The Men Who Are To Vote: A Journey Through Ellis Island and the American Dream (1906)
📌 Explore the emotional and logistical journey of immigrants arriving at Ellis Island in 1906. Discover how their dreams, struggles, and hopes shaped America's future, including their eventual political participation.
The Men Who Are To Vote - Our New Immigrants
Overview and Relevance to Immigration Studies 🌍📚
Ernest Poole’s article, The Men Who Are To Vote, written in 1906, provides a vivid portrayal of the lives of immigrants entering America through Ellis Island at the turn of the 20th century. This piece is an invaluable resource for teachers, students, genealogists, historians, and anyone studying the history of immigration and its societal impacts. Poole captures the emotions, challenges, and aspirations of the immigrants, particularly focusing on laborers who were entering the U.S. with hopes of a better life and, in some cases, future political participation. The piece also touches on the complexity of assimilation, as immigrants navigate the immigration process and their evolving role in American society.
This article offers a humanistic view of immigration, contrasting the personal stories of immigrants with the systemic and often dehumanizing processes at Ellis Island. It's a great resource for understanding both the hardships and the hope of the immigrant experience, providing insight into the historical context of political empowerment and the labor forces that would shape America.
The Crowd Hurrying By Me, Into the Great Red Bilding Beyond -- The Gateway Into America. Everybody's Magazine, October 1906. GGA Image ID # 154740fd1a
Immigrants Head Into The Great Red Building - The Gateway Into America
PRESTO Presto!" the impatient official is shouting.
"Adagio," laughs a stout, comfortable Italian in the crowd. The crowd—gaily dressed men, women, and children—is pouring from a barge, hurrying past me and into the great red building beyond—the gateway into America.
Ellis Island on a sparkling April afternoon. A fresh salt breeze is sweeping in from the ocean. In the harbor, life is throbbing! Bustling tugs and huge steamers scows laden with freight cars; ferryboats crowded with people and tall, clumsy two-decked barges packed with immigrants from ocean liners.
Shrill whistles and tooting, deep distant bellows from incoming steamers, and the skyscrapers and canons over on Manhattan a low, constant roar. Behind me, the Statue of Liberty is holding the torch overall. And behind that—black scurrying clouds of smoke from factory chimneys. The land of "Presto!"
Over by the New York ferry, two young Hungarian-Americans stand waiting for their immigrant families. Both young men have been in America for some years. One is prosperous. His derby hat is new, as are his light gray spring suit and stiff tan shoes—all-new for the occasion. His dark face is glowing with health, from the thick, curly black hair to the big red lips.
The other is clean but shabby. His threadbare, colorless clothes hang loosely from his shoulders. His cheeks are sunken, and his chest is hollow. He is one of the seventy thousand consumptives in New York—made so by tenements, sweatshops, and the nerve-racking throb of city streets. But how eagerly he watches, curling his little mustache till it nearly reaches his eyes. These eyes are large and honest, and his voice is deep and pleasant.
Suddenly, he stops talking and stands trembling. His friend springs forward. He follows.
The families are coming—both together. They were doubtless neighbors in Hungary: two mothers, one in a black shawl, the other in brown; an old father, tall and grizzled and powerful; and two rosy young sisters who come skipping ahead.
They all rush together. Passionate tears come in the mothers' eyes, and they laugh hysterically. One young girl suddenly throws back her head, and tears roll down her cheeks. Her eyes are closed. But this is all gladness. Swift, excited questions, speech broken by kisses—how happy they all are!
Except for a moment when the mother of the "failure" darts an anxious look from her son to the other—as though seeing it all. But the next moment, she, too, is laughing.
We enter the building, mount to a gallery, and look clown into the great vaulted hall into twenty-two sluiceways of people, divided by high iron fences. Back in the rear of the hall, they have all been examined by doctors; about one percent has been weeded out. And now the others come down the homestretch—with only the dreaded inspector at the desk at the mouth of each sluiceway, with his big list of questions that stand between them and America.
The system seems perfect. The place is spotlessly clean; the air is fresh, and the inspectors are kind. The whole management is swift and precise. We shall find this throughout the building. Ellis Island is a splendid example of how the Government can run things when it tries.
Sluiceways of the world! Allow deep babel in a dozen different tongues. Close squeezed here are races that have been apart for tens of thousands of years— races now to be slowly welded together. How different are the faces? A broad, stolid Polish face close by an excited little Italian mother who fills the air with gestures.
Gestures rise from all the sluiceways. The southeast of Europe loves gestures, and most of our immigrants come from the southeast. Three-fourths are from Italy, Austria, Hungary, Bohemia, Poland, and South Russia. Three-fourths are peasants from farms and little hamlets. Three-fourths are unskilled laborers, bringing an average of only $22 each.
Three-fourths are men under forty coming first alone, their wives and children to follow them later. They are the strong men of their countries; you can see it now as you look down into the sluiceways. They are the healthy picked out of the vast poverty-stricken areas of the southeast—the peasants on whose shoulders for centuries Europe has rested.
These men are not coming here because of the Declaration of Independence. They come moved by man's deep primeval instinct to get for himself and his family more of the good things of life.
A vast primeval horde. Coarse, massive, honest faces. And on these faces—big, simple, human feelings.
Just below us, a huge Polish laborer stands with eyes painfully fixed on the inspector's desk ahead; he licks his dry lips in absorbing suspense. Directly behind him is a proud little Pole with a bushy yellow mustache. He seems to have been here before and to know the whole game. He nudges the big man, gives him directions, laughs, and tells how easy it is to get through. The big man grins but then doubtfully shakes his head.
Nearby stands a young Hungarian girl—perhaps eighteen—dark and tall, graceful, very slender. She is dressed in brown with a shawl of soft, dull red; the shawl has slipped down from her rich and glossy hair, which is gathered in a big, loose coil. Her delicate face is turned up to the huge American flag that hangs just below us.
The Dreaded Inspector with His Big List of Questions. Everbodys Magazine, October 1906. GGA Image ID # 218e68643f
She smiles to herself—a childish, pleased, dreamy smile—forgetting all around her. Someone squeezes against the guitar under her arm. Swiftly, she jerks it up out of danger, and now she holds it high before her. On the bench beside her is a big straw basket with a pillow and a quaint blue teapot tied on top—her property.
In the next aisle is an enormous middle-aged Austrian with rosy cheeks and large, shallow, complacent blue eyes. Before him, he holds a huge, gleaming brass horn—marching on America! He has but one anxiety. From his breast pocket protrudes a long and villainous-looking Austrian cheroot, and from time to time, he glances down at it longingly; twice, he puts it in his mouth, but a neighbor warns him not to light it.
Slowly, he grows more unhappy—then indignant! Suddenly, he scratches a match! But alas! Up comes an inspector. "No smoking here!" is conveyed by decided gestures. The stout man frowns angrily and puts back the cheroot. On his face comes deep gloom. But soon, this is all cleared away, and his eyes beam as complacent as ever.
In front of the sluiceway bench sits a young Italian couple delighted at everything. The husband has an accordion, the wife a violin, and between them lies a big yellow bag full of household belongings.
All this spring, this summer, and next fall, they will make music on the streets of New York or Chicago and earn but a few pennies a day until, at last, the American "Presto" burns into their souls. Then, they will rent a hurdy-gurdy and become happy and prosperous.
At present, the husband is in a shapeless gray home-spun suit, and the wife is all shawls. He has just made a joke, pointing at the stout Austrian, and she laughs delightedly, her head thrown back.
Close behind stands a young Russian Jewess. She wears a blue tailor-made suit, well-fitting and fresh from her trunk. Her dark face is turned eagerly forward. Beside her stands her old father, a Russian giant in a heavy black coat with a gray fur collar. His massive face, with its broad white beard and deep-set eyes, rises above all the mass of faces—a figure of power, purity, and dignity.
He sees nothing around him; his head is bent, and he is reading a battered old Hebrew book. For, like most old Jewish men, he is deeply religious. He reads—and the young girl looks eagerly ahead! How close will these two be one year hence? They will be wide apart, no doubt, in thoughts, tastes, and interests but held together still by the family affection, which is especially deep and enduring in the Jewish race.
Behind him sits another daughter with two children. She, too, is absorbed, but not in religion; she is busily giving her children cold tea from a teapot in her straw valise. The old father sees, smiles, stoops, and helps her.
Down another sluiceway squeezes a stout, anxious Italian mother—a brood of eight clings to her skirts. America, liberty, equality—all these are nothing to her. Her round, swarthy face is strained, her black eyes are fixed on the desk ahead, and her lips move silently, rehearsing replies to the dreaded questions. She has learned them all beforehand.
She must explain how Antonio, her husband, in New York, is wealthy, earning as much as $7 a week, sleeping in a bed with a mattress, and eating meat often twice or thrice daily. Suddenly, one youngster squeezes away and cuffs a little Greek urchin in a neighboring brood. They wrestle and go down! Frantic cries from both mothers!
Scoldings in Greek and Italian! The cars of both urchins are soundly boxed. Then again, the mother stares at the desk and slowly squeezes forward. Her eldest child is a fifteen-year-old girl. She is dressed in a fresh white waistcoat and soft blue shawl, a new plaid skirt raised high to display a marvelous checked petticoat and new tan shoes. Suddenly, she sees an opening ahead.
She seizes three youngsters, makes them lift the enormous family package tied up in sheets, and rushes on through the gate. The startled mother rushes after them, boxes the girl's ears, and hustles them all back into Europe. Then she leans over the desk and pours forth a torrent of Italian—all the answers before she is asked. The inspector laughs and nods. Joyous laughter!
The mother hugs the girl, the brood is collected around the package, the inspector points to a stairway, and they move on. The inspector is young and good-looking. The girl arranges her hair and so goes smiling into America.
A splendid-looking mass of raw material for citizens. Muscular frames, short and tall, tanned faces. Most of the women wear clothes newly taken from their luggage. Their babies are beautiful sights, in radiant silk cloaks, in queer old-fashioned knitted hoods and caps—in a hundred different kinds of gay outer and inner garments indescribable by man but clean and fresh.
A significant change has come into these people's lives—and they feel it. They have come to America to get a better living!
From this hall, they are pouring downstairs into a large, low room full of booths for letters and telegrams, money exchange, and railroad tickets. Here again, all move swiftly. Busy inspectors hurry about bringing order out of chaos. Kindly note that women from philanthropic societies are at hand to untangle individual cases.
An old Irish lady in a black silk dress enters bewildered, her blue bonnet on one side, her anxious face wrinkling, lips set, eyes glaring. But up comes a uniformed inspector, who smiles reassuringly, examines her ticket, and takes her to the Pennsylvania Railroad's ticket window. Anxiously, she begins to explain.
"Never mind," says the ticket man, "done already. There you are." And out comes the ticket duly stamped.
"Wull—by all the blessed—"
But on she is hurried.
"Yes," the ticket man tells me, "I only stamped it. The ticket was sent to Ireland by her two daughters in Philadelphia. Half of the immigrants have tickets sent to them in Europe by their American friends or relations. But follow the old lady, and you'll see the whole game."
Now, she is at the post office mailing a letter back to Dublin. A moment later, the inspector still guiding, she exchanges shillings for quarters. Then, on to a telegraph booth. And again, her old face grows wild:
"Now—now, whatever shall I say? Only in words? Why, now, my fine, handsome boy—how can I say anything at all in tin words? It's ridiculous. It's—why—" "Done already," smiles the operator, shoving back her card. Your daughters will be at the station to meet you. Twenty-five cents—yes—that's it."
"Merciful saints!" She throws up her hands, and her old eyes are shining. "Shure this country is bright as—as Ireland. Now, in my town in the county of—"
"Come on, Aunty, let's find your trunk." And out she goes to the open pier. Hundreds of trunks, bags, and boxes are in massive tangles and piles. Here, she is handed to another official who looks at her check. Off he goes, and in a few minutes, she sits triumphantly on a big straw basket tied up in ropes. This is soon rechecked, and the old lady is steered to a room to wait for the ferry that will take her. Jersey City to the immigrant train in the Pennsylvania Station.
We return to the baggage. It is all handled by one company—the railroads having pooled their work. No more of the old-style "runners" beating up trade for baggage and tickets as they did in the old days at Castle Garden. The Government has stopped all that. Now, all is efficiency and fair play—"bright as Ireland!"
What strange baggage you find as you wander around. Enormous coarse hemp bags with various household gods inside make bumps and hollows. Trunks of wood and tin and queer old leather. Ancient iron-clad boxes. Once, I found one bound in strips of hide; the wood was black and cracked in places; the name was "Pietro. Valoscia di Paolo, Napolia, Italia." And the box was dated 1749!
Only one-fourth of the immigrants have luggage here. The others can carry all their worldly wealth by hand.
We go back to look up the luckless people weeded out in the sluiceways.
First into the hall marked "Temporarily Detained." A young Italian girl enters just ahead—easy and smiling. She is stopped at a desk by the door. The official reads her ticket in Italian and asks a few questions. Then he sends the following telegram to her brother in New York:
"Call Ellis Island; temporarily detained steamer Carpathia.—Marie."
This message is sent hundreds of times a week, for hundreds of young girls arrive alone with no money or just enough to last a few weeks. The danger is obvious. Lately, it has been greatly lessened by care on the island; the rule is now not to deliver a girl to any man unless he is her husband or unless he brings his wife with him.
Private societies, employment bureaus, and model boardinghouses have also done good work. But despite this, the danger remains. In New York, recently, a careful investigation has shown that each year, thousands of immigrant girls, corrupted by so-called "intelligence offices," are finally swallowed up in the vice of the city.
We follow her into the hall. She has just bought a bag of cookies and now sits on a bench comfortably munching. Around her are two or three hundred men, women, and children. They crowd around us eagerly and push their written cases up to be examined, for all Americans are officials to them. The operator has followed us in. He now shows the other telegram forms:
"Detained Ellis Island, steamer E—. Require proof of your ability to support."
"Detained Ellis Island, steamer E—. Require — dollars, also proof of your ability to support."
"Detained Ellis Island, steamer E--. Require — dollars for traveling expenses."
Older men, boys, and women are held until they have railroad tickets, a little money, and proof that some strong man is ready to support them. "No one liable to become a pauper can be admitted," so reads the law. In fact, tens of thousands of such people do slip through, as the charity records in big cities show.
This room is hard to leave. Over in one corner, five fascinating little Polish girls in bright-colored dresses and clean white embroidered kerchiefs are making life a dark chaos for the Polish boy who sells cookies. All five keep shoveling their written cases in front of his face, clamoring that he read, and delightedly laughing at his blushes.
In the other corner sit sad people, tired and old people, anxious people who have been here three or four days. They have had bunks and good food provided. But suspense increases. For at the end of tire days, if no friend comes, they must go before the "Board of Special Inquiry," and from there, they may be deported.
Suspense—how it makes eyes shift and glisten. One afternoon not long ago in this same room, I felt it deep. That morning in New York, a young Jewish friend of mine, a tall, dark boy of sixteen, had come to me incredibly excited:
"Please! Come quick! My old father Isaac has just landed from Russia, but I can't get him out, and I'm afraid they'll send him back!" I went with him out to the island and came to this hall.
Poor old Isaac. He was a tall giant of a man, but old and gray. His long, quaint brown coat was mussed and torn. You could see his knees tremble. In his massive, bearded face, the deep-set eyes were bewildered and anxious; his steel-rimmed spectacles had slipped to the end of his nose as he tried vainly to read the ticket pinned to his coat. Every minute, he nervously clutched at his big black satchel, which was all the property he had.
When he saw his son, his wrinkled face grew radiant. But he was so upset he could not answer my questions.
"Why is it?" he kept asking in Yiddish. What wrong thing have I done? For five years, I have waited, dreaming of my son and the new home he would make. Many times, I grew afraid I would die before this time would come. But Jehovah has been kind, and I have lived. I have come to spend my last days in the home of my dreams. And now—why is it? What wrong have I done? It is more than I can bear!"
Immigrants Head Into The Great Red Building - The Gateway Into America. Everybody's Magazine, October 1906. GGA Image ID # 218e7a0b6d
I went to one of the officials and asked him.
"Physically incapacitated," said the busy inspector. "Look for yourself. Poor old chap, what work can he do? And the boy only makes $5 a week."
We looked at Isaac. Indeed, he was weak. As he stared at us anxiously, his old knees wobbled despite him, his long fingers moved nervously, his great gray beard was bobbing, you could see his lips quiver, and on his high white forehead, the sweat-beads stood out,
"Have you had some illness?" I asked him in Yiddish through his son.
"No! No!" he cried eagerly. When I eat again, at once, I shall be strong—so intense! Look!" He stretched out his thick and muscular trembling arm. "When I eat again!"
"Eat?" I asked. "Have you eaten nothing today?"
" Eight days ago, I ate," he answered. "Eight days! What do you mean?" Old Isaac drew himself up proudly—to his full height:
"In the ship—deep down in the foul part of the ship—they gave us food. I looked. The food was unclean. We old men are not like the young ones. We hold close to the religion of our fathers. And by this religion, I knew that Jehovah forbade such food. So I did not eat."
After all was explained, the older man was released and brought to New York. Then, his son's friends prepared a feast that was "clean." And how happy he was that night!
An old Austrian mother was kept in this same hall for five days. She had lost the railroad ticket her son had sent her. Again and again, they telegraphed to the small town where she said he lived, but no reply came.
"He is so fine, so strong, so rich—my Fritz!" she said. "This fine dress and this bonnet he sent me. In Austria, he wrote me every week. Surely—surely he will come!" She grew worse and worse. She could not sleep at night and sat by the window watching the Manhattan skyscrapers all day. Her face grew haggard and lined with tears.
She was so bewildered that she could no longer answer questions. The name of the town was all she could give. There were eighteen towns with this name in various states, but she had forgotten the name of her son's state. All she knew was that Fritz lived in a city "quite near New York." Town after town was telegraphed to. Still, I was waiting for a reply. At last, it seemed hopeless, and the old lady was about to be deported.
Suddenly came a telegram:
"Hold, Mother! I am corning!" Four hours later, another said, "Don't deport my mother. I have plenty to support her. I am coming by fast train. Hold her!"
And late that afternoon, a young man, sleepless and wild-eyed, arrived—from Kansas! "Quite near New York."
But now, at the door, a uniformed official appears with a list in his hand, and the whole hall is in commotion at once! Older men, women, and children spring up and squeeze eagerly forward.
"Marie Antonia Valezio! Rebecca Wagner! Carl Johnson!" A big German, a smiling young Jewess, and a dark, meek little Italian mother with a boy and a baby squeeze through while the crowd falls back disappointed. We follow the group through the door, a long passage, and into "Lovers' Lane." Marie, Carl, and Rebecca enter a room enclosed by a wire grating.
Behind us, the door opens, and in comes a short, burly Italian—an "American" with a gray slouch hat tipped back, a big checked suit, and bright red tie; swarthy face, flashing eyes, short black mustache, and white teeth gleaming round a grin. The grins broaden! In the grated room, the dark little mother jumps forward, pushes her four-year-old boy close to the grating, and holds the baby high over her head; she laughs unsteadily, her head moving from side to side. The baby is wrapped tight in a brown shawl embroidered with big red flowers. The wee boy capers and chuckles. The baby howls!
Swiftly, the inspector questions the man, then goes to the grating room and asks the wife. All corresponds. The gate is opened, she is led out, and the man, still grinning (rather sheepishly, for he sees us watching), comes around and seizes the baby. Then, as he bends his head, his smile vanishes, and his eyes glisten. Slowly, he presses his big red lips to his tiny forehead---tighter and tighter. They turn and move slowly away.
Rebecca Wagner is a young girl wrapped in a coarse black shawl. Here comes her "American" sister, dressed in American clothes, hat, and gloves. But there is nothing sheepish here! They come together in a rush and go off, the "American" laughing, Rebecca crying softly.
"This spot," said the inspector solemnly, with just the ghost of a twinkle in one eye, "holds more kisses to the square inch than any spot on earth. I have seen about a hundred thousand of every shape and sound.
"The other day, a young Pole arrived to claim his sweetheart. He saw her, jumped the railing, rushed to the grating—and at once, the kissing began! It continued until I gently suggested from behind that he give me a few minutes of his time.
"'Is she your wife?' I asked.
"` No! But she will be. She is ready! Look—look how ready she is!'
"'Yes, she looks very ready. But the law says you can't take her till you marry her.'
"'All right, I go to New York; I bring a priest quick.'
"`Oh, you don't need that. We have a marriage bureau here that works all day. But it's too late this afternoon, so if you want her, come tomorrow morning.'
"'If I want her? Ha, ha! I sure come! You bet !"
To "Lovers' Lane" come anxious "American" husbands, fastidious creatures educated in taste by the great American show window. No shawl-wrapped wives for them! Often, they bring out complete feminine outfits. An inspector told me about one instance:
A huge, solemn-faced Pole had come out for his wife and children. In his big arms before him were piled packages, great and small. Suddenly, he dropped them all! He had seen his family; his big face was radiant. He called eager messages across the room. Quickly, he answered the inspector's questions, and a moment later, husband, wife, and children all rushed together in a joyous, laughing, kissing tangle!
But soon, the careful housewife asked about those packages. When he explained, her rosy face grew stiff with anger. Wrathfully, she pointed to her clean shawl and her new yellow worsted gown specially made for the entrance to America. Her gestures grew swifter. She showed the two children in the clothes she had worked so hard to make ready.
The giant husband expostulated. These things she had made would be splendid, refined, beautiful, very splendid—in Poland, but not New York. He began describing what wonderful things women did with clothes in that city. He waxed enthusiastic, his face glowed, and his big blue eyes sparkled!
Darker and darker grew the face of the wife, and her voice rose sharp and angry. Then, the husband grew impatient. He turned and talked to the inspector very fast in English. And at his flood of strange wads, his wife listened and watched in awe, and his children stared at him open-mouthed.
"What are you saying?" she asked, clutching his arm.
"Telling him to take you back to Poland!" he cried.
The poor woman burst into tears. When these were over, her face was meek and submissive. Then, the woman inspector led them all into another room to be dressed. For a moment, the Pole stared down at his wife, and now his massive face was rigid with suspense. Which should he try first—shoes or a hat?
The next few minutes were too painful to describe. The shoes were tried first for the wife, then for the oldest boy, and finally squeezed on the feet of the twelve-year-old girl. Now, the hat. It had a tall, dramatic blue feather. Should the feather point forward or backward? This point was long debated until, at last, the exasperated wife clapped on the hat, and then—shawl over a hat—and feather crushed forever!
The dressing was still more bewildering and intricate. It was done in the privacy of a remote corner. When the husband and wife returned, the husband carried in one hand that whalebone machine that goes with female civilization. Wrathfully, the excellent woman snatched it and cast it upon the floor. The giant husband's face was rueful and subdued—but worried—watching his wife. She certainly did not look stylish.
Last year, a short, stout, comfortable Sicilian arrived for his family. He entered the door, looked over at the grated room, saw his wife and four children, and suddenly stopped and stared—his jaw-dropping.
"Is not that your family?" asked the inspector.
"Yes," said the man. "De wife—she Oa right! But—me have only—only I' ree child!" With uneasy forebodings, the inspector went over to the grating.
"How is this?" he asked.
"Yes," stammered the wife, in Italian, greatly confused. Little Annunzio makes four." The inspector came back to the husband. She said, "She says you have forgotten little Annunzio."
The stout man jumped, and his black eyes popped out of his head:
"Ali, my little Annunzio!"—he lapsed into his native tongue—"I saw him last when he was just born! But—he died last year. No—no—this is not Annunzio."
The man's face slowly darkened, and jealous green lights appeared in his eyes. Back went the inspector.
"He says little Annunzio is dead."
At this little, Annunzio put his tiny grimy fists to his eyes and began to howl. The inspector seized him and carried him to his father. Annunzio Senior stared down at his son in amazement.
"Yes," said he, "this looks a little like Annunzio, but it cannot be, for Annunzio is dead."
Redoubled howls from the amazed and affrighted Annunzio. He was carried back to his mother. And now, at last, urged by the inspector, she confessed:
"What could I do? Last year, we were so poor, and my husband had sent so little money. So I just wrote him that little Annunzio was dead, and we needed some money to bury him!"
We go up now to a room where one of the "Boards of Special Inquiry" holds a session. Three judges sit on a raised platform, and a score of immigrants sit on benches before them, waiting their turn. These are the cases weeded out to be individually examined. This is the last stage before deportation, except the appeal to Washington.
A young Polish mother with a crying baby comes slowly forward. From another room comes a witness, a light-haired young Pole with a square, broad face, high cheekbones, and honest brown eyes. He speaks in broken English:
"Her husband—he is my brother. He has been in this country for one year and works in a gang on the railroad. Only occasionally does he come home to Brooklyn. Six weeks ago, he sent the ticket to his wife and baby to come. But three weeks ago, his gang got sent somewhere to Minnesota. And he can't read or write letters, and I can't find him where or how he is."
The wife suddenly turns away—silent, but her shoulders are shaking. The man watches her hard.
"Well," he says slowly at last, "you let her in, and I promise I'll support her and the baby with my wife. And I think I'll find my brother in three months, maybe."
"How much do you earn?"
"Eight dollars a week."
The woman is admitted.
We go on to the "Deportation Room." Here are some two hundred men and boys. Eighty-nine are Bulgarians. They were "contract laborers" bound for the anthracite mines. Still, an inspector from the American labor unions detected them at the European port. He sent a warning to Ellis Island, so here they were stopped, examined, and convicted. They will all be sent back at the expense of the steamship company. But less than one percent of all these immigrant masses are deported.
So they come—the men who are to vote. Each year, they pour in faster.
"I believe," said Commissioner Watch-horn, "that in a few years more, we shall have Iwo million annually!"
From behind, they are driven by famine, religion, and persecution. From the front, they are drawn by the offers of jobs by the railroads, the factories, steel works, sweatshops, and mines.
In the old country, they lived in peasant huts. They had few teachers but village priests. They were strong, honest, and slow; their hopes, ambitions, and joys were simple. They were untouched by the wave of unrest that had swept through the cities and towns. They were the most conservative of all the toilers of Europe.
But now, from America, the machine is calling.
What will they do? These men who have come from the slow back places of Europe suddenly into the rush of new ideas, these men with wives and children whose wants are so fast increasing, these men who begin to hear, see, and think, these men who now swiftly gather into unions and discuss things, these men who are already here by millions, these men who are to vote.
Poole, Ernest "The Men Who Are To Vote," in Everybody's Magazine, Volume XV, No. I, October 1906. Illustrations by Josoph Stolla
Ernest Poole was the Author of "The Voice of Mt Street,"
Key Highlights and Engaging Content ✨
Immigrant Arrivals at Ellis Island ⛴️🇺🇸
The opening scene at Ellis Island captures the chaotic and exciting moment when immigrants disembark from crowded ships, quickly moving through the gates into America. Poole describes the rush of people from diverse backgrounds, each with their personal dreams and uncertainties. The descriptions create a powerful visual narrative of the immigrant experience.
🖼 Noteworthy Image: "The Crowd Hurrying By Me, Into the Great Red Building Beyond – The Gateway Into America." This photo, taken during the height of the immigration process, offers a glimpse of the fast-moving, overwhelming environment at Ellis Island, where families from all over the world converge to begin their new lives.
The Diversity of Immigrant Backgrounds 🌍💼
Poole details the ethnic backgrounds of the arriving immigrants, particularly focusing on peasants from Italy, Austria-Hungary, Poland, Russia, and other European countries. He reflects on their simple desires—to improve their lives and support their families. The article highlights how they are entering a country driven by industrialization, with many immigrants filling labor positions in factories, railroads, and mines.
The narrative presents an intriguing view of ethnological diversity, where each group brings its own cultural heritage and social values, contributing to America’s complex identity.
The Challenges at Ellis Island 🏛️💼
The immigration process at Ellis Island is described as both efficient and harsh, with detailed medical inspections, documentation checks, and the potential for deportation. Immigrants often face language barriers, physical exams, and the scrutiny of inspectors—dynamics that show the difficult path these immigrants had to navigate to gain entry to the United States.
🖼 Noteworthy Image: "The Dreaded Inspector with His Big List of Questions." This image represents the crucial moment where immigrants are interrogated about their health, background, and intentions. The tense atmosphere of this process highlights the stress and anxiety immigrants faced.
A Story of Family Reunification 💕🌏
One of the most touching moments in the article involves the reunion of an immigrant family at Ellis Island. Poole depicts the joyful yet chaotic reunion of families, where tears and laughter flow as relatives are finally brought together after long separations. The narrative emphasizes the deep emotional ties that immigrants have with their families and the profound human connections that form the core of their American dream.
The article contrasts the intense emotion of these reunions with the pragmatic and efficient systems of the U.S. immigration bureaucracy.
Immigrants' Journey Beyond Ellis Island 🚞💰
After clearing Ellis Island, many immigrants embark on the next phase of their journey—either to join family in various parts of America or to begin new lives in cities like New York, Chicago, and beyond. Poole describes the logistics involved in this process, including the railroad tickets, telegrams, and the money exchange systems that help immigrants get started on their new lives.
🖼 Noteworthy Image: "Immigrants Head Into The Great Red Building – The Gateway Into America." This image illustrates the physical infrastructure of Ellis Island, showcasing how the U.S. government managed the logistical aspects of mass immigration during this era.
The Rise of Immigrant Political Power 🗳️👥
Poole ends the article with a reflection on the future of these immigrants—many of whom will soon be eligible to vote. As Poole suggests, these new citizens bring their old-world values but will soon become part of the American political system, eventually shaping the country's future. This political awakening highlights the role of immigrants in America's evolving democracy and their eventual integration into the nation's political life.
Educational and Historical Insights 📘🎓
📌 For Teachers and Students: This article provides a compelling introduction to the early 20th-century immigrant experience, perfect for lessons on American history or immigration studies. It emphasizes human stories alongside the structural dynamics of immigration, making it a great tool for fostering empathy and critical thinking about the challenges immigrants faced.
📌 For Genealogists: Poole’s focus on family reunification and the immigration process provides a rich source of context for family research. The article’s details about telegrams, railroad tickets, and detailed immigration forms can guide genealogists in tracing ancestral immigration records and understanding the human journey behind those records.
📌 For Historians: The article offers an insightful reflection on the economic, social, and political transformations brought about by immigration in the early 1900s. It is a valuable resource for understanding immigrant integration and the role of immigrant labor in shaping American society.
Final Thoughts 🌟
The Men Who Are To Vote offers a vivid snapshot of the immigrant experience at Ellis Island during a time of mass migration to the United States. Through a combination of personal anecdotes, ethnological reflections, and a focus on the human side of immigration, Poole’s article makes the complex processes of legal inspection, family reunification, and labor migration both relatable and poignant. It is a valuable piece for anyone interested in the history of immigration, offering a perspective that is both informative and empathetic. Poole’s work serves as a reminder of the hardships and hope that shaped the immigrant experience, and how those experiences continue to shape America’s diverse and dynamic society.
🔎 Research & Essay Writing Using GG Archives
📢 This is NOT a blog! Instead, students and researchers are encouraged to use the GG Archives materials for academic and historical research.
🔎 Looking for primary sources on Titanic’s lifeboat disaster? GG Archives provides one of the most comprehensive visual collections available today.
