The Neighborly Thing to Do

It started one day at a genealogy lecture, when we were reviewing the content of Petition for Naturalization forms for the United States, and their history in contrast to Alien Registration forms, (AR-2s) as World War II unfolded. Many Italian immigrants in the US were being forced to choose: register and get fingerprinted as an alien and potential enemy of the state, or surrender your birth citizenship and become an American. Either way, they needed to have papers on them, as anyone who looked “illegal” was often hounded for their documents. Both of my Sicilian great-grandparents had opted for naturalization.

“Here is where the witnesses are recorded,” our lecturer said, her laser pointer circling names on the projector screen. I looked at my great-grandmother’s document on my laptop. It looked completely different than the one on the screen. The forms changed over the years, and Gram’s had no space for witnesses.

That afternoon, I logged back in to Ancestry and retrieved the original record again. I clicked the button to advance to the next image, and there it was: the missing back page of Gram’s document. There were her witnesses.

One name I recognized as her sister-in-law—Catherine, Gram’s husband’s brother’s wife. She was also an immigrant, but one who had already naturalized. Catherine’s family lived in a neighboring apartment in the same building as Gram for quite some time, the old brick tenament at 24 Granite Street.

The second name I had not heard before: Nancy B-----. I decided to try looking Nancy up to see who she was, and how she and my Gram knew each other. I guessed it was likely from church, and tried to imagine my Gram’s social circle in the 1940s. Did they sew together? Play cards? Watch each other’s kids?

I found a result immediately: US Census, 1940. There’s Nancy, age 26, married with four small children. I noticed right away that she was much younger than Gram, by some 15 years. But then I looked at her address: 110 Granite Street. Nancy and Gram must have been neighbors!

I clicked another record and retrieved Nancy’s maiden name. And then another told me she had passed away in 2008 at the age of 95. I started collecting details, like how her husband was a barber (just like some of the men in my family); how his barber shop was next door to the house my grandmother Bella lived in when she first got married. I found Nancy as a 6-year-old girl on the 1920 census, living with her parents at 88 Granite Street. I typed the address into Google Maps and watched as the proximity came into focus. I remembered the long, steep hill between the two houses. I pictured the 5-year age difference between Nancy and Gram’s oldest daughter Jennie.

I decided to find what I could about Nancy’s family, and I read through her long and beautiful obituary. In it was named a granddaughter, Joan M------, who was thanked for the care extended to Nancy in the final stage of her life. I switched to Facebook and typed in Joan’s name. Two results appeared: the first one a nurse at a hospital close to where Gram and Nancy lived. I clicked and started typing a message: “You don't know me, but I think our families may know each other…”

I asked her if she was related to Nancy’s family, and she replied quickly saying she was. I told her that I had just found Nancy’s name as a witness to my Gram’s application for citizenship in America, along with her signature. Her ancestor was directly involved in my family becoming American citizens. 

Joan asked for my Gram’s name, of course, so I told her. She asked to see the document, so I sent it to her. She asked me who my grandparents were, and my parents, so I told her. And then she told me: her mother married my uncle, second marriages for each. Not only were Joan and I connected through Nancy and Gram, but also by marriage!

“We have cousins in common!” she told me, naming Keith, Joe, and Ray. She knew my aunt and mother! They knew her sister! I laughed and laughed, amused that I expected this conversation to turn out any other way. Of course we’re all related. We always are.

I was glad Joan answered my message that day, from a stranger on the internet. I was grateful that I was able to say thank you to someone in that family for helping my family.

I was so happy I’d looked at the back of my Gram’s record and discovered who had stood for her as witnesses: two women who traveled the 50-or-so miles with Gram to Boston, to say she was a person of good moral character, and “in every way qualified to be admitted a citizen of the United states.”  I closed my eyes and imagined the three of them, fashioned in their best dresses, heavy winter coats, proper hats and gloves, on a wintry Tuesday morning in December 1942. I envisioned their nerves, the way they walked arm-in-arm to stay warm and soothe each other. I pictured them standing together, thousands of miles and many years from where their lives began, their voices stern with quiet pride saying “Yes, she belongs here. America would be lucky to call her their own.”

52 Ancestors Challenge by Amy Johnson Crow. Week 4 prompt: Close to Home