I was a teenager in the early aughts when I decided to leave Uzbekistan. It was not for lack of love and support. My parents were teachers, and they worked hard to ensure the needs of the family were met; by all accounts, I grew up in an upper-middle-class home.
But the Soviet experience still haunted the nation, and despite a loving family, a good education, and economic security, I felt that I was choking on the rules and norms—wear a suit and tie, no drinking, watch what you say, carry ID in case the police have questions—and I wanted to breathe freely. And the winds blowing from the once mysterious and closed-off West were fresh, a little unruly, and scented with wonder, adventure, and opportunity. Rock and roll, the Sony Walkman, and blue jeans.


In 2005 with $200 in my pocket and a single bag of clothes, I flew in an airplane for the first time in my life. It remains the longest flight I have ever taken. The approach to JFK amazed me. New York City splashed across the land, a galaxy of lights, the perfect herald for the land of magic and wealth.
My only contact was a cousin who I had only spoken to twice before. Although a close friend to my late brother, I had no idea how he would react when I called him. As it turned out, he was a huge source of initial support for me. My plan was simple. I would work in the US for five years, then return to Uzbekistan with enough money to purchase a house and a car and take a managerial job with the Uzbek government, which even now remains more stable than the private sector. It never occurred to me to remain in the US, to build a life there.
My first obstacle was the US immigration system, a cumbersome and complex labyrinth to navigate.
To be fair, it’s not the worst system in the world, and some countries don’t offer any pathway to naturalization, but as I had never any need to expose myself to Uzbekistan’s system, it was certainly daunting. However, I prevailed, obtaining an H2B, unqualified work visa, through my first employer, in the hotel industry, which eventually allowed me to get a US visa. That was perhaps the only good thing about my first employer.

My cousin helped me to escape that toxic environment. He also assisted me with housing, a car, and a new job as a nighttime porter at a supermarket in Baltimore, Maryland. On top of that, I took a morning janitorial shift at Marshall’s, an off-price department store (I would eventually become a stocker there). For the next two years, I worked seven nights a week, 10 p.m. to 6 a.m., and most mornings. I was exhausted and resorted to various ways to stay awake while driving to Safeway: speak to my parents on the phone, keep the windows down even in freezing winter, smoke, sing real loud, and scream.

I learned quickly that Hollywood’s American Dream was really just a pipe dream, and that the real American Dream required getting into the trenches, getting dirty, and most importantly, taking risks. A life of guaranteed safety without risks strikes me more as a prison sentence than an actual life where I took personal responsibility, dictated the terms, and lived to my fullest. So I took chances and I faced uncertainty.