Streets of Gold
She had heard about it from everyone in the town. How couldn’t the streets be lined in gold? After all, it was America, the land where fortunes were made and life was easy. Her friend boasted to her every month how the American money came to her in the mail from her husband who had recently moved there to take up a construction business. Like so many in the town of Sora, Italy, husbands would sojourn to the gilded wonderland, work in the trades they knew best, and send money back to the old country. Her friend would talk about how insignificant the lira was in comparison to the dollar, a currency at that time that was revered for its prestige and exemplary value.
After so much of this talk, enough was enough. She would travel on a boat for a long time, slowly advancing toward the land of opportunity, accompanied by her young daughter. She then would establish the family in America with the little resources they had and later send for her husband after he had tied up loose ends in Italy.
This brave woman was my mother’s grandmother, my great grandmother, Assunta Cerrone. She was a strong woman of incredible determination and will. She left everything she had and started over. The motive? Simple – a better life.
The morning had arrived. It was very early when she woke up that day. She had to do so much before embarking on the journey. The clothes needed to be washed for her husband and extended family, and meals needed to be arranged for that afternoon and evening. It was polenta that night for dinner – plain and simple. She wondered how they would make it without her help. As she slinked about the house doing her chores, she heard Theresa, her daughter, wake in her room.
“Go back to sleep. You know this is a long day and you need your rest!” she said in her forceful, commandeering manner.
“I just can’t! I want to go now! I want to walk on gold!”
What more could a five-year-old wish for but a new world. She glowed with excitement. Perhaps she didn’t realize that leaving Italy, the land she was born in, was so final. Maybe all of the talk of beauty and embellishment that New York contained overwhelmed her imagination. Or maybe, she was just too young to realize.
This wasn’t the day they would leave Italy. It was just the day they would leave their Italy. Sora, a small town outside of Rome, is not near the Atlantic Ocean by any means. The first step toward getting to America was the Sora-to-Napoli trip. They would stay with relatives there for a day and embark shortly thereafter. This was all planned, in theory at least. They had not even gotten tickets yet.
There was seemingly no time lapse between kissing her husband Francesco good-bye and standing on the dock besides the Duca d’Aosta, the 476 foot-long vessel they would be traveling on. She purchased two third-class tickets at the booking booth – two of 1,836 on this small boat. The trip was not at all easy. Being in such close contact with so many people was not healthy. My great-grandmother later told stories of the vast number of deaths that occurred on the ship. The food was minute to almost non-existent. She used whatever bread she brought with her to feed Theresa, nourishment my aunt needed to survive this grueling trip.
Only days into the journey, everything almost came to a crashing halt when the boat Assunta and Theresa were on collided with a deep-sea fishing vessel. Incredibly, both boats survived. The Duca d’Aosta was mended en route to New York and held out for another two and a half weeks.
The real thing to be put into perspective must be the emotions that my great grandmother and aunt had during this trip. I could only imagine the fear that plagued her during the collision, or the apprehension when the news of the first death aboard the ship circulated in her steerage room where she and Theresa lived for that time. And what ever happened to the visions of golden streets and fabulous lifestyles? Those dreams were dormant in her imagination, replaced by the instinct to survive. How about Theresa? The excitement my aunt had so many mornings ago had faded into oblivion. They were both afflicted by this lull in the adventure.
It was March 27, 1920 when they first caught glimpse of the Statue of Liberty. The journey that seemed like it took forever was finally over. Slowly, very slowly, the passion and excitement retuned. Visions of golden streets returned to their minds. They were back in the fairytale world. America, to them, symbolized unlimited prosperity and happiness. It was a new life for them – a new era.
Disembarkation was slow, but the renewed enthusiasm they felt made the time pass quickly. With Theresa in one arm and her small parcel of belongings in the other, my great grandmother Assunta took her first step off of the wooden ramp that left the ship and onto the dusty dirt road that lead to the Ellis Island reception hall, the place where all immigrants went to become citizens of the United States. The mistake with my aunt’s name shows in the records even today. Her name is still listed in the ship’s manifest as Francesca – a misunderstanding that occurred when an Ellis Island officer asked Assunta what her daughter’s name was. Not knowing any English, she thought he asked what her husband’s name was. She politely responded Francesco. He interpreted this response as Francesca because, after all, it was a little girl that she held by the hand.
This was the turning point in my great grandmother Assunta’s life. That was the day that signaled a new beginning, a foundation for the generations that followed.