I realized recently that it was 100 years ago when my father, urged by his mother, came to the United States from Sweden at the age of 19. His mother never saw him again. My father-in-law was 19 when he came to the United States from Italy, pushed by his mother. His mother never saw him again. This was the country offering such opportunity that mothers were willing, even eager, to part with their sons.
My father, already speaking English with facility, came to Forestville, Connecticut, where there was an established Swedish community. His big brother had arrived before him and established a business. Dad rented a room at the home of August Anderson who had been instrumental in establishing the Lutheran Church in town. That’s where he met his future wife, my mother, Jennie Anderson. And it was in Forestville that they spent their lives.
My father-in-law moved to an established community of Italian immigrants, where he was introduced to his future wife, my mother-in-law, Antoinette Navarette. There was a ready market for his family trade, and he was working as a butcher almost as soon as he arrived.
Beyond this point my focus has to be on my father, because – probably for obvious reasons – I know more detail about his history in this country. But the similarity strikes me that communication and transportation were so limited early in the 20th century that a move across the Atlantic was a very final split from home.
They were immigrants who did what immigrants do – join communities of people with similar background. In that sense, today’s newcomers experience similar situations. Do we tend to forget? My father-in-law learned to speak "American." It was essential for a businessman. My mother-in-law learned what English she needed to, but her life was oriented toward her siblings, all of whom spoke Italian, and toward her Roman Catholic Church which operated in Latin for most of her life. It made sense for her to retain Italian as her primary language. Do we forget those things when we criticize people today for not speaking unaccented American English? I am constantly impressed when I hear people from all parts of the world speaking perfect, often accented, English.
My father didn’t like being teased for his accent, so he took off for Upsala College in New Jersey (Lutheran, of course) for two years where he learned accounting and perfectly unaccented English. All that was left of his Swedish was a hint of lilt. One of his favorite language stories was of using the word “nuance,” evoking the comment from a U.S. native that he shouldn’t be using foreign words, whereupon he pulled out an English language dictionary to point out that “nuance” is a perfectly fine word.
What occupies my thoughts as I ruminate about this one hundred year anniversary is the changes that have occurred since Carl Gustafson arrived in Forestville. Two days ago, when we needed a flashlight, my companion pulled out her telephone and shone the light where needed. A week or so ago I asked my daughter what an “app” is. And I think I’m pretty much up on things with my Palm phone and complicated Word program! My Bluetooth has become a part of my left ear, and I have a total of four cordless phones in my home, all operating from one base. I’ll be setting up a small artificial Christmas tree with lights already embedded in it. I’ve done much of my Christmas shopping on line, which is where I check my accounts every day to keep track of bills automatically paid electronically.
Now for the contrast-in-brief. My parents dated in horse and buggy. For entertainment, they gathered around the piano with family and friends to sing hymns and enjoy homemade refreshments. (As a matter of fact, my best friend and I played that we had a radio where we could see a picture.) My Dad was enthusiastic when it was first possible to buy a shower mixer instead of two separate knobs to control hot and cold water. And when I first flew with my parents, we all dressed in our Sunday best. As Treasurer at the Bristol Brass Corporation, my Dad operated his adding machine by pulling a lever, and I don’t know that he ever drove with seat belts. He drove ten minutes to work at 8:00 a.m. every day from Monday to Friday, returning home at noon for a one-hour lunch break, and back to work from 1:00 to 5:00. Weekends belonged to home, family and church. OK, I hope you get the idea. (Oh, by the way, my father-in-law reminisced about the one-hour siesta at noon every work day in Italy.)
The other day a client was reporting to me about a job interview she’d been through. She was asked that standard question, “Where do you want to be in five years?” I always thought that was a stupid question, but today it seems downright idiotic. Who knows what the jobs will be in five years? How many apps will be added? What more will we be able to do without flying, or even driving, to the necessary conferences? Who knows how public transportation will have developed to increase access to work? Who knows?
And I guess that’s the theme we are learning to live with. “Who knows?”
That’s why I plan to hang around for another twenty years to get the clear view of looking back.
