Coming To America | Lost Myths Ink, LLC

Coming to America 
MedioCom 
©2002 by Debora Hill

There's a lot of talk today about illegal immigrants, and what should be done about them. I don't actually have the solution to that problem, but my mother was an illegal immigrant without her knowledge, and for a number of years lived in this country believing she was a legal resident. How the problem was handled back in the old days was gently and compassionately; I'm not sure what the outcome would be, now. My mother's humorous, gentle story probably wouldn't have a place in today's world, and that seems a pity. Here it is, and she told it to me...
"The first sight I had of New York harbor was at five o'clock in the morning, February 22, 1946. I clutched Doris' arm and pointed to the chunks of ice floating in the murky water. "My God, Dori -- they've brought us to Alaska!"
We had been at sea for ten days, in a converted hospital ship the U.S. Army designated to transport war brides from London to New York. Half the crew and most of the passengers were ill for much of the voyage with chronic diarrhea, and one of the officer's wives had been discovered running a prostitution ring out of her top deck cabin.
As a lowly Sargeant's bride, I was relegated to the 'E' deck -- the lowest deck, on top of the engines. One morning I woke up to realize there was a sound missing from my slumber...the engines had stopped! Convinced we were sinking, we rushed up to the top deck only to be driven back down -- the ship had stalled in the middle of a huge storm.
By the time we arrived in New York, we were tired of the ship and one another. The new brides had been placed together, and most of us were quite young, the war having had the effect of heightening emotions and hormones, and making for a lot of early marriages.
By the time we arrived in New York, we were tired of the ship and one another. Doris was a friend I had made onboard -- a lovely Cockney girl who married a school teacher and was one her way to New Jersey. I didn't know at the time where I was on my way to -- my husband Peter was a native of Alabama, and had served as the very young Sheriff of his home town of Carbon Hill before joining the army (where he served as an M.P.) and we hadn't decided yet where we would settle. He was no longer welcome in Carbon Hill, after arresting the son of the town's wealthiest resident for drunk driving.
We were not, as I had feared, in Alaska -- how were we to know that New York become so cold in the winter it had blocks of ice in the harbor? Something else we didn't know was that our ship, which had been delayed by the storm at sea, was putting into port on an American holiday -- Washington's birthday.
At five in the morning, there was no one on the dock to meet the ship. By seven, however, the husbands began to arrive, and I saw Peter waving to me. I waved back, jumping up and down on my high-heeled pumps to make certain he saw me -- at 5'1" tall, I was easy to miss. Then we waited for the immigration people to allow us off the ship -- not patiently, I might add, since some of us had been separated from our husbands for a long time. By noon, we were still waiting. Peter had left the army by then, and was waiting to start technical school. An army major arrived, but since he wasn't from immigration he couldn't get us off the ship. It seemed to be getting colder as the day wore, and we huddled on the deck in our winter clothes. I hugged my fake fur coat around me, and attempted to keep my black felt fedora from flying off into the water. Peter had a friend with him, and the friend's girlfriend, to my amused horror, had a fur coat exactly like mine -- down to the design and the color! England wasn't the only place fake fur was in style that year.
Suddenly, I could hear Peter's voice from the dock. "I want my wife off that damned ship", I heard him bellow at the army major.
"You'll wait for the immigration authorities like everyone else," the major replied, at the top of his voice.
"Oh, yeah? Just watch me!" Peter stomped up the gangplank onto the ship, trailed by his friend. Peter picked me up and carried me off, his friend shouldering my trunk and following behind. I put my foot onto American soil for the first time, wives and husbands applauding us. As we drove away, I could still hear the major yelling. 
It wasn't until 1950 that we discovered I was an illegal alien, and had been since that day in February. My mother came to America that year to live with us, and was issued a 'green card'. When I told her I didn't have one, she pointed out that all aliens were required to carry one. By this time we were settled in San Francisco, and I was working for The City of Paris department store. I went to see the immigration authorities, who laughed hilariously at having an 'illegal alien' in their office. It was truly a different era, and I've been legal ever since".
My dad, Henry Peter Hill, died in June of 1990 as he would have wanted to -- of a sudden heart attack while riding his new mare, Cocoa. He died as he had lived, at his own time and by his own rules. My mother, Madge Ridgeway Hill, survived him by nearly ten years, and passed over quietly at home in April of 2000.