Anne here, and today I'm thinking about the kind of story we tend to think of as "historical" — women traveling long distances, often alone, to make a new life.
In romance fiction it's the classic "mail-order-bride" story (which I admit I'm a sucker for), usually a Western historical, but one we assume is more or less in the past.
But it's not, and I was reminded of that recently when I attended the funeral of a friend's mother and was thinking about her story. But first, a little about the painting above. It's called Coming South, and it was painted in 1886 by Tom Roberts, one of Australia's early beloved painters. He painted many paintings that explored the themes of those times, and this one is no exception.
Coming South is about migrating to Australia, 'Terra Australis Incognita' as it was known on the earliest maps, the great unknown south land on the other side of the world. And truly, the people coming here had little idea of what their life would be like. (I blogged some time ago about the courage of migration.)
But the painting could just as easily be about sailing in to New York Harbour, or traveling to Canada or New Zealand — or, with a change of transport, traveling in a wagon across to the west of America. Migration is an act of bravery — or desperation. And for women, who in the past (and perhaps even now) were more vulnerable, and had fewer legal rights, it was an even greater challenge. (The picture above right refers to Jewish mail order brides in the American west)
The trip to Australia took months by ship, and was crowded and uncomfortable — the passengers you see here are not the poorest ones. It was also dangerous — so many ships were lost at sea, many wrecked within sight of the shore. So it was a very final journey — people were well aware of the unlikelihood that they'd ever be able to return to the land of their birth — apart from the risk, it was too far, too expensive, and took too long —who could afford to take a year for a round trip? And they had only the haziest idea of what they would find in the new land.
My friend's mother was born in Ireland, the twelfth child of a mother who died giving birth to number thirteen, who also died. Her father died a couple of years later and the children were parceled out among relatives. Annie, being the baby, went to her grandparents.
But by the time she was eighteen those grandparents had died, and Annie was put on a ship to Australia to meet an older brother who she didn't even remember. He'd migrated to Australia years before. The ship took more than a month to arrive, and young Annie cried herself to sleep every night.
Of course, her story ended happily. Annie was a hard worker and a bright and lively soul. She married and had four children. She loved people, had a great sense of humor and was beloved of her friends and neighbors. In her middle years she traveled the world and met every one of her siblings, in Ireland, in Canada, in the USA, in Wales and in England.
Annie's story got me thinking. My friend Fay's mother had come on a ship from from Greece, to meet the husband she'd married a short time before he'd migrated. She hadn't seen him for seven years, and was bringing the young daughter that he'd never met.
Many of the Greek and Italian ladies I taught to read and write in English had done the same trip, long weeks on a crowded ship coming to meet and marry men they didn't know. It was an arrangement made by others. They carried a photo, with which they hoped to recognize their future husband.
Coming alone, to a land where you don't speak the language. Where you'll be wholly dependent on a man you don't know. That's courage.
I thought about the Vietnamese lady I taught, whose relatives had put her on a plane to Australia with her young child, to be reunited with the husband she hadn't seen for five years. Nobody met them. She was very frightened, spoke not a word of English and had no idea what to do. Thank goodness for social services who found her a place to stay and traced her husband. He didn't want her. He had another woman now.
I thought about my own grandmother, coming out from Northern Ireland on a ship, to marry the Australian soldier she'd met when he went on leave with a mate who was visiting his Irish relatives. She spent every penny she had on the journey, trusting that all would be well (which it was.) But she'd only known him for a few weeks, several years before. (This image is of the "Picture Brides" brides whose marriages were arranged long distance, using pictures to match up bride and groom)
And if you browse through the internet, there are hundreds of women from all over the world still doing the same thing, looking for a new life, taking a gamble for the sake of a better future. Risking their all. Alone.
Courage. Desperation. Hope.
Mail order brides don't just travel on wagons across the prairie; women are still risking themselves, traveling long distances—often alone—coming to foreign lands and an uncertain future, gambling all on the prospect of making a better life, if not for themselves, for their children, and to help out their families back home. Gambling on the hope that the man they'll marry will turn out to be a good one. And that it will all work out.
It's not simply a fun trope in historical romance, it's an enduring theme in women's history.
So what about you? Did you, or any of your female relatives or ancestors take this kind of gamble on future happiness? How did it turn out?