The Difference
Page 13
That new image strangely comforts me. I move the foil down on my sandwich to prepare for another bite. Keep going, Rachel. You have to for Grandpa, and for yourself.
Chapter 19
“Harrison, where do I look next?” I ask, as if he knows what to tell me. Instead, he bats the leg of the chair with his paws. I lay my head in my hands and rub my face.
Weeks have passed, yet again, since any leads. And the lead I thought I had slipped through my fingers. Deleting my tree from FamilySearch felt like my soul was dying. Taking off each person, one by one, in Ancestry.com’s tree was more of the same. I had to say goodbye to all of those people I called family for a short time. Bye Matilde and Alessio. Bye to all of you who I loved for a short but magnificent time.
I keep repeating steps that aren’t getting me anywhere. Where are you hiding, Granza family? A deep breath fills my lungs and I try to release the frustration as I exhale with a groan.
Needing some outside air, I grab my keys and head out for a walk. I have to take action. I have to do something different than the monotonous pattern in which I’m stuck.
The heat of the concrete New York summer finally lifted and everyone’s out and about to enjoy it. Look at all the happy people, strolling along with their dogs and boyfriends on this sunny September day. I wish I could walk Harrison like those dogs over there. I refuse to be one of those people who walk cats on leashes or push them along in pet strollers, though. I feel like people would judge me. I guess it wouldn’t matter at this point.
As I walk toward the Hudson River, an old tune pops into my mind. “I love you a bushel and a peck. A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck…” My grandma used to sing that song to me when she was helping me go to sleep. I feel a smile rise to the surface as I approach the river.
A person’s brain does the strangest things. No matter how much I study people in my profession, I still will never understand how these thoughts randomly occur. Where do these ear worms come from? I haven’t heard that song anytime recently, yet here it is, in my head on repeat.
A bench along the water looks like a great place to sit for a minute, as the song continues to play only for me. The memories of Grandma and Grandpa in their home, smelling like bread and garlic, comes to mind. My mouth waters for some of Grandma’s “aioli,” a garlic and olive oil sauce mixture for linguini, formally called aglio e olio. I deeply breathe in the air in hopes of breathing in the scent of the food in reality. That would be nice.
A small ship passes by the abandoned docks of the Chelsea Piers in front of me. Somehow and again randomly, Ellis Island materializes in my thoughts. Oh…my…God.
“Why haven’t I thought to go there yet?” Okay, now I am talking to myself in public. I look around and fortunately it is pretty desolate here, as usual. Phew.
I haven’t been to Ellis Island in years. It was a yearly school trip for all Pennsylvania youth in fifth grade. While I remember thinking it was interesting, I never thought about going back as an adult, and not at all for my current undertaking. Didn’t all ships from Europe land at Ellis Island back in the day?
It’s a real lead! Also, I think, this has to be a sign from Grandma and Grandpa. Ellis could be where the information I need resides. Of course, they would connect with me through music, a value that runs deep in our family.
Speed walking home, running up the stairs of my building, and continuing to run to the computer, I type the words “Ellis Island” as fast as possible into the search engine. Their hours of operation will work well for me to visit next weekend. I wish I could go tomorrow but it’s not possible with work.
Oh, it looks like they have some information about immigration on their site. And about their exhibits, of course. There’s a space for research right in their building; more than what’s available on their website. But they do have a database of ship manifests and people’s names online. Wow, how did I not know all of this?
Let’s see… I type in “Salvatore Granza” and hit enter on the search button. Hmm, nothing comes up. I type in “Vince Granza” next. Nothing again? I pause a couple seconds and think I must have to search his full first name, Vincent Granza. Nothing yet again. Huh? More frantic now, I try entering “S. Granza” then “V. Granza.” Nothing!
“Argh!”
As I scream, Brian walks through the door, looking startled and on the defense. “What?! What’s wrong? Is someone in here?” He looks around, ready to defend us.
“No. I just came to yet another disappointment in my searching.” I answer while tears build up in my eyes.
“You scared me, Rach!” He takes a moment to catch his breath. “Glad you are okay. Don’t worry, you will find something soon.”
Yeah right. I roll my eyes. “Sorry if I scared you. Well, I was looking on the Ellis Island website and got nowhere, yet again,” I say with an even more edgy tone. “But I am just going to physically go there. Maybe it’s easier to find information in person.”
“Cool. I’m surprised you hadn’t thought of that already.”
“Why do you have to rub it in? I know! I can’t believe I missed this huge opportunity that is down the road from us. Well, a road and the harbor.” Adrenaline courses through my body. I don’t need any discouraging comments from him.
“I’m not. Jeez. Calm down.” He walks into the bathroom.
‘Calm down’ ranks as number one for phrases not to say when another human being is angry or anxious. But I force myself to focus on my trip to Ellis Island soon. It will be ok. I will know.
Chapter 20
A gust of wind sends a shiver through me as I step onto the shaky ramp of the ferry at Battery Park. I grip my hoodie tighter around my neck. It’s unusually cold for an early fall day so I’ll make my way into the enclosed area to stay warm.
I look around and realize there are hordes of people going to Ellis Island today. Maybe it’s like this every day. Who knows? This New Yorker doesn’t. Waiting outside didn’t seem as overwhelming as being on this boat with the crowd. Well, at least it’s not as tight as the subway. It will be fine. The ride is only thirty minutes and there’s no wretched smell. Score.
I scoot across the bench to make room for a few more people, who smile and nod their heads in gratitude. The engine is revving up and we are getting ready to take off, I think. Awesome, let’s do this thing.
I twist my body around to watch the waves from the ferry as we make our way to the island. They’re mesmerizing with their smooth cylinder-like flow. Did Grandpa and the rest of our family sit by the window and watch the glistening water as they sped to this destination from Italy? Did they stand on the deck? Did they wave at immigrants on other ships, like the movies portray? I envision many ships coming in at the same time with people en masse emptying out on the Island. Seeing land for the first time since leaving their countries had to be exhilarating for everyone. Starting the sought-after American dream was at their fingertips and about to be reality. My family made that dream happen.
But how did my family feel about leaving the women of the family? My grandpa and Great-Uncle Vince must have missed their mom and sister. Although my mom can be annoying at times, I would have been devastated to leave her behind, an ocean between us, not knowing when I would see her next—if ever. And especially as a child. There’s no way I could have done that. I can’t imagine how Great-Grandpa Gino felt either. Leaving a wife and child must be one of the bravest acts a person could do.
My grandpa was a strong and courageous boy for coming to America with his dad and brother, at only fourteen years old. I don’t know if he worked in Italy, but I assume he must have with stating to the census taker that he only had a fourth-grade education. I wonder why he stopped going to school. Add it to my list of questions. Anyway, he wasn’t sitting around the house doing nothing with that good old Italian work ethic. I know he would have been working right away in America too. I’m sure that was part of t
he deal with his dad. And knowing him, he would have wanted to work, learn, and contribute to the family in all ways.
Grandpa in his teenage mind probably also wanted to explore his new city on his own, thinking about what to do and what to see first. I bet he couldn’t wait to run free after being restricted on a boat. I know the clients I see at that age would hardly be able to contain their energy. They often fidget with an object in their hands and are restless in their seat. I can only imagine the excitement of finally being on the land where my family talked about being able to live after such a long journey.
And I wonder what the conditions of the ship must have been like. While I’d like to think they were clean and safe, I fear they weren’t always that way. Were there really rats, like the movie, Titanic, showed? God, I hope not.
What did they have for food on the ship? Was it basically stew and water? And how did they entertain themselves? Did they read or play cards? Oh, I’d love to know every. Single. Detail. Once I find out the ship’s name, I can try to find out all of those features of their ship.
The ferry bumps against the dock, waking me from my daydreamy thoughts. When my three family members arrived on their ship from Italy, they must have been in awe, seeing the beautiful Statue of Liberty right there on the next island. They had to be thinking about all the opportunities that lay ahead for them in their brand-new country. I imagine they must have been scared too. Such a mix of emotions.
I wish Grandpa and I could have revisited the island together. Maybe seeing it as a museum and an educational site would have been gratifying for Grandpa. Just seeing how far he came must have made him proud, despite never returning here.
Before I get up from my bench, I look up to the boat’s metal roof and send a message to him. I am proud of you. I’m grateful for your bravery. And I miss you. I sigh.
Walking off the boat and onto the sacred land of Ellis Island, I am struck by the beauty of the buildings—red brick and flawless white accents along the corners, windows, and doors. Multiple towers climb toward the skies with what seem like copper dome peaks matching Lady Liberty. What did the buildings look like in 1916 when Grandpa arrived? Were they similar to what sits in front of me or have the buildings been remodeled since then? I follow the crowd into the main building and spot a man in a blue vest. He must be an employee.
“The information counter is to your right and the maps and headphones for self-guided tours are to your left. Please help yourself.”
I smile at him and walk to the display of maps, ready to explore on my own. English version, check. My thoughts would drown out any audio tour so this will be fine.
As I walk into the large main room and look at the map in my hand, I see I’m in the holding room, where many immigrants had to wait. It’s a beautiful room…now. Back then, I bet it wasn’t charming to those awaiting their life in a new country. Large dome windows scallop the top of walls covered in ivory subway tile. Two huge American flags are angled toward each other in the center of the grand room. As I lean on a post and stare out one of the tall windows, I wonder if my grandpa saw the same view—the Statue of Liberty standing proudly and waiting for him once he was able to leave this place.
A hallway off the holding room leads to medical exam rooms and overnight rooms, which look more like jail cells. There’s even a small courtroom for the unluckiest of the newcomers. To be faced with more delays after they arrived here must have been torturous.
I shudder. I hope my family didn’t stay here long. The pictures throughout the museum show people looking absolutely miserable, lacking smiles or any ounce of excitement. The long trip overseas had to be grueling with long days, rough conditions, and anxiety through the roof. Well, that answers part of my questions from the ferry. And I don’t like the answers.
Walking through the displays of the now-turned museum, I find a section for multiple ethnic heritages. The one for Italians has information that makes sense with something Dad said the night he gave me information about our history. The sign states that upon arrival to the United States, the Italians were classified by not only country of origin, race, and other physical features, but also if they were Northern or Southern Italian.
I stop reading a moment and take in what I’m seeing. Grandpa stated he was from northern Italy many times, I remember now. I thought it was a strange addition to whatever he was saying in the moment, but never thought it was a cultural norm in Italy and definitely didn’t give it more thought until Dad reminded me about his insistence recently.
Reading more of the signs, I see that the Northern Italians were associated with more wealth and education, as well as business owners. The Southerners were poorer and typically farmers. Grandpa grew up needing to define himself based on location, even though he seemed to be a combination of the qualities; part of a business owning family but still poor. I wonder what those identities meant to him. He didn’t know how to not be defined by them, I guess.
Now what in the world is this? My eyes bug out when I read that some of the documentation of immigrants included descriptions for skin tone like fair, medium, or dark. Stop. I can’t believe this. These words were used on actual legal documents? I feel sick to my stomach. Why was so much in history based on how someone looked? How did this ever matter for any group of people?
With these ludicrous and unnecessary descriptions of immigrants, there was more fuel to the fire for discrimination in their new home. I’ve read that in the late nineteenth century and into the early part of the twentieth century Italians were perceived as dirty if having dark skin, and that people went as far as lynching them. People viewed them, err, us, as lazy, ignorant, and criminal. This was a problem in the US countless times in its history and now I know how deep the racism existed for more diverse groups than I realized. The arbitrary standards were disgusting. Although Italians still have stereotypes in America, it isn’t to this level. And sadly, so many other groups of people still face racism and hate crimes in America daily.
I shake my head as if that can fix the centuries of wrongdoings. My heart feels heavy and my shoulders slump. I take a deep breath to try to carry on.
After I get my legs moving again, I take in the rest of the information on the signs, thankfully including much less difficult facts to absorb. Oh, I need to go outside to find my family name on the memorial wall. I should have started there. Stupid, Rachel.
I push through the doors leading outside and venture to the glowing metal walls. The walls are massive, extending in multiple sections with what looks like a million names. Where’s the “G” section? Hmm.
I spot it and rush over to see my family name. There are Granzas listed—but not my Granzas. No Salvatore to be found. How could that be? I look left and right, trace my finger along the etched names, and hope to see what I need. The list of names goes on and on. Italian, Irish, German…but my family doesn’t appear anywhere here. Disappointment and confusion visit me once again.
I fall back on the wall, hoping the next time I turn around my family will appear. Dreams are free, after all.
I take one last glance. Nope. Still not there. This doesn’t make sense. I exhale so heavily my lips flap.
Time to move along to the cafeteria, then. Energy is needed for the hours of research ahead of me. I pull the door open and view the menu above the registers. Oh, they have some appetizing choices. I’ll take that ham and cheese sandwich with jalapeño chips on the side. And a Diet Coke. That will recharge my battery. I’ll scarf down the goodies so I can keep going on my adventure.
Soon enough, it’s time to find the research room. I’m a pro at eating in five minutes flat. Did you have any doubt?
As I walk there, I think how it’s sensational to be in the same corridors as my family nearly one hundred years ago. And now I am researching that journey in the same place. If they only knew the irony.
The room of computers is easy to find. I spot a pleasant look
ing white-haired lady sitting at a welcome desk. She looks up when I stop in front of her.
“Hi. I want to find my family information…” My face flushes and I have trouble making eye contact. I suddenly feel like this is a strange statement. But this is the exact reason people come here. Stop those negative thoughts.
“Of course. Pick any computer you’d like. If you need any help, please let me know.”
Phew.
“Thank you.” I walk to the closest seat and shake the mouse as I sit down. Okay, here I go. I type Grandpa’s name into the search engine. “Come on, Ellis Island computer,” I say in the quietest whisper possible.
Whoa. A lot of Granzas came through Ellis Island. I see only one “S. Granza” so I click on that entry and hold my breath. And…it’s not Grandpa. This guy didn’t even come from Italy.
Keep trying. Keep going.
I glance down at my watch. An hour has already passed and none of my searches helped my cause. I entered all possible combinations of Salvatore, Vincent, Gino, and Granza that I could think of, and still nothing is right. If it’s not the year being wrong for the immigrant’s arrival into the US, it’s that the country of origin is incorrect. Or the spelling of their name is odd in some way. Or whatever other stumbling block arises. How can searching for this information be so hard in this day and age?
I can’t take the disappointment much longer. The roller coaster of a lead and a chance at Grandpa’s secretive past being revealed then loss and emptiness are trying for anyone, including a certain lady trying to make a U-turn from mild depression. I thought coming to Ellis Island would be fruitful since the idea to come was a sign from my grandparents. I know it was. It was so clear, it had to be. The song and the thought of this new path for my research could not have been false hope. No!
“You look like you’re about to give up. Can I help you search?” The employee is standing in front of me.