I just handed in this final essay to my elderly teacher with a virtually nonexistent sense of humor. My grade rides on this. Wish me luck!
I
visited Ellis Island for the first time on a
warm Saturday in March. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and the
smog was seeping into my car’s ventilation system as I sat in traffic on the
New Jersey Turnpike. With a faulty GPS in tow, I set out, accompanied by friend
and classmate, Brooke Girard, to visit the prestigious checkpoint in our
respective family histories. Sugar-Free Redbulls in our hands and hopes in
our hearts, we set out on a factory-lined path towards self-discovery.
After
having missed three consecutive exits, we tired of hearing my GPS’s voice –
that of a mechanized British woman I like to call Sally – and decided to wing
it with the directions. Following signs for Liberty State Park
With no ferries in sight, we pondered the correctness of our location while staring at
the majestic Hudson River and the Statue of
Liberty’s backside. Ten minutes and three mosquito bites later, we realized
that we were nowhere near where we needed to be. I approached a seemly looking
woman on a park bench to ask for directions. She responded, “no hablo ingles”.
We were screwed. Quickly dissuaded and visibly disillusioned, we were almost
instantly ready to pack up, hop in my Mazda, and throw in the towel on the
entire experience. With one last look at Lady Liberty’s butt, it dawned on us:
if it weren’t for our forefathers, Thomas Masterson in 1850 and Carl Girard in
1856, we wouldn’t even have the
privilege of shirking our American pride and driving home to watch Jersey Shore in an imported
Japanese SUV. We owed it to our impossibly brave, inimitably selfless relatives
to take a first-hand look at what had brought us here: a little island I like
to call “Ellie”.
A short while
later, we arrived at the correct port of Liberty State Park Ellis
Island . We sprinted past the New Jersey 9/11 memorial and the Liberty
State Park Railroad station, limbs flailing as we attempted to board the ferry
before it departed. Just short of the chain-linked gates, a policeman halted
our embarrassing display of hurried desperation and told us we’d need to buy
tickets and pass through security before we could approach an American landmark.
Who would’ve guessed? Certainly not us. We bought our tickets, and looked
around the lobby while waiting for security. There was an interesting display highlighting cool facts about Alcatraz , and
many tourists wearing dumb foam hats which mimicked the Statue of Liberty’s
crown. I bought one, then we successfully passed through security after setting off the metal
detectors three times. The guards were not amused.
We went outside, reunited
with the policeman (we never learned his name, but he looked like a Rick), and
waited to board. We chatted with a few people in line, and a low-flying bird
almost hit me in the face. Brooke accidentally littered at a national monument as
a gust of wind pulled the plastic bag from Wawa out of her hands and into the Hudson . Rick chastised us, but ultimately said it was okay. We were off to a
great start!
We were the first
ones on the ferry, and sat outside in the midday sun on the top deck. We
admired the view of the New York City
skyline as a troupe of Spanish-speaking children cried and ate apples. Or, as
they would call them, manzanas. A short while later, we arrived, and took this
glorious picture which I will cherish forever:
We attempted to
look up the origin of our relatives’ respective journeys, but were told that
the center to do so had been closed. We were given pamphlets with information,
and a website in which we could look up the information by ourselves at home.
How cool! I vowed to do it as soon as I got home. I then lost the pamphlet.
We perused the museum downstairs, and
read a ton of information about immigration statistics and cultural norms that
were shed, and born, in the very lobby in which we stood. Having just learned
about immigration in class three days earlier, the visit to the museum
reinforced all of the information, and added even more substance to the
material. As we walked, we discussed the logistics of the journey westward, and
expressed our gratitude for having been so lucky to have had the brave relatives
who secured our way of life and its liberties. We took a few photos with the
exhibits about what we had discussed in class, forced removal (push and pull
factors):
as well as negative reactions to
immigration:
Brooke
and I discussed the universality of the struggle to become an American. No
matter where immigrants were from - mine from Ireland, hers from Armenia –
they all had the same fears, worries, and hopes during their treacherous journey
to Ellis Island. Looking around at the other people in the museum – people of
all different races, religions, ethnicities, etc. – we had the deep understanding
that all people are inherently comprised of the same 46 chromosomes and DNA and
organs and junk. (Junk meaning "stuff", not the colloquialism for "genitals".) Regardless of our external differences and multiculturalism,
human beings are all capable of feeling the same emotions and accomplishing the
same feats. This belief was cemented by the fact that each person in the museum
– black, white, male, female, Jewish, Muslim, what have you, - was staring at
us like we were crazed as we smiled and posed for pictures with displays entitled Horrific
Conditions and Heartbreak.
We
looked upstairs as we traveled through the very rooms in which our relatives
had been processed. We saw the dormitories for the detained, and saw the
hospital from a balcony. We read about the health factors that prevented
certain people from attaining citizenship, as well as the literacy tests which
determined a person’s mental capacity before admitting them to the United States .
We read more statistics, and looked at artifacts from the time, in awe of how
such a small place could process so many hopeful people.
As
we boarded the homeward ferry at the end of the day, Brooke and I were both
quiet. It may have been because our Redbulls had worn off, but I choose to
believe it was because we were both internalizing what we had just experienced.
The small, aesthetically unimpressive island that we had previously trivialized
as a requirement for a passing grade, had become much more than just that. A
six-hour blip on the timeline of our lives, for others, for our own flesh and
blood, the voyage to Ellis Island had been a
triumph. It had been a selfless sacrifice – a gamble by Thomas Masterson, my
great great great great Grandfather, to improve the quality of life for his
family. Five generations later, as I sit typing in a college library on
American soil, with a dream in my heart and the ability to achieve it, I am
unabashedly indebted to him, and eternally grateful.
