Generations of Immigrants

“What were your hopes and fears as you prepared to leave everything?”

Nicola, 23, lies restless in bed. He tosses and turns, looking out the small window every few minutes, waiting for the first light of dawn. The room is quiet, he can only hear cicadas singing in the dark. He lays down, staring at the ceiling, molded by the summer humidity that spreads like ink stains. Nicola’s thoughts spiral. He is counting the minutes that separate him from his family, from his land, from his language, from everything he’s ever known.

It’s July 4th, 1905, and in just six hours, his corriera, a mix of a carriage and a bus, will take him to Naples to board the SS Calabria, a vessel that will carry him to the Golden Door, the gate of the U.S. There is no turning back, the decision’s been made. The hardest part is to say goodbye.

I was in my early teens when I first met one of my aunts who had immigrated to the U.S. around the 1940s. She would come back occasionally, but my memories are hazy. I have a mental picture of her sitting at the head of the table that my grandma had prepared for the occasion with abundant food. She spoke a mix of English and Neapolitan, using gestures to make sure my family and I could understand. Not Italian—Neapolitan, the dialect, or rather, the language of the South. It’s more than a language; it’s a way of living and a key part of a person’s identity.

My aunt was in her eighties. I grew up knowing her as the American aunt, the one who had immigrated a long time ago. They lived outside of NYC. It was only recently that I found out my grandma’s dad, my great-grandpa Nicola, first came to the U.S. in the early 1900s with his brother to escape poor living conditions in search of a better life. While his brother decided to stay, Nicola returned after five years, in 1910—which is why I was born Italian. Thank you, great grandpa!

That picture of the dinner table is still vivid in my mind. If I could go back to that moment, instead of rushing through the meal to hang out with friends, I’d sit and ask my aunt and grandparents a ton of questions. What made you leave your hometown back then? What did you do for so long on the boat? Did you make any friends? Once you arrived at the port, how did you find your way around? Did you just have an address and a few directions on a piece of paper? I would have been terrified of losing it if I had to navigate a new world with just a few notes scribbled down. I remember when I landed in Chicago for the first time. It took me about an hour to figure out where to go, which train to take, and which direction. No, I didn’t have an iPhone—I wish I did. Funny enough, Google Maps launched on the iPhone in December 2012, and I arrived in January 2012.

Have you ever asked an American with Italian origins where their ancestors came from? Second+ generations can barely name the province, but they can likely tell you that they came from the southern part of Italy. And if you have ever wondered why, well, the story is long and can get political. However, the short, opinionless version is that the South of Italy saw one of the lowest economic points in the years following the unification of 1861, when Francis II surrendered and abdicated from the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies that had ruled the region for about 45 years. It’s a fact that unifying or separating states is often the result of wars, and wars have never brought prosperity. Consequently, the mass migration cast the whole region into a deeper poverty as it saw most of the youngest, risk-takers, and strongest people leaving.

My great grandpa was just 23 when he left home, and his brother was only 17. Together, they spent nearly five years working in the mines of Philadelphia, enduring long, grueling days deep underground. But there was more to hard work. These were the years leading up to the 1911 publication of the 41-volume report by the U.S. Immigration Commission, known as the Dillingham Commission. This report sought to restrict immigration from Europe, pushing for literacy tests to filter out those deemed “low-quality.” As if literacy could measure a person’s worth. My grandma, who never went beyond the second grade because she was “needed” on the farm, is a testament to that flawed logic. It’s hard to imagine her father, a man who left everything behind to chase a better life, having had the luxury of an education.

The fifth volume of the report, the Dictionary of Races or Peoples, laid out a crude and biased stereotype of southern Italians, describing them as short, hairy, illiterate, and violent. In stark contrast, northern Italians were portrayed as cool, deliberate, patient, and capable of great political and social progress in modern civilization. Such prejudices were embedded in policy, culminating in the Immigration Act of 1924, which imposed an annual quota of just 4,000 Italians—a stark reduction from the 2.3 million who arrived between 1899 and 1910, averaging about 210,000 per year.

About a century later, in late January of 2012, I woke up knowing it was my turn to leave my home, my family, and my friends for a new experience abroad. Unlike my great-grandpa, who sailed into the unknown, my journey was made easier by the sacrifices of those who came before me. There was no ocean voyage ahead—just a ten-hour flight from Rome to Chicago. I didn’t know what to expect, but I had a phone in my pocket. I could call my family whenever I wanted, from wherever I was. I could Skype them and see their faces on a screen.

But despite all this, I knew I’d still miss the physical contact. Sometimes, I wonder what’s harder—seeing someone but not being able to touch them, to sit in the same room, to smell the house where I grew up, or to grab a “quick coffee” with a friend—or to leave and communicate only through postcards, like my ancestors did. I have more comforts, more ways to stay connected than they ever did, but how much does that really soften the distance?

Photo: Nicola is sitting between his wife and mother, with his whole family of eight kids.