house in this city more that five months ago. It was a tough decision, but the 36-year-old Argentinean, hoping to become a legal U.S. resident, decided to take the plunge. But even though she has enjoyed her new place, she is concerned about the complicated residency process and is afraid that after her visa extension expires in a couple of years, she may have to go back to her native Argentina. "I don't make long-term plans in this country, because as a foreigner and minority I don't know what is going to happen in the future," she said. In 1999, with her five-year savings from working as a public relations officer in Argentina, Ms. Dithurbide paid her airplane ticket and tuition at the University of Dallas. She was ready to make her life's dream come true -- to study for her master's in the United States. Arriving in Dallas in January of that year, the only thing she knew of the city was the picture of the university she saw on the Internet. "It was very difficult to adapt and make new friends," she said, adding that she comes from a family of 13 siblings who are very close and gathered every Sunday. But her wish to study was strong and she was able to overcome the solitude that came with a new city, new language, different landscape, different food and culture. If not for new friends, who are like family here, she would have gone back home, Ms. Dithurbide said. "This is the country of opportunities and we are one in a million who have the chance and the psychological capacity to be here, so while you are here you have to take advantage of it," she said. It wasn't easy finding a job after she graduated in July 2000. Her student visa allowed her to stay in the country one more year. But time went by very quickly, and after eight months of sending resumes and interviewing she had not been able to find a job. Then in February 2001, she saw a posting on the Internet for a position at Citi Group in Irving. Ms. Dithurbide got the position and after four years of hard work, she is now the marketing director of American Health and Life Insurance Company, a Citi Bank branch. She says if she were offered another job with a higher salary but far from Dallas, she wouldn't go. "The most important thing to me is love, friends and family; I don't want to start again from scratch; I don't want to be alone. If I have to leave this country, I'll go to Argentina, not to any other place." By KRYSTLE FERNANDEZ / The Dallas Morning News One look at all the automobiles in his Dallas shop, hoods popped, parts displayed, and Santiago Molina is reminded that he is a long way from his former life of poverty in El Salvador. For Mr. Molina, 39, coming to America at 16 wasn't easy. Striking out from his hometown of Canton Hualindo, he came without friends or family, spoke no English and hoped only not to be caught as he made his way through Guatemala, Mexico and across the Texas border. He spent about a year picking fruits and vegetables in Palestine, trying to stay away from some of the other workers who he believes may have been selling drugs. It wasn't long before he returned to El Salvador, unhappy and uncertain about what he wanted to do. "I didn't like it at first because I didn't know anybody here," Mr. Molina said of his first trip to America. But he decided to come back in 1984, this time for good. He moved in with one of his uncles in Dallas who, at first, didn't let him go to school. "He said, 'You came here to work, not to go to school,'" Mr. Molina said. He eventually learned to do both, working two part-time jobs and attending MacArthur High School and North Lake College in Irving at the same time. After four years of study, he went on to get a certificate in computer technology at Infotech in Arlington. But it was his job as a bartender and waiter at the Dallas Fort Worth Hilton that he really enjoyed, until a serious back injury took him off his feet. That's when he stumbled into repairing cars, something he knew nothing about. "All we have in El Salvador is donkeys," Mr. Molina said. "I had no idea what parts were on a car or what the parts were called." Mr. Molina and a friend started buying cars for cheap at auctions, repairing and selling them. It was learning by experimenting, Mr. Molina said, as he began to discover the world beneath the hoods of the cars. Now repairing cars has become a passion, Mr. Molina said. He opened up his own automotive shop in 2001, S&L Automotive. The S -- for himself, the L -- for his mother, Luna. "It's because she suffered too much," Mr. Molina said of his decision to use his mother's name. Business is good, and he works long hours because there's so much to do. Mr. Molina became a citizen in 1991, and said he is quite happy here with his wife of 16 years, Maria, and their two daughters, ages 13 and 14. "I don't want my daughters to go through what I went through," he said. "I hope they become very well educated, because I can't give them anything else." By ERNESTO LONDOÑO / Al Dia The thought of working with AIDS patients initially terrified Karla Soto. "Am I going to be safe going to these home visits," the 23-year-old case manager wondered when she was considering taking the job at AIDS Arms, a Dallas agency that supports people living with HIV. "I thought the worst of these people at first." Her fears were unfounded. One year into the job, Ms. Soto, who was born in Juárez, is excelling. She works long hours to keep her 45 clients -- most of whom are Hispanic women -- healthy, comfortable and in good spirits. But the task can be grueling. Some clients don't seem to want to be helped. Others are extremely ill by the time they are diagnosed and assigned to a case manager. There are those who struggle with the simplest tasks, like figuring out the bus system. And some are lonely, isolated by the stigma of living with HIV and their inability to speak English. For Hispanic women, Ms. Soto said, living with HIV can be particularly difficult. "Most of my women are just terrified about what other people might think if they found out," she said. For some clients, she has become their only sounding board. "Sometimes all they need is someone who will listen. They just want to talk." Social workers with Ms. Soto's skills and work ethic are not easy to recruit, said Fernie Sanchez, who is in charge of intake of new patients at AIDS Arms. "There's a shortage of Latinos willing to go into the social services field," Mr. Sanchez said. "They're a rare commodity here. When we come across people like Karla, who not only has the language skills, but the passion, we jump on it." Ms. Soto and her family lived in Juárez and El Paso when she was a child. She moved to North Texas about a year ago shortly after earning a psychology degree at the University of Texas in El Paso. Job prospects in Dallas were more appealing. "I like the big city feel," said Ms. Soto, who shares an apartment in Mesquite with two roommates. As she drives home at night, Ms. Soto sometimes struggles to tune out some of the bleaker moments of her day. "Before I got here, I thought I had problems," she said. But the job is rewarding. And she finds it more exciting than what most of her college classmates are up to these days. "It's pathetic," she said, rolling her eyes. "They're all married with kids." By GRETEL C. KOVACH / The Dallas Morning News Fifteen years after leaving Russia, Nadia Aronovich's tongue still betrays her, stumbling over familiar English words. Ms. Aronovich, 45, was once waiting tables at an IHOP in Houston when a startled cowboy inquired about her accent. "Oh my gosh, the Russians are here," he told his wife. "Don't worry," she reassured her customers. "I'm a good one." Now that she's mastered the difference between chicken-fried steak and chicken-fried chicken, life in America is good. She finds the openness of Southern culture so different from her Soviet upbringing but so welcoming. "I met only nice people in the United States. Everyone helped me," she said. Ms. Aronovich, who moved to Irving in March, is assistant manager of the Headliner Diner, which Eurest Dining Services operates at The Dallas Morning News. She waits tables at night at a Cheddar's restaurant. Her son Dmitry, 25, a former U.S. sailor, lives in Houston and is about to become a father. Her daughter Anna, 19, plays volleyball at the University of Texas at Dallas and thinks her mother's accent is "cool." "We always wanted to get a better life for our kids, and that's what we got," said Ms. Aronovich, whose daughter joined her for lunch at The Russian Room in Richardson. "We are very happy here." Her family was Orthodox Christian. But she knew when she married her husband, Vladimir, that he wanted to leave Russia to escape discrimination against his Jewish faith. After waiting a decade, the Aronoviches and their young children were granted permission in 1989 to leave St. Petersburg, then called Leningrad. Forced by Russian authorities to renounce their citizenship before they could leave, they were given 500 rubles in exchange, she said. They settled in Houston with help from other Jews and were officially stateless for many years. Ms. Aronovich said she felt a strange mixture of happiness and loss when she became a U.S. citizen in 2001. She hasn't seen her mother and sister, who are still in Russia, since 1998. "Now when my kids are big, I realize how much I miss my family," she said. Ms. Aronovich was still smiling as she dabbed at her tears, protesting, "No, no, this is a happy story." By GRETEL C. KOVACH / The Dallas Morning News Nora Elmonoufy may seem like a walking contradiction. The 28-year-old biologist and professor was born in Egypt but graduated from high school in Denton. She wears tank tops but prays five times a day. She does not cover the honey-colored streaks in her mahogany hair with a headscarf, but she will continue living with her parents until she gets married. She is a young American Muslim woman, Egyptian by birth and citizenship, Texan by upbringing. It feels natural to her. "If you asked me where home is, it's Denton," she said. Ms. Elmonoufy works at the cellular pathology laboratory of Texas Scottish Rite Hospital for Children and teaches at Richland College. She loves to go out on the town with friends, but lately she's been spending her Saturdays doing eight-hour practice drills for the Medical College Admission Test. Now, as she waits for results from her medical school applications, she is fasting from dawn to dusk for the Muslim holy month of Ramadan. Ms. Elmonoufy first moved to Texas in 1979 as a baby, and English was her first language. Her father, an accounting professor, was studying for his doctorate while her mother worked to help support the family. After returning to Cairo for five awkward years, Ms. Elmonoufy and her family made a permanent move to Denton in 1994, when she was 16. She refused to go back to Egypt for years, even for a visit. "I felt very out of place there," she said. Ms. Elmonoufy considers herself more American than Egyptian, but people in this country haven't always seen her that way. On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, she discovered that the tires of her car had been slashed while it was parked at the University of North Texas. "That hurt," she said. "I pay taxes, I do community service and all that. I thought, my God, I'm so American; how could they think I'm a terrorist?" By FRANK TREJO / The Dallas Morning News Eighteen-year-old Given Kachepa already knows what it takes to succeed: "You only get one chance, and you have to take it and do the best you can." The recent graduate of Grapevine High School entered Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, Texas, this fall. He can't forget his past but vows to make something of his future. Mr. Kachepa, an orphan, was 11 years old when he first came to the U.S. from his Zambian hometown of Kalingalinga, near the capital, Lusaka. He was part of a choir of young boys recruited by a faith-based organization and promised an education and money to send back to their families. But the promises were never kept by the organization, which has since ceased operating in the U.S. The boys sang for almost two years at churches and civic organizations across the country – most of that time without being paid and without going to school. When federal authorities intervened, Mr. Kachepa was brought to the Colleyville home of Deetz and Sandy Shepherd. They became his legal guardians, and he flourished in his new home. He and the Shepherds worked hard to obtain a visa for him to remain in the U.S. Besides winning awards for his schoolwork and sports – soccer and cross-country running – Mr. Kachepa has actively spoken out against human trafficking and exploitation. He has met with legislators and rights groups and was featured on ABC's Nightline. "I believe that if I can tell the world about how terrible trafficking is and how bad it is to be exploited, maybe some people could be rescued and the world could be a better place," he said. He also knows that many trafficking victims never have the opportunity he has had to speak out. Mr. Kachepa worked part-time jobs at grocery and other stores throughout high school, earning money not only for himself but also to send to his five siblings in Zambia. To not help them, he said, "would be illegal in my heart." He is leaning toward studying to become a dentist, in part because a dentist helped him get a nice smile after he came to live with the Shepherds. But he admits, "My heart tells me I really want to be a politician. We'll just have to wait and see." By LOUISE APPLEBOME / The Dallas Morning News Claudia Montoya's life has been shaped by two defining moments – one a birth, the other a death – both in Colombia. When she gave birth to María Camila Castellanos in Bogotá 20 years ago, Ms. Montoya experienced a reawakening. "My life is divided into before Camila and after Camila," the 38-year-old said. "Giving birth woke up everything I was made of." At 18, she went from being shy and aimless to being dogged. She vowed to give her daughter the best that life had to offer. So after she and her husband separated, Ms. Montoya earned a law degree and in 1997 brought her daughter to the U.S. to escape Colombia's rebel violence and social and political strife. In 2000, after earning a master's degree in business administration from the University of Dallas in Irving, Ms. Montoya learned that her older sister, a 34-year-old widow, had died in a plane crash, leaving three children behind. She knew what she had to do as soon as she heard the news. "The kids are with me. Those kids are mine now. Period," she recalled telling a longtime boyfriend. The single mother moved her sister's daughter and two sons to Irving and adopted them. "When people ask how I did it, I always say it's challenging and crazy but not as tough as people see from the outside," Ms. Montoya said. "The reason is just love. ... Liliana [her sister] was terrific, very generous." It took until March of this year for Ms. Montoya, her daughter, now 20, and 18-year-old niece Karina Lopez to gain permanent residency in the U.S. More good news came late in June when nephew Andrés, 15, was granted permanent residency. Ms. Montoya said there are no words to describe the relief and peace of mind she finally feels. Her daughter is now eligible for student loans she sorely needs to continue in her junior year at Boston University. And mother and daughter no longer have to jump through hoops when seeking a job or traveling. "I am so thankful for this country," Ms. Montoya said. "I don't think there is another country in the world that shows so much generosity and caring." But Ms. Montoya, a senior consultant for accounting firm Ernst & Young, hasn't ruled out returning to Colombia someday. "That's home for me," she said. "It's pretty strong and deep." By STELLA M. CHÁVEZ / The Dallas Morning News Will Pham doesn't take freedom for granted. "I could have died at any time," the 30-year-old hairstylist said about leaving Vietnam as a child. After the fall of Saigon in 1975, he and his family tried escaping on six occasions – each time crammed in a rickety fishing boat with 100 other refugees. But the Viet Cong stopped them, ransacking their boat before they could reach refuge in Indonesia. "They would capture you and take all your belongings," he said. "Kids and females were sent home." Other times, refugees were killed. And food was scarce on the boats. Their best hope for sustenance was a concoction of sugar and lime his mom made. Mr. Pham, his mother and five siblings finally reached Indonesia in 1981 and arrived in the U.S. two years later, after a family member in this country sponsored them. They spent two years in Florida and then moved to Wichita, Kansas, to stay with relatives. Not being able to speak English made his new life tough. More challenging was not having his mom around much. Shortly after arriving in Wichita, she started a seafood delivery business. The only problem: It was based in Houston. With the help of a loan, she bought a beat-up van to transport the fish, which she delivered to businesses in the Dallas area. She visited the family twice a month. Mr. Pham says his mother had no choice. The family was on welfare. Ultimately, she saved up enough money to move the family to Houston and later bought her own supermarket in Arlington, where there is a thriving Vietnamese community. In 2004, there were 36,289 native-born Vietnamese people in the Dallas-Fort Worth metro area. "What she did is very courageous," he said. "She's the hardest-working business woman." But her absence took a toll on the family. Two siblings – his youngest sister and a brother – were caught up in gang activity; the girl was killed in a gang-related shooting. Because of those events, he cherishes his time with his two young girls and wife, Tuyet Vu. "It's changed the way I perceive life and the way I raise my children," said Mr. Pham, who works at Nailspa in Euless and lives with his family in North Richland Hills. At ages 6 and 5, Elizabeth and Victoria are too young to understand their father's early years under a communist regime. "I'm going to cater to them," he said. "When it comes to having a family, that's the only way to function." By PAULA LAVIGNE / The Dallas Morning News "Don't go to Wal-Mart for good okra." It was a small piece of advice, but finding the thicker, larger breed of okra they enjoyed in their native India was important to Dhananjay Kulkarni and his wife, Charuta Kashalikar. That's the type of minutia they talk about when explaining how they've adjusted to Texas. The couple, from the western Indian state of Maharashtra, live in Plano, a few minutes' drive from the Texas Instruments office where Mr. Kulkarni works. The big issues for many immigrants – speaking English, getting a job, finding a home – weren't hurdles for them because of their backgrounds and the path they took to the U.S. They've both been speaking English since they were in kindergarten, they said. In fact, Mr. Kulkarni got his nickname, "Danny," from teenage friends back home. India is awash in cultures and languages, making Indians "very adaptive," Ms. Kashalikar said. Mr. Kulkarni, 27, immigrated to Houston, where he received his master's degree in computer science at the University of Houston. Texas Instruments sought him out and brought him to Dallas in 2002. Ms. Kashalikar, 26, had received her degrees in India and was working as a software developer there before she moved to Plano in January to join her husband. She was offered a job but is awaiting a work visa. Mr. Kulkarni has applied for a green card, which would make him a permanent resident. When they start house shopping in a few months, they plan to buy in Collin County or nearby. At least for now, the U.S. is home. They join an estimated 48,000 people born in India who are living in the Dallas-Fort Worth metro area. Restaurant food here is too bland for Ms. Kashalikar's taste – a common complaint among Indian immigrants. But that problem was easily solved with help from the Central Market and two nearby Indian grocery stores. Cricket, a game popular in India, has sprung up on fields all over Plano, and Mr. Kulkarni belongs to one of the many leagues. A network of Indians at Texas Instruments prides itself on welcoming foreign workers. Those ties have eased the transition. That's also where they learned to buy okra at Fiesta Foods. 
