I'm five years old, and I am very proud.

My father has just built the best outhouse

in our little village in Ukraine.

Inside, it's a smelly,
gaping hole in the ground,

but outside, it's pearly white formica

and it literally gleams in the sun.

This makes me feel so proud, so important,

that I appoint myself the leader
of my little group of friends

and I devise missions for us.

So we prowl from house to house

looking for flies captured in spider webs

and we set them free.

Four years earlier, when I was one,

after the Chernobyl accident,

the rain came down black,

and my sister's hair fell out in clumps,

and I spent nine months in the hospital.

There were no visitors allowed,

so my mother bribed a hospital worker.

She acquired a nurse's uniform,

and she snuck in every night
to sit by my side.

Five years later,
an unexpected silver lining.

Thanks to Chernobyl,
we get asylum in the U.S.

I am six years old, and I don't
cry when we leave home

and we come to America,

because I expect it to be
a place filled with rare

and wonderful things
like bananas and chocolate

and Bazooka bubble gum,

Bazooka bubble gum
with the little cartoon wrappers inside,

Bazooka that we'd get
once a year in Ukraine

and we'd have to chew
one piece for an entire week.

So the first day we get to New York,

my grandmother and I find a penny

in the floor of the homeless shelter
that my family's staying in.

Only, we don't know
that it's a homeless shelter.

We think that it's a hotel,
a hotel with lots of rats.

So we find this penny kind
of fossilized in the floor,

and we think that a very wealthy
man must have left it there

because regular people
don't just lose money.

And I hold this penny
in the palm of my hand,

and it's sticky and rusty,

but it feels like I'm holding a fortune.

I decide that I'm going
to get my very own piece

of Bazooka bubble gum.

And in that moment, I feel
like a millionaire.

About a year later, I get
to feel that way again

when we find a bag full
of stuffed animals in the trash,

and suddenly I have more toys

than I've ever had in my whole life.

And again, I get that feeling
when we get a knock

on the door of our apartment in Brooklyn,

and my sister and I find a deliveryman

with a box of pizza that we didn't order.

So we take the pizza,
our very first pizza,

and we devour slice after slice

as the deliveryman stands there
and stares at us from the doorway.

And he tells us to pay,
but we don't speak English.

My mother comes out,
and he asks her for money,

but she doesn't have enough.

She walks 50 blocks
to and from work every day

just to avoid spending money on bus fare.

Then our neighbor pops her head in,

and she turns red with rage
when she realizes

that those immigrants from downstairs

have somehow gotten
their hands on her pizza.

Everyone's upset.

But the pizza is delicious.

It doesn't hit me until years
later just how little we had.

On our 10 year anniversary
of being in the U.S.,

we decided to celebrate
by reserving a room

at the hotel that we first stayed
in when we got to the U.S.

The man at the front desk
laughs, and he says,

"You can't reserve a room here.
This is a homeless shelter."

And we were shocked.

My husband Brian was also
homeless as a kid.

His family lost everything, and at age 11,

he had to live in motels with his dad,

motels
that would round up all of their food

and keep it hostage until they were
able to pay the bill.

And one time, when he finally got his box

of Frosted Flakes back, it
was crawling with roaches.

But he did have one thing.

He had this shoebox that he carried
with him everywhere

containing nine comic books,

two G.I. Joes painted
to look like Spider-Man

and five Gobots. And
this was his treasure.

This was his own assembly of heroes

that kept him from drugs and gangs

and from giving up on his dreams.

I'm going to tell you about one more

formerly homeless member of our family.

This is Scarlett.

Once upon a time, Scarlet
was used as bait in dog fights.

She was tied up and thrown into the ring

for other dogs to attack so they'd get
more aggressive before the fight.

And now, these days, she eats organic food

and she sleeps on an orthopedic
bed with her name on it,

but when we pour water
for her in her bowl,

she still looks up and she wags
her tail in gratitude.

Sometimes Brian and I walk
through the park with Scarlett,

and she rolls through the grass,

and we just look at her

and then we look at each other

and we feel gratitude.

We forget about all of our new
middle-class frustrations

and disappointments,

and we feel like millionaires.

Thank you.

(Applause)