I look up into my family tree. I see my two parents. And their four parents. And their eight parents. And so on. And so on.
Each of us descended from seemingly countless people. Every branch in the family tree has the story of two lives that intersect. Each story unique and meaningful. Go back a few generations and all you have are names, dates, a few apocryphal stories, a picture here, an heirloom there. Go back even further and eventually you have no names, just unknown ancestors. But their stories are no less unique and meaningful. It seems we lose connection with our ancestors astonishingly fast.
For those not indigenous to North America, most of the branches in our family trees have a story of immigration. I have been thinking about the threads of family lineage and the stories of immigration that brought me to this place and time in America.
America, America
God shed her grace on thee.
And crown thy good
with humanhood
so we can all be free.
-- Libby Roderick, America, America from CD If You See A Dream, 1990
Step with me across the years to see the uncommon, yet common, story of American immigrants.
My parents were born and raised on opposite coasts of America. Born in Connecticut, my mother was a first generation American, daughter of German immigrants. Born in Washington state, my father's family extended back in many paths, across the mountains and plains of America, stretching back into 17th century New England.
"This new world hath been the asylum for the persecuted lovers of civil and religious liberty from every Part of Europe."
-- Thomas Paine, Common Sense, 1776
In 1911 my maternal grandfather, Edward Kunert, passed through Ellis Island. He was 21 years old. His was a journey shared with millions of future Americans. Edward quickly settled in Bristol, Connecticut working as a night watchman and in the coal furnaces of the American Silver Company.
About twenty-five miles from Bristol and more than 250 years earlier, Lydia Gilbert was convicted of witchcraft in Windsor, Connecticut. This was forty years before the famous Salem Witch Trials began in 1692. Lydia and her husband, Thomas Gilbert, immigrated with several children from England sometime in the mid-1600s. They were presumably seeking to build a new life in a new world.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
-- Emma Lazarus, The New Colossus, Verse 1, 1883
Between 1880 and 1930 more than 27 million immigrants entered the United States. Nearly three million of them were from the German Empire. Many came seeking to escape political and economic instability. People came desperately seeking to build a life based on the promise of America.
Five years after Edward Kunert arrived in America he married Hulda Tober, also a recent German immigrant. Over the next 30 years the Kunerts worked hard to build a home and family. An American home and family. In addition to working as a laborer, Edward farmed several acres at his homestead in Bristol. My mother was born, raised and lived for 37 years in that same home. My first eight years were spent in that same home in the 1960s.
There is no record of whether Lydia Gilbert met her fate of execution for witchcraft in 1654. After several generations living in New England, descendants of Thomas and Lydia Gilbert eventually became part of the great westward migration. Massachusetts. Indiana. Iowa. Missouri. Washington.
In 1903 my paternal grandfather, Paul Allen, was born in Sidney, Iowa. He was a 7th-great-grandson of convicted American witch Lydia Gilbert. From Sidney, Iowa, Paul and his parents completed the journey westward to Aberdeen, Washington, a logging town. My father was born and raised in Aberdeen.
Born and raised on opposite coasts of America. My parents lives intersected in Connecticut in the 1950s. Their intersection was but one of countless intersections in my family tree. They brought together two strands of American immigrant families. A 17th century witch and a 20th century German immigrant became part of the same family. And I am their offspring.
England. Germany. Holland. Poland, Prussia. Scotland. Strands of yarn, spun over centuries. Woven together, these stands make a fabric that is rich, and colorful and fine.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "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-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
-- Emma Lazarus, The New Colossus, Verse 2, 1883
The story of my American family is not unique, yet it is uniquely American. It is the story of a nation of immigrants. Immigrants that came to these shores at different times. For different reasons. But for common purpose. We came to build new lives, new homes, new families. We came to fulfill the promise of America.
My country dear to me,
Sweet land of liberty,
To thee I sing.
Land where my people died,
Land of the natives' pride,
With justice as our guide,
Let freedom ring.
-- Libby Roderick, America, America from CD If You See A Dream, 1990
America, America. May your promise once again shine brightly for future generations of American immigrants.