New Kid in the Bronx
An immigrant’s story
I was born in a small fishing village located in County Mayo, on the Northwest coast of Ireland in 1946. Around 1950, my family immigrated to the United States. The following is my story.
My parents John and Mary and siblings Maura, Paddy, Johnny, and I lived in a small three-room farmhouse on a four-acre piece of land, in the rugged fishing village of Porturlin, which was nestled near an inlet on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. The kitchen was in the middle of the house with a fireplace, and a bed in the corner where my grandfather, Gaga, who had owned the house, slept. The five of us slept in the room to the left. The third room was rented to Ms. Barrett, my siblings’ teacher at the schoolhouse down the road. It was crowded, but I was too young to notice.
A typical day in Porturlin would be cool and misty with showers, little sunshine, and mostly overcast skies. Being the youngest, I spent most of the day with my mother, helping where I could. My chores were feeding the chickens and carrying in the dried blocks of turf to be burned in the fireplace for heat. During holidays, I remember my mom chasing the chickens and when she caught them it was game over. She would wring their necks and hang them upside down to bleed out in the barn. I remember peering through the barn door only to see the hanging chickens with their eyes rolling and blinking back at me. This memory is still embedded in my brain!
As there were no children near our home to play with, I enjoyed playing Irish football with my best friend and brother Paddy and my sister Maura and chasing my dog Shepard in the field. One time when he was six years old, my brother, Paddy was riding a donkey and got stung on the ear by a bee. His scream spooked the ass, which then took off! Men and women who were bailing hay at the time threw down their pitchforks and joined my mother as she chased the ass through the fields in a zigzag fashion to rescue my brother, screaming, “the Lord save us!” Neither Paddy nor I have ever forgotten that memory!
My father was both a farmer and fisherman who worked tirelessly to provide for his family. He farmed potatoes. They were the only crop at the time. We had chickens and three cows, which provided our eggs and milk. This kept him quite busy during the day. At dusk, he joined a five-man fishing group in a currach (a traditional Irish wood-frame boat about fifteen feet long, with a tarred canvas stretched over the top) and ventured out wearing his knee-high wellington boots on the rough seas of the Atlantic Ocean.
I might add that my father, along with his crew, did not know how to swim. There were no life jackets, so fishing in the ocean was at great risk as some never returned. Luckily, my father’s group always returned. To fish, they had to row out past the waves and lay their nets. After several hours, they would collect the nets and all the fish caught. The catch (mostly Mackerel) was brought ashore and divided among the crew and kept for the families as it didn’t have a lot of value, but the salmon was sold to the market.
My mother prepared our dinners, cleaned and cooked the fish, and served them with potatoes. Her life was really tough, as our home had no running water, plumbing, or even electricity. Kerosene lamps provided our only lighting. We heated our home with a fireplace fueled with turf that we dug out of the bogs by a spade and then dried out. It was effective for its purpose but gave us limited heat.
My mother had total responsibility for raising us, maintaining the home, milking the cows, and taking care of all the other animals. She did all the washing, cleaning, cooking — and she made all the bread like the early American settlers. In our last year there, my mother gave birth to my youngest brother, Johnny. Imagine, doing all that work with an infant to care for. In a one-year period, my parents also had to dig the potatoes, store the turf, and bring in the hay. It was a very rough life!
School education was comprised of a single teacher in a one-room schoolhouse for the entire village, which usually covered an eight-year age span. This was the extent of our education unless you passed a specialized test, which might allow you to move on to the next level. Suffice it to say, very few moved on.
Children grew up quickly and Porturlin was a relatively poor town, so my parents had difficult decisions to make for our family. Chances were that my brother Paddy, as the eldest son, would inherit both the farm and the labor required to run it. My younger brother Johnny and I would have to find work. And since there was no work available, we would have to immigrate to an English-speaking country — England, the United States, or Australia. My sister had the option of either finding work or marrying. Keep in mind that in those days, women had fewer choices about their future available to them than today, and a forty- or fifty-year-old man who owned his own farm was considered established and a good catch. She could also hope to immigrate.
My parents knew that their family would fracture, so to avoid it, they chose immigration. Ireland was the land of immigration, which meant tears and sadness.
I have painted a pretty dire picture of our existence in Porturlin but it is accurate.
My parents had to feel overwhelmed considering the weather and their extreme life. My father once told me that he never went to bed with dry feet; a possible exaggeration. For my family, trouble, sadness, and immigration were on the horizon.
My father’s brother, Terry, and sister, Peggy had immigrated to America a few years earlier and offered my parents the solution: immigration for our entire family. My parents must have received the offer with mixed emotions — elation for the chance at a better life, yet fears of facing a new and unknown world with four young children.
We, the children, were unaware of the plans at first, but that did not last long. There was so much to do. Paperwork had to be completed. In America, my uncle and aunt had to formally agree to sponsor us. In Ireland, forms had to be completed, medical tests taken, and vaccinations scheduled. The farm needed to be signed over to my Uncle Willie, and all farm animals sold. The process took about a year and a half since all communication was conducted either in person or by mail.
During the preparation period, I overheard more and more about our move to America. By the time mom and dad sat us down and informed us officially, we all had a pretty good idea that we were going to the United States, “where the streets were paved with gold.” In the beginning, the whole thing meant little to me, but as the date came close, I became more concerned. One positive was that I had been held out of school my first year because my parents felt it would be better to start my education in the United States.
Suddenly, things began to move quickly. We had to pass a physical or we would not be allowed to immigrate. I can imagine my parent’s fear of one of their kids getting sick or not passing the physical, but still, the commitment was that all or no one would go. Luckily, we were all healthy so it was a go!
Anyone immigrating to the U.S. also had to be vaccinated so we needed to make a trip to Galway for an interview, documentation, and a trip to Dublin for the physical and vaccination. I remember Dublin was amazing with the tall buildings, people, and cars everywhere. When driving through the streets, I observed a Black family for the first time. I did not know that Black people existed. I could not believe my eyes. Amazing — even when it was explained to me that they came from another part of the world, it took time to process. If someone said they were angels from heaven, I would have believed them.
The vaccination process in the 1950s was a lot different than today. The doctors made several scrapes on your right arm. It really hurt and involved some bleeding. The vaccine was applied to the wound, which reacted with swelling and pain. When the injury healed, one was left with a one-inch (or greater) diameter scar.
After we were all vaccinated, we returned home to await notification of our voyage date. In the meantime, family and friends came from near and far to wish us well and say goodbye. The visits were filled with conversation about the past and future. We always enjoyed music as my mother played the accordion and everyone danced. You could call it a tear-filled party since it always ended with hugs and tears. This was especially upsetting to me, as my mother was a world-class crier.
Finally, on February 12, 1952, it was time to go. I remember riding away from my house watching my aunts, uncles, and my dog disappear out of my life forever. I can only imagine what my parents were going through. My mother’s tears continued for miles.
We headed to the port in County Cork, where we boarded a huge black and white ocean liner, the SS America, and began our five-day trip across the Atlantic to New York. This proved to be the worst part of our journey. We were lead to our cabin, which was well below sea level. Everyone got seasick immediately, except me. That is until we came up to the dining area for breakfast and the runny eggs finally did me in. We remained in our cabin the whole time. The room was too hot for us so we lowered the temperature as much as we could, but to no avail. The ship attendants always came in and raised the temperature. We had some trouble surviving in this heated environment but we did, so I can’t complain too much.
The most anticipated moment of the journey occurred when we entered the port of New York. Everyone was gathered on the deck and before us, the Statue of Liberty stood majestic and beautiful! Lady Liberty had been discussed a lot in our home, and there she was close up! People were cheering, clapping and crying. Honestly, I was so much in awe that I was frozen in time. Finally, we were in the United States of America!
Though we were processed in Ireland, when the ship docked, my parents had to hand-carry our information and X-rays, and submit them at the processing office at a pier in New York City.
Our sponsors, Uncle Terry and Aunt Peggy, met and welcomed us with Hershey chocolate bars. I was blown away seeing all the skyscrapers for the first time. As we began walking through the city, I had trouble holding my balance as I tried looking up to the top of the gigantic buildings. By the way, there were no streets of gold.
After sightseeing for a while, we took a large Checker cab to our new home in the Bronx. It happened to be an apartment on the fourth floor of a wooden apartment building. It appeared so high with people everywhere. I thought, “What am I doing here?” When we entered our new home, my Uncle Mike and Aunt Mary greeted us with dinner. Of course, there was plenty of conversation. That night, for the first time in our lives we had our first bath in a tub with hot running water and were given our first pairs of underwear. My God!
Shortly after we arrived, my father was able to start work as a school custodian. Soon afterward, it was off to school for me, and boy was I scared, but I got through first grade rather easily. I never got over my shyness though.
One thing we all found annoying was people always asking us to speak because they wanted to hear our Irish accent. It was a reminder that we were new and different. While it was not done negatively, it made us feel like we stood out. Shy kids do not want to stand out.
Looking back now, I lacked confidence. Making friends was difficult for me, and being different (immigrant) didn’t help. For the longest time, I felt that I didn’t belong. Imagine being on the outside of a circle looking in. My ideas on playing were different from the other kids. But I know that I mostly held my tongue, not wanting to be identified as being different. In some ways, sports — especially stickball — was the great equalizer for me.
During our first year in America, a serious fire occurred in our apartment building. While it was more smoke than fire, my mother had to hand her infant son, Johnny, to the firemen who carried him down the ladder. She also had to be rescued by the firemen and exited by way of the ladder.
While the fire affected all of us, it had a great impact on my mother. She was overwhelmed by the whole event. She insisted we move to a safer apartment. So after the school term ended, we relocated to a brick apartment building about two miles away.
Our new home was located in what became known as a war zone. This included a five-city block area, which was comprised of mostly Irish and Italians, with Puerto Ricans and some Black Americans in the surrounding areas. There were fights all the time. It’s just how it was. Gangs were all through the Bronx. They had exotic names like Huns, Seven Crowns, Lords, Irish Dukes, and the famous Young Sinners, a Puerto Rican gang that was the largest in the city at the time.
Most of us went to Catholic school and we had to pass through the Puerto Rican area to get to St. Anselm School. My brother Paddy, a few schoolmates, and I were jumped at least once a week. Many times, kids were just waiting for us. We learned how to fight and even talk our way out of trouble. If I was by myself I would take a longer way home through the Black neighborhood because I never had any trouble there.
Timing was very important. The Catholic school started and ended earlier than the public schools, so potential after-school encounters were avoided. Sad, but there was a bright spot. Our parochial school was split 40% White kids; 40% Puerto Rican kids, and 20% Black kids. There was no trouble in our school. Groups were mixed so we grew up together, became friends, and in many cases — best buddies. We played basketball or baseball against other Catholic schools and there was never any trouble. Eventually, I played in a Puerto Rican league where more friendships formed. In eighth grade, I played on a Bronx all-star baseball team that won the city championship and played in Yankee Stadium! The team was mixed. And there were no issues at all.
As I grew older, I began to fit in more and became somewhat of a leader. I did however become more Americanized than my parents and relatives since I was exposed to mostly first-generation Americans.
None of what I’ve told you could have been accomplished without my mother’s sheer determination along with my father’s flexibility. I am so thankful for the family and friends who were as charitable and helpful in their unwavering support that made my family’s transatlantic journey and a better way of life possible.
