Zahin Hussain (ga1406)

Professor Timothy Moran

Honors 1000 Sec 516
14 October 2016

Americanization: A Plague Amongst Immigrants

It was the summer of 1914 when Mr. ONeal arrived in the city of
Detroit with his wife, Claudia. They had yet to have a child because the
conditions back in Ireland were so awful. There was never enough food
because of the potato famine that had occurred only decades earlier.1 They
had traveled to Detroit via Canada, and they had picked up some French
along the way. Upon arriving in Detroit, Mr. and Mrs. ONeal found
themselves amongst the vast support structure known as the Catholic
Parish.1 Immigrants usually had a difficult time adjusting to such a new place,
especially if they were from an agriculturally driven country. However, other,
more assimilated Irish and Catholic immigrants were willing to pull Mr. and
Mrs. ONeal into their own lives. This is how the ONeals were culturally
integrated into Detroit. However, Detroit was a place of forgetting. It was a
place where immigrants turned in their heritage for a chance to be American.
When an immigrant throws his history away, however, he loses his
individuality. When everything fails, he has no life to fall back upon. Such a
condition is fickle, as the difference between crippling loneliness and
extravagant success can be decided by the drop of a dime.

Hello, Mr. ONeal thank you for joining me in this informal interview. I
had never seen a more American man. He wore a black trench coat with
thick framed oval glasses. He had nothing lavish about him, but he seemed
confident. More than that, he seemed important. iDia Dhuit. Failte romhat. I
replied.1 Oh, I seem to have forgotten that you are unable to communicate
in our tongue. I speak, but not good I replied. It had only been four days
since I had arrived in the City of Detroit. My wife was sat down next to me.
She was silent as she ate her meal. Mo gra, love, why dont you take
yourself outside.1 She closed the door on her way out. Now, Mr. ONeal, I
have an issue with your work experience. It seems as though you have never
worked in any manufacturing position.
Yes, but I farmed back in Ireland.
And we all know how that worked out. He replied.
I lowered my head.
However, the Catholic Church of Detroit has put in a good word for you.
Under these circumstances, I must welcome you to the company Mr. Patrick.
1

Go raibh mle maith agat. Thank you so much, sir. 1

We are going to have to fix that Mr. ONeal, we require a certain
uniformity at the Ford Motor Company.

Claudia and I celebrated that day with a perfect home cooked meal of bacon,
sausages, and Irish Stew. She walked around with her beautiful Irish shawl,
while I poured whiskey into my coffee. The house reeked of Irish, and the
nostalgia poured through our taste buds. It was almost like we were back
home, except we were no longer hungry. 1
There was a bang on the front door.
I lifted the handle and stepped into the dark, cold night. Nothing. I
turned back around towards the front of the door. There it was. Scrawled
across the door was the inscription: Dirty Immigrant.

2, 4

It did not bother

me at first. I picked up a sponge and began to remove the crude words from
my dwelling. But as I scrubbed, the words began to fall deeper and deeper
upon my mind. I could not understand how a person could demean another
without a second thought. Was I not just as American as this person? I fell
asleep between the hours of 2 and 3 in the morning; I would be ready for
work the next day.
The work day began. From the outside, the Ford Motor Company looked
like the dwelling for God himself. Smokestacks flew from the top of the
building, as if they were painting the sky with clouds.6 I walked inside, and all
of my dreams were shattered. Gray seemed to pervade into every corner of
the building. The walls were gray, the cars were gray, and even the people
were gray. I spent the whole of my work day drilling the same screws into the
same wheels of the same Model Ts.3, 5

Figure 1: A worker at the Ford

River Rouge plant fixes the
chassis onto the automobiles.

Figure 2: Aerial view of the

Ford River Rouge Plant.

Few hours later, I was pulled out of work.

I was told that in order to continue receiving
profits from the company, I would need to begin living amongst American
values.

7,8

I never understood what he meant by living among American Values,

but I was unwilling to lose the money. Day after day, I would act the
American act. I would talk the American talk. I wore overcoats and suits,
spoke grammatical English, and acquainted myself only with people I
deemed American. The strange thing about my act is that it soon stopped
being an act. I truly enjoyed playing American. I finally began to feel like I
was fitting in, and this lonely city began opening up to me.
Honey, could you pass the white bread I said. Of course, love she
replied. I am beginning to understand where we went wrong honey. I
sipped whiskey from the bottle as I spoke. We were never meant to continue
our culture. Everything just works out better when you assimilate. We are

Americans now, and as such, we should dress, eat, and see as Americans.
Yes, honey. Love, would you like to go for a walk? Of course. She
replied.
The night was beautiful. Stars upon stars lined the sky to the point
where it was impossible to tell where one ended and another began. It was
silent, but then she spoke. Mo gra, every single one of those stars has its
own story and age. Each and every one is different. This is what makes stars
beautiful. Yes love, I replied.

The next day I was fired from my position at the Ford Motor Company. I
was told that the company could not afford the number of workers at the
plant.
After that day, I began staying home. Real Americans would not
speak to an Irish Catholic like myself, and I no longer held ties to either the
Irish population, or the Catholic Church. I found myself disconnected from the
world. Everything I had invested my time and culture into did not matter
anymore. I was alone - truly, truly alone. My life was a blank slate. I began
walking to the kitchen. I pulled the knives out of the cutlery box. The drawer
was now empty except for a single book that was hidden in the back corner.
Inside that book lay the hopes and dreams of a more cultured man. His
dreams consisted of freedom, happiness, and profit. He dreamed of money
but only in the form of Irish gold. He dreamed of luck but only the shape of
the four leafed clover. He dreamed, and he found all these things. Except,

they were all hidden within the folds of the Ford Motor Companys
assimilation practices. I took all of those dreams and slowly placed it within
the smolders of the fireplace. Through it, I could see only two words: Ford
Manual.

i
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3.
4.
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