It Could Be You
Swen Nater
 
I promised to tell you about how my sister and I came to America through a nationally-televised program called, “It Could Be You.” (see August 1st posting, “Whitecaps and Marigolds” www.coachswen.com)  Before I start, I want to make it very clear, I truly believe my mother’s decision to come to America without my older sister and I, with the intent of bringing us over later, was absolutely the right thing to do and time proved she was correct. 
 
Life was not easy at the halfway house, oh, not because of the marigold; I really missed my mom and little brother. The weekly letters our mom sent us, telling us about life in America and that they missed us too, only increased the desire to be with them. After three more years (August, 1959), one day, my sister, Nanna (now Renee Mestan), and I were called into the office. There, sitting with the director, was a woman. I didn’t know it at the time, but she was in charge of making sure we were reunited with our family in America. This arrangement was initiated months before, through friends of my mom and stepfather. Here’s how.
 
On New Year’s Eve, 1955, my mom, stepfather, and little brother arrived in America at the New York harbor on The Suiderkruis, a hospital ship used during the war. In those days the only way to immigrate was through a sponsor—a US citizen who accepted the responsibility to help you get settled, get employment, and be self-sustaining. For my family, that sponsor was the Andersons, Quakers, who lived in Scottsdale, Arizona. My family first lived with the Andersons.   
 
After a short time, my stepfather got a menial job which enabled them to get a place of their own. Non-citizens were not qualified for minimum wage.  My mother made some money woodcarving (www.norahall.com), a skill she learned from her father in Holland, at age 19. Nevertheless, they made just enough money to get out on their own. 
 
My mom was hurting badly from missing her other children, and my little brother, Ibo, really missed us too. My mom constantly talked about us and, as you already know, she wrote us letters at least once a week, letting us know how wonderful things were in America and giving us hope for a reunion. The Andersons felt my mother’s pain and, after seeing that the amount of income my parents were generating left nothing in a savings account, they went to work to find another way for my sister and I to come over.
 
They contacted the NBC TV show, “It Could Be You,” to see what they could do. This show was in the business of helping the hurting. For example, if a family’s house burned down, that family came to the show, were brought on the stage, and were presented with the money to buy a new house or even given a house already made. But the really cool thing about the show was, that family had no idea they were given free tickets only to be called on stage for the surprise. When it was time to announce the lucky person or family, the camera would pan the audience for at least half a minute, stopping to zoom in on one or two people, and would finally freeze on the fortunate ones. At that time the announcer would say, “Mr. And Mrs. Doe—It Could be You.” Through a miracle, the Anderson’s received word that the show was going to reunite my family.
 
So there we were, Nanna and I in the director’s office. We were well-aware of what was happening. We were going to America, for me, the land of Roy Rogers. I thought everyone in the US was a cowboy from watching Roy Rogers on TV in Holland, every Wednesday night at the home of the only family on the block that had a TV. In a matter of days, we departed for America from Schiphol Airport (Amsterdam). My father and his mother, “Oma Amsterdam” as I called her, drove us to the airport and saw us off.  We were on a KLM propeller plane in first class and headed for New York. 
 
We had never been on a plane before. I had never even seen one. The loud noise of the propellers reaching maximum RPM,; the sudden forward thrust pushing me back in my seat; the weightless feeling of lifting off the ground; and seeing the houses, canals, and cars getting smaller and smaller, was amazing. My sister and I sat next to each other.  

Up to that point, I had never had soda. Once the flight attendant gave me a Coke and I tasted it, I was hooked and I wanted more. But she should never have told me about that little button. All I had to do is press it and, presto; the attendant was there and soon more Coke too. After about three, my side hurt—not from the Coke, but from my sister elbowing me every time I reached up for that button. She was like a mom to me and that was a good thing, most of the time.
 
Across the way was a man sitting in the window seat with no one next to him. He was drinking some type of liquor and it was affecting him greatly. He noticed me, smiled, and called me over to talk. I’m an outgoing person (and it was an excuse to take a breather from my sister for a while) so I sat next to him. He didn’t know one word of Dutch and I didn’t know one word of English but we communicated for at least fifteen minutes, me speaking Dutch and he, slurred English. He was so drunk he thought he understood me and I played the game beautifully, switching from Dutch to gibberish after a while. He never knew the difference. I looked over at my sister and she was shaking her head, I assume because she was convinced her brother was an idiot.
 
In New York, we transferred to an American Airlines jet and arrived in Los Angeles 22 hours after departing Amsterdam. I didn’t see any cowboys at the airport but, when we stepped outside, the warm air, busses, and cars made me forget all about that. I think my mouth was open the entire limo ride from the airport to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. In her letters, our mother had told us about the tall buildings and palm trees but seeing it first hand was different.

The Beverly Wilshire Hotel was like a paradise. There were palm trees everywhere but I enjoyed the swimming pool and room service the most. I stayed in that pool until they almost forced me out. In the halfway house, we had meat once a month. Here, I could have it every meal and I did. Oh, yes and I had plenty of Coke too.

The next day, Saturday (the day of the show), in the morning, we were escorted to the studio to practice for that evening’s show. Meanwhile, my parents were being driven to Hollywood to attend the show with free tickets, of course. (My family was now living in Long Beach, CA) Little did they know. (To Be Continued Wednesday)