From Nowhere to Somewhere to Here

Growing up in Florida, I felt like I was from Nowhere.


I envy my husband’s family- we live in the house that his grandfather built. We can drive down the road to the little cemetery next to the little church and see great-grandparents and great aunts and great uncles.

In Florida, you were usually transplanted from New York. Or New Jersey. Or Cuba. Or, in my case, Connecticut. So I’ve always glommed onto any evidence that I was “from” somewhere, where generations of my family once lived in the same place, that there was some place in the world where I originally “came from.”

When I was a kid, I would tell people that I was “Three quarters German and one-quarter English.” I believe that this was the simplified view that was explained to me, because the truth is somewhat more complex. Like this:

“Well, on your Dad’s side, his dad’s family traces back to one little tiny part of pre-Revolutionary Maine— a big huge branch of the family tree. His mom’s family emigrated from Germany and Austria a few generations ago.

And on your Mom’s side, a big chunk of her dad’s family is from New York State, from way back, along with a few representatives from Germany (as well as an alleged member of the Seneca tribe). On her mom’s side, there’s a contingent from the town of Czervenka, which used to be part of the empire of Austria-Hungary and subsequently was absorbed into Yugoslavia and then Serbia (I think) and appears now to be located somewhere in the Czech Republic. But the Arvays and the Roths- that side of the family- identify themselves as Hungarian, not Austro-Hungarian or Yugoslavian or Serbian or Czechoslovakian.”

I can see why they just told me that I was three-quarters German and one-quarter English.

This week, containing two of the alleged birthdays of my late Grandma (the birth certificate says one day; the baptismal record lists another), I thought that I’d remember her experience.

Like I have done many times before, I went back to Ellis Island’s website and searched for my grandmother and her family: Elizabeth Aranka Roth. And, like the other times before, I found her name in the database and pulled it up. There she is, her name typed on the S.S. Rochambeau’s manifest: Roth, Elizabeth. Age 6. Last residence: Cervenke, Yougo-Slavia. Traveling with her parents, August and Aranka, sister Mary and brothers August and Willy, whose name was somehow entered as “Nigly”. A big rubber stamp over the family, with the words “admitted.” It was a close call, I have been told: sister Mary apparently was about to be quarantined in the infirmary with some unknown ailment; my grandma rubbed off the “X” chalked on Mary’s coat, the one that would keep her from being admitted to the country, and off they all went. That’s how the story goes, anyways.

It’s gratifying to know that I’m not from Nowhere- I’m from lots of Somewheres. And to see the evidence there, in black and white, on a ship’s manifest, in July 1920, of that part of my family coming to America from Somewhere—it makes me happy.

My kids love their Hungarian heritage- it makes them feel exotic. They have done their research, and probably know more about Hungarian culture than I do. For Lib’s school cookbook- you know, the ones where every child contributes a recipe that reflects their family’s heritage- she wrote a recipe for Ischl cookies, a Hungarian sandwich cookie filled with apricot jam and covered with chocolate. I laughed when I saw it. In between the recipes for peas and rice, and lasagna, was her contribution. It was three pages long.

I plan on visiting all of the Somewheres. Our first stop will be this summer, to that teeny tiny part of Maine which produced my father’s family. We’ll visit New York, and see the family that still lives there. Someday, to Germany, to Köln. And, hopefully, to Czervenka, in whatever country it will be in the future. And, Ellis Island, of course. All Somewheres became Here at Ellis Island. Because that’s probably the most important thing: you may think that you’re from Nowhere, or you may have come from Somewhere, but we all end up from Here.

I wish people would remember that: with bigotry and prejudice and anti-choose-your-own-group-to-hate, we still all from Here, all of us. And I know that Grandma, who I'm thinking about today, was damned proud to be Here.