Yinka Shonibare is an established voice in discourses on identity and immigration, his works often exploring his own, self described 'postcolonial hybrid' relationship with his cultural identity. This particular piece is an installation of 6,328 books, covered in Dutch Wax print.
The spines of 2,700 of the books have printed, in gold, the names of first and second generation immigrants to Britain, as well as a small number of infamous immigration opposers, including Nigel Farage. The piece serves as a celebration of immigrants and immigration, placing them on an even level with the classic libraries that are a common sight in British academic circles and therefore giving highbrow value to their lived experiences. The work also contains a study space with tablets linked to the website representing the piece, allowing viewers to interact with the individual stories of those named. Shonibare aims to provoke discussion and reflection of British culture and notions of identity, ensuring that these stories are considered as valid to the British identity as those from non-immigrants.
Shonibare also makes the interesting and initially jarring choice to include the names of those in vocal opposition to immigration, recognising the contemporaneity of the conversation and the nuances within it. This is repeated through the use of the Dutch Wax print, a common fixture in his works, simultaneously a symbol of cultural heritage and colonialism, drawing this conversation to the forefront of his pieces and once again exploring the fragility of the concept of fixed identity.
All four of my mother’s grandparents immigrated to the US in the early 20th century. They came from impoverished villages in war-torn countries, with nothing but a steamer trunk of threadbare clothes to their names and the hopes that they could make a better life for themselves here. By today’s (ever-arbitrary) standards of race they’d be considered white and, as Christians, would be welcomed without concern on religious grounds. Back then, the story was a bit different. One was Roma, one was half-Jewish, and all were practicing Roman Catholics from Eastern Europe- none of whom spoke a lick of English. Not exactly traits that recommended them to the people of that time. And yet, they still arrived to open borders.
Katja arrived (wearing her head scarf) on the Mauretania in 1923 to the port of Detroit with a child she had to claim as her nephew because she was afraid, as a single, unwed mother, that she would be turned away on moral grounds. Stefo, her future husband, arrived on the Rotterdam in 1906 to Ellis Island, where he was temporarily detained on hygienic grounds for having acne. Janos arrived on the Vaderland in 1910 to Ellis Island, and his future wife, Karolina, arrived in 1913, also to Ellis Island, where she had to give the name and address of someone she had never met in New York City, a fellow immigrant, who had agreed to serve as a sponsor for girls like her because she knew no one else in the country.
Eventually all four of my great-grandparents found their way to Detroit, which worked out well for me. But their lives were hard. They worked hard. They toiled long hours in the machine shops of Detroit or as seamstresses during the week and in their backyard gardens on the weekend to feed their families. They built homes (now rotted and crumbled back to the dirt) out of nothing but dreams and sweat and tears.
And they were able to do this because the United States, regardless of whatever prejudice it harbored at the time, kept its doors open to them. The United States is, and always has been, a nation of immigrants. It’s built on the dreams of immigrants- and on their hard work.
I never met any of my great-grandparents. But I love them. I’m fiercely proud of the courage it took to bring them here and the sacrifices they made along the way. Their refusal to be cowed by long odds and their insistence on leading lives of service to others in their community are stitched into the fabric of who I am. I think that’s what makes me American.... not my blood or my race or my religion or anything other than my spirit. That’s the beauty of it... anyone can be an American, if they want to be. All it requires is moxie, grit, and hope.
There’s nothing especially noteworthy about my ancestors’ stories. Roughly a quarter of Americans can trace at least some of their ancestors back to Ellis Island, and my ancestors were like any of the other millions of people who scrapped to make their way here. But I mention this because it’s vital we know and celebrate our shared history and that we stand up for everyone who wishes to come here to make a better life for themselves and their families. It takes such courage to take that massive step, to leave behind whatever is left of someone’s world and make a new one.
We should be proud of our immigrants, not afraid of them. We should love them, not hate them. Because we are them, they are us. And we are all family, in the end.
I just want to take a moment to give recognition to all of the immigrants in the UK. You are amazing, and Britain would be shit without you. The bastards don't even realize how important you are. Well, they can take their Daily Mail scare tactic headlines and shove them up their arses.
*flips off every single person who's ever said, "I'm not a racist or anything, but immigrants are ruining this country."*
Fuck them all.
Immigrants rule. They work hard, pay taxes, support their families, jump through all the hoops, do everything they can and they still get shat on. Get over yourself, Britain.
