Patel 1

Ruchi Patel
Dr. Rex
Honors 1000
October 29, 2014
Land of the Free, Home of the-Immigrants?
Thinking back, I dont know if coming here, to the land of opportunity, was ever
truly a practical option. I arrived without much money, no job, and no plan. The mere
hope that I fostered, to earn enough money to return to my family in Barletta, proved to
be short-lived in this moment. Despite having arrived only a year ago in May of 1910, I
feel as though it has been a decade since listened to our classical folk music, and saw my
family. Should I have just stayed in the gruesome tenements of New York? Had I not
met Enzo there, would I be somewhere in the vast south instead of here in Detroit? The
countless immigrants that flooded the city gave it a surplus of labor and new culture.
However, what I have truly gained by coming to this country is questionable. All I know
is that in my short time here, the little money I was able to save was not worth losing my
culture, my family, and my life.
My journey to America was initially inspired by the poor conditions of life in
Barletta. Despite the unified nation we had become with a democratic constitution,
southern Italy is still to gain any benefits. Taxes were quickly increased, but living
conditions were in no way improved 1 . The little farming land that my family had
managed to own reaped no benefit as each crop withered in the harsh seasonal weathers.
My parents relied on me, as their 23-year-old son, to uphold the family and support them.
1

Brier, Stephen, and Ferdinando Fasce. "Italian Militants and Migrants in the Early-TwentiethCentury." Duke University Press : 89-93. N.p., n.d. Web.

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Waves of our people got on boats in hope of finding sustenance in a different country.
However, stories we heard about the travels and the hardships fellow Barlettians faced in
America were in no way encouraging. I was warned about the padrone system, which
often abused Italian citizens. Despite helping their fellow countrymen find jobs, these
podronis seemed to take up to 60% of the workers commission and treated them as
personal slaves2. It was common knowledge that immigrants were treated as inferiors in
America, yet my journey here seemed to be the only escape to the poverty and diseases
that plagued southern Italy.
My boat ride over was stressful both emotionally and physically. Hundreds of us
were cramped in close quarters, as we slept in the same clothes alongside our luggage for
the entirety of our travel. We were provided with nothing but watery and flavorless food
for each meal, and movement throughout the ship was limited due to the sheer number of
people. I constantly felt weak, and quickly developed a sort of rash due to regularly
bathing in salt water3. I had no idea as to how I would find a job and when I would have
enough money to return to Barletta. My fellow passengers seemed to be facing similar
stresses, though I couldnt understand many of these Italians due to the language barrier
between various regions of the country. All I knew was that we would all enter on equal
footing to this country of cutthroat competition and hard labor.
When the boat finally reached its destination on Ellis Island, we all trembled in
fear of the unknown. We had heard countless stories of families being sent back to Italy
or separated from one another in what we called the Isle of Tears 4. All the passengers

Rapczynski, Joan. "The Italian Immigrant Experience in America (1870-1920)." N.p., n.d. Web.
Cannistraro, Philip. "Fascism and Italian-Americans in Detroit, 1933-1935." International
Migration Review : 26-37. Web.
4
"Tenements and Toil." Library of Congress. N.p., n.d. Web.
3

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were initially given numbers and taken to the baggage room to check in their belongings.
We were lined up in a single file line and taken one by one into the Registry room, where
we were to be inspected by medical personnel. If considered adequate, we were asked
the same questions that we were presented with by the ship captain prior to entering the
boat. The entirety of this process lasted a grueling four and half hours.
By the time I had finally gotten through the screening, I realized that I had
nowhere to go. With no options or knowledge of the English language, I decided to
follow the crowds of Italian immigrants that had spoken my language. I eventually found
myself at what was called a tenement home on Mulberry Street in Lower Manhattan
where I soon realized there were still tensions between northern and southern Italians 5.
The southerners tended to isolate themselves and stay on the same block and in the same
building. They felt no need to interact with Northern Italians who believed they were
superior to us southerners due to their high literacy rates back in our homeland. Natives
of this country treated us as thieves, taking their jobs and tainting their country. Despite
this discrimination, I felt at home within my group of fellow southern Italians. Here it
did not matter if I didnt know English, I was around my own kind.
Despite the comforting environment, living conditions were extremely harsh in
the tenements.

These low-rise apartment buildings were grossly overcrowded with

thirteen to twenty men packed into each room. Poorly lit, under ventilated, and generally
lacking indoor plumbing, these rooms proved to be home to a numerous amount of
illnesses.
I hoped to escape this building as soon as possible, but I didnt know how.
Paying five cents a day to live in this building, I was rapidly running out of money. With
5

Rapczynski, Joan. "The Italian Immigrant Experience in America (1870-1920)." N.p., n.d. Web.

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no job, no plan, and no future, it seemed as though coming here was an immature
decision. I was in no way coming closer to supporting my family back home. However,
as someone who had barely any knowledge of the English language, I was afraid of the
glares, the racial remarks, and the outnumbering amounts of white individuals that would
instantly drown me as soon as I stepped out. It was as if I was trapped within my own
hopelessness, misery, and cowardice.
I dont know how long I would have lasted in these tenement homes had I not met
Enzo. He was a young, eighteen year old boy. It came as a shock to me when I had
found out that he was a fellow Barlettian. He had newly arrived from Italy, and placed
his luggage next to mine in our room. As we talked and I inquired about his plans to find
work, he told me that he had already booked a train ticket to the city of Detroit for three
days after his arrival here, in New York. I listened intently as he described to me his
intentions of working on the Ford Assembly line and making a good amount of money,
especially for an immigrant. They seemed to pay 5 dollars a day per individual, almost
twice the typical pay for a laborer6. Enzo informed me of all the people who have told
him about the monotonous, yet simple duties of an employee. There was no need for
education, literacy, or even knowledge of the English language; the company merely
needed hard labor, and this I could provide. I told him of my own struggles with finding
a job, and my of lack progress towards returning back home. Enzo asked me to join him;
told me I could stay with him. He even offered to go out and buy my ticket since I could
not read or even understand the language properly. I was scared as to whether I should
follow this brand new acquaintance over such a great distance, but if I didnt, I may not

"Diversity." Ford. N.p., n.d. Web.

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ever get another escape. I agreed to his kind offer, and the next day he arrived back at the
tenement home with my ticket to Detroit.
A few days after arrival, on a dim Monday morning, Enzo and I made our way to
Fords Company. We sat in a small room as Enzo acted as a translator for me, answering
my questions on my behalf. I barely knew what was going on. I merely watched as the
Companys representative went on for a good forty minutes about what seemed to be
conditions for working in the company. We were then filed out of the room and sent
home. On our walk back, Enzo explained to me how there was a manual that told us
exactly how to live in order to retain employment at Ford. Fords personnel would be
checking in on their employees to confirm that they are abiding by the regulations set by
the company. We must live in sanitary condition and must keep track of all expenditures
and investments made during employment.7 He also told me about English classes that
the company offered for men employed in the factory.
The next morning, Antonio handed me one of his white beaters and a pair of
overalls to wear, and we made our way to the Ford Building. Here we were taken to the
assembly line where we were to pull a lever and screw bolts with a wrench. I felt as
though I was going deaf as I heard heavy machinery, the blast furnace, and deep throated
shouts from one end of the factory to the other. Within minutes, I broke into a sweat
within the walls of these overheated, and poorly ventilated building 8 . Each person
repeated the same motion over and over again, somehow seeming to merge with the
machinery itself.

7
8

Referred from Ford Manual

Referred from Detroit: A Biography pg. 74

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The daily routine was truly monotonous: walking to the factory, screwing the bolt
with sore and blistered hands for hours on end, returning home for dinner, then going
back to the factory for English lessons. And today was no different from any other day.
After my workday ended at 5:00 pm I walked home with Antonio as he told me about a
girl he had seen at the general store. I listened half heartedly as I went over the English
vocabulary we had gone over the previous day. After eating pasta and vegetables for
dinner, I gathered myself for class. The class lasted its usual two hours and at 9 PM we
were dismissed to return to our homes. By the time I left the building, it was pitch black
outside, with nothing but the moonlight penetrating the darkness. As I continued my 30minute walk, I heard shouts from behind me. I glimpsed over my shoulder to see a white
man stumbling over himself down the street, with a bottle in his hand. He seemed to be
running toward me, following me almost. Within minutes he had managed to catch up to
me and stumbled forward, grabbing the sleeve of my coat. I turned around to see him,
flushed in the face, and reeking of alcohol. He kept speaking to me, yelling at me almost,
in English, but I could not understand enough to make out the meaning of his slurred
words. He seemed to be getting angrier and angrier by my lack of response to his
increasing volume. I just looked at him, unsure of what he wanted. In one swift motion,
he pulled out a gun that had been tucked away in his pants, and pointed it straight at my
face. Go back to the dirty country you came from, he said. This I understood. In this
moment, I lost much faith in this land of opportunity. I had indeed been able to save a
good amount of money, but what was the use? It would never reach my family back in
Barletta, who may not even hear of my death. The prejudice, racism, and ill feelings

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towards our people were daggers to our confidence. This is when I knew that it was not
worth coming to this country, losing my culture, my family, and my life.

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Works Cited
Brier, Stephen, and Ferdinando Fasce. "Italian Militants and Migrants in the EarlyTwentieth-Century." Duke University Press : 89-93. N.p., n.d. Web.
Cannistraro, Philip. "Fascism and Italian-Americans in Detroit, 1933-1935."
International Migration Review : 26-37. Web.
"Diversity." Ford. N.p., n.d. Web.
"Foreigners in their Native Lands (Overview)." The American Mosaic: The Latino
American Experience. ABC-CLIO, 2014. Web.
Martelle, Scott. Detroit: A Biography. Chicago, IL: Chicago Review, 2012. Print.
Rapczynski, Joan. "The Italian Immigrant Experience in America (1870-1920)." N.p.,
n.d. Web.
Rybczynski, Witold. City Life. First ed. New York: Touchstone, 1995. Print.
"Tenements and Toil." Library of Congress. N.p., n.d. Web.