January 1 marked the 124th anniversary of the opening of Ellis Island. Years later, in 1916, the immigrant inspection station was opened. Over the course of 60 years, more than 12 million immigrants came through the island.
Almost all of my great-grandparents were among that number, although, according to a sister who has been researching our history on ancestry.com, we can’t find any records. A fire destroyed the original station in 1897. It’s likely that our family’s records went up in flames with so many others’. Although — like many New Yorkers — I’ve never been there (who really has the time to schlep over there except tourists or class trips?), the island looms large in our collective self-understanding. Yes, we are Americans, but for us “American” meant “immigrant.”
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Growing up in New York City, a common question — asked casually on the playground during recess by a classmate or formally from the front of the classroom by a teacher — was, “where are you from?” The question, posed in a city dominated by immigrants and their descendants, was an ice breaker. “Irish, Italian, Czech, with a little bit of French” was always my response. It was met somewhat with surprise. My last name is Czech and very few of us had a reference point for what that is, but the Italian side dominates in terms of culture, and once a year on March 17, my family would embrace our Irishness over a meal of corned beef and cabbage.
There was one childhood friend who it seemed every year would add another ethnicity to his answer.
And every year, the entire fourth grade would put on an International Festival in the spring that celebrated our unique immigrant histories through songs and multi-cultural foods. The festival always closed with a rendition of Neil Diamond’s “America.” In my multi-ethnic elementary school in Queens, we took pride in being the descendants (or in many cases, immigrants themselves) of the brave men and women who sought a better life for us in America.
Having lived only in New York City and Washington, D.C., I’ve become increasingly aware of the fact that I have never really lived in “America,” that the immigrant narrative with which I grew up is not the norm. As I’ve visited other parts of the country, the question “where are you from?” means something different. It’s a question I’m asked regularly in D.C., and I’m very much aware that it’s not being posited as a way to celebrate the diversity of our great nation.
I have dark curly hair, big eyes, and a loud voice. As someone said to me last spring, “you’re obviously something.” And as another person said to me, based on my dance skills, “you’re obviously not legitimately white.”
As we say in New York, “meh.”
But these types of interactions bring up interesting questions, particularly in a time in which immigration has come to the forefront of our national dialogue. Whether it’s reforming our broken immigration system or debating whether to close our borders to Muslims or Syrian refugees, we’re at a point where the definition of “American” is being redrawn. It seems that Neil Diamond’s shouts of “Today!” seem like more of a threat than a celebration.
As the descendent of Italian, Irish, and Czech immigrants, I know that the word “American” had to be redefined to include Catholics from Southern and Eastern Europe — to include me. It had to be big enough, years later to include South and East Asians and South and Central Americans, a conflict which I know roiled even through the largely Irish, Italian, German, Eastern European outer-boroughs of New York.
What is an American? I think we could learn a lot from my elementary school in Queens. Though we sang songs about harmony and celebrated our immigrant histories, it didn’t necessarily guarantee that we’d get along. But it left an impression that “American” could include Indian, Guyanese, Colombian, Cuban, Filipino, Korean, Irish, Italian, German, Czech, and be all the better for it.
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About a year ago I had the chance to visit Rome on a work trip. It was my first time in Italy and I was struck by how many people looked like my great-aunts and grandmother.
It was jarring to be in a place where I was “from” and it was flattering when someone stopped me to ask for directions. But I’m not “from” Italy. I’m American, the great-granddaughter of Irish, Czech, Italian (and a little French) immigrants. And as an American, I hope that others will have the chance to say the same.
Juliet is a freelance writer and consultant and full-time mom. A transplant from New York City, she has lived in DC for over seven years, but still walks too fast and wears too much black.
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