Ellis Island

Recently my friend and I visited the Statue of Liberty. On the ferry ride back to Manhattan my friend said, "My dad had his name engraved at Ellis Island when he immigrated here. He keeps telling me to go and see it, but how am I supposed to find his name among all of those on the wall?" The irony bubbled in my throat and I pushed down a laugh. Something her father had done in order to set himself apart had rendered him one of the many, his effort to be remembered earning him a single speck amongst the forgotten masses. Almost every immigration story is unique, and yet they follow the same skeleton of a plotline: Hope of a better. My parents story certainly followed it, as did those of my friends' parents. Although each carries its own unique twists and turns, wars, visa errors, misplaced birthdates, separated family members, and names misspelled, at the core of it, everyone immigrates looking for a better. A better life, a better tomorrow, better opportunities, safety, belonging, home. People immigrate in order to become someone with the potential to be remembered, but far to often this country reneges on its promises, pushing them down into oblivion until they're nothing but another faceless name haphazardly etched into a wall.

-EB