A few years ago, a good friend of mine introduced me to a song by Guy Clark. My friend described him as a country singer, but as I have listened to Guy’s catalog of music over the years, I’ve found him to be more a folk artist and storyteller than anything else.
One of Guy’s songs in particular, a song called “Immigrant Eyes,” written by Guy and Roger Murrah, hit close to home for me. It may seem strange for a country singer to focus on immigrants, but the song tells the story of Guy’s own grandfather who immigrated to America from abroad and his experience during that process. Guy begins by describing the chaos of arrival at Ellis Island:
“Oh Ellis Island was swarming
“Like a scene from a costume ball
“Decked out in the colors of Europe
“And on fire with the hope of it all
“There my father’s own father stood huddled
“With the tired and hungry and scared
“Turn-of-the-century pilgrims
“Bound by the dream that they shared”
The song hit home for me because my own grandparents, my grandfather Peter Googasian and my grandmother Lucy Chobanian, both made that same harrowing journey across the ocean before they settled here, met each other, and eventually married.
Each made the journey alone, a solo traveler in a sea of hundreds of others looking for a better life. But for their courage, I wouldn’t be here.
Their story isn’t unique, of course. Like millions of immigrants from around the world, from Mexico, Iraq, Korea, South Africa, and every other country in the world, they arrived with next to nothing — only the clothes on their backs, the brains in their heads, and the strength in their muscles and their hearts.
And when you arrive with nothing, what do you do? You work. And Guy covers that, too:
“Through this sprawling Tower of Babel
“Came a young man confused and alone
“Determined and bound for America
“Carryin’ everything that he owned
“Sometimes when I look in my grandfather’s immigrant eyes
“I see that day reflected and I can’t hold my feelings inside
“I see starting with nothin’ and working hard all of his life
“So don’t take it for granted say grandfather’s immigrant eyes”
Work. To me, that’s the immigrant way. Work. Work hard. Never stop working until you’re too old and broken to work anymore. Work hard so your children, and their children, have it better than you. So they can go to school, maybe college, maybe even law school or medical school. So those children and their children can live a life of which you could only dream. I have been the grateful beneficiary of my own ancestors’ courage and hard work.
My grandmother, my Nani, worked as a seamstress. She had been orphaned and sent to different orphanages. In one orphanage in Egypt, she sewed lace for the queen of Egypt. Once in America, she attended classes at Flint Junior College. Later she ran the family grocery store. She passed when I was 4, and my memories of her are limited. She was a warm and formidable woman, and I always felt safe and loved in her arms.
My grandfather Pete worked in the U.P. as a lumberjack and later in a copper mine. He worked on the line at Fisher Body, and at various times he owned a bar, a pool hall, a restaurant, commercial buildings (that he built quite literally by hand), and later a grocery store. Work was what they knew.
After my grandmother passed, my grandfather came to live with us. He slept in the bedroom next to mine, and for nearly five years, he was my constant friend and companion. I remember him singing songs in Armenian in his room at night. In the afternoon, he would wait for me to get off the school bus and he would ask me about my day and get us a snack. He looked after me, always. Even when I got in trouble. Especially when I got in trouble.
I am a better man for his having been in my life. And although he passed nearly a half-century ago, I still miss him.
Much as I’ve tried over the years, I’ll never be a songwriter, and I’ve found that I can’t do better than Guy Clark to describe my own feelings:
“Now he rocks and stares out the window
“But his eyes are still just as clear
“As the day he sailed through the harbor
“And come ashore on the island of tears
“My grandfather’s days are numbered
“But I won’t let his memory die
“’Cause he gave me the gift of this country
“And the look in his immigrant eyes.”
In the latest issue of LACHES dedicated to immigration, I thought I would express my appreciation, admiration, and wonder to Lucy, and to Peter, and to all the immigrants who have come
here looking for a better life and made our America a better place in the process.
And not just to those who are already here, but to those immigrants who arrive every day, making the brave choice to escape a danger at home or just yearning for greater opportunities.
This is for them, too.
————————
Dean M. Googasian, of The Googasian Firm PC, is the 92nd president of the Oakland County Bar Association.
One of Guy’s songs in particular, a song called “Immigrant Eyes,” written by Guy and Roger Murrah, hit close to home for me. It may seem strange for a country singer to focus on immigrants, but the song tells the story of Guy’s own grandfather who immigrated to America from abroad and his experience during that process. Guy begins by describing the chaos of arrival at Ellis Island:
“Oh Ellis Island was swarming
“Like a scene from a costume ball
“Decked out in the colors of Europe
“And on fire with the hope of it all
“There my father’s own father stood huddled
“With the tired and hungry and scared
“Turn-of-the-century pilgrims
“Bound by the dream that they shared”
The song hit home for me because my own grandparents, my grandfather Peter Googasian and my grandmother Lucy Chobanian, both made that same harrowing journey across the ocean before they settled here, met each other, and eventually married.
Each made the journey alone, a solo traveler in a sea of hundreds of others looking for a better life. But for their courage, I wouldn’t be here.
Their story isn’t unique, of course. Like millions of immigrants from around the world, from Mexico, Iraq, Korea, South Africa, and every other country in the world, they arrived with next to nothing — only the clothes on their backs, the brains in their heads, and the strength in their muscles and their hearts.
And when you arrive with nothing, what do you do? You work. And Guy covers that, too:
“Through this sprawling Tower of Babel
“Came a young man confused and alone
“Determined and bound for America
“Carryin’ everything that he owned
“Sometimes when I look in my grandfather’s immigrant eyes
“I see that day reflected and I can’t hold my feelings inside
“I see starting with nothin’ and working hard all of his life
“So don’t take it for granted say grandfather’s immigrant eyes”
Work. To me, that’s the immigrant way. Work. Work hard. Never stop working until you’re too old and broken to work anymore. Work hard so your children, and their children, have it better than you. So they can go to school, maybe college, maybe even law school or medical school. So those children and their children can live a life of which you could only dream. I have been the grateful beneficiary of my own ancestors’ courage and hard work.
My grandmother, my Nani, worked as a seamstress. She had been orphaned and sent to different orphanages. In one orphanage in Egypt, she sewed lace for the queen of Egypt. Once in America, she attended classes at Flint Junior College. Later she ran the family grocery store. She passed when I was 4, and my memories of her are limited. She was a warm and formidable woman, and I always felt safe and loved in her arms.
My grandfather Pete worked in the U.P. as a lumberjack and later in a copper mine. He worked on the line at Fisher Body, and at various times he owned a bar, a pool hall, a restaurant, commercial buildings (that he built quite literally by hand), and later a grocery store. Work was what they knew.
After my grandmother passed, my grandfather came to live with us. He slept in the bedroom next to mine, and for nearly five years, he was my constant friend and companion. I remember him singing songs in Armenian in his room at night. In the afternoon, he would wait for me to get off the school bus and he would ask me about my day and get us a snack. He looked after me, always. Even when I got in trouble. Especially when I got in trouble.
I am a better man for his having been in my life. And although he passed nearly a half-century ago, I still miss him.
Much as I’ve tried over the years, I’ll never be a songwriter, and I’ve found that I can’t do better than Guy Clark to describe my own feelings:
“Now he rocks and stares out the window
“But his eyes are still just as clear
“As the day he sailed through the harbor
“And come ashore on the island of tears
“My grandfather’s days are numbered
“But I won’t let his memory die
“’Cause he gave me the gift of this country
“And the look in his immigrant eyes.”
In the latest issue of LACHES dedicated to immigration, I thought I would express my appreciation, admiration, and wonder to Lucy, and to Peter, and to all the immigrants who have come
here looking for a better life and made our America a better place in the process.
And not just to those who are already here, but to those immigrants who arrive every day, making the brave choice to escape a danger at home or just yearning for greater opportunities.
This is for them, too.
————————
Dean M. Googasian, of The Googasian Firm PC, is the 92nd president of the Oakland County Bar Association.
