Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: FRIDAY, January 24, 1992 TAG: 9201240453
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: B-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Ed Shamy
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
CITIZENSHIP JUST A STOP ON JOURNEY TOWARD DREAM
Julien's mother owned the cow, technically, but he'd been tending it for years.When he told his mother that he wanted to leave Haiti, that he wanted to go to the United States, she objected. She didn't want him to go.
But she let him sell the cow. Julien pocketed the $1,000. He added another $1,000 he'd saved selling rice and beans. He gave his $2,000 to a man who had an airplane.
They set a time and a date. Julien Paul was going to fly to the United States.
He was 18. He'd dropped out of public school when his parents could no longer afford the tuition. There were no jobs. Jean-Claude "Baby Doc" Duvalier ruled Haiti with little compassion - or tolerance.
Julien had a different life in mind for himself.
He got to the airport in Port-au-Prince a bit ahead of time.
The plane had already left.
Julien's cow money was gone, but his guts weren't.
Again, he saved. He paid $900 for a boat ride to America.
From Miami he moved north. He picked apples. He did odd jobs. He ended up six years ago in Roanoke and he found a job. Last year, to make ends meet, he got a second job. He washes dishes at two restaurants, 14 hours a day.
Julien and I were wandering downtown Roanoke early Wednesday. We were killing time.
He was talking about the cow. He was talking about how he loved school. He was talking about his first day in Miami, looking for his cousin. The address on the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket did not exist.
Julien was talking about his brother, a fisherman, and how the fish kept moving farther and farther from the coast of Haiti and how his brother couldn't make a living at it anymore. That brother calls from time to time. He asks Julien for money. Julien sends some.
I wanted to treat Julien to some breakfast, just to sit and talk. He declined. Too nervous, he said.
We walked up Jefferson Street, cut across on Kirk. We walked to the Poff Building, and we rode the elevator together.
We stole quietly into a courtroom and found seats toward the back. We listened for half an hour to a trial. Something about crack cocaine. Julien was attentive, sitting bolt upright, brow furrowed.
The trial recessed, and the courtroom cleared, save for fewer than a dozen of us and U.S. District Judge James Turk.
He spoke briefly about ours, the greatest country in the history of the world.
Before the judge stood a man from Libya. Another from Jordan. Another from Nigeria. A woman from Peru. Julien, from Haiti.
They recited an oath and became Americans, naturalized citizens of the United States of America.
Julien turned back to look at us, his friends.
His smile, I swear, would have reached from sea to shining sea.
Within a couple of hours, Julien was registering to vote.
As we walked from the registrar's office, Julien said he might like to open a restaurant someday.
It's his American dream.