Immigrant Connections to Rhode Island’s Rivers: More Than Just Recreational
PROVIDENCE — For Melvin, who grew up in Liberia, water was life itself — food, safety, ceremony, and community. The river fed crops, filled fishermen’s baskets, washed clothes, and quenched thirst. Every child learned to swim because survival depended on it; when the water rose, no one waited for a boat.
As a boy, Melvin (the last names of immigrants and refugees in this story have been withheld to protect their privacy and safety) watched men haul up fish from woven bamboo traps in the St. Pau River’s currents. He helped his mother buy fish with handfuls of grain, played along the banks, and let the river’s cool current relax his joints after long hours in the garden. Water was also sacred. Families brought grieving parents to the river to wash away the spirit believed to have caused a child’s death. Water cleansed, protected, and carried tradition.
So when Melvin arrived in Rhode Island and saw the Pawtuxet and Blackstone rivers, he saw more than recreation — he saw reminders.
“Fishing, boating … it gives enthusiasm for life,” he said. “It makes your mind feel free.”
Yet the rivers here were not like the rivers of his childhood. Plastic bottles drifted along the surface. Sometimes he saw dead fish. And there were warnings from the news that these waters were not always safe.
“You can’t just go into the river here,” he said. “Not the same.”
Similarly, Ruth, who immigrated from the Dominican Republic in 1973, recalls spending entire days by rivers in her hometown.
“We go all day, all day in the river cooking, laughing, eating mangoes. The river was beautiful — clear. You could see the bottom,” she said. But the cold rivers of Rhode Island disappointed her.
“I want to go in, but I can’t. Too cold. I’m stuck.” She said she often spends hours listening to the running water.
“It relaxes me,” she said. “But I wish I could go in.”
These stories illustrate a broader truth for many immigrants and refugees arriving in New England: water access is more than recreation. It is a safety net for mental health, and a sense of belonging. Yet it is also not something they can enjoy to the fullest extent.
Proximity to water, or “blue spaces,” has been shown to benefit mental health. Marine biologist Wallace J. Nichols described the “blue mind” effect: the cognitive shift and calm that occurs when people are immersed in or near water. A study from the University of Exeter showed reduced anxiety, lower emotional fatigue, and even decreased heart rate among people who spend time near rivers, lakes, or coasts.
These benefits are especially significant in a world where mental disorders are among the leading causes of global health-related burden. They are even more critical for immigrants and refugees, who face disproportionately high mental health risks, including four times the rate of PTSD compared to native-born populations.
It is evident that these immigrant populations value the time they get to spend by the water. It heals them and makes them feel connected to more than just an activity, but to ancestors and community. Immigrant and refugee communities, especially those with strong cultural ties to water, could become powerful partners in restoration and advocacy if barriers such as access, language, and transportation are addressed.
This water knowledge, referred to as Funds of Knowledge, includes skills or traditions that immigrants bring from their home countries to new environments. In the context of rivers and coastal environments, this knowledge could include fishing techniques passed down through families, spiritual and ritual practices involving water, boat handling and watercraft traditions, and foodways connected to marine and freshwater resources.
These patterns appear across the United States. Along the Gulf Coast in Louisiana, the shrimping industry was transformed and sustained by Vietnamese refugees who brought generations of fishing expertise with them. Closer to Rhode Island in New Bedford, Mass., the nation’s most profitable fishing port, the scallop and groundfish industries have long relied on the maritime knowledge of Cape Verdean, Portuguese, and Azorean fishing families.
Historically, Rhode Island’s waterways have supported vibrant fishing communities, but Garcia-Quijano said there are no well-documented cases of immigrant or refugee communities specifically in Rhode Island translating traditional water skills into economic enterprises. By tapping into these funds of knowledge that immigrants carry with them, Rhode Island could both honor cultural heritage and enhance environmental knowledge, promote public health through increased engagement with rivers and coasts, and strengthen local economies, he said. Without such integration, the state risks underutilizing the unique knowledge and skills that immigrants bring, especially when almost 15% of the state’s population is made up of immigrants.
Barriers and adaptation
The waters in Rhode Island don’t fully carry the cultural practices that once thrived elsewhere. The cleansing rituals Melvin remembers, or the water offerings once made at Liberian ceremonies, are largely absent. “Cultures are different,” he said. Garcia-Quijano noted he still occasionally sees flower bouquets by rivers and knows of a few Puerto Ricans that carry on Santeria traditions meant to honor spirits and bring blessings.
Clement, founder of Women’s Refugee Care, recalls his ancestors in the Congo performing river ceremonies, leaving food, or tossing beer into the water as offerings. But in Rhode Island, he said, “I no longer see this here.”
Rhode Island, with its 400-plus miles of shoreline and network of rivers, offers more water access than many inland states. Still, the water here is different from many Caribbean or African countries: it’s colder, rockier, and supervised. Many interviewees were deterred from going to rivers because of security personnel such as police or rangers, who are not found around rivers in their home countries, or seasonal restrictions that they didn’t know how to navigate.
Some claimed that fishing licenses were expensive. It was hard enough to find the time and spend the money on transportation to get to the river, so having to pay an additional fee to fish turned them away. Some never learned to swim back home and feared they or their kids would drown. Others, such as Ruth, fear pollution and hesitate to step into water they can’t see through. But the single biggest deterrent from going to the rivers was time.
Shirley, from Liberia, remembers rivers as places of laughter and games with friends, all trying to dunk each other, yet she hasn’t visited a river in Rhode Island. Her responsibilities looking after her children and working keep her from the rivers.
“No time,” she said simply.
Parents balancing multiple jobs, education programs, and children say they have little time to reach rivers.
Despite the barriers, those that are used to the water persist. García-Quijano noted that even when Rhode Island’s rivers are polluted, cold, or inconvenient, some people feel an innate need to seek out good waves, go fishing, or simply listen to the water flow.
If they really need the water, “it takes a lot to deter a person from going out there and being in the water,” he said. “You see toilet paper floating by, but you’re like, man, this is terrible — but the waves are good.”
This determination is both empowering and troubling. The Narragansett Bay Commission reports that while water quality has improved dramatically since the 1980s, stormwater runoff and combined sewer overflows still contaminate parts of the Providence River. For newcomers who don’t know about the condition of the water or may not know enough English to read headlines or news about the risks, they could be unknowingly diving head first into potential health issues.
“The more people that use the waterways, the more attention there is to pollution issues,” said García-Quijano. “A forgotten waterway that nobody uses is easy to pollute.”
Ultimately, experiences with Rhode Island’s rivers vary dramatically among immigrants and refugees, shaped by their water-centric countries of origin. Those from inland regions, such as Burundi, often do not seek out rivers in Rhode Island and tend to be more unfamiliar with where to access them. In contrast, people from coastal or riverine areas such as Cambodia, Puerto Rico, or the Dominican Republic, describe water as central to daily life and identity, making access essential for both recreation and well-being.
Sam, for instance, who is from Cambodia, goes to the water every day. Despite considering herself low-income and relying on a food distribution on Saturday mornings, she finds ways to save for the things she loves. “I love the water. I love to swim.”
The top countries of origin for immigrants in Rhode Island, which include the Dominican Republic, Guatemala, Portugal, and Colombia, are all countries that are connected to the ocean on at least one side. It is likely not coincidental that those who grew up loving and surrounded by water choose to immigrate to a state where coastlines and rivers are ever-present.
For María, who grew up on the southern coast of Puerto Rico, the fisheries and water shaped her identity. After a 10-hour shift in a Connecticut kitchen, she will drive an hour away, past strip malls and suburban sprawl, to reach a narrow bend of the Connecticut River where she fishes. Even a thousand miles from the Caribbean, she refuses to let go of her connection to the water.
“If she had moved to a place without a river or ocean,” her son-in-law said, “I don’t think she would have lasted long.”
Garcia-Quijano recounted Puerto Ricans who moved to inland cities only to return home because they couldn’t continue their lifelong practice of fishing, even when the financial opportunities in the United States were better.
For those like María, the Pawtuxet, Blackstone, and Providence rivers are more than recreational space — they offer a connection to the rhythms of home. For individuals who grew up with water as a core part of survival, culture, or ceremony, the restorative effects are amplified: access to rivers not only promotes relaxation and exercise, but also reinforces cultural memory, identity, and a sense of continuity across continents.
This story was published as part of a collaboration between ecoRI News and students in Brown University’s Science Journalism class. The stories examine the science, history, and human experiences connected to the Ocean State’s rivers — from water quality and wildlife restoration to flooding, pollution, social justice, and the communities working to protect them. To read more of these stories, click here.
