Dear Emily,
I'm glad to hear you're feeling better darling, that makes me very happy. I certainly hope that your recovery did not take as long as t did to receive the letter, mail runs so slow here. I write you as often as I can, though I'm sure some of the letters are lost en route back home to New York. I hope everything is going well with you. I'm alright out here, I mean to be alive is lucky and with so many dying around me I'm not going to piss and moan about the cold, or the stench, or the discomfort of the trenches. Every time that I start to feel down because of predicament I think of the poor civilians on the Lusitania, I think of you and Molls and Bella under the cruel regime of the Kaiser and I am motivated to go on.
I went on a quite holiday about two weeks ago, into the French countryside just outside Paris. It was so beautiful and peaceful love, someday when this is all over we're going to go back there. Walk along the same dirt paths up through the hills and the woods but no one will fear us because I will no longer have this gun strapped across my back. I had received a pay advancement for this trip and I assure you I spent it all on fine wine, bread, and cheese! Sadly, I can no longer send you those beautiful sentiments about the French country side, after a few weeks near Paris I was sent by train with only my gun, one blanket, and some ammunition out to the trenches. It's miserable in down here Em, there's no other way to explain it. I can't sleep, eat, go to the bathroom, even write this letter without cowering behind one of my dead friends. The snipers are everywhere Em, I can't escape them. I have seen such horrible things my darling. Men wandering blind through the maze of the trenches, eyes burned and blinded by mustard gas. I have watched a friend die in the middle of dinner right after he asked me to pass him the bread. It feels so desolate here, so lonesome.
Father has been sending me a few articles from the newspaper. He sent one about you love, about how you are the head of the scrap metal drive, about how you are trying so hard to help us troops. We all thank you here, me and the boys, it's your spirit that keeps us going. I've also seen the sad headlines, like that Alice something or another picketing at the White House, fighting for "woman's suffrage". Sure, big supporter of the socialist party I expect. I'm proud to know you aren't a part of that ridiculous group Em, you don't need to fight Wilson or America when they're busy with the Kaiser. It's very unpatriotic, but I am glad to hear about the new Espionage and Sedition Acts, they should really help put a damper on those damn socialists that keep infiltrating our country with their poisonous ideas.
Hopefully it'll be over soon Em, and I'll be home. I hear the French are really pushing Germany back, it's not like Somme or Verdun anymore, the allies are really getting moving. I can't wait to get out of here love. Please keep writing and letting me know about what's going on back home, I already feel like I'm so far behind I'll never be able to get back into the social scene. Thank you for the new sweater darling. I must be honest, I don't wear it very often, it's far too pretty to be seen amongst the macabre gore of these trenches. It does not belong here, neither do I. Our officers keep tell us to hold out, the an armistice will come soon, that we will win this war and come home soon.I sure hope so Emily, and I hope it's not too long in coming.
All of my love,
Sam
Friday, February 27, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Reaction 3
It’s 1920 and you, Alonzo Vasquez, are a Mexican immigrant to the United States. While you love your new country, it is very important to you that your family remember and honor your culture and traditions, many of which are tied to your homeland. You are increasingly worried that your children, in the process of becoming “American,” are ignoring the importance of their heritage. Why is it so important to you that your family retain some cultural connection to Mexico and your Mexican heritage? What evidence is there that your children are being wholly “Americanized?” What conflicts has this created between you and your children?
I came here for a new life; for the rich soil, for the vast farmland, for the clean air, for these American cities of gold. And I found it. I see it on the front page of a newspaper written in a language I barely understand, I see it for my cardboard covered window in the small room my family and I rent in the slums outside the city. I see the fine rich white men pass by me on the street, kicking mud in muck in my direction without a backward glance.
It's not that we haven't prospered at all, while our home is a shack, we own it. I make almost double what I made in Mexico, though we do not prosper as I hoped. We have moved beyond the minimalistic substenance farming of Mexico, but this new technological society my family faces is more scary than poverty. Back home our family was the top priority in my life, here it ranks much farther down my list. Many of the cultural aspects I previously embraced are shunned here, I cannot speak my native language I am forced to try to converse in my elementary level English. It truly hinders my potential and makes me seem uneducated which I am far from. My children are forced to be in school most days of the week, tossed in a classroom with the other immigrant children being taught a second rate education to match their status as a second class citizen. The father, the leader, the head of the household, I am never home. I am always working in the shoe factory trying to get enough money to keep food on our table (whether I see that table or not). My wife is forced to take low paying domestic jobs to make ends meet sacrificing her most important role as mother.
Yet we cannot let these ill feelings bring us down. We have come to the land of opportunity be it double sided or not. There is not much else we can do but continue to hold on, struggle day to day but maintain our independent identity. I wish there was something else I could do for my wife and four children but our silver lined future is tarnished, and I fear my disillusioned hope has broken us down. We cannot compete in this world of materialism, we do not have the monetary resources to keep up. We cannot embrace this new American life so completely when we are not seen as Americans, but as Mexicans poisoning the country from across the border. We will prosper. I intend soon to head to California, where I will work in the fields of great plantations where we can be closer to the earth, closer to the ways we cherish. My wife's family is already there and they seem much more content than we are. Maybe there is hope after all, I just haven't been looking in the right place. We will see someday whether this decision was right or wrong, but for now we will just focus on our dreams.
I came here for a new life; for the rich soil, for the vast farmland, for the clean air, for these American cities of gold. And I found it. I see it on the front page of a newspaper written in a language I barely understand, I see it for my cardboard covered window in the small room my family and I rent in the slums outside the city. I see the fine rich white men pass by me on the street, kicking mud in muck in my direction without a backward glance.
It's not that we haven't prospered at all, while our home is a shack, we own it. I make almost double what I made in Mexico, though we do not prosper as I hoped. We have moved beyond the minimalistic substenance farming of Mexico, but this new technological society my family faces is more scary than poverty. Back home our family was the top priority in my life, here it ranks much farther down my list. Many of the cultural aspects I previously embraced are shunned here, I cannot speak my native language I am forced to try to converse in my elementary level English. It truly hinders my potential and makes me seem uneducated which I am far from. My children are forced to be in school most days of the week, tossed in a classroom with the other immigrant children being taught a second rate education to match their status as a second class citizen. The father, the leader, the head of the household, I am never home. I am always working in the shoe factory trying to get enough money to keep food on our table (whether I see that table or not). My wife is forced to take low paying domestic jobs to make ends meet sacrificing her most important role as mother.
Yet we cannot let these ill feelings bring us down. We have come to the land of opportunity be it double sided or not. There is not much else we can do but continue to hold on, struggle day to day but maintain our independent identity. I wish there was something else I could do for my wife and four children but our silver lined future is tarnished, and I fear my disillusioned hope has broken us down. We cannot compete in this world of materialism, we do not have the monetary resources to keep up. We cannot embrace this new American life so completely when we are not seen as Americans, but as Mexicans poisoning the country from across the border. We will prosper. I intend soon to head to California, where I will work in the fields of great plantations where we can be closer to the earth, closer to the ways we cherish. My wife's family is already there and they seem much more content than we are. Maybe there is hope after all, I just haven't been looking in the right place. We will see someday whether this decision was right or wrong, but for now we will just focus on our dreams.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Reaction 2
When I realized that I would finally be getting my chance to escape the old country I was ecstatic. I had grown weary of living the penniless existence on my weary family farm, the same farm that five other generations of Preschuwitz's had wasted away never knowing anything different. By some stroke of good fortune I was going to be the first in my family to be sent, it ought to have been my brother, but my family could not have managed the farm without him. My mother thought that as a strong, young woman finding a job and earning a steady income would be easy for me. In a way I suppose she was right, in another completely wrong.
As soon as I stepped off the boat in the New York harbor I became concerned. I thought I had come to the land of acceptance and opportunity, yet when I informed the man in the dark suit I was Jewish he frowned, and when I told him my name he shook his head and said you are Esther Klein now. I spent the first night crying in a dark alley. I did not know what else to do, I knew no one and could not read the street signs to find the lodgings my parents had told me to go for housing The next day was slightly better, I purchased my breakfast in the streets and found another girl my age. She too spoke my native language (as hard as I had tried to learn English it still felt foreign against my tongue). Her older sister was already here in America, that she had a good paying job in a textile mill making shirts alittle farther north. Jenna (her American name) said that I was welcome to go with her and find a job at this mill too.
Getting a job at the mill was easy, and it was nice to be paid for my work. Slowly I realized though that while the conditions had seemed better, they really were not. While I was making a much higher wage than I could have ever fathomed back home, the money was spent much faster too. The lodgings I was forced to live in were horrible and ridiculously expensive, they were owned by the mill. Supplies, food, everything cost more here. Not only was I often harassed at work; hit and screamed at by the managers for not working fast enough, I had no comforts to come home to. Every night I went back to my dark room alone, and every morning I left early. My days here are long, I would guess I work fourteen hours a day, six days a week though I can not observe the sabbath day in the Jewish tradition, the mill looks down upon it. I was also disappointed to find out that I will never be able to move into a higher position in the mill. I thought that if I worked hard perhaps one day I would be allowed to move up into one of the overseeing positions. One where I no longer had to sew buttons all day, but rather taught others how. I think I would do a better job than the men who do it now, I would have much more compassion. When I questioned this possibility I was laughed at, women do not move up in the mills. In fact the only people who ever change their job are the children, yes children. There are children working in my factory who could only be three or four years of age, it is shocking. It is also sad, they are often hurt and easily manipulated. I see them here day after day, sick, tired, and looking like women and men of fifty, not five. I weep for them.
Many nights in the past month I have attended meetings held to help organize other girls who have the same feelings as me. We are hoping that if we can ban together we can fight the industry that enslaves us. However, even with all the fervor I feel for this cause I am worried. We must meet in secret constantly, no one can know about this society of labor organizers. I know that there were others besides us, at least two other groups for sure. There was a fourth, but they were found out. We have never seen any of those girls since that horrible Thursday when their screams tore through the still night.
I don't exactly know what to do. I feel like I came to a land in hopes of something better but I have only found more work with less comfort. Mothers letters assure me that it will get easier, and it is nice to slowly but surely fill my drawer with money to bring the rest of my family to me. I'm sure she's right. The rude comments an discrimination are becoming common place here. I just wonder if this America is the same one I dreamed about, often times I think not.
As soon as I stepped off the boat in the New York harbor I became concerned. I thought I had come to the land of acceptance and opportunity, yet when I informed the man in the dark suit I was Jewish he frowned, and when I told him my name he shook his head and said you are Esther Klein now. I spent the first night crying in a dark alley. I did not know what else to do, I knew no one and could not read the street signs to find the lodgings my parents had told me to go for housing The next day was slightly better, I purchased my breakfast in the streets and found another girl my age. She too spoke my native language (as hard as I had tried to learn English it still felt foreign against my tongue). Her older sister was already here in America, that she had a good paying job in a textile mill making shirts alittle farther north. Jenna (her American name) said that I was welcome to go with her and find a job at this mill too.
Getting a job at the mill was easy, and it was nice to be paid for my work. Slowly I realized though that while the conditions had seemed better, they really were not. While I was making a much higher wage than I could have ever fathomed back home, the money was spent much faster too. The lodgings I was forced to live in were horrible and ridiculously expensive, they were owned by the mill. Supplies, food, everything cost more here. Not only was I often harassed at work; hit and screamed at by the managers for not working fast enough, I had no comforts to come home to. Every night I went back to my dark room alone, and every morning I left early. My days here are long, I would guess I work fourteen hours a day, six days a week though I can not observe the sabbath day in the Jewish tradition, the mill looks down upon it. I was also disappointed to find out that I will never be able to move into a higher position in the mill. I thought that if I worked hard perhaps one day I would be allowed to move up into one of the overseeing positions. One where I no longer had to sew buttons all day, but rather taught others how. I think I would do a better job than the men who do it now, I would have much more compassion. When I questioned this possibility I was laughed at, women do not move up in the mills. In fact the only people who ever change their job are the children, yes children. There are children working in my factory who could only be three or four years of age, it is shocking. It is also sad, they are often hurt and easily manipulated. I see them here day after day, sick, tired, and looking like women and men of fifty, not five. I weep for them.
Many nights in the past month I have attended meetings held to help organize other girls who have the same feelings as me. We are hoping that if we can ban together we can fight the industry that enslaves us. However, even with all the fervor I feel for this cause I am worried. We must meet in secret constantly, no one can know about this society of labor organizers. I know that there were others besides us, at least two other groups for sure. There was a fourth, but they were found out. We have never seen any of those girls since that horrible Thursday when their screams tore through the still night.
I don't exactly know what to do. I feel like I came to a land in hopes of something better but I have only found more work with less comfort. Mothers letters assure me that it will get easier, and it is nice to slowly but surely fill my drawer with money to bring the rest of my family to me. I'm sure she's right. The rude comments an discrimination are becoming common place here. I just wonder if this America is the same one I dreamed about, often times I think not.
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