Ellis Island

Jason and I decided to head to New York to go on a little adventure, just the two of us. Here, we are on a ferry, headed to Ellis Island. My entire life I have wondered what this place looked like, what mysteries it held, and imagined the thoughts of those who first set foot on American soil. 

 

Thousands of times, I’ve put myself in the shoes of those who saved every penny to come to the United States, to make a better life for their family, and to be free from tyranny and oppression. 

 

My great-grandfather came through Ellis Island in 1901; shortly followed by his wife and son. My entire childhood I heard about these stories, and placed myself in my grandmother’s shoes… waiting for her husband to save enough money so he could send for them, and bring them to a New World. 

 

Only letters were exchanged when the time had come for her to set sail for the New York Harbor. She left with a wicker basket of necessities, the clothes on her back, her toddler son, and newborn baby boy.  She walked away leaving everything and everyone she ever knew behind, not knowing what was ahead of them. 

 

From 1892 to 1924, Ellis Island was America’s largest immigration station, where over 12 million immigrants were processed. In that time frame only 6% were sent back to where they came from, due to sickness, disease, unpaid debts, or legal problems. 

When my grandmother landed in the New York Harbor on Ellis Island, they were processed and approved in the same day. I imaged her holding her son’s hand, telling him in her native language to keep still, and wait patiently as the proper staff were evaluating them both for disease, or any sign of sickness. 

 

I also thought about her emotions as she stepped off that boat with only one little boy instead of two. Within those few days at sea headed to the Americas, little Ivan became ill and died, and was buried at sea. Her heart must have been broken, but yet so strong to have to face this alone, with several strangers around her, having to explain to her toddler son he had to say goodbye to his baby brother. This would be just one of the many infants she would give back to heaven, including my grandfather’s twin sister. Maybe my grandmother’s perseverance and faith is what got her through such difficult times.

Neither of my grandparents spoke English.  Before they were approved to come into New York, they had to state their names. Because of constant policy changes, it was not unusual for first and last names of a person’s spelling to be changed to reflect the American English pronunciation. Some weren’t, most were. I can just imagine the language barrier as each worker wrote down each foreign name, one by one, translating them the best way they could pronounce them. 

In the land they came from, Mrkopalj, Općina Mrkopalj, Primorsko-Goranska, Croatia, their last name was spelled Grguric’. I think translating all of those interesting names would be a fun job.  🙂

 

I cannot tell you what a treasure it was to come see a place my grandfather talked about. No wonder he was a proud American. He was certainly grateful for this great country, the opportunities it gave his parents and siblings, and he made sure all his children and grandchildren knew this.

 

Fun Fact: Both of my great-parents lived in a place where many Croatian families settled.  Grandpa tells me that when he started public school at five years old, this would be the first time he learned to speak, read, and write in the English language. 

 

When my grandfather and his brothers went to war during the 1940s, they all wrote home to their mother in English, but she could never read them. Grandpa tells me that when his mother sat at her kitchen table to write to her boys overseas, my grandfather said he and his brothers could never read any of her letters either because they were written in Croatian. Each had to have an interpreter. Grandpa could speak Croatian, but not read a word of it. The only way mother and son could understand each other was speaking to each other. I ruminate on the thought of four years at war with only letters to exchange.

 

I’m not much of a movie watcher, but if you’ve ever seen Saving Private Ryan, you’d understand why my grandfather could not watch more than 5 minutes of that movie… the scene of the little white farm house and red barn, where the mother is standing at her kitchen sink washing dishes, the 4-star flag hanging from her window (indicating she has 4 sons at war). As a military car drives up with, no doubt a military chaplain and non-commissioned officer inside, the mother sees it coming up the drive and stops what she’s doing.  She goes to the screen door with hesitation to meet them on her front porch. They give her the news every mother dreads.

Some say this was the greatest generation of men. I say they are called the greatest generation because of the fathers and mothers who instilled good character, virtue, and integrity within their children, and in our culture. They raised them to be grateful patriots and do what is right by others. 

The soldiers of WWII that volunteered to go fight against the tyranny and socialist’s dictatorships, their character was built by the generations before them that formed a new generation of good men who were willing to be willing, even at the cost of their own life. Our country was booming with patriots who were willing to fight for other’s freedoms, whatever the cost. 

 

I think about my great-grandmother who had more than likely had her own stared flag in the window of her little white farmhouse. She was from another country, and her sons served for this new country that she now called her own.
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She never saw a military car drive up her dirt road. She never had to bury any of her boys from a war. All served in separate regions all over the world… the Philippians, Poland, Australia, Japan, Papua New Guinea, Germany, etc. All came back home to that little white farmhouse to eat home-cooked meals at her table again… eventually resuming back to normal farm life once more. 

 

I may be glorifying her personality, but I would like to think how thankful she was that they all came home safely, and how proud she must have been of all of them to serve the Land of Liberty. 

Soli Deo Gloria

-Natalie Grgurich McBride