A Bridge Between Two Worlds

Dorothy Day, Staten Island, and the Ferry That Immortalized Her Journey

Whatever else she may have been called, she was a New Yorker.

Her gaunt figure was a fixture on Mott Street at the Catholic Worker house, where she could be seen with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, her heart perpetually outstretched to whoever crossed her threshold.

She bore the weight of her ambitious vocation calmly, but humanly. And when the burden grew too heavy, she would flee to the place that held her heart, with its salt air and gentle breeze and restless shores.

Staten Island.

In the early days, it was more no-man’s-land than borough. The north shore congested with tugboats and barges steaming upon the Arthur Kill. Snug Harbor, where the sea captains of old sat crookedly on their benches, regaling anyone who’d listen with tales of the high seas, having put out to sea for the last time.

And the west shore…the dreaded west shore…the garbage dump of the city, with its mountainous landfills heaped high. A gift from its cousins, Brooklyn and Manhattan. But a favorite haunt for returning seagulls as they picked their way through the refuse.

But the south shore. There, where the land peaked between the lighthouse at Sandy Hook and the Rockaways, gazing wistfully at the sea like a mistress waiting longingly for her lover’s return.

It was there, upon those shores, that Dorothy Day would find peace and salvation.

Throughout her life, she returned again and again to that rock-laden, sandy shoreline of this outcast island. From her tiny bungalow in Huguenot to the cabin at the Spanish Camp, she would write, pray, and recollect herself.

It’s questionable whether Staten Island has ever been referred to as Heaven.

But it was as close to it as any place on earth for Dorothy.

So to stand upon the gently rolling deck of the ferry that bears her name is to connect to her spirit in a unique and intimate way.

When she would board at Whitehall, a stone’s throw from Our Lady of the Rosary in Lower Manhattan, home to another saint, Elizabeth Ann Seton—she carried the weight of the world. The struggles of her heart. The shortages of food, money, patience. All those things that St. Joseph House, Maryhouse, the farms needed to survive.

But as she stepped from the dock onto the wide steel ramp, as the lines were slipped and the rudder turned, as the harbor breeze increased while the ferry’s hull cut through the storied waters of New York Harbor—a little of that weight would ease, replaced by a hint of peace, a glint of hope, and the promise of moments of solace to soothe her weary soul.

And after a time, some fresh-caught fish, the old coal stove, her writing, her soul would be restored.

If only for a moment.

When she boarded again at St. George on Staten Island, the cutting breeze now from the northeast as the vessel plotted its return to the birthplace of New York City, perhaps she felt a sense of melancholy, as one leaving a beloved behind. Perhaps mixed with thoughts of a future return, and the bittersweet solace that thought bears.

And as the ferry loomed toward the silently awaiting pier, the thick chains thundering with the gangway’s release, announcing arrival, she would once again cross over the threshold from solace to struggle.

The bridge between these two worlds…a mountain of floating steel called the Staten Island Ferry.

When the City of New York announced the commissioning of a vessel bearing her name, they enshrined—immortalized—this journey.

Today, the ferry bearing her name continues this endless voyage for countless thousands. A bridge between work and home, loved ones and responsibilities, struggle and solace.

For Dorothy May Day and those who sail upon her namesake, the timeless words of Christopher Columbus ring true: “El mar concederá a cada hombre una nueva esperanza.” (“The sea will grant each man new hope.”)

And as her lines are cast off, as the throaty whistle pierces the salt air, the 320-foot-long, 7,200-horsepower MV Dorothy Day pushes out into the waters in the shadow of the Statue of Liberty—free again, bringing souls to their destinations.

Just as the Servant of God Dorothy Day lived to do.

Only the destination she strived to bring people to was, in fact, Heaven.

Cabin on Staten Island — Weathered and small, it leans quietly between fences and modern homes, clinging to memory. Cabins like this once lined the shore, and here Dorothy Day found refuge — a place to pray, to write, to begin the long turning of her heart. The original house she called her own is gone now, erased by development, but this one lingers like a ghost — a fragile witness to beginnings no bulldozer can erase..

Maryhouse, New York City — The doors are weathered, the paint chipped, the windows plain. Nothing here announces greatness. And yet, behind these walls, Dorothy Day welcomed the lost and forgotten with the stubborn mercy of the Gospel. A single red chair waits by the entrance, like a sentinel of ordinary Grace.

Joseph House, the table — Plates of food, cracked chairs, a cross on the wall. Men and women lean close, sharing a meal in a room cluttered with boxes, stacked crates, worn edges. Nothing about this place is polished — yet everything is holy. For here the hungry are fed, the lonely are known, and the Love of Christ stretches across battered tables.

Alley Mural, behind Joseph House — A riot of color splashed against crumbling brick: people marching with cross and banner, Our Lady of Guadalupe watching from painted hands. Garbage bins line the alley, carts and clutter pressed close. Still, the mural proclaims its truth: Christ walks among the poor, the weary, the unseen. Even here, hemmed in by walls and waste, the Gospel will not be silenced.

Dorothy Day’s grave, Staten Island — A stone sunk low in the earth, carved only with her name, her dates, and two words: Deo Gratias. Around it, plastic flowers fade, small statues keep vigil, tokens of love scatter like prayers. No marble, no monument — only this quiet patch of grass where the poor and the powerful alike come to remember. Death did not erase her witness; it only made it shine clearer.

“Love and ever more love is the only solution to every problem that comes up. If we love each other enough, we will bear with each other’s faults and burdens. If we love enough, we are going to light a fire in the hearts of others. And it is love that will burn out the sins and hatreds that sadden us. It is love that will make us want to do great things for each other. No sacrifice and no suffering will then seem too much”. - Servant of God Dorothy Day

A Note to My Subscribers:

I owe you an apology—and an explanation.

Over the past eight weeks, our family has walked through some difficult valleys. The kind that pull you away from everything else and demand your full presence. I’ve been called away to provide support where it was needed most, and honestly, there simply wasn’t room for much else.

I’m grateful to say that things are beginning to improve. Light is returning. And within the next few weeks, I hope to be back to producing the weekly articles you’ve come to expect.

Thank you for your prayers, your support, and above all, your patience. In a world that moves so fast, your willingness to wait means more than you know.

God bless,
Jeff