Immigrants' Son

With his example, I am tempted to do the same. I don’t have the extraordinary episodes of homelessness, or the hatred of my neighbors. I had the opportunity to learn and develop skills that provided gainful employment all my life. I always had a comfortable home, and as my body attests, ample food to eat. I enjoyed the love and support of my family and my children, my parents and my brothers, my relatives and my friends.

So, what is there to write? My children want a literary heritage of their own. They have urged me to write, not only about my father’s experiences, but my mother’s and my own. Such a task may be greater than I can master. Since I enjoy writing and narration, I am determined to put to paper some of my recollections, as well as some of the conclusions life has offered me. This is more than a memoir; it is an essay. Fact and opinion dwell side by side and my conclusions may be offensive to some or immaterial to others. For readers other than my family, let them decide for themselves.

As prosaic as that may be, I resolve to commit my memories to paper and narrate the early recollections of an Immigrants’ Son. As my parents were immigrants, so too were their children. The immigrant Greenhorns just off the boat entered an unfamiliar world where adaptation and adjustments were essential. Their three Narrowback, or American born sons, had the same daunting challenge. I don’t assume that my recollections are necessarily indicative of the entire sociological strata from which I sprung. I don’t argue that my judgments were typical of the Narrowbacks who shared my experience. I seek neither approval nor recognition that my life was in any way unusual or that my conclusions are valid.

Perhaps, the most compelling reason I have for writing my tale is the conviction that it reflects an era that is gone forever. Like the vintage stories of the Lower East Side, or the pioneer accounts of the American West, the saga of the Irish immigrant and his assimilation into the American fruit salad is pretty much a closed chapter. Paddy and Bridey off the boat played their roles and sacrificed their lives in the hope that their children would see better days and easier living. For the most part, that has happened. Paddy and Bridey’s children have risen in the world and found entrée into the fancier neighborhoods and the better paying jobs that were beyond the grasp of the Greenhorn. The children of the Narrowbacks have risen even further, but may have sold their birthright to do so.

Much of the social elevation and economic improvement has come from the sweat of the immigrants. That sweat was poured into an institution that accelerated the social acceptance of their children. The Catholic school system developed the minds and skills of the immigrants’ sons and daughters and prepared them for the easier life forbidden their parents. To a lesser extent, that system nurtured the grandchildren of the immigrants to the point where the system is no longer as imperative as it once was. Now secular universities and public schools preach another set of values.

Eternal destiny and a life of forbearance and turning the other cheek for a minor mansion in the heavenly kingdom have been dethroned in favor of materialism and social prominence. The trophy home and expensive car, conspicuous consumption and exclusive memberships, social status and moral relativity seem to be the by-products of this education. God, faith, and stable marriage are now rare it might appear.

The grandchildren, especially, seem to have lost sight of the world their immigrant forebears knew and cherished. Their sacrifices and achievements may be superficially scanned in the search for a more prestigious role in modern America. This tale is not intended to convert anyone, or represent a jeremiad about the evils of contemporary America. Rather, it is a testimony to a world that has disappeared like the fountain pen, its blotter, and ink eradicator, or the multiplication tables committed to memory.

As Oscar Handlin writes in his histories of immigration, the process has several stages. Initially, the emigrant generally leaves his home in the Old Country and treks to a nearby sea port. Then he must adapt to the seaport before embarking on the Atlantic voyage. After a sometimes-harrowing ocean voyage, the immigrant reaches American shores and has to adjust to a big city. Often he stays there or moves on to another city. For the Irish, they mainly stayed in the big city of debarkation, perhaps because they had had enough of rural hunger and poverty. Finally, the American adventure usually ends in the urban ghetto among his fellow countrymen.

While the immigrant is the primary focus of all this assimilation, his children born in this country too must adapt. They retain some of the speech patterns, the Catholic faith, the superstitions and verbal traditions of Erin, her music and literature. These are further refined in the parish elementary schools manned primarily by first generation sons and daughters of Irish immigrants. Although they live in predominantly Irish Catholic ghettos, the immigrants’ children also have contact with other cultures and religions, customs and values. My tale is about that interplay from an era gone from America’s streets and unknown to many of her youth.

I assure the reader that my tale is rooted in truth as I saw it. Some names have been changed to avoid embarrassment. This is my story and in no way mirrors the convictions of anyone else. While memory and conversations have refreshed some recollections, I also have had the advantage of my personal and professional reading. I also had some personal papers and several documents to underscore my conclusions. I doubt they will bear professional historians’ scrutiny, but this is intended more as a memoir and a personal essay than an historical chronicle.

Every generation is supposed to rewrite its history. Revisionism has made heroes of villains and villains of heroes. I have had greater respect for my parents and their generation after committing my generalizations to paper. Neither saints nor sinners, their achievements are the daily plodding of determined self-sacrificing individuals in a cause they considered sacred. I hope I can say the same about my own.