The Boston Girl
I did it! I not only finished reading a novel, but walked to the Little Free Library, deposited three books for other people to read, and only brought one home. The novel I finished was The Boston Girl by Anita Diamant. I cried over it. The Boston girl of the title is the daughter of Russian Jewish immigrants, born in Boston herself, with two older sisters who came over with their father at ages 10 and 12. They’re at least 11 and 13 years older than the main character, because her mother came later, and had a baby that died on the boat and another that died in Boston. Only then, in 1900, was Addie born. I counted my blessings a lot while reading this book.
I have only been pregnant seven times, and I have seven living children. I have visited Canada, but have never had to leave my own country permanently. I was raised speaking American English, no Yiddish, no Russian; my parents speak the same as I do, and I visit them periodically. I have never gone hungry and didn’t start working until I babysat my older sister’s children, only occasionally. My first full-time job was at 18, not 10, years old. I washed dishes in a restaurant, and while it was a greasy spoon with employee politics and mismanagement, I was not defenseless. My employer paid me regularly and never locked me in the restaurant.
I was told to mop the floors with a mixture of ammonia and bleach. That could have been deadly! The directions on the separate bottles specifically said, Do Not Mix these together. So I didn’t. A few days later a manager came to me and said, “I hear you’re mixing ammonia and bleach. Don’t do that.” I don’t remember making any response other than, “I’m not.” I didn’t get in trouble; I wasn’t punished or even scolded for it.
My parents love me and taught me to work hard, but they assumed I would leave home when I reached adulthood. There was never an attempt to keep me living at home, nor did they try to shame me into doing what they wanted. No doubt my five older siblings softened them up for me. We loved each other and enjoyed our time together. In fact, my mother mourned once that about the time her children became interesting to talk to, they moved away!
The Boston girl was the youngest in her family; her oldest sister moved out when Addie was ten. Her second sister worked to ensure that there was enough money to pay rent so Addie could attend high school. But when her second sister moved out to marry a widower with two children, Addie had to start working full time. Her father worked in a belt factory and her mother mended sheets for the laundry across the street, when she wasn’t cooking or cleaning or complaining.
I wonder at her mother’s attitude. I can see not wanting to leave the village she grew up in; I understand not wanting to adjust to a new, unfamiliar language and culture. She was undoubtedly depressed when she arrived in the U.S., having lost her infant son on the way. But she chose not to change, even when her daughters married. She drove her husband to spend his evenings at the shul, which I gather is a type of synagogue, instead of at home, with her complaints. She fell in love with her first grandson, and then ignored the others as they came, because her first grandson died in the flu epidemic. At some point one must accept that you’re not going back there, and even if you did, you wouldn’t fit there anymore.
