Every week, the AWM is excited to bring you stories written by our visitors in our Story of the Day exhibit, which features typewriters that visitors can interact with directly. Check back weekly for new stories, and visit the Museum to try out our typewriters and possibly be featured here! This week, we are featuring immigration stories written by visitors in our new exhibit, My America: Immigrant and Refugee Writers Today.
Part of our newest temporary exhibit features an interactive station that allows visitors to write their family’s story on a luggage tag and stamp it with the reason their family came to the United States, whether it was Family, Refuge, by Force, for Freedom or Opportunity, or a different reason. Below are four stories shared in the exhibit, which opened to the public yesterday, November 21, 2019. Visit the Museum or comment below to share your family’s immigration (or migration) story.
“Living in post-apartheid South Africa wasn’t great. When my father had the opportunity to take a job in Florida, the answer was obvious. We moved on Christmas day, so that day has always been even more special because of that.”
“A single mother leaves Mexico w/ her 4 year old to find an American Dream.”
“Born in Los Angeles, grew up in Gothenburg, Sweden with my Swedish parents and family. Moved back to the U.S. in 1980 and Chicago is home since 1982.”
“My dad came from Mexico and was soon stayed in Illinois. My dad came for opportunities, and my mom was already in Chicago.”
Tillie Courvoisier
My maternal grandmother’s maternal grandmother was born in Paris. She married a man born in Berne and the two decided to emigrate to America, settling in Illinois. “Housewife. What a disappointment,” I say to myself, as I look upon the birth certificate of their daughter Tillie born December 4, 1895. Along with the announcing of one’s birth, my grandmother included a small note which made known her Parisian lineage could be traced back almost six hundred years. “That’s hard to believe,” which was also included, taxed my memory as the penmanship of one’s nicely joined characters left me within the uncertainty of an indelible impression. “Housegirlfriend,” I say to myself, as I stand beneath the Eiffel Tower that hangs just above the water faucet within my tiny little kitchen in De Kalb, Illinois. “What a disappointment.”