My Immigrant Connection
Mary was seventeen years old and in the throes of an unwanted predicament. A bright, bold, attractive young woman, she had dreams of an adventurous life ahead of her. Her parents, however, had arranged for her to marry a man in his mid-forties, a common practice that gave young women little or no say in the matter. It was the early 1900s and World War I was looming. Poland, Mary's homeland, would be in the crossfire.
Mary did what any headstrong seventeen-year-old would do in her situation. She escaped her home by a hay wagon in the middle of the night, making the long journey to the international shipping port of Gdańsk. She put all her hope and savings into a one-way ticket on a cargo ship headed for the United States. She spent over a week in the belly of that ship with eighty or so of her new closest friends, praying that they would survive the trip.
Ellis Island and the spectacular New York City skyline on the clear spring morning of her arrival were breathtaking for a young woman who had dreamed of traveling the world. Even years later, in her mid nineties, the recollection of that morning still caused tears to slip down her cheek.
The final leg of Mary's long journey was by bus to join friends who had already immigrated to a small mill town in western Massachusetts. Once there, she joined other immigrants working in the textile mills in harsh conditions that included fending off unwanted advances and threats from the men who managed the production floors. With time, she learned to speak enough English to get by, married my Polish immigrant grandfather, and settled in a sweet little house on Pulaski Street, of course.
My grandmother's stories filled my childhood with awe at what she had overcome, including the societal shame of becoming pregnant with my mother while in her early forties. Their daughter and son were eighteen and twenty when my mother was born.
My father’s parents mirrored Mary's immigration story, coming by cargo ship from Poland to a different small mill town about thirty miles away. They eventually bought a hundred acre parcel of farmland a scant five miles from Pulaski Street. The dairy farm they built is where I grew up in the midst of a large extended family where Polish food, music, old-world traditions, and laughter were our way of life.
Immigration stories of overcoming hardships, traveling great distances to start anew, lifelong friendships, great food and music, and lasting cultural traditions hold a special place in my heart. It is why I have a passion for writing these stories for my clients. I understand that deep connection my authors have to their families, their homeland, their roots.
My immigrant connection begins with my grandparents, but it continues with my authors.
If immigration is part of your origin story, I’d love to hear more. I’d love to help you honor your heritage and tell those awe-inspiring stories from your life.
Comments