Ellis Island - Baggage and Dormitory Building

View of one of the many dorm areas which comprise the bulk of the Baggage and Dormitory building; during its peak, this area would have held as many beds as could possibly fit into the space.

"The Island of Tears" is a moniker often associated with Ellis Island, the nation's busiest immigration station during its years of operation (1892-1954), and easily its most famous.  This name - which refers to those turned away from America for deportation to their countries of origin - seems most closely connected in the public consciousness with the 2% of immigrants deported for medical reasons.  Certainly, the notion of a child separated from their family due to the discovery of trachoma behind the eyelid and sent, alone, back to whence they came is horrifying.  But disease was not the only reason for denial to passage through the "golden door" that Emma Lazarus wrote about.  A variety of other factors - ranging from poverty to belonging to an "undesirable" ethnic or religious group to suspicion of radical political leaning - could lead to detention or deportation.  The Baggage and Dormitory building, located on the North side of the island, was the epicenter of detention for non-medical cases for almost half a century.  Stabilized and boarded off in 2011, here's a look at the building before it "went dark".


Like much of the Baggage and Dormitory Building, the staircases favored functionality over ornament.

Ellis Island Immigration Station opened in 1892, a replacement for the Castle Garden Immigration Station at the southern tip of Manhattan.  The original main reception building, constructed of wood, burned down in 1897; the iconic Beaux Arts building that would replace it opened in 1900.  It quickly became apparent that, in addition to the hospital complex that was beginning to rise up on the artificial islands constructed south of the original island, space was needed for non-medical detentions as well.  The Main Building simply couldn't accommodate the number of detainees that were landing every day on the island.  Under Commissioner Robert Watchorn, such a building was constructed, attached to the kitchen and laundry building in back of the Main Building, and opening in 1909.

This new building was much simpler, architecturally speaking, than most of the other buildings on Ellis Island; this spoke both to the haste with which it was put up and to the intended future use of the building.  While the principal use of the building would be the detention of suspected undesirables until a board could convene to decide whether to deport them, a secondary use - at least for the first few years of the building's operation - was the storage of immigrants' luggage while they went through the admissions lines.  Thus, the new structure was given the name "Baggage and Dormitory Building", although it could well have been given a title truer to its actual purpose: "Detention Center".


A tiny bathtub was retrofitted into one of the bathrooms in the building.  In order to attach the water lines at the height at which they came out of the wall - where presumably a full-sized tub had once stood - a wooden base had to be constructed under the tub.  In over half a century of abandonment, this base rotted away.
 


The communal bathroom areas would allow a single official to oversee goings-on while detainees washed up en masse.
 


The bathing area had partitions between the bathtubs, but no curtains to shield the detainees from the watchful eyes of the Island's officials - there was no true privacy in the Baggage and Dormitory Building.
 


A closeup of another tub, ravaged over 50 years of abandonment and the attendant water damage.

Of course, the immigrants processed at Ellis Island were not from the upper classes of the societies from which they emigrated; First-class and Second-class passengers disembarked in Manhattan proper, and allowed into the country unhindered.  The Island primarily served steerage-class passengers, who generally packed all they could carry into a couple of suitcases - food included for the month-plus journey, as they were not served meals on the ships for which they often paid most everything they owned for passage - and suffered in cramped communal quarters below deck.

Upon arrival, the procedure for processing immigrants varied somewhat over time, but generally followed this pattern: after standing in a long line, sometimes for many hours on a busy day, each immigrant was given a quick medical examination.  They were asked a battery of questions, and from there - in most cases - they were entered into the registry and allowed to meet those waiting for them at the "kissing post" - the part of the island that gave it the other moniker by which it was known, "The Island of Hope".  From there, they would board a ferry and enter their new lives in America.

But just as the medical examination was meant to discern those who might be carrying disease into the New Land, the battery of questions was aimed at discerning whether an immigrant might be undesirable for other reasons.  Just like the various diseases which gained greater or lesser prominence over the years, various causes for detention asserted themselves at different times during the island's heyday from 1892-1924.  One constant cause for concern was poverty - among the questions asked of prospective immigrants were the amount of money they carried, whether or not they had arranged to stay with family or had other lodging arranged, and whether they were skilled in a trade.  Unskilled laborers without a place to stay or money to get started were perceived as likely to wind up on the dole, living in almshouses, and generally a burden on the public.  Many were detained and eventually deported for this reason.


Most salvageable artifacts had been removed from the Baggage and Dormitory building, as seen in this view of another dormitory section of the building.



On the first floor - briefly used to store immigrants' baggage while they waited in the lines for admission and registration - a number of remaining artifacts were collected.  One was an incredibly heavy Diebold safe.  (It would not open.)



Radiators were collected on one half of this dormitory; air ducts on the other.

Perhaps there was some merit to suggestions that the indigent, likely to become a burden on society, ought to be sent back; arguments of this sort are still in play in contemporary discussions of immigration policy.  But some of the other grounds for detention and deportation certainly seem more sinister in nature - as early as the first few years of the operation of the Immigration Station, various ethnic or religious groups were singled out, as were those with undesirable political leanings.  In the first decade of the 20th century, a memo circulated at the facility mentioned finding reason to detain "Jews, Slavs, Italians, and Socialists".

At various times, other ethnic groups and political ideologies were targeted: Irish and "Oriental"; Radical and Anarchist.  Of course, as New York City already had large populations of Jewish, Irish, and Italian immigrants, it would have been unpopular to codify the discrimination into policy.  Instead, officials working at the island would selectively over-enforce some of the admissions criteria.  A person who might pass through the line as a sane Protestant might be detained as an insane Jew.  A minor past criminal offense might not be troubling in a Spaniard, but might be cause for concern in an Italian.

Thousands of prospective immigrants were detained in the Baggage and Dormitory Building between 1909 and 1924, when the Immigration Act of 1924 placed extensive restrictions on immigration.  The "Golden Door" slammed shut, and the entire island took on what had previously been the function of the Baggage and Dormitory Building: detention and deportation.  Now, this building was only one of many that could be used to house undesirables in preparation for shipping them back to their countries of origin.  Immigration to the United States of America was now severely limited among class and ethnic lines.


View of another of this building's many communal dormitory areas.



In addition to the large dormitories, there was a corridor of individual rooms that could each accommodate two detainees.



The interior of one of these rooms, with "clean" mattresses left rolled and ready for the next time the room would be used - a day that never came.



Mattresses were sterilized in bulk in giant autoclaves in a room on the third floor of the building.

The final residential use of the Baggage and Dormitory building is perhaps its darkest.  On December 8, 1941 - the day after the bombing of Pearl Harbor - the first group of German, Italian, and Japanese who were American citizens or legal aliens were rounded up and brought to this building.  Ellis Island was to become an internment camp as well as a detention facility for the usual suspects.  When the Baggage and Dormitory building was full to capacity with people who had committed no crime but to belong to a particular ethnic group, the internment camp spread out to much of the rest of the island, including the former hospital complex.

While the history of the internment of Japanese Americans is a well-known tale, and the subject of numerous apologetic gestures by the United States government towards those sent to the camps, it is not as well known that Germans and Italians suffered similar fate.  Across the United States, over 10,000 German Americans and 3,000 Italian Americans were interned.  Many of these came through Ellis Island, which served as a sort of waystation for processing those under internment and relocating them to the various camps scattered throughout the nation.  Approximately 600-800 "enemy aliens" would pass through Ellis Island per month during the height of its use as an internment camp; most would be sent to other facilities, but some remained on the island for years.  Because of the ethnic makeup of New York City, most of these were of German or Italian descent.

After the war ended, "enemy aliens" were released from the interment camp, and although the European conflict had ended a year earlier, it was only then that the Italian and German detainees were freed.  Internment remained a contentious and polarizing issue for many years; finally, in 1980, President Jimmy Carter created the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians - specifically to study the issue as it pertained to Japanese Americans.  Beginning in 1990 under the supervision of the George H. W. Bush administration, payments and official apologies were made to surviving Japanese Americans interned in the United States.  To this day, there has been no official recognition of the internment of European Americans labeled as "enemy aliens", and no similar offer of compensation.


A rotting pile of mattresses sat in a corner of the Baggage and Dormitory Building from the time of its vacancy until 2011, when the building was cleaned out, stabilized, and boarded off.

After its use as an internment camp, the Baggage and Dormitory building was left largely vacant, although it was still maintained until the island closed for good in 1954 and was completely abandoned.  Even as the nearby Main Building was completely renovated to the tune of $150 million, and the Hospital Complex was stabilized and cleaned up some years later, the detention building of Ellis Island remained untouched, slowly taking on more and more water damage, until 2011, when it was stabilized, cleaned out, and boarded off.  Perhaps there is a reason for this; while the Main Building saw 98% of prospective immigrants pass into America and thus represents hope, and while the Hospital Complex saw many prospective immigrants convalesce to the point that they were able to enter and thus represents healing, the Baggage and Dormitory Building has no such positive context.  It was, always, a building first and foremost for detention.

And perhaps, when more funds are secured, it too should be reopened as part of the Ellis Island National Monument.  Classism, racism, and anti-semitism are a part of the American story just as much as the "melting pot" concept we learned a glossy version of in Social Studies classrooms.  Internment was a reality of our national conduct during the Second World War.  These aren't happy stories, but they are fundamentally American stories, and they deserve to be told.  The Baggage and Dormitory Building at Ellis Island would be a wonderful place for the telling of these tales.

Trenton State Hospital, Forst Building

View into patient room and down corridor during civil twilight.


Trenton State Hospital - currently known as Trenton Psychiatric Hospital, and formerly the New Jersey State Lunatic Asylum - is one of the most historically significant asylum campuses in America. The first asylum constructed according to the Kirkbride Plan, it was also the first erected due to the advocacy of Dorothea Dix. The main building was designed by John Notman, and completed in 1848. In the mid-1960s, the grand administrative section was demolished, and replaced with the utilitarian modern structure known as the Stratton Building.

A good ways to the southeast of the main building, past a disused swimming pool and baseball diamond, two large buildings stand next to a cluster of smaller cottages. The Marquand Building is still fully operational, although disconnected from the services of the physical plant far to the northwest; this building administers the cluster of active cottages nearby. The larger Forst building, a three-story building next to Marquand, has been abandoned for decades, and it is something of an enigma - with little reliable information readily available, the only clues we have as to its history are those we can read into site visits and photographs created during site visits.


Large patient bedroom during nautical twilight.


Whereas most of the buildings featured on this blog have well documented histories that can be confirmed through multiple primary and secondary sources, there is almost no information readily available on the Forst Building, save what can be learned from analyzing the structure itself. The only references to the structure online are documents pointing to plans by the State of New Jersey to demolish it in the near future. Annual reports from the asylum from the end of the 19th and first decade of the 20th centuries make no reference to this building, nor does the overview report of the State Hospital system from 1965. A 1913 annual report mentions the construction of a nurses' home somewhat removed from the campus - but this could equally refer to Forst, Marquand, or a number of other structures extant and demolished.

From architectural clues - the layout of the Forst Building, the methods and materials employed in its construction, and the mix of utilitarian design with a few architectural flourishes - a few things can be inferred, though they cannot be assumed without further evidence. The building was likely constructed some time between the 1920s and 1940. The unsecured and intact windows, of clear and even glass, help confirm that it is not much older, as well as giving clues towards its purpose - it's very possible that it was originally a staff housing building, and if not, it certainly wasn't a secure ward - it may have been a minimum-security ward for convalescent patients. In the central wing on each floor, there is a large room with an unadorned brick fireplace. This works with either theory - these could have been the common areas shared by nurses or orderlies living in the building; alternately, they could have been lounges for staff on break, or dayrooms for patients, although the large rooms at either end of each floor seem more suited to the latter purpose.

Artifact clues paint a clearer picture of more recent uses of the structure, and give a ballpark timeline for its abandonment. On the first floor, there are piles of literature concerned with addiction and recovery - suggesting that the final use of the building was as an inpatient rehab facility. Indeed, the layout of the structure itself would have lent itself quite well to this purpose. Most artifact evidence points to abandonment in stages; while the southern wing of the building is nearly devoid of objects in situ, the central wing still contains beds, furniture, and a small scattering of patient belongings, and the northern wing is basically cluttered with things left behind, suggesting it was the last section of the building to be vacated. The majority of items left on the top two floors suggest an abandonment date in the mid-late 1970s, with the exception of a newpaper from the early 1980s - this could, of course, have been left by an interloper. Evidence on the first floor, including office machinery and paperwork, points to its use into the early 80s - it's possible that the first floor was still in use after the top two were vacated.


The central hallway connecting the three wings of the building, showing extensive roof damage, taken during civil twilight.



A closer look at the roof damage, taken mid-day five years earlier.



The top landing of the staircase in the northern wing during civil twilight.



Top-floor hallway junction highlighting water damage to roof.



The top-floor lounge area in the central wing, with a simple brick fireplace topped by a somewhat ornate wooden mantle.


The northern wing of the structure is littered with artifacts ranging from patient clothes to half-full jars of barbecue sauce, cleaning products, books, and other assorted things that were not removed by patients when the building was abandoned.


A typical room on the top floor of the northern wing of the building; a dresser has been emptied out, and various objects have been left amidst the fallen plaster.



Under a table, a toothbrush and small plastic bottle sit among plaster and paint chips.



The artifacts found throughout the northern wing are quite varied in type - here, a seashell sits next to a can of hairspray and a pair of denim jeans on a mouldering carpet.



A well-preserved lampshade hangs precariously off the edge of a utilitarian table.



A pair of Nike shoes - apparently predating their iconic "swoop" logo - sits on a table next to a patient bed.



Several closets still contain clothing, among other belongings - here, a pair of pants remains folded over a rusting hanger.



A pair of refrigerators - which still have containers of various food items inside - sit inside a room that was presumably a communal kitchen, although no stove or sink was present.



A crutch still leans against the wall next to a bed.


Many of the patient rooms in the central wing still contain beds and furniture, and in the northern wing, many still contain belongings. This suggests relatively rapid abandonment, and the fact that apparently useable beds, refrigerators, and other furniture and appliances were not removed for use in other buildings or state facilities helps to confirm this.


Sunrise streaming across door into patient bedroom in central wing of the top floor.



Each room had a metal tag with its numeric designation stamped into it - the fact that metal tags were used, as well as the layers of paint which made it onto the tags, suggest that they were either an original feature of the building or an early addition.



The patient in room 1 was likely a devout Christian. Or a devoted Elvis fan.



A passive-aggressive note was left on the door to room 2 by the housekeeping department, and later added onto by the fire department. Five years later, the note was gone.



A typical patient bedroom, with two blacklight posters still attached to the wall. By five years later, the blue poster had been removed, and the artifacts in the room rearranged, likely by a photographer looking to create an interesting (but artificial) scene.



A damaged feather pillow - a stark contrast to the cheap synthetic or horsehair pillows found at most asylums. This pillow was later placed in the room with the blacklight posters, probably as part of an arranged photograph.



This bedframe still had a shipping tag from the manufacturer attached. As the tag refers to the facility as "State Hospital" and not "Psychiatric Hospital", it predates 1972.


The southern wing of the building is nearly bereft of artifacts; none of the rooms contain beds, and only a few objects of any sort remain. This suggests that this was the first ward vacated while the building was being closed down.


Hallway in the southern wing of the building, with view into a room containing one of the few remaining artifacts - a medical work desk.



A typical empty room on the top floor of the southern wing. Although evidence points to it being the first ward abandoned, it is also has the most intact roofs.



Another southern-wing room, demonstrating the colors from the overgrown windows and reflection from the bricks of the building cast upon the plaster wall.



Second-floor hallway in the southern wing. The unsecured transoms above the doors provide further evidence that this building was never a medium- or maximum-security ward.



The chair beside this tub is clearly marked so that it was not removed to a patient's room or common area.



This top-floor southern-wing bathroom has suffered significant water damage, and has created an environment conducive to the invasion of climbing vines.



The second-floor landing of the heavily decayed southern staircase; vines have climbed in through a window on the switchback landing and made their way down the stairs.



The first floor features a hallway with various psychedelic paint designs on the walls; here, the paint has mostly covered an old hand-painted guide pointing towards the fallout shelter.



A wooden chair in one of the hallways; this was almost certainly placed here by another photographer to create an artificial scene - note the fallen plaster upon the chair, and the lack of similar plaster surrounding it.



This first floor classroom contained a small number of desks, as well as some literature on drug rehabilitation - it could have functioned as a meeting place for Narcotics Anonymous meetings.


There's only so much that can be learned from site visits without actual documentation - and so, my readers, I call upon you to please email me with any information, anecdotes, suggestions for sources, etc, so that I can firm up the history of this unique and interesting building which still resonates with the feel of the Age of Aquarius.


The now-missing "Afro Love" poster that once adorned a patient's bedroom. This poster was printed in 1974, and thus it can be inferred that this building was vacated no earlier than this year.