The Power of Place

Ellis Island.

From 1892-1954, some twelve million people came through here on their way towards dreams of a better life.

One of them was my great grandfather.

He sailed from Glasgow on a ship called The Corean and arrived in New York on November 30, 1895. Thanks to the miracle of the Internet, and the incredible free database that Ellis Island maintains, I can not only rattle off these facts to you; I can also tell you that The Corean was built by William Doxford & Sons for the Allan State Line, sailed under the British flag, weighed in at 3,488 gross tons, was 360 feet long and 41 feet wide, and traveled at a speed of 14 knots. And I can show you this photo of the actual ship he arrived on -- which to me is nothing short of mind-boggling, since I didn't know any of this about ten minutes before I started writing this post. (Photo credited to Tom Rayner on the Ellis Island site.)

It would have taken a bit over two weeks to make the voyage. There is no telling how long it took him to get from Polotzk, Russia to Glasgow before the sailing portion of his journey started. There is no knowing (any more) how he felt about leaving his wife and eight children behind while he came to New York at the age of 35 to try to establish himself financially so that they could all join him. They did join him, several years later. I don't know how many years later because there are no records of the arrival of the family through Ellis Island. But arrive they did, and they eventually had two more children. Child number ten, the youngest girl of that large Russian, Jewish, New York, Yiddish speaking family, was my father's mother.

According to the Ellis Island website, an estimated 40% of Americans today can trace their family back to someone who arrived here through Ellis Island.

When I boarded the ferry for Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty last Friday, I had no idea what I would encounter when I got there. As we motored across the water, all I could think of was that scene in the Will Smith movie Hitch, where he takes Sarah out to Ellis Island for a private tour and -- hoping to be all smooth and impress her -- has his friend the guard leave the registry book on display open to the name of one of her ancestors. Of course, the ancestor is listed as so-and-so "the butcher," and the disaster is that he was not a meat-carver as Hitch assumed, but a horrible, wanted murderer and the shame of the family. Which makes for a rather awkward first date.

Anyway, so I'm tootling across the water trying to keep my kids in check so no one falls of the boat, and thinking about the silly stormy scene, and wondering idly whether it's really possible to take jet skis across to the island as they do in the movie, and considering aloud whether there are days that Ellis Island really is closed so that they can film a Will Smith movie...

And then I get off the boat and confront this:

And my train of thought immediately shifts to ahhhh, those late Victorians and their polychromatic architecture. So I'm admiring the views of the buildings, and wondering things like when exactly the structures were built, and how long Ellis Island was a gateway, and all the other dozens of historical details that fascinate me.

And then I walk through the doors into the main building.

And suddenly, inexplicably, I want to sob. In front of me is a giant display of old luggage, traveling cases, baskets, and bundles, all stacked up to approximate a pile of belongings for the passengers of an incoming ship. I try to tell Son that his great great grandfather was here, but I can barely choke out the words. I am too emotional to say what I am thinking. He was here. Walking on these tiles, entering these rooms, seeking a better life for his family. I find myself explaining where Russia is, and how one crosses the sea in a ship, and how long it takes. I try to give him some sense of what a great great grandfather is. The facts are easiest to cling to, but I am not sure they make much of an impression.

The walls are covered in enormous portraits of people disembarking from ships, of serious looking families dressing in quaint ethnic clothing, of proud young men and women staring vividly back at the camera, daring the taker of the photo to portray them as large as life. I stumble over my words as I look around, wanting to impress upon Son that these people, all these people, came here hoping for something more, something better, another chance, a golden dream, freedom, jobs, food for their children. Hoping, in short, for hope. All these people.

I do not think I can explain to him why I feel like crying, why my voice catches in my throat. And so I wander, wide-eyed, not talking, fighting back emotions I had no idea I even had, murmuring quietly to myself... All these people...all these people...all these people.

Some of them look defiant. Some hopeful. Some exhausted. Some have their heads held high, as with pride. Others look joyful. Or curious. Or timid.

What I do not see, however, is the expressionless formality that is de riguer in studio pictures from the nineteenth century. Long accustomed to looking at old photos, I have seen that placid, set face countless times. The face of the object of portraiture. The face above the stiff dress or the high-buttoned suit. But these faces? They are the faces of movement. They are not the posed, expressionless, carefully fixed faces of a formal portrait. They are captured in candid moments, as they stand beside luggage, on gangways, on ship decks, or as they wait in lines for inspections, questions, documentation, luggage. For admission. They are full of expression and individuality.

In the portion of the museum devoted to explaining the restoration of Ellis Island, there are relics of the decay that faced those original restorers (in the 1980s). And there are photographs by two people who documented the state of the island before any of that work began. Both of their artist's statements make mention of feeling as if there were ghosts, voices, spirits, or the essence of people on the completely deserted island as they photographed.

Looking into the eyes of the faces that the Ellis Island museum has chosen to blow up beyond life size to adorn the walls, I can understand why. If the place weren't crawling with tourists, it would still seem full. Full of promise, of despair, of dreams.

The only picture I took while on the island that seems to me to begin to capture the feelings that bombarded me while there is this one.

It is the ceiling of the main Registry Hall. The room where upwards of 2000 people would wait for their names to be called, wait to be cross-examined with a series of questions they'd already answered at the start of their journeys to ensure they were indeed who they said they were. Chaim Strunsky was only one of the many to stand on the terra cotta floor, look up into these arches, and imagine what his life would be like once he passed down the far staircase an approved immigrant.

Within the glossy tiles of these lofty arches glide the whispers of millions. Craning my neck, as if to register those long-gone voices, I finally feel at peace on Ellis Island.