We
Are All Immigrants
We all came from somewhere
else. Maybe not in this generation, but
somewhere in the not too distant past, we came from somewhere else.
This week, my country celebrated its
political beginnings, a time of rebellion and war, a time of rising up against
an imperial, oppressive power, and going ahead on our own.
America was a different place in
1776, thirteen separate colonies. Slavery was an accepted economic reality, and
times were hard. Only white men who
owned property could vote, and earning a living meant hard physical labor and
going without much of what we would think are necessities.
Back then, we welcomed immigrants:
new blood, new energies, new ideas. We
needed more farmers, more merchants, more people in the cultural melting pot we
have come to know as America. And, the
America today is a result of all of those waves of immigrants, and the optimism
and challenges that brought our ancestors here for a new beginning.
On our nation’s birthday, just
before my neighbors decided to shoot off their fireworks at dusk, a photo
showed up on my phone. My friend had
landed at an American airport, and he had just passed through immigration and
customs.
The photo told the story: his face ablaze
with the biggest smile. He held a paper stamped with the date, and the words
“inspected”. It was official. He was now a documented resident of the USA,
a big step to becoming a citizen.
Becoming a citizen in this country
now is a challenging, difficult journey, far different than when my dad made
the trip to the local courthouse, filled out a form, and quickly became
“legalized”, a citizen.
My friend’s journey is longer, more
convoluted. It involves a lot of
expensive paperwork, and a flight to another country and back again. And, he’s only halfway done with the process,
even though he came here when he was seven years old.
Now, years later, he’s a college
student, and has a career, a marriage. He is finding his way, focused on a
profession, giving back to his community, showing his younger siblings they,
too, can live the American dream.
His story is my family’s story,
too. This anniversary day of
independence, of throwing off the oppression of an unjust government, the
shackles of poverty and hopelessness, of coming to a new land and being able to
work hard and make a new, better life for yourself and your family, is the
American story.
It is my story, and now, it is my young
friend’s story.
Some of my ancestors left the
sweatshops of an English woolen mill, becoming farmers in their new land,
working as farm laborers on an unforgiving Iowa farm in the Midwestern heat. They became citizens, raising a new generation
of farmers, Americans.
They took the Oregon Trail, finding a new
land, and their own farm, becoming homesteaders, new Oregonians. As a child, I heard my grandmother tell the
stories of carving out a farm in the forest, a winter spent in a leaky shack
with a canvas roof. The next summer,
they built a cabin and a barn, herding their new cows for a week through the
forest to their new farm.
After the barn and the cabin, they built
a school, taking their hard earned money to hire a teacher and educate their
kids. Those immigrants, those refugees from an English woolen mill, they built
a new life in a new world.
My grandfather came here, too, yet
another immigrant, fresh from a prisoner of war camp after the First World
War. There was nothing for him where he
had come from, except poverty and disease.
Coming to American offered hope, opportunity, a new beginning. He, too,
worked as a farm laborer, learning English after a long day, taking the steps
to become a citizen.
On the other side of the family,
there are other stories, of pulling up stakes and moving to a new land, the
promise of education, the value of hard work and adjusting to challenges, the
possibilities that came with America’s promise.
Looking back, I see that all my
family were immigrants. Coming to
America, making your life better, working hard, it was who we were, and who we
are.
Looking around, I see that my town
was built by the sweat and commitment of immigrants, newcomers who didn’t take
opportunities for granted, but were willing to work and make this community
their home.
American immigration isn’t just
Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.
Not eighty miles away from here, over 100,000 immigrants came to Oregon
through the Knappton Quarantine Station on the Columbia River, from the 1880s
to the 1920s. We are literally a nation
of immigrants, refugees seeking a better life.
They came seeking what my friend
wants: opportunity, freedom, a chance to be part of a great freedom-loving
nation.
We celebrate the Fourth of July, and
in doing so, we also celebrate our history of welcoming others, to make this
nation even stronger, even more a land of opportunity.
My family all wanted the same thing:
opportunity. They wanted justice, and
freedom from violence and a dead-end, oppressive life. They wanted a chance to prove themselves, and
make a better life for their kids. They
were willing to work hard, and make sacrifices.
They built farms and schools,
created communities, and raised their kids.
They worked hard, and helped make this country strong and healthy, a
place where the rule of law and individual rights are common values.
My friend wants that, too. He sees a bright future for himself and for
his family here. He’s working hard, and
wants to do his part in making America an even healthier, stronger place, a
place where freedom and justice for all is just not a political slogan, but a
deeply held belief, and an aspiration for all of us.
--Neal
Lemery, July 6, 2016cr
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