ISLE OF HOPE. ISLE OF TEARS

Of course, the foregoing title is based upon a song by the same name which has as its subject matter a 17 year old girl from Ireland named Annie Moore, the first foreign immigrant to be admitted to the United States via the Ellis Island processing station on January 1, 1892.

There have been any number of disputed facts and misplaced identities in the quest for a legitimate biography of the real Annie Moore. Following is what is purported to be an authentic record of her life from the Annie Moore website.

Annie, age 17, and her brothers Anthony and Philip, ages 15 and 12, respectively, moved into their parents’ tenement apartment at 32 Monroe Street in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. The building was a five-story brick building, built at the turn of the century to house the influx of immigrants settling in New York City.

We do not know what happened to Annie immediately after she got to her new home. There does not appear to be information on whether she was allowed to attend school or was forced to work to help support her family. Smolenyak writes that she “had the typical hardscrabble immigrant life,” adding “she sacrificed herself for future generations.” We know that Annie married a German-born bakery clerk (or the son of a bakery clerk) named Joseph Augustus Shayer. He spent his entire career employed as an engineer and salesman at the Fulton Fish Market. They had at least 10 children, five of whom survived to adulthood. A famous picture of the wrong Annie and her first baby hangs in the National Archives Library of Congress.  

Annie was age 50 when she died of heart failure at 99 Cherry Street, in 1924. She lived and died within a few blocks on the Lower East Side. She is buried with six of her children (five infants and one who survived to 21) in Calvery Cemetery, Queens. In 2008 the Annie Moore Memorial Project raised the funds to place a Celtic cross headstone on her unmarked grave; lost to history for eight decades.

One detail which the official record does not make us aware is that, as the result of having been the first immigrant to be processed on Ellis Island, Annie received a $10 gold piece. Now, that may not sound like much to you or me, but in 2019 dollars, an 1890 ten dollar gold piece had the purchasing power of $250.

And while there’s no record of what Annie did with the money, I can only presume this gold coin “set her up” to navigate her first year on American soil.

Pt. 2

To my knowledge, none of my direct ancestors or close relatives immigrated to America as late as Annie Moore, nor did they make their way here via Ellis Island.

The ancient patriarch of my line of “McDonald’s” was, strangely enough, not a McDonald at all. For you see, Isham McDaniel, a man of Scottish descent, was born in what is now Northern Ireland in 1747. Isham was, apparently, unable to read or write, and it is thought that someone along the line interpreted his surname as, “McDaniel” based on his difficult to be understood pronunciation. Later, his son, William, adopted the surname “McDonald” as his own. I suppose we will never know the truth of the matter. Whatever the case, Isham preceded Annie to this country by well over a century, and fought on the side of the colonists throughout the entire American Revolution.

I thought of Isham, and a couple of the other of my Scottish immigrant ancestors, Mary Elizabeth Stewart and Daniel Cone, during our visit to the old country last year. (How could I have done otherwise)?

And while the adage has long since joined the ranks of “pat phrases,” my wife and I truly experienced, “the trip of a lifetime.”

We have traveled the highways and byways of Scotland, Ireland, and Northern Ireland. We have gazed in wonder at the snow-capped mountains, we have marveled at the singular color of the lush grassy pastures; upon which sheep and cattle feed, we have listened to the mournful sound of the bagpipes, and watched Scottish and Irish dancers strut their stuff, we have sampled foods which baffle the taste buds, we have interacted with the loveliest people to grace the planet, we have walked the quaint lanes and admired the most colorful and interesting of flora and fauna.

Dublin and its massive cathedrals and ancient pubs. The stone ruins of a monastic village. Forty shades of green. 19^th century remnants of the “Famine Houses.” Sea gulls and ocean waves. A Depression-era farm house. Dingle Bay. Massive castles. The Massacre of the MacDonald Clan. The English Occupation of Ireland, and the cruelty they exercised. The Potato Famine. The “Trouble” of Northern Ireland. Sharing “Danny Boy” and “Amazing Grace” with our amazing group of fellow travelers. The Titanic Museum. Drunken and aimless young adults. Street Beggars. Waterford Crystal. A mythical, but very real island. Greyfriar’s Bobby. Sheep shearing. Edinburgh’s pipers. Family roots.

Pt. 3

One of the most poignant, and almost magical moments which I experienced during our trip to the Old Country occurred at a dinner theater in Dublin referred to as “Taylor’s Three Rock.” During the course of the evening my daughter and I were afforded some wonderful food, singing, dancing and comedy. However, as I have previously implied, one moment stood out from all the rest.

Almost without warning, a video appeared on the overhead screen which featured numerous ancient photographs of 19^th century men, women and children, immigrants all, ships, mountains, rivers, ocean waves, the Statue of Liberty, and Ellis Island, the proverbial (and literal) gateway to the golden door which was and continues to be America.

But “what got me,” what really grabbed me and would not let me go, what struck a spine-tingling cord within me, and inspired my innate sensibilities was the music which accompanied the video.

Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears

On the first day of January 1892
They opened Ellis Island and they let the people through
And the first to cross the threshold of that isle of hope and tears
Was Annie Moore from Ireland who was all of 17 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

I’d never heard the song before, but I can so identify with it. While most or all of my immediate ancestors immigrated to the United States in the 17^th, 18^th and 19^th centuries, before there was an Ellis Island, they came nonetheless; in most cases, leaving all they ever knew and held so dear. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, homes and land. And in most cases, those who boarded those old triple-masted ships were left with mental images of what was, and would never be again, and they never returned to the lands from whence they sprang.

As the video and its accompanying melody continued, tears sprang to my eyes, and, subsequently, rolled down my cheeks.

In a little bag, she carried all her past and history
And her dreams for the future in the land of liberty
And courage is the passport when your old world disappears
But there’s no future in the past when you’re 17 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

Pt. 4

I simply cannot imagine the hardships Annie Moore, and my ancestors endured, nor the primitive conditions they experienced, both in the old country, and in the land to which they migrated.

As our tour bus neared our hotel on the Isle of Skye, Scotland, having just been transported to the island by a ferry boat, our resident guide said,

“Now, I need to prepare you. Our hotel is not as modern as the ones we have frequented on the mainland. The accommodations are sparse, and things are just not as convenient. And I can tell you the walls are paper thin, so you married couples may want to avoid any ‘hanky panky’ or your travel companions may give you a knowing smile during breakfast.”

But all humor aside, I don’t think the 21^st Century inhabitants of Scotland and Ireland, or for that matter the United States have a clue. The hotel in which we lodged on the Isle of Skye was ultra-modern and spacious compared to what my 3x great Grandmother endured there.

They lived in one room houses which afforded them little or no privacy, (and it is a wonder they discovered a way to generate twelve or fifteen children to assist them on their failing farms).

Not only was there no access to electricity at the time, (it had not yet been conceived or installed), but there was no running water. The populace of the island used chamber pots at night, and emptied them into a privy the next morning. If they were fortunate enough to take a bath once a week, they filled a tub with water from a well, or bathed in the nearest stream or pond.

Not only this, but the citizens of Scotland and Ireland were engaged in ongoing strife with, and domination by England during the 18^th and 19^th centuries. While we were in Ireland my wife snapped my photo standing next to a so-called “Famine House.”

During the occupation of Ireland, and the era of the Potato Famine, the British commandeered private land from Irish farmers, and charged them rent for their own property. When they were unable to pay, they and their families were driven into the streets, and the roofs of their homes were destroyed, so that they could not be occupied again. As a result, thousands of men, women and children became homeless, their tattered clothing afforded them little respite from the cold, and they had very little to eat. Many died of hunger and exposure. The lucky ones made their way to America. 

Afterward

I can only imagine the hardships which our ancestors experienced and endured. I can only imagine the circumstances which they, “not knowing any better,” took for granted, and overcame on a daily basis.

There was a custom among the immigrants who sailed from Ireland in the 18^th and 19^th centuries in which a parent or sibling on the beach held a spool of yarn, while their son, or daughter or brother or sister on the deck of the ship held the loose end. As the ship cast off, and sailed away from the shore, the yarn played itself out ‘til the spool was empty, and the cotton thread dropped into the Atlantic. Of course, the implication was to maintain their connection with their loved ones as long as possible.

The vast majority of the immigrants who journeyed to the New World would never see their beloved countries or relatives again. I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been to comprehend this, nor to think of “the what and the who” they had left behind every day for the remainder of their natural lives.

I can only admire and applaud the Annie’s, and Isham’s, and Mary’s and Daniel’s who preceded us, and who set the proverbial stage for those of us who would follow after them.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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