This is the story of a boy named Friedrich Mayer. His family was part of a movement called the Forty-Eighters. They migrated from Munich to Cincinnati in the year 1848. At the time of their immigration, he was 12 years old.

Munich, April 1848

Father says we are moving to America. I ask him why, and he says simply “for democracy.” I don’t question him further, because I know he will elude the issue again. He occupies the liberal circles of the university, dreaming of a unified and democratic Germany. I admire his ambition.

Munich, April 1848

My cousins have made this journey before. We correspond through lengthy letters that take months to arrive. They tell me the trip was long and boring, but everyone there was kind to them. I hope they are as similarly friendly to us.

Hamburg, May 1848

We boarded the SS Augusta Victoria today, setting off from Hamburg. Father managed to buy us first-class board. We have a nice view of the tossing waves and frothing foam. It will be our only scenery for weeks. Yay.

Galveston, June 1848

We arrived in Galveston, Texas. Such a bizarre name. The people talk slow, like they are consuming honey. My family is staying with a farmer close by. He grows cotton and owns four black slaves. America really is a free country, it seems....

Galveston, August 1848

Father says we're going North, to a place called Ohio. He has found work there at Cincinnati University. We will again travel by waterway, which will take a couple of days. I wonder if the people there talk any faster.

Cincinnati, September 1848

Cincinnati is a city of Germans, it seems. Our next-door neighbor also was from Munich, the neighbors across the street came from Berlin, and the grocer spoke fluently in German to us. It feels rather like home, now. German is a fast language, after all.

Cincinnati, September 1848

It was my first day of school here, and I didn't understand a single word. The slow English was a blessing, apparently. There is a black girl in our class, Marie. She read my passage for me, when she realized I knew less English than a chicken. The other kids haven't been as kind.

Cincinnati, June 1849

The school year was not nearly as difficult as I had imagined it to be. It passed quickly, mostly without incident. English was, predictably, my worst subject at first. But Marie sat with me everyday at lunch, reading to me her primary school textbooks. Quickly, I began to appreciate the language. And Marie too, I guess.