Immigration Journal

1900

MARCH 2ND

Three months have passed with no word from Ewan or his family, in the mean time I've been trying the best that a fourteen year old can to get my parents to send me across to America. I've tried persuading them with the dream of me getting a job over there and sending them money -- to which my father was offended, thinking that I was trying to say that he didn't make enough money by himself. Then I tried with "it would be good to have an American in the family" -- to which both of my parents weren't pleased, thinking I was saying that I no longer wanted to be a citizen of Scotland. Today, though, I finally broke down into tears or frustration.

"Mother, I just want to follow my true love! Every day that I wait for you and father to let me go accross Ewan gets further away! Please!" Tears slid down my face as I pleaded with my mother.

I watched my mother's reaction through watery eyes; she seemed to be getting my message more than my other tries, and I wished with all my heart that she and my father would agree this time.

After a weighted silence, my mother finally replied to my plea. "I'll talk it over with your father when he gets home from work. No promises though."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been seven in the morning when I had asked my mother, and it was fourteen fifty-six when my father came back from his job at the railroad.

“Darling, do you think that we could send Moira across to America?” my mother asked once he was relaxed and sitting at the dining room table, “I think that she really loves Ewan, and there are worse kids for her to have a crush on.”

In reply father grunted tiredly, his eyes closed. At first my heart dropped and I thought for a moment that he hadn’t agreed with mother’s proposal; but when then he reached out and took the brown breadbox that had sat on in the middle of the table since I could remember from it’s place and opened it.

Throughout all the years that the breadbox had sat on the table, I’d never been allowed to open the box. My heart started to beat faster in anticipation to find out what was inside and excitement to know that my parents might be giving me what I wanted after three long months of fighting.

Father’s weathered hands went over the top of the box, wiping off a little dust that had collected, before he lifted the lid and put his hand inside. As he pulled his hand out of the box, there were stacks of pound notes and surprisingly he handed them to me.

I looked down at my hands, seeing all the money they held. “What’s all this for?”

“You’ll need a wee bit of money for your train and steam boat ticket won’t you?” He asked, his face turning up in a grin as I realized what had just happened.

I’m going to America!

APRIL 1ST

It took a long time to get the tickets sorted but I’m proud to announce that I’m leaving for America – and Ewan – today! The packing didn’t take nearly as long as I thought it would; I packed: a drawing me mother had made of Ewan and I playing in the cabbages as children, this journal (of course), an extra pair of underclothing, a treat my mother had baked, my sewing kit and an unfinished evening gown that I’m making myself (I hear they’re all the rage In America).

After three months I was revisiting the train station; not trying to get someone off this time, but to board the thing myself. I had just enough time to give my hugs and a “I’ll write as soon as I get there” to my Mother and Father before the train tooted its whistle and I had to board.

Having a ticket to show to the ticket collector when he came to my compartment was very reassuring, and the man checking for tickets luckily wasn’t the same one who kicked me off the train a month ago. In fact the ticket collector even told me the story of a girl my age with torn up clothing tried to hitch a free ride in December – doesn’t sound familiar at all right? – as he punched my ticket.