As one of the dumb, voiceless ones I speak. One of the millions of
immigrants beating, beating out their hearts at your gates for a breath
of understanding.
Ach! America! From the other end of the earth from where I came,
America was a land of living hope, woven of dreams, aflame with longing
and desire.
Choked for ages in the airless oppression of Russia, the Promised Land
rose up--wings for my stifled spirit--sunlight burning through my
darkness--freedom singing to me in my prison--deathless songs tuning
prison bars into strings of a beautiful violin.
I arrived in America. My young, strong body, my heart and soul pregnant
with the unlived lives of generations clamouring for expression.
What my mother and father and their mother and father never had
a chance to give out in Russia, I would give out in America. The
hidden sap of centuries would find release; colours that never saw
light--songs that died unvoiced--romance that never had a chance to
blossom in the black life of the Old World.
In the golden land of flowing opportunity I was to find my work that
was denied me in the sterile village of my forefathers. Here I was to
be free from the dead drudgery for bread that held me down in Russia.
For the first time in America I’d cease to be a slave of the belly. I’d
be a creator, a giver, a human being! My work would be the living joy
of fullest self-expression.
But from my high visions, my golden hopes, I had to put my feet down on
earth. I had to have food and shelter. I had to have the money to pay
for it.
I was in America, among the Americans, but not of them. No speech, no
common language, no way to win a smile of understanding from them, only
my young, strong body and my untried faith. Only my eager, empty hands,
and my full heart shining from my eyes!
God from the world! Here I was with so much richness in me, but my mind
was not wanted without the language. And my body, unskilled, untrained,
was not even wanted in the factory. Only one of two chances was left
open to me: the kitchen, or minding babies.
My first job was as a servant in an Americanized family. Once, long
ago, they came from the same village from where I came. But they were
so well dressed, so well fed, so successful in America, that they were
ashamed to remember their mother tongue.
“What were to be my wages?” I ventured timidly, as I looked up to the
well-fed, well-dressed “American” man and woman.
They looked at me with a sudden coldness. What have I said to draw away
from me their warmth? Was it so low from me to talk of wages? I shrank
back into myself like a low-down bargainer. Maybe they’re so high up in
well-being they can’t any more understand my low thoughts for money.
From his rich height the man preached down to me that I must not be so
grabbing for wages. Only just landed from the ship and already thinking
about money when I should be thankful to associate with “Americans.”
The woman, out of her smooth, smiling fatness, assured me that this
was my chance for a summer vacation in the country with her two lovely
children. My great chance to learn to be a civilized being, to become
an American by living with them.
So, made to feel that I was in the hands of American friends, invited
to share with them their home, their plenty, their happiness, I pushed
out from my head the worry for wages. Here was my first chance to begin
my life in the sunshine after my long darkness. My laugh was all over
my face as I said to them: “I’ll trust myself to you. What I’m worth
you’ll give me.” And I entered their house like a child by the hand.
The best of me I gave them. Their house cares were my house cares. I
got up early. I worked till late. All that my soul hungered to give I
put into the passion with which I scrubbed floors, scoured pots, and
washed clothes. I was so grateful to mingle with the American people,
to hear the music of the American language, that I never knew tiredness.
There was such a freshness in my brains and such a willingness in my
heart that I could go on and on--not only with the work of the house,
but work with my head--learning new words from the children, the
grocer, the butcher, the iceman. I was not even afraid to ask for words
from the policeman on the street. And every new word made me see new
American things with American eyes. I felt like a Columbus, finding new
worlds through every new word.
But words alone were only for the inside of me. The outside of me
still branded me for a steerage immigrant. I had to have clothes to
forget myself that I’m a stranger yet. And so I had to have money to
buy these clothes.
The month was up. I was so happy! Now I’d have money. _My own, earned_
money. Money to buy a new shirt on my back, shoes on my feet. Maybe yet
an American dress and hat!
Ach! How high rose my dreams! How plainly I saw all that I would do
with my visionary wages shining like a light over my head!
In my imagination I already walked in my new American clothes. How
beautiful I looked as I saw myself like a picture before my eyes! I saw
how I would throw away my immigrant rags tied up in my immigrant shawl.
With money to buy--free money in my hands--I’d show them that I could
look like an American in a day.
Like a prisoner in his last night in prison, counting the seconds that
will free him from his chains, I trembled breathlessly for the minute
I’d get the wages in my hand.
Before dawn I rose.