When I first came to America I had no real idea of what I would encounter. My mind was filled with all the common notions of Americans as believed in my native country of Poland. I, as a Polish man, believed what we had seen on our televisions. America was the land of opportunity. Every American had a new car and a nice new home. In America there was plenty for everyone and no one had to work hard to have every convenience that life had to offer. It was a land where everyone could be rich just by becoming an American. So I, Poluc Danzig, wanted to be a rich American.

            I worked hard at the steel foundry outside Warsaw and saved ever Zlotych. I never missed a day of work and I wore rags and ate from the soup kitchens so as not to spend any of my hard earned money that would some day buy my ticket aboard a tramp freighter to the land of plenty. It was the greatest dream a Polish man could have on this Earth. I did not spend my money on frivolous things such as women, wine, and song, so at age 26, I was still a virgin. I had worked for ten hard years on my dream and finally in 2002, I had saved enough to buy my ticket and pay the local visa agent of our province. I, Poluc Danzig, would be a rich American instead of a poor Polander.

            When the day came, I said goodbye to my sister, whose basement was my Warsaw home. I had only a few items of old ragged clothing so there was nothing to pack. I just took the train to the coast and boarded the rust old Cyprus flag diesel ship to take my place in the cabin with another Polish man and a dozen Polish women seeking a life in the land of plenty. We were all excited and learning to speak English was our first thought so we all practiced between bouts of mal de mar from the incessant rocking of the old freighter. We had plenty of time since the voyage carried us first to ports of call in Africa before turning west toward the New World and New York City.

            By the time we were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, I had begun to believe I was to die at sea. I had been so sick at my stomach for a week that I was losing weight and my strength. We were being fed some disgusting food known in American as Grits. It was a solid block of cold hard ground up cornmeal with a cup of warm water. It was all the black Southern American cook had to offer. The Latvian Captain of the vessel said we were lucky to have more than one nourishing meal a day so I should be thankful and that I should get back to my cabin before he had me confined to quarters.

            I had been constantly nauseous for two weeks when we finally reached the docks in New York. The first things I saw were the tall buildings. It was like a picture postcard. Then I saw her, the Statue of Liberty. It was a dream coming true. I, Poluc Danzig, was to be a rich American.

            The ship’s crew came to our cabin and ordered us ashore as soon as the gangplank was on the dock. We were told we were to see the US Customs officials so we should leave our luggage in the cabin. I had no luggage so for me it was not a problem.

            When we reached the main deck to look down onto the dock, all I could see was black men working unloading the ship. I thought we were in Africa and protested saying that I was going to American, not Africa. The crew had a long laugh and informed me that I was in America.

            We walked down onto the dock where we were ordered to stand in a line beside a warehouse to wait for the US agent. It did not dawn on us that something was wrong until we saw the crane of the ship pull up the gangway. One of the women said, “Look, they are pulling up the stairs.” We all looked and began to realize that they were keeping our belongings and were about to get underway. We all ran to the side of the ship and yelled up to the crew, but we could only see the Filipino Mate laughing and yelling something back in his native language as he gave us the international symbol of the middle finger.

The finger was to be the symbol of our new life in American, but we were too naïve to know.

As the ship’s engine groaned out it’s long song of suffering, an African American Port Authority Policeman drove up in a police car to ask why we had not gone with our ship. We did not have a good answer, so our next home was an American jail cell while our visas were verified and a security profile was conducted for possible terrorism. It was the first time I had even been kept as a prisoner and that was in the land of freedom.

Eventually, after a month in jail, I was released and given my personal items and my passport with a proper visa to seek work. When I stepped out into the sunlight, my first thought was that maybe this was the African American portion of the city but as I walked further into the city I began to realize that most of the city is African American or Arabic.

The first real shock was when I finally found an exchange bank and changed my money to US dollars. All of my Polish money exchanged for fifty US dollars. What would have bought me a month of food and shelter in Poland wouldn’t even feed me for a week and there was not a possibility for buying even a night at an American hotel.

Luckily, it was warm weather so I slept for the next three nights on a park bench and only once did a pigeon poop on me in the early morning hours. It wasn’t so bad, that is until another black policeman can by and tapped on my shoe with his baton to inform he that sleeping on a park bench is illegal. I guess I said the wrong thing because he gave me the next three nights indoors at the city jail. It was my second time as a prisoner in the land of the free.

When I was released, I knew that I must find employment or I would go back to jail, or at least that is what the other white men in the jail had told me. Unfortunately, I was about to learn that there are no steel foundries in America. Everywhere I went to ask for work the answer was the same, “We are not hiring! Go away!”

I finally found a missionary soup kitchen where I could get one meal a day and sleep on the concrete floor at night without being arrested for vagrancy. After a month at the mission I learned that the only job for a Polish man was possibly panhandling on the street or selling drugs for one of the gangs. My working skills were not suited to the service economy of the city. I could not drive to get a taxi driver job like the Arabs and I was not a minority to be able to get assistance from the government. I was not a pretty woman to work at the fast food chains and I was too rough in appearance to work as a waiter. I did not know what to do.

One day, I was sitting on a park bench watching the pigeons when a well-dressed black woman in her 50’s walked by. In her arms, she carried a small dog dressed far better than I. The dog even had a jeweled collar.  It was obvious the dog was well fed and well groomed. Even the dog had a better life than I. I guess I was staring at the dog because the woman noticed and asked, “What you looking at?”

“I’m sorry Ma’am. I was just admiring your nice little dog.” I replied.

“Don’t you be looking at my dog! I know you people known to eat dogs!” She snapped.

I assured her that I did not eat dogs and was just admiring how nice her dog looked in its little dress and jewels. She informed me that she didn’t normally carry her dog out to the park but that her dog’s handler had recently married and left her employment, so I jumped at the opportunity. I told her that I had raised dogs and knew about walking and taking care of dogs.

The woman sort of laughed and informed me that she didn’t employ men and definitely not white men. Then she thought for a moment and said, “I have been toying with this queer idea of mine thought. I have thought that a white might make a good servant, but not a man. My husband has said we should hide a white maid so he can make her have a black baby like white men did black maids in the past. It is sort of payback. If he is going to have his fun, maybe I should think about some fun of my own. Having a white servant to walk my dog and scoop up the dog poop might be nice since we have to clean up after our dogs here in the city. I could never employ a white man though, but a white eunuch might be just the thing. Do you have a white wife?”

“No Ma’am! I’ve never married,” I replied.

“Too bad, my man could have given her a black baby. It would have given you something to be proud of and helped her up in the world. Now as for you, I could scream and yell that you attempted robbing me as I grab you and struggle with you or I could offer you the job as my servant. My husband is on the city council. I assure you that he can make sure you spend many years in prison if I give the word. So I’m giving you a choice, you can be both a state prisoner and convict as a whole white man or you can be my eunuch servant and care for FiFi here. My little dog just loves eunuchs. It is also fitting that a white man should become my eunuch. Which is it?”

I was about to jump up and run when I noticed a policeman not twenty yards away watching us talk. I said I didn’t want to be a convict and she took it that I agreed with her offer. I thought I might have a chance to run later. Little did I know that the huge black policeman was moonlighting as her personal bodyguard.

An hour later, I was sitting in her veterinarian’s office waiting for my turn to be neutered while the policeman made sure I didn’t change my mind. When my number was called, he walked me back into the treatment room to crawl up on the table that smelled of dog urine.

The Vet was a medium build black man with glasses and a Ugandan accent. My new benefactor explained our situation and the doctor seemed quite pleased that little FiFi would have her very own handler. He was very professional as he went about his work.

I as given an injection, but to my chagrin I discovered that it only paralyzed me, I could not move or speak but it did nothing for the pain involved in my neutering. It was an hour that seemed to last for an eternity, as I lay unable to move or even whimper. I could feel the excruciating pain as my scrotum was split and as my testicles were pulled down from inside. I wanted to jump and claw out my guts to stop the pain as the doctor used a cauterizing tool to sever the cords attaching my testicles inside my belly. The drug had made it impossible for me to drift into shock so I could only endure my torture until driven insane within the confines of my own paralyzed body and mind. The prick of the needle as he sewed up and closed the incision in my scrotum was so much less that it came as a relief to know that my torment was ending.

Once the procedure was completed, I was placed in a large cage that normally held dogs so I could only get up on all fours or lay in the fetal position. There I remained for the next two weeks as I healed. The cage was rigged where the nurse could tend my wounds without removing me from the cage, so I suffered from painful cramps not being able to stand or stretch. Medication for the relief pain is one thing I never was given. If I complained, I was sedated.

It was such a relief when my benefactor returned to take me to my new job. I have since learned to always use the terms Ma’am and Sir when speaking to my employers. I am not paid but am well kept by my employers as long as I take good care of FiFi. My room is in the basement beside FiFi’s room although mine is not as lavishly furnished.

Since I began my new job, I have realized that my priorities were completely wrong in life. Being rich is a state of mind, not a financial status. I am rich in being allowed to be my employer’s servant. Being FiFi’s eunuch has made me relish my new life in America. I wish all white men could be as happy as I. I would have been even happier if I had a wife to give to share my bliss of true equality…