The Editor
” …. Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
These poignant words, written by poet Emma Lazarus and inscribed on the Statue of Liberty, are indelibly engraved in the hearts of millions of Americans, both native born and naturalized. These very same words beckoned countless numbers of people from the four comers of the earth to come to the “land of opportunity”. And come they did, by the boatload. They came in such large numbers that immigration stations were established to process the new arrivals. On the east coast, there was Ellis Island in New York Harbor (established 1892); on the west coast, Angel Island in San Francisco Bay (established 1910).
Yes, there was Angel Island-a place of memories … of loneliness … of anxiety; a place where dreams often turned to dust, where days turned into months and, sometimes, years. I wonder – what was it like being thousands of miles from home and family, coming to a foreign land, seeing strange-looking faces, listening to an unfamiliar language? What thoughts ran through the minds of the immigrants? What was the reaction to the long confinement?
. . . . . a ten-year old boy, clinging to his mother’s hand, perhaps even biding behind her whenever a “white” face came into view. He remembers that many of his fellow immigrants were extremely confused and anxious about their fate.
Mostly, they were afraid of being sent back home. He also remembers that the interrogations were frequent and of long duration. The sleeping quarters were large dormitories, with rows and rows of beds. Recreational facilities were
minimal, but at least, there were other children to share his playtime. For him, his mother and. younger brother, the stay on Angel Island was a two-month period.
. . . . . a young bride, 18 years old, coming over in 1920 to join her husband. She recalls being very lonely for her parents and other relatives left at home. Fortunately, her time on the Island was brief-one week. Her husband had fought in World War I, and, possibly, his status as a soldier facilitated the situation for her.
. . . . . an 11-year old boy, arriving in August 1930 on the President Pierce, one of several large ships sailing periodically between the Orient and San Francisco. The boy’s father had returned to China to bring him to the United States,
leaving three other sons behind. Father and son were detained on the island for three weeks. In searching his memory today, the son remembers that he and his fellow countrymen felt as if they were prisoners on Angel Island-they could
not come and go at will, as the area was surrounded by 15-foot wire fences and there were guards on duty at all times. (One of the guards was dubbed “Mah Lo Wong”-King of the Monkeys-as it was a strange sight to the Chinese to see
a man with extreme growth of hair on arms, chest and face.) To this young boy, “all whites looked alike”, since he had never encountered people of any race but his own. He remembers that many of the immigrants were unhappy and frustrated on being detained-some felt that the future was hopeless, while a few were desperate and resorted to suicide.
These and thousands of other Chinese immigrants shared a common situation they were strangers in an alien land. They had dreams to be fulfilled, but some turned into nightmares; they were searching for a better life but faced many obstacles along the way. Even before setting foot on the American mainland, they were confronted, literally, by a “wall of rock”-Angel Island. Here was the first and greatest barrier days and months of detention, incessant interrogations, harassment, humiliation, frustration and “loss of face”, a situation most unbearable to the Chinese mind. Today, many years later, these hardy pioneers who endured the “Angel Island experience” have become loyal citizens of their adop4!d land; they have raised a new generation of native Americans; they have integrated into the mainstream of American life. Yet, for them, memories die hard-years have come, and years have gone – but they still remember.