A/N: This is written in response to a challenge which asks for a songfic to Boulevard of Broken Dreams, by Green Day, and states that it must be about how one of the less-written-about newsies became a newsboy. The title means "My name is Dutchy," and I've tried to translate the German that is used in italics. For example, "Du bist ein fauler Junge," my Vater often said. You are a lazy boy."The italics translate the German phrase. Vater is, of course, father and Mutti is the German equivalent of Mom or Mommy. Lastly, this story is dedicated to my friend Charmd, whose eyes went very wide at the thought of Dutchy in lederhosen. PS; the lyrics used to be in here, but now that is cracking down on songfics, I removed them.

My parents had always had great hopes for me, their youngest son. But as I failed them time and time again, I earned myself not the money, knowledge or prestige that they wanted for me but heartache, occasional beatings and, when I was sixteen, a one-way ticket to America. The land of opportunity, it was called, and it was that. I left our family farm in Bavaria, in southern Germany, to live in New York City. It was my last hope, everyone said, of really making something of myself. This time, I didn't disappoint them. I made a newsboy of myself, selling papers and sleeping on the street when that wasn't going well. I spent Sundays in church, as I always had, and spent the rest of the week debauching myself with the other boys. Those days were good, are good, but the days leading up to this boundless freedom were fraught with pain and frustration.

At home, in my town, I was known as the strange boy, the one who would rather dream than work in the fields, but my parents were determined that I would take my place on our farm.

"You stay away from that Johann Welker," Mothers would tell their daughters. "He's lazy, always has his nose in a book. There's one who will never provide for a family."

I was blond and blue eyed, like everyone else in my family, but unlike my big, strong brothers, I was thin and wore spectacles and didn't like to spend my days working in the fields. I didn't like the feeling of the sun beating down on me from above, and couldn't stand it.

"Du bist ein fauler Junge," my Vater often said. You are a lazy boy, and he would box my ears when I felt faint and had to sit down in the fields. Coming home with bruises was far preferable, however, to working until I fainted. This happened more than once. I don't know why my brothers had no problem working all day and I couldn't, but there were some days when I simply couldn't do the hard work that was asked of me and worked until the colors swirled behind my eyes and I fell unconscious.

Then, one of my brothers would carry have to carry me home and put me to bed. It was usually Otto, who was the only one of my brothers who didn't resent that I was not like him, and didn't hate me for being weaker than he. Even my Vater felt this way. It is only Otto whom I miss. Once I had been brought around with cold cloths and smelling salts, my Mutti would fuss over me and make me stay in bed until supper.

My family tried hard to assimilate me into the family business, but by the time I was fifteen it was plain that I was no farmer, and never would be. My parents tried everything they could think of. First, it was thought that I might be able to work with a local merchant.
"Perfect," my Vater said. "He likes his books, now he can earn some money liking them." But I hadn't the education to do the arithmetic required of me. My family had no money to send the useless fourth son off to school, and so that plan went nowhere. Next, they tried to find a place for me in one of the local bakeries, or a brewery, but no one needed help then.

"Es tut mir leid," we heard time and time again. I'm sorry. "We simply don't need any help just now."

Finally my parents reached their wits end. After much bellowing from my Vater and many tears from my Mutti, they decided to send me to America to earn my own way.

"Surely in America even a misfit like Johann can find a way to make a living for himself," my Vater said.

Mutti only cried when he made the announcement at supper one night. "Mein Sohn, mein Sohn," she sobbed. My son, my son. Mutti had always wanted a tochter, a daughter, but instead had four boys and held them all the dearer because she had no girls. Of my brothers, only Otto looked sorrowful. Hans and Sebastien just looked relieved. I was a burden on them and I knew it, but couldn't they at least put on an appearance of regret? No, only Otto would miss me.

So, two weeks after my Vater's pronouncement, I packed a small sack and boarded a ship for America. Actually, I rather enjoyed the journey, and wish to sail again some day. Unlike many of the other passengers, I was barely seasick at all. After spending the first night bent over the rail, sick to my stomach, I became accustomed to the rolling of the waves and never had another problem. I was one of the lucky ones, too. My friend, Günter, was often seasick. Nevertheless, I had few problems on that voyage, once my stomach settled, for every person on the boat spoke German, as I did, and so I had no trouble getting about.

It wasn't until I left the ship that I encountered my first problems. From our ship, we were taken to a processing center, where they would record our names, ages, countries of origin and the like. That was the first problem- I spoke no English and the examiners spoke no German. I was poked and prodded and pulled at for fifteen long minutes as they checked me for diseases. One of them took my shoes off to look at my feet, then examined my hands and arms while another looked in my eyes and felt my forehead and looked at my ears all at once, it seemed. Finally, however, I was allowed to put my shoes back on and leave for the next room.

It was in this room that I truly had the most trouble. Here, they wanted my name, age, place of birth and all sorts of information. However, they asked me these things in English, of which I understood none and spoke even less.

"Name, name," the man shouted, but I didn't understand. Who knows what good he thought it would do to yell at a frightened boy who was not deaf, but who would never understand him anyway. At last, just as I was ready to climb back aboard the ship and go home to a place where everyone could understand me, a tall woman in a long dress entered, looking authoritative.

"Ralph Allin, that boy isn't going to understand any better for having you shout at him," she said. "Let me help." I didn't understand the conversation until she turned to me and smiled.

"Guten tag," she said. Good day.

I was floored. "You speak German!"

"I do," she replied.

"Thank goodness. I was beginning to think I'd never get out of here."

"Yes, I'm sorry about Ralph. I'm afraid he's not the most patient person you'll meet here." That was evident from the way Ralph was watching us, his arms crossed and an annoyed look on his face.

"Now," she continued. "I need to know your name."

"Johann Welker," I told her, and she wrote it down.

"Age?"

"Sixteen."

"Where were you born, Johann?"

"Bavaria, in Germany."

"Any medical conditions?"

"None."

She finished scribbling the information down, and placed the forms on Ralph Allin's desk. "Here you are, Ralph," she said in English before turning back to me. "Welcome to America, Johann Welker."

She showed me through a door, and, ushered along by various others, I finally entered New York City.

Unfortunately, being on my own in this strange city presented a few new problems. My first problem was about six feet tall, with a round hat and the indistinct beginnings of a moustache.

"Hey, kid," he snapped when I accidentally stumbled into him.

"Ich verstehe nicht," I said. I don't understand.

"You makin fun of me, kid?" he snarled, shoving me against a wall.

"Ich verstehe nicht!" I repeated frantically, hoping this idiot would get the point. He didn't, and he hit me hard in the stomach. I would have fallen, gasping for air, had he not been holding my up, one hand shoved into my chest and making it that much harder to gasp for air. He hit me a few more times, and I knew from past experience that I would black out soon if he didn't stop.

Suddenly, his hand left my chest and I heard a thud or two. There were some rude sounding words in English, which I didn't understand but didn't think I should repeat. Then, a boy was kneeling next to me, looking concerned.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Ich verstehe nicht," I wheezed, hoping he would be more understanding. "Ich bin Deutscher." I'm German.

"Okay… Dutchy. Come with me," he said. I didn't understand, but he helped me to my feet and led my down the street, motioning that I should follow.

Dutchy? I thought. But I'm not Dutch, I'm German! He must have misunderstood. Deutsch… Dutch… it must all sound alike to him.

We ended up in the front room of a small building that was positively teeming with teenage boys. They all seemed to be talking at the same time, and all in English.

"Kloppman!" someone yelled, seeing me. I wondered what he meant.

At last, an old man came down the stairs, muttering something in English.

"New boy, eh?" he said.

"Hallo," I began politely. Suddenly, light dawned in his eyes, and he began speaking to me in German.

"Do you speak any English?" he asked, abruptly.

"None. What is this place, and what do they want me here for?"

"This is the newsies lodging house."

"What is a newsie?"

"A boy who sells papers. All these boys are newsies- you can join them if you like."

"What must I do?"

"You go every day to the Distribution office, where they buy the papers. If you have money, you're all set. If not, one of the boys will loan you some until you can pay him back. You sleep upstairs for a nickel a week, and sell papers during the day. We'll pair you with one of the boys until you learn enough English to go out on your own. We'll send you with Snitch," he indicated the boy who had brought me here. "Have they given you a nickname yet?"

"Well, that boy, that… Snitch, called me Dutchy. But I'm not Dutch!"

"He must have mistaken 'Deutsch' for 'Dutch'. I hope you like the name, boy. You'll never get rid of it, now that they call you that."

He introduced me to the other boys, who all had names as strange as the one I had been given. Only Jack and David had real names. The others used nicknames like Snitch, Bumlets, Pie Eater and Racetrack. Of the other boys, only Crutch's name was obvious. Despite the names, they were all very friendly and, using a funny pantomime that kept us all in stitches, I was invited to join a card game. I was nearly uninvited when the discovered that I was good at it.

And so my life as a newsboy began. It's been about a year now, and I can speak English rather well now. I'd like to go back to my native Germany someday, but being a newsie doesn't pay very well and I think it will be a long time until I can do that. Meanwhile, I write letters home to Mutti and Otto, who is thinking about coming over here in a few years, once he is married. I know the girl-they'll be a wonderful family, and I've offered to meet them once they reach New York. I've never reconciled with Morris Delancey, they boy who welcomed me with his fists that day, and it worried me until Snitch informed me that he dislikes all newsies on principle, and that it's nothing personal. I've managed to get in a few hits of my own, in various run-ins since. All in all, it's a good life I now lead, and far from the one I was afraid I was destined to all those months and miles ago.