I think about this story a lot.

When my family immigrated to the United States back in 2003, I was a third year architecture student at the Odessa State Academy of Civil Engineering and Architecture. That’s Odessa, Ukraine, now spelled with a single “s” to reflect its Ukrainian (as opposed to Russian) spelling. Odesa.

But back then, it was very much Russian and our native Odessite professors struggled with the “ukrainization” of education. It felt very half-hearted and much less effective than my Ukrainian language high school back in the western part of the country.

So, I had three years of architecture school under my belt when I saw the Statue of Liberty from above for the very first time. It was poetic, in a tragic poetry sort of way. As the plane began circling the city for landing, getting lower and lower, I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into sadness. Probably not your typical response to seeing NYC from air but …there it was. An end and a beginning all-in-one.

I had a completely different reaction to it the second time around, when I visited 15 years later.

I spent the first year in the U.S. learning English, which I already had a fair grasp on, and figuring out the new life. After a year, I was now a “resident of California,” which allowed me to attend community colleges. I immediately loaded up on units to get out the way so that I could finish my interrupted education in architecture. I went on a bus tour of Northern California colleges that offered an architecture degree and really loved the Berkeley vibe. UC Berkeley also seemed to carry a certain status value, particularly for someone like me - an immigrant, starting from zero.

I will confess that I also looked into the Harvard School of Design and other prestigious universities far away from Sacramento - and I know I could have gotten in - but the financial math did not check out. I did not want to take on significant debt, even if it came with bragging rights, and I certainly did not have the cash. My best bet was a combination of scholarships, grants, part time work and a reasonable loan.

In Ukraine, my 3 years of architecture school were at no cost to me (other than heavily subsidized room and board). Just throwing it out there.

So, I decided to apply to Berkeley. It was a stretch: only a semester and a half into gathering general ed classes and a bit fuzzy on the prerequisites. But hey, I was going for it. I submitted a FAFSA and filled out a long admissions application. I requested my transcripts and evaluations to be sent to Berkeley. I wrote an essay, the content of which I honestly do not remember.

During the application process, I went through a list of all kinds of possible grants and scholarships (concepts completely foreign to me at that point) and I don’t think I found myself in any of the criteria. I was not a “minority,” I was not a first generation college applicant (my dad went to technical school but my mom holds a Master’s in engineering). I was not a single parent (yet) and I did not belong to any particularly ethnically endangered or politically inconvenient group of people. I was an immigrant and that’s about it. Just your average white woman of the slightly above average college age.

And so, for months, I waited to be notified: did I get in or didn’t I?

“We regret to inform you…”

Regret. I doubted the sincerity of this sentiment on behalf of the California Board of the Regents but you know what…I did not regret trying to get in. I had the process down and I knew what I was missing. I had a plan.

After this “regretful” letter, I doubled down on my prerequisite courses including the following summer, and applied again in the fall. Curiously, I remember what my essay was about this time. I talked about my story as a Ukrainian immigrant, about my family, about the struggle of starting over in the U.S., and about my future as an Architect and an artist. I offered my talents as a gift to the University.

A couple of months later, another letter arrived. I didn’t open it right away. You know that image of someone ripping open the long-awaited envelope because they can’t wait any longer? Yeah, that wasn’t me. I paced myself, and braced for another rejection. I pretended like it wasn’t a big deal, just another piece of mail. I took it to my bedroom and then opened it with steady hands.

”We are pleased to inform you…”

Why, I am pleased , too!

Two tries is all it took. Reflecting on it now, this focus on the goal has really helped me through the first few years in the U.S. Those years were difficult, even with all the English I learned by then. But maybe resilience is what it takes to survive as an immigrant. Your average white immigrant woman of a slightly above average age.