It was a bitter October evening. Unseasonably cold, but nothing 21 year old Patrick O’Connell’s thick sheepskin winter coat couldn't handle. Even as he stood in line, waiting to be processed so he could be let aboard the great ocean liner, he remained warm. He was sailing aboard the RMS Olympic, a sister ship of the RMS Titanic, from Belfast in his native Ireland, to a new life in America. He approached the massive ship. She was massive, over eight hundred long and nine decks high. Four black topped funnels rose up high above the deck below. Wisps of black smoke floated out from the top straight up. He climbed up the gangway, looking down to see the murky green water lap against the dock. He stepped aboard the mighty ship and was directed to his cabin. It was four decks down, on the left side of the ship. His third class cabin was basic. Four bunks, all to himself, with a basin in the middle of them. A small porthole, just above the basin, looked out over the bustling harbor. Another liner was being pushed out by a tug boat. Patrick could see the passengers lined up on the decks, waving goodbye as they set off on their own journey to “the land were the streets are paved with gold”.


The ship glided out into a rough North Atlantic, waves crashed headlong into the bow, forcing the ship fly skyward and then crash down hard. Patrick spent many hours with his head over the railing of the ship. When the waves had died down, Patrick found his way to third class dining room. Long oak tables adorned with white linen table clothes and gleaming silverware stretched down the length of the dining room. Patrick seated himself at the end of the table and waited to be served. Soon after him, hundreds of people poured in from the four main doors. They all sat down, some joked with each other, some were quiet, and some just looked plain seasick. The waiters brought out the food. Large wooden carts with large dinner plates neatly arranged on them rolled up and down the aisles. The dinner tonight was roast beef with boiled potatoes. Not exactly fine dining, but it would do. After about an hour, the tables thinned out as people left for the cabins, to settle down for the night.


The journey to New York took seven days. Three of them consisted of being thrown about in a particularly rough Atlantic hurricane. But eventually the great steamship sailed into New York harbor. And there waiting for them was a lady. She was tall, powerful, and represented everything Patrick had imagined America would be like. Lady Liberty is what they called her. She stood there, dominating the harbor, with her torch held high, lighting the path to a new life. The Olympic came to a reluctant halt and her anchor crashed into the sea, sending spray everywhere. Little ferry boats pulled up alongside the ship and people were herded on board them. They set off one by one for Ellis Island, the gateway to America for millions of people. Patrick settled in for the long wait that was Ellis Island is infamous for. It takes him eight hours, but he makes it through the rigorous inspection. He sets out for New York, his new home.


The ferry came to a shuddering halt at the dock in south Manhattan. Patrick heaved his canvas bag over his shoulder and stepped off the ferry and started walking to find a new home. After about an hour Patrick ended up in the Lower East side. He was surrounded by 10 story brick tenement buildings. For Rent signs were posted in the windows of a few of them. One of them was an eight story red brick building. The first floor was a small bakery that seemed to be closed. He found the door to the apartments upstairs. It was large black door that must have been at least fifty years old. It squealed like a pig when he opened it. As he closed it behind him, a woman appeared from behind the stairs. She had to be in her late 40’s with flame red hair and a multitude of freckles covering her pale face. He knew she must have been Irish.
“Well hullo there. Are ye lost?” she asked in her thick Irish accent.
“I saw your “For Rent” sign outside; I was wonderin’ if it was still available.”
“It sure is, the rent’s five dollars a month. Ya think you’ll be able ta afford that?”
“It shouldn’t be a problem.” Patrick replied.

“Well then she’s yours, number eighteen, up on the third floor. It’s a bit dingy, but then there’s not much you can do about that.” She said as she pressed a tarnished golden key into his hand. “If ya need something, I’ll be in the office behind the stairs.”

“Thank You,” replied Patrick.


Patrick made up the old wooden stairs. The worn boards groaned under his weight. After cautiously making his way up the three flights of stairs, he found his door. The door, like what seemed to be everything else in the building, was rough and old. A formally silver eighteen was nailed to the door. The lock clicked as Patrick turned the key. As the door slowly swung open, he was hit by a musty smell emanating from the single room apartment.
‘At least it has electricity’ Patrick thought to himself as he flipped a switch.
The single bare bulb hanging from the middle of the room buzzed into life. There was faded floral wallpaper covering the walls and well-trodden wood floors went throughout the entire room. He had bed in the back corner with a pillow and a thin sheet. The wood burning stove was next to a deep off white sink. Behind a door was a newly mandated toilet, the room was formerly a closet, and there still was a coat rack nailed into the wall. A small table with four chairs were on a rug was in the middle of the room. The two windows had canvas curtains held back with lengths of old rope. As he looked down onto Orchard Street, there’s a mix of carts and cars running up and down the road. Stalls lined the street with people hawking theirs goods trying to get people to buy them.


Patrick slipped onto the streets of Manhattan, and started to look for work. He spent two hours going in and out of stores asking if they had job openings, and then being rejected. Patrick was just about to give up he saw a given “Laborers Wanted” sign in the window of a big office building. The sign above the door read “New York Central Railroad”.

“I wouldn’t mind working on the railroad. Maybe I’ll see the country, travel to the all those famous places,” thought Patrick.
He considered it; he could always live on the railroad if he needed to. He could be like the railroaders they had so much about back in Ireland. He looked both ways and crossed the street. The sun glinted off of the windows of the massive skyscraper as he made his way through the door, the sound of telephones and typewriters echoed throughout the gleaming lobby.
His footsteps echoed off of the white and green marble floor as he approached a long wooden desk with a white marble surface.
“What can I do for you?” asked the lady behind the desk.
She was young, probably not much older than himself. Her bright blue eyes contrasted against her blonde hair and her wide gleaming smile.
“I’d like to apply for one of the laborer jobs,” said Patrick, now acutely aware of his accent.
“Just off the boat are we?” giggled the girl. “What you need to do is go up to the third floor to the personnel department, they’ll help you up there.”
“Thank You,” Patrick sheepishly replied.
Patrick walked off towards the elevators. Patrick had been in an elevator only once before, in the U.S. Embassy in Dublin when he applied for a visa. Thinking of Ireland reminded him of his family. A pang of homesickness came over him. He missed his parents and his brothers and sisters. He stepped into the elevator. There was a man in there already.
“Which floor?” he asked politely.
“Third,” Patrick told him
The man pressed the button for the third floor. He pulled the collapsible door closed, and the elevator jerked to a start. It climbed with a whir, slowly passing the second floor, and squeaking to a halt at the third. The elevator attendant unlatched and slid open the elevator door. Patrick stepped out, and saw an information board across the hall. The white letters told him the personnel department was to his left. He swiveled around and set off, reading the name on the doors as he passed them. It wasn’t long until he found a black wood door with a pane of frosted glass in it. On the glass were the words ‘Personnel Department’ in thick black lettering. He went in and looked around. There was a big square room with many doors similar to the one he had just come through leading into different offices. A desk sat on the other side of the room with another lady sat behind it, clacking away on her type writer. This lady was much older, she must’ve been in her late fifties with her grey done up in a bun. As he approached the desk, she looked up at him. He could feel her eyes judging him through her glasses.

“Yes?” she asked Patrick in what Patrick thought was a very grouchy tone.

“I’m here to apply for one of the laborer jobs.” He told her quietly.

“Another immigrant looking for a job are we?” she asked as she swiveled her chair around and got up. She walked over to filing cabinet and pulled out a file. From the file she took out a piece of paper.
“You can write, can’t you?” she asked Patrick.

“Yes I can write.”

She handed him the file and pen.
“Sit down and fill this out.”