The Diary From My First Year in America
- Bryndís Viglundsdóttir
- 1 day ago
- 8 min read
By Bryndís Víglundsdóttir
The Icelandic Roots Writers' Group meet monthly and are given a prompt for writing assignments. This summer, we are sharing their stories from this past season. Bryndís shares with us the memorable adventures she experienced in her first year of living in the United States.
I will open it randomly and tell you some of the experiences of the newcomer to America.
The first opening is not random; I begin at the beginning!
So finally, I am in America after spending 12 hours in the air flying from Iceland. My parents, sisters, and brothers all came to the airport to see me off, struggling with the thought that they would never see me again.
A childhood friend, now a stewardess for Iceland Air, had told me how to get to the Bus Terminal on 8th Ave. and we met there.
I had a problem breathing. What is with the air in New York? And the streets are packed with cars honking and men shouting to the next car. Then there are all these huge and somehow threatening buildings. What in the world had I got myself into? Calm down, Bryndís, this is New York. Everything will be different when you are in Iowa. The air there is crystal clear, green corn fields, livestock in the fields, good living! Don’t worry!
The crew invited me to dinner and after that to jam sessions- groups playing jazz. I was in America!
First lesson in Social Studies
I had received a scholarship to study for a year at the University of Northern Iowa in Cedar Falls. I was affiliated with the Education Department (teaching children) and signed up for other courses for Social Studies.
The teacher was a woman well past middle age, her hair pulled back and fastened in a bun at the back of her head. She had a German name and a very thick German accent.
At our first class meeting, she asked the students about their families, the occupations of their parents, the number of siblings they had, and if they were heading for the teaching profession. When she heard that my father was a delivery driver, that there were five children in our family, and yes, that I was already a teacher and had been teaching for two years, she looked disgusted, though perhaps she was merely surprised.
And how, asked the professor, how in the world did you make it to this university? The daughter of a delivery driver?
What does she mean? I thought. Is she actually belittling my father? I decided I would give her an answer. I stood up and walked to the front of the room where she was standing.
Miss, said I. You wonder how I got here. I suggest that you look at my application and read about my previous academic achievements. I would also like to inform you that if you ever met my father, you would not meet a finer man.
As I walked back to my seat, I was fuming, though I kept quiet.
It is only fair to add that this teacher and I often had good and enriching exchanges. During Thanksgiving weekend, she invited me to a sightseeing trip around the state of Iowa.
You need to see the mighty Mississippi, she said.
This was a great weekend. The lady knew the history of the area, its flora and fauna, and shared her knowledge endlessly with me. I was glad to discover this very pleasant side of this teacher!
Straight from the North Pole
It was already the end of February. How could time fly so fast?
Choosing courses that interested me was like being offered to choose candy from a giant box. Besides all the courses that required reading, I applied for and received voice lessons with a most likable music teacher, a former baritone singer at the Metropolitan in New York.
I did not have any ideas about becoming a singer, but I most certainly thought, and still think, that anyone training for a teaching career should and must get solid training in using the voice, our most important tool in the classroom. In addition to the private voice lessons, I applied to join the university choir and was glad to be admitted.
The choir members were all music majors who read music like regular print, incredibly well trained. I sang as well, and everyone was required to know their parts when the choir met for rehearsal. So, I had to work very hard to learn my part! What fun it was to sing with this fine group.
At the end of February, the choir went on a tour around the state of Iowa. Several concerts were scheduled and we set off in two buses one sunny morning, heading for a performance later that evening.
It was about six in the evening. We were approaching the schoolhouse where we would have supper before the concert in the auditorium. Then, in the twinkling of an eye, we found ourselves in the middle of a raging snowstorm.
What in the world is going on, thought I.
Our conductor spoke to us over the loudspeaker, telling us what we already knew- that we were in the middle of a typical norther, as they blow across the plains straight from the North Pole, or perhaps straight from Iceland.
The storm raged all night and around seven in the morning it finally died down. The sun shone brightly and was possibly as surprised as we were seeing the land covered in white snow. Everything was quiet, not even a bird flying yet.
The bus drivers must have had connections with the road crews because, as if by magic, they appeared and cleared a path for the buses to a red farmhouse close by. I shall never forget the hospitality and kindness of the young couple, the farmers who lived at this farm. They welcomed us, nearly 80 people, into their home and in no time, there were stacks of pancakes, maple syrup and the best bacon ever! And there was coffee and hot chocolate, as much as the group wanted. They managed to find room for us to stretch out and people simply fell asleep. What extraordinary hospitality!
That evening, the choir gave a wonderful concert. We began with some American classics such as America the Beautiful, My Country, 'Tis of Thee, and songs by Stephen Foster. Then we sang parts from Carmina Burana by Carl Orff and ended with some parts from Messiah by Handel.
All the concert guests stood up when we sang the Hallelujah chorus. This is a day I shall not forget.
The first language
Why am I leafing through the diary from this period? The year 1958 was the year I first went to the Promised land, America.
I was only ten years old when I promised myself that one day I would go to America. Looking back, it seemed impossible. First of all, Icelanders rarely travelled abroad in those days, except for the very few rich people, and I was certainly not of that group.
When my grade school teacher asked her class one day if we knew what we intended to do when we grew up, I said without hesitation: I am going to America.
Needless to say, all my classmates roared with laughter!
My teacher did not laugh but said when she could be heard: Well, Binna mín, if you want to go to America you WILL go to America.
I never forgot these words. Nor have I forgotten our duty to encourage children to work toward realizing their dreams.
I met and enjoyed learning from many fine teachers. Two professors at the university, Amanda Langemo and Dorothy Moon, were especially kind to me. They often invited me to their home for Sunday night dinner and took me to concerts in Waterloo, where I heard, among others, Marian Anderson sing.
As the end of the academic year approached, they asked me one Sunday evening whether I was interested in seeing more of the country. Of course I was interested.
They said they would like to take me on a trip to the West Coast and through the Southwest. We might even drive north along up the West Coast into Canada. We would camp out in the National Parks, and I would have to get a sleeping bag.
I had dreamt of seeing the West and the Southwest of North America. My plan had been to return to Iceland, save up for such a trip and go! And now the trip was about to happen!
Miss Langemo was of Norwegian ancestry. She had grown up on a farm in Minnesota with her parents and grandparents, who had emigrated from Norway.
You have to come with me to our farm, she said. My sister lives there with her family.
Her first language was Norwegian and since I happened to know her first language she loved to converse with me.
What a wonderful weekend we had with this Norwegian-American family! At this point, I didn’t fully understand the intense love these sisters had for their first language.
Later, I did.
America the beautiful
Writing about that wonderful summer with my two university-teacher friends would fill a thick book. I maintain that I learned more travelling with them than I had learned the entire school year in Cedar Falls. They were, in fact, living encyclopedias.
They knew the historic places to visit and told me stories and legends about the regions through which we travelled. They knew the vegetation, the names and nature of the plants and flowers, they knew the animals, great and small. What a classroom the car had turned into!
My friends had bought a new car before our trip so our trip would be altogether pleasant, they said. And what should we call the car, they asked me. I suggested Faxi, the name of a famous horse in our folklore. Fortunately, I could tell them a few stories while we were driving and they never heard enough of Icelandic folk songs!
We visited some of the wonders of the Southwest of North America. Among them were the Sequoia groves in California. We walked among these giants that were already tall trees during the Ice Age.
What a memorable day we had at Mesa Verde, the cliff dwellings constructed and inhabited by the Anasazi people, the ancestors of the Pueblo Indians. They disappeared from these cliffs around 1200, but their descendants keep their story alive.
The days we spent in Yosemite National Park continue to be the highlight of all the wonderful experiences my long life has given me.
There is an ancient Icelandic “vísa” (verse) that goes:
Herrann skapaði loft og láð
Lýði og blómstrið fríða.
Sá var hagur sem það kunni smíða.
The Lord created the Heavens and the Earth
The humans and the beautiful flowers.
The one who could create so
Was a mighty clever smith.
I do not possess the vocabulary either in Icelandic or in English, to describe standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon in the bright sunlight or, seeing this wonder lit up by the full moon at midnight.
These areas are all rich with stories of the people who once lived there and my friends gave me profusely of their knowledge.
The diary I have been looking through is filled with memories from the wonders I experienced during this wonderful summer with my American friends. The friendship with these wonderful women held firm while they both lived. My husband and I were extremely happy when they visited us in Iceland and stayed with us in our home in Garðabær. How wonderful it was to be able to show them a bit of our country.
I believe that the ability to share precious memories with your loved ones is a very valuable and important ingredient for good relations. When my husband had stayed his first winter in Boston with me I thought he must see the America I had seen. So we took a camping trip West and through the Southwest during the summer. How he loved it!
When my children graduated from college, their father had left this earth but I gave them a comprehensive trip through the National Parks of America, the land where they were born. Later, my son took his two sons and wife on a similar trip. We must try to share with our descendants and loved ones the beauty that has shaped us.
At last, I would like to quote my grandson, Guðmundur, who was speaking to me about the giant Sequoias.
Amma, he said. When you have stood by a giant Sequoia, just looked at her and breathed her spirit, you will never be the same person.
