Contents
Title Page
Dedication
New York City 1909
Tuesday, September 14, 1909
Wednesday, September 15, 1909
Saturday, September 18, 1909
Tuesday, September 21, 1909
Friday, September 24, 1909
Sunday, September 26, 1909
Monday, September 27, 1909
Tuesday, September 28, 1909
Friday, October 1, 1909
Saturday, October 2, 1909
Sunday, October 3, 1909
Tuesday, October 5, 1909
Wednesday, October 6, 1909
Friday, October 8, 1909
Saturday, October 9, 1909
Sunday, October 10, 1909
Thursday, October 14, 1909
Friday, October 15, 1909
Sunday, October 17, 1909
Tuesday, October 19, 1909
Wednesday, October 20, 1909
Friday, October 22, 1909
Sunday, October 24, 1909
Tuesday, October 26, 1909
Thursday, October 28, 1909
Friday, October 29, 1909
Sunday, October 31, 1909
Monday, November 1, 1909
Thursday, November 4, 1909
Monday, November 8, 1909
Tuesday, November 9, 1909
Thursday, November 11, 1909
Monday, November 15, 1909
Wednesday, November 17, 1909
Friday, November 19, 1909
Tuesday, November 23, 1909
Friday, November 26, 1909
Monday, November 29, 1909
Tuesday, November 30, 1909
Thursday, December 2, 1909
Sunday, December 5, 1909
Tuesday, December 7, 1909
Wednesday, December 8, 1909
Thursday, December 9, 1909
Monday, December 13, 1909
Tuesday, December 14, 1909
Wednesday, December 15, 1909
Monday, December 20, 1909
Monday, December 27, 1909
Tuesday, December 28, 1909
Wednesday, December 29, 1909
Monday, January 3, 1910
Tuesday, January 4, 1910
Thursday, January 6, 1910
Friday, January 14, 1910
Monday, January 24, 1910
Tuesday, February 15, 1910
Monday, February 21, 1910
Saturday, February 26, 1910
Sunday, March 6, 1910
Monday, March 7, 1910
Saturday, March 12, 1910
Thursday, March 17, 1910
Tuesday, March 22, 1910
Saturday, March 26, 1910
Saturday, April 2, 1910
Friday, April 8, 1910
Saturday, April 16, 1910
Monday, May 9, 1910
Saturday, May 14, 1910
Saturday, May 21, 1910
Saturday, June 11, 1910
Wednesday, June 15, 1910
Sunday, July 3, 1910
Thursday, July 7, 1910
Saturday, July 16, 1910
Sunday, August 7, 1910
Sunday, August 21, 1910
Wednesday, August 24, 1910
Friday, September 2, 1910
Saturday, September 3, 1910
Monday, November 7, 1910
Wednesday, November 16, 1910
Sunday, November 20, 1910
Thursday, December 8, 1910
Monday, February 13, 1911
Thursday, February 16, 1911
Wednesday, February 22, 1911
Sunday, March 19, 1911
Wednesday, March 22, 1911
Friday, March 24, 1911
Saturday, March 25, 1911
Sunday, March 26, 1911 Early Morning
Tuesday, March 28, 1911
Wednesday, March 29, 1911
Thursday, March 30, 1911
Friday, March 31, 1911
Saturday, April 1, 1911
Sunday, April 2, 1911
Monday, April 3, 1911
Tuesday, April 4, 1911
Wednesday, April 5, 1911
Epilogue
Life in America in 1909
Historical Note
Glossary
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other books in the Dear America series
Copyright
Tuesday, September 14, 1909
Today I stayed behind to tell Miss Kelly my news. I stood quietly by her desk while she corrected papers, waiting for her to notice me. All I wanted to do was blurt out what I had to say and run home.
Miss Kelly is the prettiest teacher at school. Her skin is creamy, not olive like mine, and she has freckles sprinkled on her nose, like cinnamon. Usually her eyes are light blue. But suddenly I noticed they look stormy and dark, like the seas we crossed to come here from Sicily. I felt a knot in my stomach, for it almost seemed as if Miss Kelly was angry with me. But what had I done?
Miss Kelly tossed her pencil onto her desk, heaved a heavy sigh, and turned to me. “I already know what you have to say, Angela,” she said. “I’ve heard it before. You’ve just turned fourteen, and you’re leaving school.”
I let out my breath. “Sì, Miss Kelly. My father commands me to work in a shirtwaist factory.”
I’d hoped she would be proud of me. After all, I would be helping my family. But, instead, she frowned and pulled at the tucks of her own crisp, white shirtwaist blouse. Then she opened her desk drawer.
“Some Jewish girls stay in school until they are fifteen, even sixteen. Why must these Italian parents send their children to work at fourteen? And this one is so bright …,” Miss Kelly murmured to herself, almost as if I weren’t standing right there, or couldn’t understand English.
But I did understand. After all, I am no grignolla — no greenhorn — who has just arrived in America. I’ve lived in New York City for four years now.
My face flushed hot, the way it always does when I’m embarrassed. I stared down at my shoes, which used to be Luisa’s. Now they’re almost worn out, especially in the heels. I wanted to explain, to tell her more. But I lifted my chin and pressed my lips together. Our family has pride.
“I suppose your parents won’t let you go out at night to attend evening school, either,” Miss Kelly went on, sighing again. “Ah, here it is. Angela, this is for you.”
Then she put this book into my hands. For the first time, she smiled. She told me it was a gift because I am quick and bright, like a sparrow. She said she hated to see me leave, because I am smart enough to finish eighth grade, and even become a shopgirl someday, if I want. I felt my face get hot.
Miss Kelly said she hoped I would keep up my English, even though I wouldn’t be coming to school anymore. “If you bring this diary back filled, I’ll give you another,” she promised.
Fill a whole book! At that, my mouth dropped open. I couldn’t think of what to say, so I just mumbled, “Thank you,” and walked away. I didn’t look back.
As my shoes clomped across the wooden floor, I heard her grumbling to herself, “I’m not sure why I bother. How many diaries have I given away? No girl has ever brought one back.”
Later
If Miss Kelly had been here yesterday afternoon, when mio padre came home clutching his shoulder, his eyes bright with pain, then maybe she’d understand better why I have to leave school.
As soon he walked in, Mama had jumped up and cried, “Pietro, you’re hurt!”
“Nothing, it’s nothing.” He sank into the chair and bit hard on his lip as Mama helped him off with his jacket. She moved gently, as if he were little Teresa sick with on
e of her breathing attacks, instead of a strong man, the head of the household.
I wish my papa didn’t have to work so hard as a hod carrier. Those loads of bricks on his shoulders are heavy. The hod is like a big tray, and the boss makes him pile it high and move quickly to bring bricks to the bricklayer. No wonder his old hurt keeps returning.
I knew Mama needed to finish her order of artificial flowers for ladies’ hats, so I stayed at the kitchen table, putting yellow centers into blue forget-me-nots. Mama brought strong coffee, just the way Babbo likes it. He settled back and watched me, rubbing his shoulder. After a bit he spoke to Mama, using the words of our village back in Sicily. “Angela is a smart girl, no?”
Mama shrugged and refilled his cup. “She is fourteen now. Old enough to work.”
I felt Mama’s dark eyes on me. Just last week I’d gotten up the courage to ask if I could stay in school another year, to finish eighth grade. Mama had promised to think about it. But now I brushed those thoughts aside. I knew what my duty was.
I took a breath. “I’m ready to go to work, Babbo. And Mama, I … I don’t even like school anymore.”
Babbo raised one eyebrow, then nodded. Mama smiled, satisfied. Ducking my head, I bent to my work. It felt good to please my parents.
This is the right thing to do. I like school a lot, and I’m good at it. But school is a world Mama doesn’t understand. I never really expected her to allow me to finish eighth grade, even if Babbo hadn’t gotten hurt again.
Later, when Luisa came home, she told me how to get working papers from the Board of Health. Luisa says she can get me a place as a learner at her scioppa, the shop where she works as a sewing machine operator.
Well, that’s that! Soon I’ll be a factory girl. I’m glad I’ll be able to help, especially now that Babbo is out of work. Yes, helping my family is what’s most important.
Still, tonight as I write, I can’t help thinking about Miss Kelly. I keep remembering her eyes, daring me to fill these empty white pages. She probably thinks I’ll be like those other girls who never brought their diaries back. Well, maybe I’ll show her that I’m different.
Wednesday, September 15, 1909
This morning I got my working papers. Later I went to the market for Mama. Mama says I’ll make a good wife someday because I can add numbers in my head and never get cheated. Still, she always gives me strict instructions. I must buy from paesani — friends, relatives, and neighbors from the western part of Sicily, like us.
“Anyone else is a stranger — not to be trusted,” Mama warns.
So I always go to the Caccioppos’ store for “loose” milk for six cents a quart, except when Teresa is sick, when we buy clean milk in a bottle for eight cents. We get olive oil from the Riggios, because they live upstairs, on the third floor of our tenement building. And Mama has her favorite fish, cheese, and fruit vendors, too.
Today she reminded me to buy bread from the Cavellos’ bakery. “Go there last, Angela, so the bread doesn’t get crushed in your basket like last time.”
Teresa came along, and Mama’s voice followed us as we made our way down the dingy hallway. “Now pay attention, Teresa. When Angela’s a factory girl, I’ll need you to go to the market sometimes by yourself if I’m too busy.”
“Sì, Mama,” Teresa called back. But as soon as our feet hit Elizabeth Street, she grabbed my hand and held on tight. She’s only eight, and doesn’t like the crowds.
The pushcart vendors shouted in our ears, urging us to buy from carts stacked high with glistening fruits and vegetables. People were everywhere — pushing, talking, yelling. Children darted in and out.
I saw one boy bump a bright-red apple off a cart. Before I could blink, his little brother had swept the apple up off the ground and sprinted away before the peddler could hit him. The peddler threw his fist in the air and started to yell, making his face turn as purple as an eggplant! Teresa and I had to turn away to hide our giggles.
I love the market now. But I can understand why Teresa feels shy. When we first came here I was only ten, and each time I stepped off our tenement landing I felt sure someone would knock me down! Our village in Sicily was noisy, that’s true. But not like this, with people scurrying everywhere, like ants and no trees or grass in sight.
Teresa was only four when we left, so she doesn’t remember much. But I do. Back home our stone house had a loft and two rooms with dirt floors. Beyond the edge of town I could look out at neat rows of grapes and patches of golden wheat. Mama grew flowers in front and in the small cortile, the courtyard we shared with our neighbors.
It didn’t seem to matter so much that our house was small, because we spent so much time in the cortile. That’s where Mama and the other women did their household chores, and where Mama taught Luisa and me to wash clothes, sew, and make macaroni. The cortile made it easy for mothers to keep watch over their little ones. Here, though, mothers are always shouting down at their children from the high tenement windows.
Still, as Mama always reminds us, life was harder back home. Every day, since she was as old as I am now, she had to walk to the town well to fetch water. Mama wouldn’t give up having a cold water faucet right in her own kitchen for anything. And even though our village was pretty, times had gotten so bad mio padre couldn’t get work, even as a farm laborer.
After we’d gathered everything Mama needed at the market, we went to the bakery. Arturo gave me a big smile as we walked in. He’s only fifteen, but his padre depends on him a lot in their business. We waited while he helped an elderly woman, then he said, “My sister Tina says you’re not at school anymore, Angela. Is that right?”
Tina was in Miss Kelly’s class, too. I told Arturo my plans. Arturo is easy to talk to, unlike most boys. His eyes are so friendly and warm. Today he even gave us an extra loaf of day-old bread for free. And when we left, he called out a cheery “Ciao!”, even though he was already busy with another customer.
On the way home, Teresa pulled on my sleeve and teased, “He certainly smiles at you a lot. Is he your boifrendo?”
I shook my head and pinched her arm. “Teresa, you’re becoming too American! Mama will help find us husbands someday, you know that. Besides, Arturo smiles at everyone.”
But later, as I ate Arturo’s bread, I couldn’t help smiling myself.
Before Bed
Luisa got home from the factory late tonight. She was so tired, she barely touched her macaroni before her head started to nod. Her food didn’t go to waste, though. Vito grabbed her plate and ate the rest. At thirteen, he’s growing so fast, he can eat a mountain of macaroni every day!
Soon I’ll be working long hours, too. I’m a little worried about not being here for Teresa. She depends on me a lot. I like to do the shopping for Mama, but Teresa would rather stay home. I help Teresa with her schoolwork, too. And that will be hard to do if I get home late.
Sometimes I worry, too, because Teresa doesn’t seem very strong. She sleeps right next to me, and wheezes a lot at night. I guess the dust and dirt of our neighborhood don’t agree with her.
Saturday, September 18, 1909
Luisa brought home bad news, and Mama’s not happy about it. The new orders for shirtwaists have been delayed, so I can’t start work on Monday, and will have to wait a few more days.
I hope the boss doesn’t change his mind. What would we do then? Mama is good at managing our money, but with Babbo not working, she’s already worried about coming up with fourteen dollars to pay next month’s rent.
Mama kept me busy all day, scrubbing the kitchen floor and helping her cook soup. But now I have a little time, so I’m sitting on the fire escape as I write. It’s dirty and dusty, and the noisy crowds are just below on the street. Still, at least I feel alone here.
I’m never alone in our apartment. Sometimes I think Mama has brought our whole village with her to New York City! Paesani bang in and out of our door from morning till night. Our whole tenement building is noisy, bursting with laughter, shouting,
crying babies, and pounding footsteps. To make it worse, our apartment is right in the middle of things, in front on the second floor, and everyone comes to Mama for advice — and for her strong, rich coffee — the best in the building.
We have “aunties” and “uncles” everywhere!
Luisa seems to fit right in. Maybe it’s because Luisa and Vito take after Mama. They like to talk, laugh, tease, and gossip about everything under the sun. Teresa is quieter, like Babbo. As for me, well, I guess I’m in between.
It’s not that I’m quiet, exactly. Luisa would say I ask too many questions — and that I’m too serious. I know one thing: I definitely don’t like being the center of attention, with everyone’s eyes on me. That’s why I hid this diary under my arm just now. I just know Zi’ Maria, our neighbor on this floor, would click her tongue if she saw it.
I can hear her now: “Writing in a book, what nonsense! American schools make trouble between parents and children. It’s better that Angela goes to work to help the family. It won’t be long before she’ll be married, anyway. What girl needs writing and English? She should do her part now.”
And then I can imagine Zi’ Rosalia, a wiry older woman who’s always bragging about her granddaughter, chiming in: “Tsk, tsk! We had no nonsense like that with Giuseppa. She’s only sixteen, and, like Luisa, has been a fine, working girl, bringing good money to her mama every week. Soon she will be married….”
Even Luisa shook her head when I showed her Miss Kelly’s gift. When I start work at the factory, she told me, I won’t have time for such foolishness. She teased, “Just tear out the pages now, and use them in the toilet!”
That made me mad, but Luisa’s probably right. She thinks she is, anyway. Ever since she turned sixteen it seems like she scolds me almost as much as Mama does. We used to be close, but lately I’ve noticed that something’s changed. For one thing, she spends all her free time with Rosa, whose family lives above us.
Not long ago, I overheard Babbo telling Zi’ Vincenzo, Rosa’s papa, how well I could read English. Even though I wasn’t the one bragging, Luisa narrowed her dark eyes and flashed me an ugly look.
Sometimes I wonder if Luisa is just a little envious. Maybe, after all, she wishes she could have gone to an American school like me. Luisa had to go to work as soon as we arrived in New York, even though she was only twelve. That made it harder for her to learn English — not that she needs to speak it in our neighborhood. Maybe once we’re working together, Luisa and I will get closer again, the way we used to be. I hope she’ll talk to me more, instead of only to Rosa.
Dear America: Hear My Sorrow Page 1