My Grandfather was Undocumented
by Patrick Anderson, editor
Patrick Christopher Malone, my maternal grandfather whom I always called “Pop,” was born in Dublin sometime in the second half of the 1800s. He forgot, or perhaps never knew, his birthdate, so the exact date is not clear. His listed age on the marriage license in 1909 was 32, but that was just an educated guess.
Whatever the date, he was born into a very difficult time in Ireland. When both of his parents died he was sent across the channel to Liverpool to live with an uncle, perhaps around the age of five or six. That uncle was cruel and abusive. Pop ran away and began to live on the docks along the port of Liverpool, making his way by singing, dancing, and reciting limericks and poems for whomever he could get to listen and smile and give him a coin. He was part of a group of young boys living unattended on the docks who were considered vagrants and urchins. I can only imagine what that life must have been like. He never learned to read or write, but he did learn to fight.
The active ship traffic in and out of Liverpool offered him a glimpse of life beyond the port. He must have heard stories about the land of opportunity called America, and observed the heavy flow of people toward that place. Somehow, he and a friend sneaked aboard a schooner bound for the United States and hid as stowaways. A few days out to sea, he was discovered hiding in the ship’s hold, and was brought before the captain who told him he would work for his passage and then be promptly sent back to Liverpool.
He must have been a charmer. I remember him as an old man telling stories, quoting poems and limericks, and occasionally shuffling into a tap dance. A man and his wife from Florida were on the same ship and took a liking to the young Pat, and made a deal with the captain to keep him upon arrival in America. They took him to their ranch in Central Florida, treating him a bit like an indentured servant, where he spent the rest of his childhood and young adulthood until he married my grandmother, Ruby, from Cedar Key.
He labored hard as a skilled craftsman, working on ships in the port of Jacksonville. As an overseer, he had to calculate the wages of his workers and, since he was illiterate, he would memorize and calculate the work product of his men and recite that data to his wife (“Granny” to me), on Thursdays so she could write it down for him to give to the paymaster on Fridays. He built a house, raised two daughters (my mother and her older sister); the older sister (my aunt) earned a degree from Columbia University in New York City. He had a wonderful reputation.
When World War I broke out, the shipyards became very active. He took the opportunity to go to Cuba to work on shipbuilding, and all-in-all provided a very good livelihood for his family. The house he built still stands. The flagpole he installed beside the back steps is still there. He was very patriotic. My mother said he was incredibly happy when he became a US citizen. Granny helped him study for the citizenship exam, and he relished memorizing documents of our history. I have the picture of him at the swearing-in ceremony, standing straight, looking at the camera with a proud smile. He must have erected the flagpole during that time, and I remember him running the flag up in the mornings and down in the evenings.
I think of my Pop when I see the pictures of the children intercepted on the southern border of Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and California who have fled hardship and danger and oppression back home. The travails they suffer while traveling from Central America, through Mexico, and into the arms of the representatives of this Land of Opportunity sound as dangerous and uncertain as my grandfather’s voyage across the Atlantic Ocean. I cannot help but imagine a frightened little boy on a ship, stealing food when he could, keeping out of sight, snatched up from his hidey hole, and brought before the captain. I see him hungry, smelly, dirty, terrified, and hopeless.
I also see a very brave boy, inspiring in his audacity. I cannot imagine that he cried or begged. He probably took swings at the crewman who found him. His advantages were that he spoke English, had a great smile and personality, and knew how to make people laugh. His good fortune was that a family took him in. It is my good fortune to have some of his genes, to be part of his lineage, sometimes to feel his spirit and to bear his name, Patrick.
I hear some heartless politicians pontificate about how we need to seal our borders, ship those kids at our Southern border back to where they came from no matter what future awaits them, and to protect America from the expense and trouble they bring with them. I see the pictures of the young, dirty, frightened children, unable to speak English or to make people laugh. I feel the little boy in myself being found in a hidey hole, and brought before scary authorities.
My grandfather’s fellow stowaway – his young friend — was sent back to Liverpool. We never learned what happened to him. I wonder if young Patrick had also been sent back, whether he would have survived either on the voyage or on the docks of Liverpool.
