I have an illegal immigrant in my family.
Well, at least one, anyway... that we know about.
He isn't Latino, or Asian. He didn't smuggle his way here. Nor did he pay some human traffickers thousands of dollars to get here.
In fact, we're not completely sure of how he got to America. But according to family lore, at least as far as my aunt Helena is concerned, what we think we know tends to make sense, and the dates seem to work. But we don't know definitively, because our family's illegal immigrant died in the 1950's. As an alcoholic. And because he was an alcoholic, he was not fondly remembered by his children when they'd recount their childhood stories to us.
My aunt, who died last year, and my Dad, who died the year before that, were his children. So the illegal immigrant was my paternal grandfather. My grandfather died before my own parents ever met. And for years, Mom didn't know much about him either, because Dad, my aunt, and their mother never talked about him, since his life with them had been so miserable. Eventually, Dad told us about the time he got home from work, as a college student back in Brooklyn, and opened the door to the apartment he shared with his family. And there was his mother, and Helena, standing on the other side of a short, portly figure on the floor of their apartment's foyer.
It was my grandfather. Dead. My grandmother had arrived home first, and then shortly thereafter, my aunt. And then Dad. Dad closed the door, and the three of them stood silently, looking down at the man whose drunken stupors had become legendary in their Brooklyn neighborhood of Sunset Park. Dad recalled to us that his sister and mother and he were numbed by a mixture of relief and grief - but not grief that he was gone. It was grief about how much the family had suffered, living with such a hardened alcoholic all those years.
Finally, if only to break the heavy silence, Dad asked out loud, "Well, who do we call to take the body away? Will Halversen's do it?"
Halversen's is the name of a long-time Norwegian funeral home on Sunset Park's 8th Avenue. But I'm not even sure there was a funeral. Nobody ever talked about there being one.
My grandfather was born in Finland, in a sliver of the Nordic country that ended up being invaded by Russia in the Winter War of 1939, about two decades after my grandfather ended up in America. My Mom has two silver spoons with which my grandfather's sister was able to escape as their family's home in Viipuri faced imminent danger from the Russian invasion. The town of Viipuri, still in Russian hands, is today called Vyborg.
As a young man, my grandfather set off from Viipuri as a sailor, or seaman, or deckhand, working on trans-Atlantic steamships and freighters. We have records of him attending the venerable Seamen's Church Institute on South Street in Lower Manhattan, along the docks that used to spike outwards from the Financial District. At the Seamen's Church, worship services were geared to maritime workers from around the world, working odd shifts, and lonely from months-long stints at sea.
On one of the voyages my grandfather worked, a freshly-loaded freighter from the Caribbean headed towards Europe, the deckhands were strictly instructed to stay away from a locked portion of the ship's hold, below deck. Which, of course, was like telling a bunch of teenaged boys not to do something. Before too long, my grandfather and some of his shipmates had broken into that forbidden part of the ship. And what they saw deeply distressed my grandfather.
There, in the locked part of the hold, were men.
Black men, in shackles.
We believe this was sometime around 1916*, which used to make me dubious. Slavery was still a thing, that long after America's Civil War?
Apparently, an illicit fragment of it was, since it was a topic of grave concern for the League of Nations during the 1920's. Somehow, the ship's owners had arranged for these men to be smuggled aboard without the crew knowing of it, and somehow, ostensibly in Europe, they were going to be off-loaded, probably to be shipped to yet another destination.
We don't know many details about that discovery, but back then, my grandfather knew exactly what was going on. And he wanted to be no part of it. Absolutely not.
The ship's next port of call was New York City, with which we believe my grandfather was already familiar from previous visits. He likely knew there was a vibrant Finnish community in Brooklyn, and that he could become culturally absorbed there without attracting much attention. So when they docked in New York, my grandfather jumped ship - literally - forfeiting his pay in the process. And he walked away from those caged human beings, off of the pier, out onto the streets of New York, never to work on ships again.
Eventually, after he'd married and become a father, my grandfather obtained his United States citizenship.
My grandmother, who arrived in the United States years later, spent a night on Ellis Island because her American sponsor didn't show up to claim her. That was one of the legal ways people got into the country back then - by having a sponsor in America vouch for you. Officials on Ellis Island herded those migrants whose sponsors hadn't claimed them into a large cage with iron bars for the night. My grandmother could hardly sleep, what with the utter lack of privacy, and worrying about what would happen to her. Turned out, she made sure she was at the front of the cage the next morning - this big cage, probably similar to what my grandfather saw those slaves inside of - her face pressed against the bars. Eventually, a sternly-dressed woman strode into the immigration hall at Ellis Island, having just gotten off of the boat from Manhattan. She walked right up to my grandmother, and asked her in perfect Finnish if she wanted to get off that island.
"Of course I do," my grandmother eagerly replied.
"Well then, just follow my lead," the anonymous woman ordered. She turned to an immigration clerk, and said she'd come to claim my grandmother, and had a job immediately for her in Manhattan.
"Is this true?" the dubious clerk half-motioned, half asked in broken Finnish to my grandmother.
"Of course it is!" my grandmother retorted, completely unaware of what that job was.
The two woman left the hall and got on the next boat to Manhattan as soon as possible. And that night, my grandmother found herself working as a maid at a party at a townhouse in Greenwich Village that was rented at the time by a well-known silent movie producer.
As they say, "only in New York," right?
At some point, obviously, my grandparents met in Brooklyn, got married, and had children. My grandfather never seems to have held down a steady job, and eventually came to be known mostly for his prodigious drinking, and for writing a regular column for the local Finnish newspaper, New Yorkin Uutiset. He wrote pieces about current events, philosophy, and life on the sea under the pen name "X Seaman," since that's what he was. Years later, my aunt learned that the prestigious New York Public Library had some of his articles on file as part of their cultural heritage department.
Family friends who knew my grandfather in Brooklyn's old Finntown have told us that he wasn't as entirely horrible as his family remembered him as being. And it's been suggested that one of the reasons for his drinking - despite the fact that Finns are notorious for their alcohol consumption - might have stemmed from his disturbing experience on that trans-Atlantic ship. As a Finn, back in the days when Finland was virtually 100% Caucasian, my grandfather would have barely known about slavery, and to him it likely would have been something that horrible people had done back in another time and place. Not on board a ship he was working!
So for all the agony my grandfather gave his family through his drinking, I've come to value his distress over having the concept of human slavery break into his reality. I sometimes wonder if, today, we whites would do well to let ourselves be a bit more agitated over something we figure only happened to somebody else back in another time and place.
Because while it may not be our reality now, it remains part of family lore for many African Americans.
* Thanks to research my Mother has been doing in 2021, with help from Finnish cousins on both my paternal and maternal sides, we've learned that Walter had established mailing addresses for himself in Brooklyn as early as 1913. So it's logical to assume 1913 is a more accurate date for his ship-jumping.
We believe this was sometime around 1916*, which used to make me dubious. Slavery was still a thing, that long after America's Civil War?
Apparently, an illicit fragment of it was, since it was a topic of grave concern for the League of Nations during the 1920's. Somehow, the ship's owners had arranged for these men to be smuggled aboard without the crew knowing of it, and somehow, ostensibly in Europe, they were going to be off-loaded, probably to be shipped to yet another destination.
We don't know many details about that discovery, but back then, my grandfather knew exactly what was going on. And he wanted to be no part of it. Absolutely not.
The ship's next port of call was New York City, with which we believe my grandfather was already familiar from previous visits. He likely knew there was a vibrant Finnish community in Brooklyn, and that he could become culturally absorbed there without attracting much attention. So when they docked in New York, my grandfather jumped ship - literally - forfeiting his pay in the process. And he walked away from those caged human beings, off of the pier, out onto the streets of New York, never to work on ships again.
 |
| My father took this photo of his father - the older man at left, and again in the reflection top right - in their Sunset Park apartment in the mid-1950's. It's one of the few photos of my grandfather, and we believe it was his last. Nobody can remember who the other two men are. |
Eventually, after he'd married and become a father, my grandfather obtained his United States citizenship.
My grandmother, who arrived in the United States years later, spent a night on Ellis Island because her American sponsor didn't show up to claim her. That was one of the legal ways people got into the country back then - by having a sponsor in America vouch for you. Officials on Ellis Island herded those migrants whose sponsors hadn't claimed them into a large cage with iron bars for the night. My grandmother could hardly sleep, what with the utter lack of privacy, and worrying about what would happen to her. Turned out, she made sure she was at the front of the cage the next morning - this big cage, probably similar to what my grandfather saw those slaves inside of - her face pressed against the bars. Eventually, a sternly-dressed woman strode into the immigration hall at Ellis Island, having just gotten off of the boat from Manhattan. She walked right up to my grandmother, and asked her in perfect Finnish if she wanted to get off that island.
"Of course I do," my grandmother eagerly replied.
"Well then, just follow my lead," the anonymous woman ordered. She turned to an immigration clerk, and said she'd come to claim my grandmother, and had a job immediately for her in Manhattan.
"Is this true?" the dubious clerk half-motioned, half asked in broken Finnish to my grandmother.
"Of course it is!" my grandmother retorted, completely unaware of what that job was.
 |
| My grandmother Laitinen's first US employer lived in this townhouse, 60 W. 11th Street in Greenwich Village. I took this photo in 1986. Historians call it "the 1843* Samuel Cooke House", built by Andrew Lockwood and first occupied by a ship captain named Samuel Bourne. Lockwood was one of the developers of 11th Street, which at the time was at the city's northern reaches. The property's first auspicious owner had been Cooke, who was rector at New York's famed St. Bartholomew's Episcopal Church. Other owners would later rent it out to various occupants, so we don't know who my grandmother's celebrity employer was. Among the home's worst tenants was a secret abortion clinic, years before it was legalized. More recent owners have included the son of the late publisher Malcomb Forbes. (*The historical plaque affixed to the home's façade says it was built in 1842) |
As they say, "only in New York," right?
At some point, obviously, my grandparents met in Brooklyn, got married, and had children. My grandfather never seems to have held down a steady job, and eventually came to be known mostly for his prodigious drinking, and for writing a regular column for the local Finnish newspaper, New Yorkin Uutiset. He wrote pieces about current events, philosophy, and life on the sea under the pen name "X Seaman," since that's what he was. Years later, my aunt learned that the prestigious New York Public Library had some of his articles on file as part of their cultural heritage department.
Family friends who knew my grandfather in Brooklyn's old Finntown have told us that he wasn't as entirely horrible as his family remembered him as being. And it's been suggested that one of the reasons for his drinking - despite the fact that Finns are notorious for their alcohol consumption - might have stemmed from his disturbing experience on that trans-Atlantic ship. As a Finn, back in the days when Finland was virtually 100% Caucasian, my grandfather would have barely known about slavery, and to him it likely would have been something that horrible people had done back in another time and place. Not on board a ship he was working!
So for all the agony my grandfather gave his family through his drinking, I've come to value his distress over having the concept of human slavery break into his reality. I sometimes wonder if, today, we whites would do well to let ourselves be a bit more agitated over something we figure only happened to somebody else back in another time and place.
Because while it may not be our reality now, it remains part of family lore for many African Americans.
* Thanks to research my Mother has been doing in 2021, with help from Finnish cousins on both my paternal and maternal sides, we've learned that Walter had established mailing addresses for himself in Brooklyn as early as 1913. So it's logical to assume 1913 is a more accurate date for his ship-jumping.
