Working on a research paper about local immigrant communities in the 1920s. Been digging through university archives for weeks. Old newspapers. Census records. Good stuff, but dry.
Then today, I found a box of personal letters. Donated by someone's family. Never digitized. Probably never read by anyone outside the family. Inside, a letter from a young immigrant to his mother back in Italy. Dated 1923. He writes about the cold. About missing her cooking. About the factory job that pays "more than a year's work back home." About being lonely but hopeful.
I sat in the archive reading it and almost cried. This person. Real. Alive once. And I'm holding his words 100 years later.
This is why I love history.
Then today, I found a box of personal letters. Donated by someone's family. Never digitized. Probably never read by anyone outside the family. Inside, a letter from a young immigrant to his mother back in Italy. Dated 1923. He writes about the cold. About missing her cooking. About the factory job that pays "more than a year's work back home." About being lonely but hopeful.
I sat in the archive reading it and almost cried. This person. Real. Alive once. And I'm holding his words 100 years later.
This is why I love history.