Between 1820 and 1924 over 10 million downtrodden immigrated to America. They came from all seven continents. This is their story.
We the People “Once I thought to write a history of the immigrants in America. Then, I discovered immigrants were American history.� Oscar Handlin
Prologue
Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me: I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
L
ady Liberty called. We the people answered. Her torch promised liberty. Her tablet sanctioned independence. Shattered shackles of tyranny lay, unbound, at her feet.
Immigrants from seven continents steamed across the Atlantic to America—a land that promised streets paved with gold. What they found instead was opportunity—opportunity to discover—to hope—to achieve the American Dream. What they created were stories—stories that became blueprints for our dreams—stories that left an indelible legacy—stories that go beyond what is to what was and what can be.
Freedom My country, ‘tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims’ pride, From ev’ry mountainside Let freedom ring!
I
t was easy to purchase passage to the New World and its promise of freedom. Stout, redfaced touters traveled from village to village, where they slid from beneath the shelter of doorways with smooth offers of services; transatlantic steamship lines displayed posters and distributed brochures in many languages . . . America. Steerage-class. Twenty-five dollars. Immigrants rid themselves of worldly possessions and spent life savings on a one-way ticket to a destination they had only heard about—passage to a life away from religious persecution, political oppression, economic hardship, and famine. With little more than dreams in their heads and hopes in their hearts, our immigrant ancestors left family, friends, and homeland for a better life. For many, the decision to leave native soil was a community matter: mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, friends, even entire villages worked to earn money for a penniless person—usually a man—to travel to America. Most accumulated just enough money to buy a third-class ticket—Steerage. The plan was for him to immigrate to the New World, work hard for promised opportunities, live frugally, then send (often, one-at-a-time) for his family.
Painful Passage Our immigrant ancestors crammed their worldly possessions into a six-cubic-foot steamer trunk and traveled by train, horse and buggy, donkey, or even on foot to the ship’s landing stage. Until the end of the 19th century (1800-1899), most immigrant ships were sailing barges—freighters—supported by steam engines. Crew would unload human cargo in the New World and fold away steerage bunks before reloading with cotton, coffee, and mail. The ship would, then, turnabout to its homeport. Upon arriving at the staging area, passengers waited for tenders to call out, “All aboard!” The wait was long. Passengers shoved and shouted as, person-by-person, they were examined by a company doctor, stung with vaccinations, dipped in an antiseptic bath, and shorn short. Defenseless, they watched baggage fumigated with steam, belongings destroyed. Family and friends’ sobs and final Goodbye! . . . Good fortune! . . . Godspeed! echoed across the muddy river to the steamship anchored on the open sea. For the next two weeks, two months, even longer, the iron monster would be home.
A hatch labeled Emigrants gaped from the fo’c’sle to the steerage compartment, sixteen feet below deck. The stench of brine, oil, cargo, and humanity—not quite definable, but definitely unforgettable— rose from the bilge. Immigrants tumbled down a half-ladder into a low, dark, irregularly shaped room. A Douglas fir mast ran up through the middle, diminishing the already small space. Rows of doors, starboard and port, opened into the sleeping compartments. Passengers were assigned a numbered metal berth, 6 feet long, 2 feet wide, 2 ½ feet overhead. Unfortunate travelers found themselves in lower bunks, victims of vomit from the seasick passenger above. “Amenities” included a burlap mattress stuffed with hay or seaweed, a life preserver that doubled as a pillow, one thin blanket, a tin pail, and metal meal utensils. A compartment accommodated up to 400 passengers, an entire ship up to 3,000. The air, reeking with vomit and excrement, was almost too thick to breathe. Chamber pots were available, but there were never enough; main toilets were on the upper deck, but access was denied when the ship rolled in bad weather. It was against the rules
to open portholes. Still, steerage passengers were forced to remain below deck as their ship pitched across the vast Atlantic Ocean. Rats and insects multiplied; disease was rampant; a mortality rate of over ten percent was ordinary. Bells announced meals. Passengers sat around a wooden table that stewards lowered from the ceiling. Crude boards, resting on iron supports, served as seats. Seating capacity sufficed for about half the passengers—latecomers stood in corners or balanced on the edge of their berths. Two days on the rough sea, though, and there was ample room for those still interested in food. Stewards lugged brimming buckets of soup up and down the length of the table crying, “Soup here? Who’s for soup?” Passengers held out tin bowls; stewards dipped tasteless, at best lukewarm, rice-broth from the main caldron. Bread was but a memory of home faraway. Immense iron pans of potatoes, boiled in their jackets, and beef, swimming in grease, were plunked on canvas covering the aft hatch. Meal over, passengers gathered their tin wear and scrambled up the companion to scrape scraps over the ship’s rail. The galley cook filled a tub with water and set it close to the lee deck railing, where passengers stood six-deep, waiting to rinse dishes in cold, scummy water. In spite of the miserable conditions our immigrant ancestors had faith in the future—a future that, for over 12 million hopeful, began on Ellis Island.
Ellis Island
S
ome steamship companies docked in Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, San Francisco, Savannah, Miami, and New Orleans. But the most popular port was through New York Harbor to federally–operated Ellis Island . . .
America’s shores loomed before immigrants’ eyes; tears of relief streamed down their cheeks. Their journey, though, was not over. Medical inspectors climbed off cutters and boarded immigrant ships anchored in the quarantine area at the entrance to Lower New York Bay. Passengers were inspected for cholera, plague, smallpox, measles, diphtheria, typhoid, yellow, and scarlet fever. The questionable were tagged for further scrutiny; the clean were handed medical inspection cards; landing cards were pinned to their lapels.
Ellis Island 1902
Ellis Island Ships, then, powered north through the narrows leading to Upper New York Bay. They slid through the smooth waters of the harbor. Slowly, the tip of Manhattan Island appeared. And there, in the shadow of Ellis Island, stood Lady Liberty. The old, the young; the composed, the terrified; the sick, the strong stood, shoulder to shoulder, silent, on the deck of the rusty ship as the great lady of hope welcomed them home. Once docked at the Hudson or East River pier, passengers were transferred to crowded ferryboats. At long last, with the ground still swaying like waves beneath their feet and the shrill shouts of a dozen different languages ringing in their ears, they poured across the wharf to the immigration station, teeming with more people than it was ever meant to hold. Interpreters (all spoke six languages; some more) led groups of 30 through the main doorway and shuffled them up a steep, wide stairway to the Registry Room. Doctors, armed with chalk, scrawled suspected abnormalities on jacket lapels: “B” for back; “C” for conjunctivitis; “E” for eyes; “F” for face; “Ft” for feet; “G” for goiter; “H” for heart; “K” for hernia; “L” for lameness; “N” for neck; “P” for physical and lungs; “Pg” for pregnant; “S” for senility; “Sc” for scalp; and “X” for mental illness. Lice were commonplace but didn’t rate a chalk mark.
16
The next doctors were the dreaded “eye men.” They pulled eyelids up and over metal button hooks to check for trachoma—a highly contagious eye disease resulting in blindness, even death. A “Ct” chalk mark meant certain deportation. Lesser chalk marks meant detention in a holding area. Cleared immigrants packed into the huge Registry Hall and lined up in winding rows with thousands of others to await an interview with a badged bureaucrat who sat on a high platform, behind a huge desk, under a portrait of George Washington and the American Flag. His fountain pen scratched hurriedly over the registry book, recording responses to thirty-one questions that were not easy to answer: “No. I do not have a job waiting,” could lead to deportation on the grounds of being a public charge. “Yes. I do have a job waiting,” could lead to deportation on the grounds of violating the Alien Contract Labor Law of 1885. Many questions. Many fears. Four out of five, though, were free to continue. Next stop was the currency exchange, where six cashiers exchanged gold, silver, and paper money for American dollars. Money in hand, those traveling to cities beyond New York proceeded to
the railroad ticket office, where, on the busiest days, a dozen agents collectively sold as many at 25 tickets per minute. As departure time approached, passengers climbed aboard ferry barges that carried them to train terminals in Jersey City, Hoboken, or Manhattan. The journey that started months, even years, before was over. Yet, ironically, it had just begun.
17
The American Dream
O
ur immigrant ancestors pledged allegiance to the United States of America. They were, now, home—home in the land where, with hard work, perseverance, and grit, dreams come true—where, with hope, faith, and resilience, legacies live and linger. America is a land of millions of stories, most started by our immigrant ancestors. Their stories shape us. They beat out the rhythm of life: who we were; who we are; who we can be. America is a land of promise. A land where people look ahead, not behind— where legacies build, each on the last, then on the next—where our time will come, for to surrender a dream means to live life as it was, not as it could be. This is their story. This is their legacy.