Oak tree
By Linda Engelhard
Sun contributor
As I take in news reports about ICE raids and fearful immigrants in my community and around the country, I wonder how many of us know our own family immigration histories. My father was firmly committed to family and shared with us what he knew of their journeys. He was the son of new immigrants, born in the now famous Springfield, Ohio, 98 years ago. At that time, his mother was miserable. She spoke only Dutch and had no one to talk with except my grandfather, the man who had convinced her to cross the Atlantic in the belly of a ship. She gave him a choice: buy her passage back to the Netherlands or move to Michigan near other Dutch immigrants.
They soon moved to Michigan. The new home was helpful for my grandmother, but not for the whole family. When school started, my father was the boy who did not speak English. A few older boys constantly bullied him and threatened to shove his head into the outhouse toilet. He was miserable every single day, never daring to use the bathroom. As he lay dying 80 years later, he recalled those painful memories once again.
As the daughter of that oak tree of a man, I smile when I think of those bullies watching my father grow into a man with biceps that looked like grapefruits. Did they keep their distance, wondering if he would seek revenge some day? He could have but did not, despite the depth of the wounds those boys inflicted. The first time he shared those painful experiences with me was one day when I had shared some of the stories my immigrant students told during my decades of teaching English to language learners.
Fast forward to the news stories of today. A president who demonizes immigrants and falsely accuses them of crimes. Self-promoting politicians are intentionally putting the lives of children and their parents at risk because sadly, not everyone who hears them bothers to check whether or not their stories are true. Threats of putting someone’s head into an outhouse toilet were traumatizing, and so are death threats made by people who believe malicious falsehoods and carry automatic weapons.
Except for indigenous peoples, we are a nation built by immigrants. Being an immigrant, with or without documents, is hard work. My grandparents contributed three builders, three farmers, a seminary grad, a nurse, and an artist to this country’s economy, just in the first generation. The parents of my immigrant students worked at difficult, often low-paying jobs that few native-born Americans wanted — installing roofs in the heat of summer, cleaning restaurant kitchens and restrooms, and pushing floor scrubbers in commercial buildings late at night. When I spent a few days in a hospital last year, at least half of the caregivers – nurses, physicians, technicians — spoke with an accent as they helped me regain my health. The politicians who demonize immigrants do not understand our economy or our American history and principles. Nor are they willing to do the hard work of fixing the system. Immigrants who want to follow immigration laws often wait for decades before their credentials can be heard in court.
Emma Lazarus understood our country and the need for compassion toward immigrants. At the base of the Statue of Liberty, her poem, “The New Colossus,” reminds us of our calling as the descendants of immigrants.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips.
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
If only we could see in the faces of those traveling to our borders a glimpse of our own immigrant ancestors. What kind of people would we hope might have greeted our grandparents after their long journey to a new land? Maybe compassionate people of faith who knew how to be a Good Samaritan? Maybe people who remembered the Golden Rule, to treat others as they would wish to be treated?
Surely we can find common ground by believing that we are neighbors who treat each other with respect even if our perspectives are different. May we recommit ourselves to being communities and a nation with open arms and open hearts for the tired and poor both in our neighborhoods and in our world.
