The Next Ship Home

by Heather Webb

New York, indeed, resembles a magic cauldron. Those who are cast into it are born again.”

The communities were together but separate and understood their roles. The Jewish and Italian populations floundered at the bottom as the newest to arrive on American shores, the Irish fought their way from the middle, and the Germans, Dutch, and English perched at the top.

“You’re a burden, Alma,” he said. “Another mouth to feed. And since no man will have you, and you’ve managed to scare off the few we’ve tried to set up for you, it’s time you earned your keep.”

The infamous name for Ellis Island: Tränen Insel, Island of Tears.

Alma paused, a realization dawning. They were afraid. The immigrants clutched their children and belongings like someone might snatch them from them.

Here, at Ellis Island, all of their fright, courage, and—most of all—hope funneled into this one moment: passing through the registry office to the stairwell, the exit to their freedom, and to possibilities of which they could only dream before now.

some had an easier way than others, through no inherent superiority but simply by the luck of being born at the right place in the right time—or with the right nationality and ethnicity.

Their supervisor looked more haggard than usual, the grooves around her mouth and on her forehead a map of her fatigue.

The staff couldn’t very well allow every immigrant who arrived on their shores into the country, so how did they decide who could stay?

Innocent passersby often lost their wallets to the little scoundrels, who swooped in like a flock of birds, surrounded the unsuspecting in a cloud of confusion, and flew away, their claws filled with whatever treasure they’d stolen.

She was being forced to give up her work—her hopes of saving her own money, of translating or schooling—to become a middle-aged man’s wife.

Her future was not her own to decide. She knew this—had always known it—but it was no longer a distant, unpleasant idea.

she recognized his quiet cruelty just the same. He liked to direct his anger at someone to relieve a pressure valve somewhere inside him, to belittle someone else to make him feel like a big, strong man.

Alma found it fascinating the way the city had built a concrete shell on the floor of the Hudson River, fortified by steel, and filled it with soil left over from the subway construction.

Don’t be fooled by Satan’s trap. He lures us with riches, but we’re most content when we are grateful for what we have.

I’m especially interested in what it means to be American, a citizen of the world’s “melting pot” composed of many cultures, ethnicities, and religions.