This morning we got up early again and took the train into NYC;  we’re getting to be old hands at this now.  Then we caught our sight-seeing bus down to Battery Park and stood in line for almost two hours to catch a boat over to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island.  We decided we had gotten the best view of the Statue of Liberty from the boat, so we didn’t get off there, but continued on to Ellis Island.  There we spent over three hours, reading and learning about what it was like to come to America between 1900 and the 1920’s, the “peak” immigration years.  It must have been frightening.  There are pictures of the immigrants everywhere, their eyes haunted.  The portraits of the children look like any children anywhere; they could be us when we were small, or our parents, even our own children.  It’s strange to realize they are all probably gone now.  The stories are sad and joyous and crazy and sometimes just plain weird.  It’s a humbling experience to realize just what lengths some people went through to come to a place we were just lucky to be born into.

As I sat in the giant registration hall, listening to the voices of visitors bouncing off of the harringbone brick curved barrel ceiling, the sun glinting in through the huge arched windows, I wondered what sounds had been soaked into the grout there, the sounds of all the thousands of people that had been there before me, and I wished that I could hear some of their voices for myself.  The museum, it turns out, lets you do just that; there are several locations where the stories are told in recordings of the aging immigrants themselves.  It’s an amazing experience and one I would recommend to everyone.

Later in the afternoon we stood in line to get back on a boat, and I happened to sit next to a young woman who sounded like she was from London.  She asked me what was on the island that we had just left.  Obviously she hadn’t gotten off the boat, probably went only to the Statute.  I said it was Ellis Island.  She looked blank.  I told her it was the location that processed people trying to come to America in the early 20th century.  She looked even more confused and said that her history was terrible.  I described a bit of what I had seen and she seemed satisfied if not enlightened, and turned away.  But really, how much do I know of HER country’s history, so I don’t blame her for not knowing, just for not getting off the boat and finding out for herself.

One quote from an Italian immigrant circa 1912:

“I always heard that in America the streets were paved in gold.  I came to America and I learned three things.  1.  The streets are not paved in gold.  2.  The streets are not paved at all.  3.  I am expected to pave the streets.”