immigrant

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The New American Xenophobia


Xenophobe n. One who fears or hates strangers or foreigners or anything that is foreign. (Webster’s II New Riverside University Dictionary, 1988, p. 1332)

At the beginning of the 20th Century American immigration laws were few. An immigrant had to have on his person $50, a named sponsor to take him in, be free of disease or mental defect, and have no criminal record. Americans today view all immigrants of that time coming through Ellis Island New York. But in truth, the ports of Boston and Baltimore were also quite alive with immigrants.

Europe during the period 1900 to 1915 was fraught with civil wars, unrest, and an Ottoman Empire which was at war with Great Britain. As can be seen by the map below, the Ottoman Empire covered most of the Baltic countries and large portions of the middle east. It is also worthy of mention that this was a Moslem Empire which Christian Europe feared. In Eastern Europe, Russia was flexing its influence as it held onto much of the territory it controlled when it became the USSR. In particular, it controlled most of Poland as we know it today. In 1905 the Czar ordered that all Polish men of a certain age be drafted into the Russian Army. Those who refused realized harsh consequences.

Muslim_population_Ottoman_Empire_vilayets_provinces_1906_1907_census

Ottoman Empire 1905

 

1_Russian-growth-1801-1914

Russian Czarist Empire

 

In the case of Italy, the country’s industrial north did not offer enough employment for Italy’s labor force. The Italian tendency towards large families made for an excess labor force. The excess labor force could find work neither on the farm nor in Italy’s factories, hence they looked towards America where, they heard, there existed a need for more labor. They also heard, falsely of course, that such labor, even though unskilled, was well-paid.

The social, economic and political unrest of much of Europe lead to its radicalization. Some were of the new socialism as outlined by Karl Marx and practiced by Trotsky and Lenin prior to the revolution. Conversely, Fascism arose out of Europe’s aristocracy against the growing socialist ideals. The common man found himself caught between the two groups in Europe with no place to run, except America.

The overwhelming majority of immigrants to America in the early 20th century were people coming from extreme poverty. They were indeed a cross-section of Europe embracing every type of religious, political and social belief. And as with any cross-section, among them were the anarchists and others who would prove troublesome to the established American public.

The epicenter of American radicalism in those days was in the small boarding house rooms of Greenwich Village. They were a small but vocal group who advocated the overthrow of the wealthy, the industrialists, and the powerful politicians by any means possible. Names like Emma Goldman, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Margaret Sanger, and John Reed seemed to most Americans to be the ones originating most of America’s radical troubles, but as with many things, the truth was something quite different.

When Leon Czolgosz assassinated President William McKinley, William “Big Bill” Haywood, Emma Goldman was extremely vocal in her opposition to violence as a tool of the anarchists. Margaret Sanger attended many anarchists meetings in Greenwich Village, but her purpose was to gain support for her settlement house in the lower east side and in getting aid for single mothers. John Reed was a journalist who was more interested in reporting on the anarchists, though he did agree with their views, the partaking in their political actions. Big Bill Haywood was an organizer for the Industrial Workers of the World, a socialist union whose prime member was the unskilled laborer. But in 1907 Haywood had been tried for murder in Idaho. Haywood was innocent of the charge, a charge that had been trumped up simply because local politicians hated him, and found innocent after his trial. But he could not shake being labeled as a murder and his presence always brought trepidation to any community he visited.

People like Haywood and Sanger took on the cause of the immigrant and were closely associated with the various new immigrant groups. When a strike broke out in Lawrence Massachusetts in 1912, Big Bill visited the city and both city and state leadership felt certain that riots and all sorts of violence were sure to follow. Again, the truth is far different. Haywood spent very little time in Lawrence and focused his energies on raising funds for the strikers in other parts of New England. He actually had no interest in being a part of the strike save the role of fund-raiser. But then dynamite was found at a house in North Lawrence and everyone was certain that the IWW and Big Bill were somehow behind it. A few days later it was discovered that William Wood, a mill owner, had planted the dynamite in an effort to discredit the efforts of the IWW to win the strike.

What in common between the events of the early 20th Century and those of this presidential campaign, is Donald Trump’s use of fear and xenophobia to activate an American public. Fear is common to all human beings and has been used to exploit people throughout the ages. Because we are in the middle of Trump’s plotting it can be hard to gain perspective, but it is perspective that will save us from foolish beliefs and even more foolish moves.

The immigrant is the life blood of America and their introduction into our country makes us stronger. And while it is true that there are elements in those immigrants who would do America harm, we are more than strong enough to survive their worst. Unlike much of the world, our country thrives upon its diversity. Our Constitution guarantees that diversity cannot be used against us.   And the words at the base of the Statue of Liberty bear remembering, “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!”

Amen!

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Sophia’s Sunday — Part 2


The Andreotti’s had moved in next door to them early at the beginning of the previous summer.  Sophia’s father was suspicious of them.  He said he did not trust Italians but when pressed on the issue he could offer no cogent argument, only that it was “well-known” that Italians were not to be trusted.  When Sophia asked why, if that was the case, that it was all right for them to attend the Italian Catholic church down the street, her father had dismissed the question in a huff saying children should not question their parents.  He did that a lot when she brought up any subject which might be thought of as being uncomfortable.  While her mother was more pliable, she seldom went against what her husband proclaimed to be the truth.  And if you asked the question a second time, no matter how well you reworded it, he raised his voice a little higher until she recognized the fruitless nature of her inquiry.

Sophia reflected on her neighborhood that cold January morning.  That was unusual because she seldom had time for her own thoughts once she awoke to the new day.  This day, however, was not a usual day in any respect.  It was not just that it was a Sunday and no one worked on Sundays.  But that there was no prospect of work for anyone in the family for the foreseeable future, and that had trouble all of them.  They had suffered through times of low employment when one or two of the family was out of work.  But this time was different.  This time they were all out of work, food was low, money was lower, and the winter was just reaching its chilling heights.

Sophia reflected back to her life in Poland, just six short years ago.  They had been extremely poor then too, but they always had friends and family to help them through even the most difficult of times.  Now, most of her family surrounded her in this small apartment.  They had no actual relatives in the city, as they had claimed.  Her “uncle” had actually been an acquaintance of her father’s from Poland who had written to his brother.  That brother had talked rather glowingly of America and its promise.  Her father, a headstrong man, had always believed he deserved more than he had gotten, and this word of a better life in America had been virtually all he needed to hear.  Then, about a year before they left Poland, her father had seen a representative, from one of the American mills, talking to some men in Krakow, where he had gone to find some replacement tools for the farm.  The man had said how America longed for the Polish immigrant to work there, and that they were paid handsomely for their toil.  When her father had asked how much, the representative had instantly responded that they lived like kings.  The reference to royalty was met with amazement and disbelief, but it was a tale oft retold in many eastern and southern European towns.  He had heard such “gossip” before and dismissed it as idle talk, but here, right before him, was an American recruiting for those very mills and saying exactly what had before only been rumor.  It was all he needed.

But Sophia was comparing her small village in Poland with the city in which she now lived.  In Poland you knew everyone, and had an opinion about everyone.  Each person knew his place, and that place had a certain respect within the community.  Her father had been very well-respected for his extremely hard work at maintaining a good farm and for generously helping others in their time of need.  Now was their time of need, but here, in America, you knowledge of your neighbors was limited by where you went to church, where you worked, and most importantly, your ethnicity.  When they arrived it was thought they would be living in a Polish neighborhood in their new city.  But that had not been the case.  On her street alone along with the Polish were Italians, Russians, Scots, a few French Canadians, and Armenians.  Their backgrounds were about as diverse as one could imagine.  And their lack of a common native tongue further inhibited them.

When they first arrived they were introduced to their Polish neighbors, who numbered few, and were shown where they could buy their kielbasa, when they could afford it, turnips, cabbage, and get it on credit if need be.  They were also made aware of whom to avoid.  The Poles were always suspect of Russians even though they were of the same background.  You did not go to Warchovsky’s grocery because not only was he a Russian but a Jew, and who could trust them.  That’s what they were told at least.  Sophia had learned much of her English for a Polish Jew who told her that they were not so different from the Russian Jews, so how could that be bad.  Sophia had found work quickly in the closest mill as a mender, one of the better paying jobs, and a job generally assigned to just women.  The women at her mill, mostly Polish but some Italians, were given to gossiping about everything but as she listened Sophia learned that the old world mistrusts did not translate well in this new world, and most importantly, that they were “all in it together,” whatever that meant.  It did not take her long to find out that it meant it was them against the floor bosses who assigned work.  If you did not please such a boss, you might find yourself being laid off and another taking you place in just a day.

At that moment Sophia noticed the emptiness of her stomach.  It ached.  She knew breakfast would be some bread covered with molasses.  It was not very filling but it took the edge off her hunger.  When they had first arrived Sophia and her family looked like well-fed country stock.  She had been a bit of a big girl back then but the constant battle against hunger had depleted her body that it seemed to her she was forever taking in her dresses just so they would fit better.  Sophia had been a seamstress in Poland when they left, and her clothing had been relatively new and always in good condition.  That had all changed, and many was the day that she was simply choosing between the least threadbare garments she owned.  And winter only made things worst. Her one overcoat, though made of wool, failed to keep out the cold for any length of time.  They few times she had had to work across the river at a more distant mill in the winter, she had wished she had the five cent trolley fare.  By the time she made it to work, even when she rushed as best she could, she was always shivering.

As she thought of breakfast she longed for the days when her mother’s fesh-baked bapke and fruit pierogi started her day.  They had enjoyed none of that since they arrived in America.  And their was no Polish baker to provide their favorites.  Mostly the grocers and bakers were Italian and Syian.  But her father had assured her that their present condition, six years previous, was merely temporary, and that soon her mother would be making “babci’s” (grandmother) favorites.  She longed for her babci but knew she would probably never see her again.

At home, here in America, everyone still spoke only Polish.  Her brothers had all learned pretty good English, but her mother and father spoke very stilted, and heavily accented, English.  Her father, it seems to Sophia, was worst of all.  He had a stubborn streak a mile wide.  As much as he need to learn English, he resisted it so much that she frequently had to go with him when he needed to buy something in particular from someone who did not speak Polish.  Her father’s English was so bad that certain of the neighborhood men spoke poorly of him in his own presence without fear of his knowing what they were saying.  It was only Sohpia’s scornful looks that stopped such talk.  When her father noticed this he’d ask what had transpired, and to protect her father, Sophia had become very adept at making up a story to fit the situation so as not to upset her father.  She adored and idolized her father, though he made her crazy many times with his stubbornness and pronouncements.  When such things were talked about among other Polish people, they would universally agree that it was in their nature to be that way.  They were a proud people, and they let their pride show whenever the chance afforded them.  They all belongs to the Polish-American club down the street where these claims were justified on a regular basis.

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Sophia’s Sunday


It was January 21, a Sunday, and Sophia did not have to work today.  But then it had been 10 days since she last worked, and the prospects were grim.  She arose at 5:30 that morning, just like she had every morning.  Her sister, Elizabeth, was snoring lightly in the bed next to her.  Elizabeth was 10 years younger and had just started working.  On a mattress next to her were her brothers Januz, Frank, and Thaduez.  They ranged in age from 11, Januz, and 12, Frank, to 17 Thaduez.  On a third mattress to himself was Walter, a strapping young man of 20.  As the eldest child it had fallen to Sophia to rouse her brothers each morning and prepare breakfast for them.  This was a tradition they had brought with them from when they had lived in Przybyslawice Poland, a village not far from Krakow.  They had left Poland in 1906 when Sophia’s mother and father had feared their sons would be conscripted into the Czar’s army.

Sophia’s parents had saved as much as they could, and when they felt they had to leave, they sold their farm to an aunt and uncle who said they wanted to move from the city of Katowice to get away from the constant noise and unhealthy air of the city.  Sophia suspected they had bought the farm for far less than it was worth preying on her father’s need for cash to buy passage to America.  They arrived at the port of Boston with slightly less than $100, and claimed to the immigration official that they would be living with her father’s brother.  That was curious as her father was the only boy in a family of seven children, but they were related to the man, though distantly, and reasoned that it was God’s will they use this falsehood to gain admission.  Her parents had not known that giving any name and address would have sufficed.  The port officials knew these immigrants would help fill positions, extremely low and ill-paying, that drove the American economy.

Sunday meant church.   The Polish community was trying to set up its own ethnic church in the city, but until it did they all attended mass at the Italian Catholic church just down the street.  When Sophia question the necessity of building a Polish church when a perfectly good Italian church was only a block away, her mother chastised her and instructed her as to the necessity of retaining their culture in this alien nation.

Sunday also meant they would have meat in their meal that day, probably pork shoulder, along with turnip and cabbage.  It took the combined pay of everyone who worked to ensure that meal but Sophia knew this day would be meatless.  No one had worked the last ten days which meant meat was a luxury they could not afford.  Sophia wondered what the big meal of the day would be, or even if it would be.  She had overheard her father speaking to her mother the evening before saying he would have trouble meeting rent, let alone buy food.  She had heard such desperate words before, but always before at least one of them was still working.  That simply was not the case this Sunday.

As Sophia attempted to survey the room around her in the near darkness surrounding them, she wondered what they day truly held.  It was at that same moment she noticed how cold her nose felt and she wondered what the temperature outside was.  They had been suffering through a particularly cold spell.  The windows of their small apartment did little to keep the drafts at bay.  In Poland they had always had a good supply of wood to keep the fireplace burning high even on the coldest of nights.  They also had a good supply of down quilts with which to keep warm when the winds blew strong.  But then they seemed to have some control over their living conditions, something they no longer had.  Each day the younger of her brothers were tasked with finding errant coal at the coal bins around the city, and particularly at the rail yards.  Their task was a tough one as they competed with other children on the same mission, each hoping to find what another had not.  Mostly it was futile and they would scavenge scraps of wood.

Sophia hated getting up on mornings such as this.  The cold cut through to her bones.  The routine of washing up quickly and dressing went more quickly in the cold of such mornings.  The small coal stove in the kitchen would take its time heating just the kitchen, let alone any of the other rooms.  While her mother tended to her younger siblings, Sophia was charged with getting the stove going.

As she lay their, Sophia wondered what other girls her age did on Sunday mornings.  Not the girls of the city, like herself, but the girls who lived in the more affluent towns surrounding her city.  Did they have to rise early too?  She reminded herself that on Sunday she could get up an hour later than her usual 5:30.  That always felt a bit luxurious.  But were other girls required to take care of their siblings as she was?  She wondered how many of their siblings had to share a bed and a bedroom.  Then her mind wandered  back to wondering why they had ever left Poland.  She had never known anyone who had been conscripted into the Czar’s army.  Maybe it was all just a rumor, she thought, and if they had waited a little longer as her father had implored her mother the troubling news would have passed without adverse affect.

Once out of bed she turned on the single overhead light and attempted to rouse her brothers from their sleep.  This was always a difficult task as they always resisted her attempts, particularly on Sundays when their presence at the mill was not necessary.  Her attempts on this particular Sunday proved to be particularly futile and Sophia gave up quickly.  Her mind was elsewhere, though she could not seem to nail it down to any particularly place, she felt no motivation to continue her morning task.  She looked out the dirty window of her second story bedroom at the apartment directly next to them.  She could see into their bedroom when the shades were pulled, which they usually were not.  The family in that apartment was the Andreottis who, she thought, were louder than her own loud family but fun and extremely friendly.