Lessons on a day trip to Ellis Island

New Yorkers are tolerant -- but only if they're not pushed too far

Author: By Jim Miara, Globe Correspondent

Date: SUNDAY, September 27, 1998

Page: M5

Section: Travel

It was a sultry, early-September day, and the midtown Manhattan subway station was hothouse humid. On the train, sitting knees touched standing knees. We were in New York City taking our older son back to school for the fall semester and making a day trip to see Ellis Island. It was a straight shot by subway from the Upper West Side, and we wanted to stay in touch with the city by avoiding cabs.

New York's subway is much like Boston's, except it's faster, louder, and more crowded. And, on this day at least, hotter. Tempers were perking, so it was no surprise to hear this overheated woman blow her top.

She stood with her feet apart as if prepared to hold the train in place by force. ``You closed the door on me on purpose,'' she accused the train guard, who just shook his head.

``You did too! I want your badge number.''

The guard was silent while the woman ranted. People on the subway, most of them clearly natives, watched passively, waiting for the woman to deliver her closing arguments. But when it became apparent the woman's tirade had miles to go before reaching the terminal, the general frustration bubbled forth.

``Shaat ep,'' said a woman holding a small child. ``Give it up,'' shouted a man holding onto a pole near the door. ``You walked into the door yourself.''

Surprised, the raging woman stepped back, the doors closed, and the train rattled on toward lower Manhattan.

This brief confrontation and summary resolution contain several lessons for out-of-towners. Stacked together in incredible numbers, New Yorkers are surprisingly tolerant -- more tolerant, it could be said, than their Boston counterparts. The woman may, in fact, have been momentarily clamped by the door, and the crowd seemed to agree she had a right to beef. The door incident was probably the latest in a daylong string of minor frustrations, so go ahead, let it out, they seemed to say.

But when her rant went too long, well, there's only so much tolerance to go around. Everyone in this mega-city faces a daily dose of minor slings and arrows, and if everyone stopped to assert themselves against each one, the city would become a tangle of shouting matches instead of the series of well-spaced shouting matches that it is.

Without further incident, the subway pulled into Battery Park at the southern tip of Manhattan. We made our way to the booth that sells ferry tickets to both the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island and bought four rides to Ellis Island. The wait at the booth was short and pleasant. We chatted and watched Battery Park denizens ply tourists for money, either to support eccentric causes or for old-fashioned handouts. Tickets in hand, we were directed to the pier, where passengers waited for the next ferry.

When we rounded a building and came in view of the pier, the size of the line amazed us. Crowded together 15 across and about 60 rows deep was a mass of humanity that seemed to include representatives from every immigrant group ever processed through Ellis Island. Here, gathered in a thousand square feet at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, was the storied melting pot. Every shape, size, and color (multiplied by two genders) in the human spectrum stood in the sun, talking excitedly, remonstrating children, waiting patiently. A cacophony of languages familiar and obscure wafted above their heads.

Again, however, the experience was an instructive New York moment. Despite the heat, the noise, and the shoulder-to-shoulder proximity, the mood was festive. A group of enterprising acrobats appeared on the concrete plateau that rises a few steps above the pier and banged trashcans to get the attention of this captive audience.

The ferry would arrive in 10 minutes, said the leader of the five-member troupe, a shirtless and heavily muscled man who smiled engagingly. His white teeth dazzled even in the noontime sun. To help pass the time, they would entertain, he said, in a ``What have you got to lose?'' tone. Back flips, front flips, human pyramids, breathtaking leaps over human obstacles followed nonstop for eight minutes. Then the troupe passed the hat through the crowd.

The lesson: Lines are as common as cabs in New York City, and street-smart entrepreneurs and budding performers know how to seize an opportunity. Every crowd is a potential paying audience. With a quick skit, frustration is mitigated, money is made, and the wait is over.

The ferry easily absorbed the throng, and the 20-minute ride around the Statue of Liberty to the dock at Ellis Island was glorious. Fewer than 100 yards offshore, the spectacular (and familiar) New York City skyline comes into full view.

From the minute feet hit the storied Ellis Island ground, the same scraggly turf that was the first touch of the promised land for millions, the urge to engage in the ``What must it have felt like?'' exercise is overwhelming. It begins in the cavernous main hall that has been restored with precision and grace by the Boston architectural firm Finegold & Alexander.

On display are the piles of homemade trunks with elaborate hinges; leather cases with long, buckle-ended straps; boxes held together by rope. It is almost impossible to look at these modest cases and not see a weary-but-hopeful immigrant tugging, buckling, or tying.

And then there's the apparel, especially the shoes. People were generally smaller 80 years ago, but could they have been diminutive enough to fit comfortably into those shoes? Short and narrow with rows of buttons, the shoes look impossible to get into and painful to wear. But again, it's easy to imagine a hopeful pilgrim waiting in line to see an all-powerful clerk oblivious to the painful signals from his feet.

And then there are the staircases. Arguably nowhere else in the world are there marble staircases more evocative than the ones on Ellis Island. A processing station was located at the top of one flight of stairs, and immigrants ascended under the watchful eye of the guards. A cough or excessive strain that might indicate underlying health problems was enough to have an immigrant removed from the line and either sent to the infirmary or back home. It requires little imagination to envision hordes of weary pilgrims climbing the stairs while trying desperately to project the appearance of robust health.

Another staircase is more hopeful. When the processing ritual ended, those granted admission descended a staircase on the north side of the hall where anxious relatives were waiting. The reunions were joyful and tearful, according to our guide.

Outside the main hall, on the island's grounds, is a ring of granite stones etched with the names of some of the immigrants who passed through Ellis Island. It is estimated that between 1892 and 1947 more than 20 million immigrants were processed through the island. Only a relative few of them have their names engraved on the stones, but there are enough to give a feel for the ecumenical attraction of the New World. Names appear with roots in Ireland and Iceland, Poland and Portugal -- names, frequently spelled phonetically, of hopeful, ambitious folks from virtually every corner of the globe that are now recorded in Ellis Island history.

We strolled the grounds and the museum all afternoon, then returned to the mainland on the last ferry at 4 p.m. Back on the subway, watching the noisy New York crowd pile on, another question came to mind. How many years after our ancestors landed in Ellis Island did it take for us -- immigrants all -- to develop the unmistakable swagger that says to anyone interested: ``Hey, we own the place''?