Reaction 4: Woman on the War Front

Using the links I gave you last week, your text, and your VoF readings, take on the perspective of the personage you chose. You will need to produce a (750 word minimum) letter or diary entry, suitable for publication on your blog. While creativity is encouraged, your writing must be factual and show evidence that you’ve done your readings. You should reference any major events or legislation that would affect your character directly. (Woman on the home front or the war front)

February 20, 1918

Dear Mother and Father,

I hope this letter finds you both well. I am sorry that I have not found the time to write letters home more often. I am certain that you understand that my position, as a nurse in charge at our medical triage unit, keeps me very busy. That however, is no excuse not to write more often. Please accept my apology.

As you recall, before I left for France you reminded me that I am not a part of the United States military but a member of the American Red Cross. You also understood that my job meant that I must make sure that those injured by war, regardless of whether they are Allied or enemy, must receive the best possible medical attention available. I thank you for your faith and encouragement that I would do the job that I do the job I was sent here to do. I am comforted in knowing that the doctors and my fellow nurses share my same belief. The soldiers we treat, even the enemy soldiers, were all injured in the line of duty. That does not mean that we do not pray that this war will end soon.

I have enclosed the Florence Nightingale medal that I received yesterday. The medal is awarded periodically, by the International Committee of the Red Cross, to the most deserving nurses of all countries. It goes without saying that I was both honored and humbled. I wanted to share the medal with the two of you. This will serve as our mutual reminder that even in times of war, there is a need for some to be absolutely impartial and independent. This distinguished honor would not have been possible without your support.

I also want to thank you for sending those heavy winter stockings. Yes, it is still winter and the rainy season has arrived, but the stockings have made it more tolerable than last year. We still do not have floors in the medical tent. This means our white uniforms are muddy and our feet are wet, but we are comforted by each other. One of my nurses is trying to find wood so that we can install floors. Obviously this will benefit our patients as well as all of us. It will also help use keep the surgical tent a little more sterile.

We are still located twenty miles from the front lines. However, the exact location of the front lines remains unknown. I am starting to get used to hearing the sounds of artillery shells and it is no longer a shock. We are at a safe distance but close enough to treat the injuries as timely as possible. However, as times the numbers of injured soldiers is almost overwhelming and seemingly endless.

The horror of some of the injuries will be in my mind forever. The worst is the mustard gas. I hate seeing these sweet boys come in and cough up their lungs. Every time a soldier dies from the gas it tears at the hearts of the nurses attending the individual. I think it must be even worse for the doctors looking over the care of these soldiers. I am sure that the medical triage units much closer to the front lines have to see this more often than we do. At times seeing men die from the gas causes night terrors for some of my staff. Personally, when my shift is over I try to block the horror out of my mind. It is inconceivable that anyone could create a poison that would cause causalities of war in the form that it does. May God have mercy on the souls of the scientists who create such lethal weapons!

There is no question that war is a tragedy. I sincerely hope that the Allied forces will be victorious for the sake of democracy. However, the cost of this war in human life and suffering is incomprehensible. From that stand point, victory cannot be claimed. Human suffering and recovery will take many years after the war has ended. It is possible that some will never recover.

I hope everything at home is going well and I thank God everyday that this war is not being fought on American soil. Please do not worry because our medical team is safe. We hope that we will soon hear that the war is over. I look forward to the day that our conversations are once again in person and not mere letters. Please remember our captured soldiers in your prayers. We can only hope that they are being treated as humanely as we are caring for their soldiers.

With all the love I have,

Elizabeth

Alonzo Vasquez

It’s 1920 and you, Alonzo Vasquez, are a Mexican immigrant to the United States. While you love your new country, it is very important to you that your family remember and honor your culture and traditions, many of which are tied to your homeland. You are increasingly worried that your children, in the process of becoming “American,” are ignoring the importance of their heritage. Why is it so important to you that your family retain some cultural connection to Mexico and your Mexican heritage? What evidence is there that your children are being wholly “Americanized?” What conflicts has this created between you and your children?

My name is Alonzo Vasquez and I immigrated to the United States from Mexico, with my family, in 1918. My wife and I raised our five children in Zamora, Mexico where we owned a small farm. However, after the revolution in Mexico in 1911, it became harder and harder to earn enough money farming to provide for our family’s most basic necessities. So as a family, we decided that I should travel to Mexico City, an urban area, where I might find a job that paid better. I was unsuccessful, but while in Mexico City, I was told that if you know how to farm you can make money in America. We sold our farm in Zamora and moved to the “land of opportunity.” I found work on a corn farm in Omaha, Nebraska. I love my new country and I never dreamed of earning as much money as I have over the last two years. Even better, yesterday, June 12, 1920, the farm owner put me in charge of operations for the entire farm.

Unfortunately, I am afraid that money and opportunity have a price. The price to live in this magnificent country is becoming clear to me. My family is not able to see the changes that are occurring within our family, but I am very concerned. Please understand that I love my family very much. My five children range in age from 16 to 24 years of age. My wife and I raised them so that they would be proud of themselves and their Mexican heritage. Our beliefs are deeply rooted in the Catholic religion. Our lifestyle was simple in Mexico and our family was more important than anything else. Our clothes and food were authentic and made us proud to me Mexicans. Most important were the roles that men and women had in Mexican society. The men provided for the family and the women raised the children and tended to the household chores. It is frightening to think that in two short years these values are unraveling before my very eyes.

I suppose that the best way to describe the phenomenon occurring within my family is that they are “Americanizing.” What I mean by that is they are forgetting what our family had and how proud we were in Mexico. First of all, my three lovely daughters want to work outside the home and go to places of entertainment. I tell them this behavior is not acceptable, but they tell me I am old fashion. I am forced to remind them that if they did these things in Mexico, our family would be shunned. They do not listen. Instead, they want to go out in public without me or one of their brothers. They also think it is acceptable to be around other men that they are not betrothed to. I know in my heart that they understand the need to keep them safe, protecting their honor and virtue from men that mean them harm. My sons have also forgotten our Mexican traditions in their quest to be American. Instead of coming home after work, they go to places and drink heavily, returning home at unreasonable hours. I remind them that if we were in Mexico that other men would not allow them to see their daughters. Then they tell me that we are not longer in Mexico but in America.

I have noticed that not just their actions have changed but the clothes they wear as well. My daughters are wearing things that are too tight and my sons look like fools wearing tighter pants than what is worn in Mexico. Also these children seem to think that is acceptable to speak English at home rather than Spanish. All of these changes in attitudes and clothing are a source of daily conflict. My wife does not help the situation by saying that she will get a job of her own to help the family. The children seem to think that it is better to be with the majority than keep the values they learned in Mexico. At this point I think that it might be necessary to send the family back to Mexico and continue to work here in the United States, where there is better pay. I think that these free spirited children need to be taught that being Mexican is part of who they are and cannot get rid of it.

Ester Klein Reaction

It’s 1892 and you, Esther Klein, are a 17-year-old textile mill worker in the American northeast. You are new to the country and to industrial work, having worked previously on your parents’ farm in the old country. As much as you longed to come to America, your life as a poor Jewish industrial worker in the United States makes you have second thoughts. And life at the mill—why you and some of the other girls dream of organizing and standing up to the mill owners, but what you’ve seen of other labor organizing worries you! So tell me, Esther, what are the sources of your dissatisfaction as a poor woman, a worker, and a Jewish immigrant? Why have your dreams, of what life in America would be, changed?

Diary Entry from Ester Klein, January 1892

My family decided several months ago to sell our farm in Germany so that we could enjoy a better life in America. Papa said financial opportunities and freedom in America would be better than anything we experienced in Germany. In our country being Jewish, means that those who are not scorn you. They do not seem to understand our faith, which is older than some of their religions. Our fellow Jews have also experienced persecution that seems never ending.

The journey to America was not at all what Papa said it would be. Papa said that we would have a cabin for ourselves, but he was mistaken. Once on the ship we were herded like cattle to one of the lowest decks. The open deck was dimly lit and the six members of my family were crushed together with hundreds of other passengers. When we were close to New York we managed to get to the top deck to see the one site that means everything to my family, the Statue of Liberty. After seeing this beacon of hope, I felt that my dreams might come true.

The dreams that I had consisted of helping our family earn enough money to move to the south, maybe Texas, to build a new farm. Our farm would be located where other Jewish families had already established farms. Then once our family farm was established, we would also prosper. We would live in a community that would accept us and allow us to share the American dream.

We arrived in New York, at Ellis Island, where we were processed into America. Our new living arrangement was a tiny one-bedroom apartment. It does not seem possible that our family of six can live in such close quarters. However, after the ship I suppose that anything is possible. The other apartments around us are the same, and we all have to share a common restroom facility. The apartment has no ventilation so it is stuffy and reminds me of an overcrowded chicken coup. The air outside is filled with smoke and other foul odors. This is so different from living in Germany where there is open space and clean air.

Working in this new country at a textile mill is different than I expected. The first problem is that many of the ladies, including myself, are just learning to speak English. Another problem is the numerous, frightening machines that must be operated at the mill. To me they look like giant monsters because I do not understand how to operate them. Some of the women that I work with have injuries from operating “the beasts.” The hours at work are long and I am away from my family most of the day. The heat at times is unbearable, and it is not uncommon to see two or more ladies pass out in this “sweatshop.” The men who operate the mill do not seem to care. This is why some of the ladies are thinking about organizing a strike and have asked me to help them. Unfortunately, I have heard from other workers that organizing or participating in a labor strike has consequences. We could loose our jobs and the owners could make it almost impossible to find another job. If we did strike, the police could be called in to put down the strike. I have heard that both strikers and innocent people sometimes are injured or killed by the police. It seems that however inhumane our conditions are, it is safer to not organize or speak against our working conditions.

Several times, I have told Papa that the stories we heard of the opportunities in this far-off land were just stories. The other day on the streets of New York several men were overheard saying nasty things about Jewish people. Personally, I believe it is wrong to criticize just because our religion is different. It is not right to treat us badly or for them to threaten our synagogue and the Jewish community in which we live.

Personally, I hope that we eventually earn enough money in New York to begin our American dream. We will purchase a small farm in Texas where there is good land and a large German population who shares our values. Also, we have heard stories that Texas has a few small Jewish communities, and overall Texans are more tolerant of others. Everyday I wake up wondering why we moved so far from everything we knew. Then I remember we moved to have a better future. The future I thought of after seeing the beautiful woman with the torch at Ellis Island.

(I am not sure that it was actually Ester Klein’s family that moved to Texas. In Spring, Texas there was a Klein family that had a school named after them - Klein High School. The reason that I know this is that I graduated from Klein High School not long ago. The area that is today Klein, Texas is surrounded by land that was originally farmed by German immigrants.)