World War I Soldier's Diary Entry

April 30, 1915

My name is Anthony R. Howard and I am an Englishman. I fight on the side of the Allies. I've have been in this treacherous war since early 1915. My Regiment currently resides in Ypres, which is in Belgium. I am a member of the 9th London Regiment, also known as Queen Victoria's Rifles. 

A few days ago, I fought one of the toughest battles I'd hoped to never encounter. On April 17th, we mounted an attack against the Germans on Hill 60.  We were doing the best we could at keeping the line on the Western Front. Prior to the attack, the hill had been undermined for days with five galleries being driven under the Hillock. The plan was to detonate large mines under the Hill to destroy the enemy and their positions, then we, the 13th Infantry Brigade, would occupy the area. 

The plan was thorough and well-organized. Yet we could only hope everything would go according to plan.  Once we captured the Hill, I was ordered to the Front Line in preparation for the Germans to make their counter attack. We became animals in cages at our trenches as we were bombarded with hand grenades. The man to my left was dead; the man to my right moaning in agony as he was shot in the left side of the head. The sounds of the shelling was overwhelming. The sounds of the men who were suffering in "no man's land" was unbearable. We as soldiers were helpless. To retrieve a comrade would be suicide. The decision between bravery and death or cowardice and life is a difficult one. Two corpses from me, there was a younger lad, about the age of sixteen. He huddled in the corner of the trench, death-grip on a picture in his hands and tears running down his face. He had just seen his best friend die in agony.  For thirty-six hours we lay there, fighting off the Germans. At dawn, we began to smell the rotting corpses of our previous comrades. I reflected on one soldier who had died telling me of his children back at home including a pregnant wife. Oh, the many sad letters I have delivered for fallen soldiers to families. 

The life of the soldier consists of death and misery. I sympathize for all the men who have fallen. Many of my comrades have I seen die brutally. Some died from bullets; some from bombs or hand grenades. Occasionally, one was hit straight between the eyes by a sniper. Machine guns could take out an entire Regiment in minutes. I've heard that not too many miles away, a Regiment was even hit with poison gas by the Germans. Our Allies hit not too far from us had no gas masks, and therefore many were killed by it, or blinded. But worst of all was that these weren't the only causes of death. I've seen many soldiers fall to Malaria, Trench Foot and other diseases spread throughout the unlivable trenches. Yet, those of us who have survived haven't done so easily. 

In trenches, we must avoid mud when it rains and attempt to stay warm when it snows. We have to fight off the rats when eating what little food we have, which is already of poor quality. If I get the chance for some shut-eye, I keep my helmet on to prevent the rats from crawling on my head and eating the grease in my hair. And this helmet I wear is nothing but mere decoration. It does nothing to protect a soldier's head, as I can prove in witnessing a bullet go through a helmet straight through a man's head. I have witnessed this on numerous accounts. 

The life of a soldier is emotionally disturbing. Some soldiers have gone insane with Shell-Shock battle fatigue because of what they have seen and heard. I have experienced so many people die instantaneously feet away from me, splattering their blood over my face. Their last facial expressions will forever be imprinted in my memory. I will have nightmares years to come of these brutal battles. I say years to come because I have not had a solid night's sleep since this dreadful war began. The thing I have hated most about fighting in this war is leaving my comrades behind. We must abandon them in retreat, running away from them as they waste their last breaths begging for help. I will forever hate myself for leaving those soldiers behind.

I pray every chance I get between firing my gun that this war will soon be over. We have been told though, that soon we will be heading to France, where there should be more troops to fight along our side. That day will be a glorious day.

After a hard-earned victory,

Anthony R. Howard

Americanization for Mexican Americans

It’s 1920 and you, Alonzo Vasquez, are a Mexican immigrant to the United States. While you love your new country, it is very important to you that your family remember and honor your culture and traditions, many of which are tied to your homeland. You are increasingly worried that your children, in the process of becoming “American,” are ignoring the importance of their heritage. Why is it so important to you that your family retain some cultural connection to Mexico and your Mexican heritage? What evidence is there that your children are being wholly “Americanized?” What conflicts has this created between you and your children?

My name is Alonzo Vasquez and I came to America five years ago in search of the American dream. I wanted a better life for my family, a life in which I could earn a higher pay than back in Mexico so that I may provide much more for my wife, Maria, and two children, Antonio and Esmeralda. I also knew that in America, not only was anything possible, but everything was safer and more economically stable. I knew that if we were to move here, we wouldn't have to worry about my children being taken from us to be put into some rebel forces turning against the unstable government. The Mexican Revolution had already existed five years and wasn't going to be ending anytime soon. And that was when I decided we deserved something better. We deserved life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

We settled into an urban city so that I could work at one of the factories. Our shelter was one large room which we shared with another Mexican family. They had already been in America for close to two years and I could tell from the moment we moved in that they had already become somewhat "Americanized." I was offended at this, since the Mexicans are a people that stick close to their roots, now matter how hard other cultures push for something otherwise. Our one-room apartment was in the the worst part of the city, with rats and insects having their homes in our walls, and wide-spread sickness and disease. But no matter how bad it seemed, I, along with my family, remained optimistic because it was still better than back in our homeland. It was safer and I earned more than I could ever have hoped of earning in Mexico. One of the things I love most about America is the Bill of Rights, which protects the people and their individual rights. There was never anything like that back in Mexico. I can actually say if I dislike or disapprove of something in public here. In Mexico, I would have been shot. But unfortunately, these were only my first thoughts. Although I make far much more money here in America, it's still barely enough to put food on the table every night. And although I do have rights that can't be taken from me technically, I am still discriminated against and don't have the same rights as a white person born in the United States.

When my family moved to America, we intended on keeping everything we lived with the same, meaning our religion, language, culture and tradition. Just because we moved to America doesn't mean we can't maintain what we were born with and taught to hold forever in our hearts. Part of our culture as Mexicans is to remember our heritage and where we come from. Because without that, we are nothing. We are a humble people, satisfied with what we have and never striving for more than what's possible. We are Catholics, putting God as our first priority in life, and with family as a close second. Esmeralda and Antonio must remember their roots, or else my grandchildren and great-grandchildren will miss out on all our history as a family. But in coming here, we have been told time and time again that we must change our ways. We must forget our language, heritage and culture to become fully American. If we don't Americanize Esmeralda and Antonio, they will be taken from Maria and I. This has been our only motivation in becoming American. It isn't fair in any way.  We actually have a social worker stop by our house once a week asking Maria questions as to how she has been teaching Esmeralda and Antonio the American ways.  We are forced to send them to school, whereas in Mexico, they would have aided me in tending our farm. I don't understand these American ways. Why must my children have a "traditional education?" So that they can graduate and get paid more in working for the white man? It is unjust to take a parent's rights away in parenting.  Worst of all, Antonio and Maria, who are both reaching adulthood now are going along with the American lifestyle. Antonio, 18, is wasting time going out at night, staying up until the early morning hours. He feels that going to the theatre with numerous girls and going drinking with his guy friends is a necessity. In America, leisure is a priority. Even worse, Esmeralda, 16, is interested in working. She is escorted by men other than myself or my son. In Mexico, this would be inexcusable. I already picked a suitor for Esmeralda who is patiently waiting his trip to America so that they may be married. Yet she feels she can disagree with me and chose her own suitor. This too, would be inexcusable in my homeland. What has happened to my Mexican-American children? They have forgotten their parents, their traditions, their language, and their God. They now worship Materialism. Esmeralda and Antonio no longer talk to me in Spanish. Instead they speak to me in English and pressure me to speak it too. I do not care if I am "old fashioned" as they call me. I would rather die knowing my Mexican roots than to fully succumb to American ways. Communication was once very present in my family. But five years ago, that began to perish. Now, it is non-existent.

Maria, too, has changed. We are on the brink of separation. Yet I will not allow a divorce, as it is against my religion. If I must force her to stay with me, I will do so to follow my culture. Because of her recent aspirations in becoming more independent as a woman, she has taken a job at a textile mill. I will not allow it much longer. I blame her for my addiction to alcohol. Because I am frustrated with being forced to be something I was not born to be and never will be, I drink every night at a bar with other Mexican men who agree with me and my frustrations. You see , they too have all had the same problem with America, Americanization and loss of the important role in their once Mexican life-styles.

Reaction #2

It’s 1892 and you, Esther Klein, are a 17-year-old textile mill worker in the American northeast. You are new to the country and to industrial work, having worked previously on your parents’ farm in the old country. As much as you longed to come to America, your life as a poor Jewish industrial worker in the United States makes you have second thoughts. And life at the mill—why you and some of the other girls dream of organizing and standing up to the mill owners, but what you’ve seen of other labor organizing worries you! So tell me, Esther, what are the sources of your dissatisfaction as a poor woman, a worker, and a Jewish immigrant? Why have your dreams, of what life in America would be, changed?

My name is Esther Klein. I came to America in search for the "American Dream." All my life, I dreamed of making it to this wonderful land of opportunity. I had grown up listening to my elders speaking of the "Land of Dreams," where anyone and everyone had the opportunity to become successful and wealthy. I came here hoping to find all the things I was told I would find in America. I left my family and homeland in search of a happier and more prosperous life, in which I could help provide for them through my successful job in America. I even had high hopes of making enough money to move my entire family to America. Unfortunately, I was very wrong.

Little did I know I would end up in a textile mill, slaving day after day to make some wealthy man richer, while I struggled financially. It is unfair to me and my co-workers to work twelve hours or more a day at minimum wage. I rarely have a break, and if I happen to make a mistake, I will lose my job immediately. I'm stuck though, you see, because I have no choice either way. As a woman, and a poor immigrant woman at that, I have absolutely no rights. I am unable to vote, making it impossible for my voice to be heard legally. I couldn't make a difference even if I tried. My co-workers and I sometimes discuss joining a union or going on a strike to protest our poor wages and working conditions. But if we did go through with any of this, we'd most certainly lose our jobs. And then where would we go? A company is not going to hire any workers that were just fired because of striking. And due to the fact that we are women, it's going to be far more difficult to get a job than any man. We wouldn't have enough money to go back to our homeland. And we'd risk the chance of going to jail. And if we are treated poorly as foreigners already, imagine how we would be treated in jail! So as you can see, the point I'm trying to get across is that coming to America has only led me to debt, unhappiness and poverty. And the one thing I expected the most in America, that being opportunity, is what I've found the least of so far. I don't even have the opportunity to get out of this state of poverty.

In coming to America, I was unable to find a job in what I grew up doing and something I did very well farming. So I settled into the industrial life, having to live in the city. The city is a horrible, filthy place. The living quarters are crowded and unlivable. It is never quiet; the city never sleeps. There is sickness and death all around. If someone were to get sick and die, chances are everyone living with them would follow suite, just because everyone is so close they can't even breathe fresh air. The diseases are abundant and rats are a common house-pet, always somehow getting into our food sources. The place where I live should be condemned and bulldozed. We shouldn't have to live like this as immigrants.

I understand the graciousness that America bestowed upon us as Jewish immigrants. Believe me, I do have much appreciation for those who allowed me into this country. But for Heaven's sake, just because I am an immigrant does not give any American the right to use me and my other immigrant friends as a stepping stool to their success while we are left ground into the mud. We have just as much right to success as anyone else. We are truly being abused and our rights have been taken away from us.

America is no longer the “Land of Dreams” to me. I will never support that phrase again. America has done nothing but misuse desperate people that must go through desperate measures to stay alive. The government especially, has done absolutely nothing to slow down the increasing gap between the poor immigrant classes versus the rich white class. America is the now the “Land of Pain and Suffering” in all newly arrived immigrant’s eyes. And to all those misused by America, it will always keep this name.