My Undocumented, Italian Grandfather

 

Le Bretagne - The ship my grandfather traveled on in 1909

In March of 1909, my grandfather, Carmelo Elias Orlando, arrived at Ellis Island aboard La Bretagne, a French ocean liner run by the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique. He was just 21 years old when he left behind a single-room home in the small town of Curinga, Italy, seeking something more in the land he and so many others called L’America.

Carmelo traveled in steerage, or third class—the section where most Italian immigrants and other working-class passengers were placed. Conditions were harsh: crowded bunks, shared toilets, little access to fresh air, and no privacy. The journey, which lasted about 7 to 10 days, was difficult in every sense. For immigrants like my grandfather, the Atlantic crossing was not just a physical trip—it was a leap of faith.

When La Bretagne reached New York Harbor, third-class passengers were ferried to Ellis Island for inspection. They carried their own bags, climbed a long staircase to the Great Hall, and were silently evaluated by immigration officials as they ascended. A limp, a cough, or a suspicious look could mean immediate detention—or deportation.

After the medical inspection, Carmelo underwent a legal interrogation. He was asked a rapid series of questions: name, age, birthplace, parents’ names, destination, and literacy. Thanks to the ship manifest, I now know how he answered those questions—and that he was, indeed, my grandfather. Two details stood out: first, the names he gave for his parents—Bruno and Lucia—matched the names of his first two children, my Uncle Bruno and Aunt Lucy. Second, he listed Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania as his destination—the town where my mother was later born.

The manifest also showed that Carmelo couldn’t read or write. But he wasn’t alone—he traveled with his literate cousin, Giuseppe Tripedi, who must have offered support and guidance along the way. I can’t imagine navigating the world without the ability to read or write, but he did it. He survived. And he eventually made a life for himself in Wilkes-Barre, working as a coal miner until his untimely death at just 47 years old.

Italian immigrants in that era were not viewed as fully “white” by mainstream American society. They were frequent targets of prejudice, exploitation, and even violence—including lynchings. Sometimes I imagine what my grandfather’s journey might look like if he had come to America in 2025 instead. The truth is, he would have been considered undocumented under today’s immigration laws. He never became a U.S. citizen, and there is no record of permanent residency or naturalization in USCIS files. Under a modern administration like Trump’s, he likely would have been deported.

The certificate of non-existence of naturalization papers for my grandfather

Think about that. Would he have been allowed to stay? To work? To raise a family? Would I even be here telling this story?

This piece of history matters to me—not just because it’s personal, but because it connects me to every immigrant navigating our system today. It takes bravery to leave everything behind in pursuit of safety and opportunity. I only wish that those who lack empathy for immigrants could pause and look more closely—not with judgment, but with humanity. I wish they could see our immigrant communities through the same beautiful lens that I do: as people with courage, hope, and unwavering strength.