A Journey to Fulfill Our Realistic Dreams

New Home Adventures with Family by My Side. © Dida Family Photo

PRE-INTERVIEW LETTER

Dear Mom and Dad,

I am writing this letter as a simple request. You have always been kind to me and tried to fulfill my wishes, even when we were not doing well financially. It was because of Dad's incredible technical skills in fixing electronics that both Iris and I discovered our passion for video games. It was also due to your diligence, Mom, that I learned English. Every time you had some money you could have used for yourself, you spent it on courses for me to learn. When I was a kid, I was foolish and did not appreciate what both of you did for me. Now that you both have helped me understand my passion for writing and English, I want to use the skills you helped nurture to immortalize your story.

I want to tell the story of the struggles we faced when we moved to America, a decision both Sis and I were against. You thought of moving here not for yourselves but for us. You wanted us to get a better education. Mom, you worked two jobs and endured long travel times so we could continue pursuing this dream. Dad, you provided us with a foundation to start building our lives here. You took on a tiring job, one you were not used to, just so we could keep trying. But I don’t want to talk only about the defeats; I also want to speak of the victories. Everything comes at a trade, and for all the struggles we faced, we finally managed to achieve some stability. At this time, you gave me another gift. When I got a job to help around the house, you said, “We never had the opportunity to buy you the things you want, so instead of using that money for us, use it for yourself.”

Your generosity knows no bounds, and this letter is starting to sound a bit preachy, but it doesn’t even cover half of the appreciation you deserve. I don’t think I will ever be able to express it fully, but I hope this project makes your day a bit happier. And your story not get lost to time.

MY FAMILY

As I was returning from work one evening, tired from the long shift, I saw an old lady sitting on a porch with her dog. This view reminded me of something that happened back home in Albania. It was a day like any other. After waking up in the morning, I walked downstairs to the living room. My dog Bardhosh was following close behind me. As I entered the room, I saw that my grandma Idajet had woken up early and was reminiscing about something. She was clearly lost in thought, so when I approached her for a hug, she seemed a bit startled. Curious as I was, I asked her what she was thinking about.

My grandma remembered a story from when she was younger. She was wearing a dress that one of her workers had made for her, a very fancy and colorful one. This dress had prompted the thoughts she found herself lost in. So, I told her, “Grandma, when I grow up, I want to write your story. Could you tell me about the one you seem to be remembering now?” She chuckled, clearly proud and appreciative of what I had said. I sat next to her, and Bardhosh, who had been circling the living room, lay down next to me. Clearly, he too was interested in the story.

And so, she told me about the times when our country was under communism.

With my beloved Grandma, a lifetime of wisdom and love. © Dida Family Photo

Our family’s journey starts in a small European nation known as Albania. Located close to Greece, northwest of it to be exact, Albania also shares the Adriatic Sea with Italy and has been an independent country for about 111 years. From World War II until the early 90s, Albania's sovereignty was under communism. There were political issues such as persecution, and members of the secret police kept an eye on people who could be dangerous to the state. This brought social tension, and my family became masters of alchemy by transforming a crisis into an incredible bonding tool better than any other suppressing military skill.

My grandparents used to get emotional when telling me stories about those horrific times. For instance, my grandma used to say, “Back then, you could not trust anyone but your relatives or people you lived with.” It was by the end of communism that family bonding became a common practice in society, a way to show love while taking care of each other. Grandpa used to tell me stories about how the government used small tactical devices called "ticks" or "çimka" to keep an eye on everyone all the time. Certainly, my grandparents were clear about family bonding and its importance in surviving government repression.

Another option to survive communism was to build a rowboat and risk your life in the sea, hoping to get asylum in a safer country. Although this was not an option for my family, other ideas were always around, like government vigilantes. Those migrating ideas flourished in one of my uncles, and after the violent riots of '97, caused by the collapse of economic pyramid schemes, my uncle Bujar Dida wanted to continue his studies and did not want to raise his family where the roads were filled with tank treads instead of cars or school buses. Everyone was tired of the scary sounds of gunshots day and night. Before my uncle left, my grandma told him, “You make sure to keep your family safe, and I will protect your brother and your dad.” They moved to Japan, hoping to return once things had become safer.

My dad was younger when his brother left, and due to the lack of opportunities, the idea of migrating was not so bad for him. Sadly, society was still struggling with the economic consequences of poor government decisions, and even getting food on the table was a challenge. Grandma kept her word of taking care of her family, and one day she started going out to buy bread despite the people with guns. She would use her charming smile and politeness so they would let her pass by.

Wings of Heritage: New York Meets Albanian Pride. Illustration © Estrada.

Eventually, society and government got better. My uncle and his family returned to Albania, my dad married his lovely wife, and two beautiful children came into the world, my sister and me. My grandma, a resourceful and smart person, managed to buy a house in Tirana, the capital of Albania. In that house is where my most precious childhood memories live, between the plump figs and shiny pomegranates. Sometimes I still see my sister playing around the orange tree and collecting the grapes. My mom would be watering the persimmon tree during those hot summer days, but the thing she loved most was taking care of flowers. When spring came, all the flowers would bloom, and our garden would become so colorful. She had planted red roses, white tulips, and pink hydrangeas. Frequently, those fruits would end up on our table during delicious family meals.

Since my uncle returned from Japan, he saw the needs of the family and took over the responsibility Grandma had back in Kukes. He told her that from now on he would be taking care of everyone. My uncle used his construction skills to add a second story to the house, making it bigger for our large family. I am very proud of how my family was able to adapt to every single change, whether political, social, or even among us. Only time would tell us what was about to change around us.

The first major change was my uncle having to go back to Japan, this time as an ambassador of Albania in Japan with his family. This change came with a savory-sweet feeling: we were very happy for them but also sad to see them go away again. Second, my grandma started getting sicker, and despite the efforts of her sons, she was not able to make a steady recovery. My uncle came back and took care of the finances, while Mom and Dad provided emotional and household care. She got better for a while, but the relapse of her sickness made her worse, and by the summer of 2018, she passed away. The third difficult change that came to us was when Grandpa also suffered a series of unfortunate events and died shortly after Grandma.

Those family changes reaffirmed my dad’s ideas of migrating to the US and applying for a diversity visa. Inspired by my uncle and other close friends, he wanted to give it a shot, but my uncle was a bit overprotective and told him to stay, assuring him that everything was being taken care of. But my dad is a person of action, and the experience he had turned difficult times into paperwork and the approval from the US Embassy for us to come to America.

Despite the Covid-19 outbreak and the language barrier that moving to another country represents, we are here together, resilient and stronger.

MOVING OUT

The air hung thick with a mix of anticipation and dread as we started prepping for the move. It was the first time for all of us—leaving the house that held most of our meaningful memories. The past few months had been a whirlwind. Endless piles of confusing paperwork became our new effort, followed by scattered hours spent sweating it out under the embassy's unforgiving sun. Needless to say, the financial burden loomed large. I remember the beloved black Mercedes—Dad's pride and joy—had to go, along with the sweet joyrides we spent in it. Sadly, the money Dad made from selling it was needed to cover the expenses this journey entailed. Then came the humbling conversations, asking for loans. My Uncle Bujar, despite his reservations about the whole thing, stepped up the most, with others chipping in too. It felt like a nostalgic sacrifice, each dollar a weight on our shoulders, but a necessary one for the unknown future ahead.

Deadlines were approaching fast, and we were in a hurry to get every detail ready, except one—the one we could not afford to take with us, Bardhosh. The family’s puppy, an American husky, was given to us by a relative right after he was born. His name was inspired by his major physical characteristic: he is a fluffy, all-white dog. Quite lucky compared to the other pets we had in the past, Bardhosh was very spoiled and would sleep with us inside, usually staying at the feet of my sister or my mom when they would lay in bed.

Dust motes danced in the afternoon sunbeams slanting through the dusty windows. A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the rustle of tissue paper and the sniffle of my sister. We were surrounded by towering cardboard boxes, each one a tiny graveyard for our memories. Packing for a new life across the ocean felt like a betrayal.

The week before the flight, the house had been a battlefield. My mom's face was etched with worry lines as she sifted through her belongings, finally settling on a stack of doilies meticulously hand-stitched by her mother. Dad, eyes distant, ran a calloused thumb across the face of his father's worn watch. It seemed to hold the weight of a thousand unspoken goodbyes. My sister clutched a chipped comb, the one our grandmother used to brush out her unruly curls. For me, the battle lines were drawn around a dusty box of mismatched video games—a childhood treasure trove gifted by my cousin—and a stack of dog-eared books, each a portal to a world far beyond our current reality.

Four Objects, Countless Tales. Illustration © Estrada

With a heavy heart, we distributed the remaining items. Furniture shrouded in white sheets became silent giants in the empty rooms. Each creak of the floorboard echoed with the weight of the past. Finally, with a click of the lock and a wave goodbye to the fading image of our home in the rearview mirror, we drove away, leaving a part of ourselves behind. It was more than just a house—it was a lifetime of memories, carefully curated and tucked into every corner. Now, we carried our most precious reminders and a heavy load of uncertainty into a future painted in shades of possibility and fear.

Finally, the day had come to start this journey to a land far away, full of hopes and dreams. Granted, that is what my dad would say, but my sister hated the idea of moving, and my mother was skeptical about it, especially with one thing weighing heavily on her mind: the health of her father, which had gotten much worse over the past few months. But an opportunity like this was very rare, and she was doing this not for herself but mostly for me and my sister. The last day was very chaotic, as our family usually does when someone travels. Our uncle and his wife took us to the airport. My grandparents from my mom’s side came along. Unfortunately, due to COVID-19 public space restrictions, they were not able to come inside with us. Tight hugs, tear-streaked faces, and a final wave shrank our close relatives into tiny figures as we disappeared through the airport's automatic doors. The weight of their goodbyes settled heavily, a mix of excitement for our adventure and a pang of guilt for their worry. Now, just a few suitcases and a backpack stood between us, and a future coated in vibrant hues, a future we had to make work, no matter the cost.

THE FIRST FEW MONTHS

The flight was very long, and when we finally arrived, we were very jet-lagged. As we struggled to drag our suitcases through the airport, we soon learned that this would only be the beginning of the struggles we would face here. Thankfully, we had another family member to help us when we got out of the airport, a cousin of my mother who had also moved here. He picked us up from the airport and took us to a house he helped us find. He also helped us do several things, like finding jobs, and showed us around New York City’s confusing transportation system. Dad started working as soon as we got here. Although it was not his ideal job, this factory employment helped us stay afloat with his commitment and dignity. His motto eventually became, “If I knew English, I would not be doing this job.” I think that the first-time reality struck him, he did not lose hope and continued showing up to work to this day.

When we reached our new home, we signed the lease—a roof over our heads, finally. It was the only day since we started the trip that we had a chance to rest as comfortably as we could. The next day, we checked if we had what we needed to eat. My mom’s cousin had filled the fridge with food for us, and another Albanian family had given us a lot of canned food and utensils. For the first few weeks, this is what we ate. It was during these weeks that we found out the struggles would keep increasing. For starters, the rent of the house was too expensive for us to afford with Dad’s paycheck. So, we spoke about it, exchanged a few worried glances, and decided it was time for all of us to find a job.

I finally landed a job where I was involved in helping to repair kitchen cabinets. The employer was very kind to me, and I felt bad for not being more useful to him. But I am sure he saw my effort every day in the morning when he was picking me up and getting to the location where we needed to do the job. This new job was during winter; occasionally, we would have to work in a shack he had rented to do the cabinets. Without insulation or proper temperature, it was very cold at times, but I was not discouraged, and neither was my employer. However, after working there for a month, it became obvious that the money I was making was not helpful to our economic situation. The clock was ticking, and our savings were draining. We were on the last month of rent that we could afford and were starting to get our things ready for our return.

Through the first three months, my mom scoured all sorts of resources to find a job. She talked with other Albanians, browsed social media, and looked through job application sites. She finally got a job two hours away, meaning four hours back and forth. She worked as a retail worker at a store and did long shifts, staying on her feet and serving customers. She enjoyed the work and, being talented at learning new languages, gradually picked up the basics of English. Little by little, this complicated situation we had gotten ourselves into was getting slightly better. The end of the month came by cans of food were taken out, and we managed to pay the rent with the money we had earned.

After all the struggles, in January 2024, we all went back to visit our relatives in Albania. I mean Mom, Dad, my sister, and me, all at once. Ever since we came to the US, my sister and I were sent there to spend some holidays, while my parents stayed here working and waiting for the right moment to go as well. My sister and I have been there every summer since we came here, except for one time. My grandfather from my mum side died a few months into us moving here. We could not go back to his funeral because we were still struggling financially, we all missed his funeral. However, a year after when his memorial came around my mom and dad flew there and me and my sister stayed It was a sad moment for us as well; we wanted to remember him just as he said goodbye in person at the airport last time.

We finally made it back to our old house in January 2024, the first family trip since we moved. The overgrown yard, with wilted flowers but strong, juicy fig trees, mirrored our mixed emotions. Nostalgia slammed us as we opened the door. Everything—even our childhood toys—remained frozen in time. My sister and I spent an hour recollecting, pointing at forgotten memories in every corner. It wasn't all dusty ghosts, though. I finally felt like the "cool cousin" when I packed a box of my old toys (and some American goodies!) for my little cousin back home. No more just receiving—it was my turn to be the gift-giver.

ARTIST STATEMENT

I am honored to have received the opportunity to take part in this event and work on this project. I enjoyed the process of creating it and finally being able to share my story. When I was originally chosen for this project, I felt that my story was nothing special. I thought that my story was not worth anything and that the stories everyone else had were so much better. However, everyone was kind, which inspired me to work on this story.

Looking back, downplaying what my family and I struggled with was my biggest mistake. Another thing that really helped me continue working on this was the reaction both my parents had to my letter. At that point, I realized, "No, your story matters, and you should do this."

I enjoyed writing about my family and hopefully having them remembered by others beyond just ourselves. I think my story also did a good job of showing that even when things get bad, they will eventually get better. There is one regret that I have, and that is not with the story but with myself. I really wish I had discovered my passion for writing earlier and noted down all the stories my grandma told me about, eventually writing a book about her life. Even when I was young, I would always tell her, "Grandma, I will write your story down, so it gets remembered."

However, due to studying at a technical high school, my understanding of where my main strengths lie was obscured by all the excessive studying of other subjects. Despite this, I hope some of the small snippets in this story show how great a woman she was. Lastly, I wish I had taken more pictures throughout my life. I was the one kid who didn't want to have his picture taken, but looking through the ones I have, I remembered so many good times and even got teary-eyed at some of them.

ABOUT KLEVIS DIDA

My name is Klevis Dida, and I was born on summer of 2001, in Tirana, Albania. I spent most of my life in Albania, where I completed my studies at a specialized engineering high school. Eventually, I moved to America on a diversity visa with my parents and sister. Originally, when I moved here, I intended to continue my engineering career. However, as I took more and more classes, I started to notice I wasn't enjoying any of them.

I am one of the few people who actually enjoy going to school, so having to travel two hours to and from home for these classes made it even worse. Despite my dissatisfaction with engineering, I realized that the classes related to English and writing were the only ones I looked forward to. So, after three semesters of engineering, I decided to change my major to something I enjoyed doing.

During this time, I reflected on some of my previous experiences and noticed that engineering was something I pursued not for myself but because I wanted to be like my uncle. While that is not necessarily a bad thing, I realized that my true passion lay in storytelling. I would sit next to my grandad and listen to the same stories I had heard several times before and always enjoy them just the same. I would play video games and be most intrigued by how this new medium could be used to tell stories like no other.

Currently, I am pursuing an English major at LaGuardia and am looking forward to where this new path takes me. So far, I'm thinking of becoming a teacher, but you never know.