"Give me your tired, your poor-" Restrictions apply?

I love the foreign food aisle at my supermarket. I get to indulge nearly all of my odd culinary fetishes there, bringing home exotic spices and unmitigated heartburn. Heinz beans from Great Britain, dolmades from Greece, and rice noodles from Thailand. It was there today that I gained a bit of food for thought, as well.
Sometimes I wish I could take a photograph of an instance. Here I was, of Italian descent, browsing the Indian food section, while directly behind me was a beautiful dark haired woman- in full Indian dress- selecting Italian food. Neither of us spoke to each other as we made our selections and went our opposite ways down the aisle- she with spaghetti and pesto sauce, me with dal tadka and tikka masala.
But I had to smile. For this, this tiny inane glimpse into life in mid-Ohio, is what America is about. The melting pot, land of diversity, safe harbor for the oppressed. In recent years, Americans have gotten a bit more sensitive to all the different races crowding our shores. Of course it has something to do with the alleged terrorist attacks on New York and the Pentagon. I’ll be the first to admit that I cringed whenever I saw a turban or headscarf for a while after that- who didn’t? It’s more than that, though. We seem to feel that we are some sort of privileged people here, and privileged people rarely want to rub elbows with the severely underprivileged. Why else do wealthy people live in gated developments?

Growing up, I learned to be wary of all other nationalities.
“Greeks: can’t trust them,” my father would recite during one of his unending monologues, “never trust a Greek. And black people, especially those punk boys, don’t even look them in the eye. They’re only trouble. Asians are always cheap…”
You get the idea. He would complain about the babble of Spanish heard in the mall we operated our jewelry store from. He would get really paranoid the second any black or Mexican youth would come into the store, no matter how decent they appeared to be. He taught me to be suspicious of all races foreign. My father- the immigrant.

He came over here just like many of them, on a boat, as a child, looking for a better life. In Italy, his father had been a bicycle repairman, working like a dog but barely able to support his family. Hearing of his in-laws’ success in Canada, he sold everything he had to make the move. Loading his young family on a boat in 1955, they sailed across the Pacific and ported in Chicago, settling soon thereafter in Detroit. Nonno (my grandfather) found a good job in a tool and die shop that supplied the automobile industry. He worked in that shop for over 30 years, while my Nonna raised four children in Harper Woods. Growing up, I would hear them all arguing in Italian, my Nonno’s loud gravelly voice carrying over everyone else’s; breadsticks, olives and butter on the table in front of us. I have always been incredibly proud of that- my heritage, our family’s story.
Their neighbors were all immigrants, too. My dad’s best buddy growing up was a Polish boy, and there were many Italians, French, Czechs, and Poles in that part of Michigan. They all found a better life here- religious freedom, prosperity, peace. My Nonna can fill your head with stories of the bombs dropping on her village in Italy. That was one of the nice things about America, she says, she knew there would never be another air raid siren once she got here.

So how does someone who has been given such a chance become such a bigot, when most others are only seeking the same thing? I can’t answer that, but I know it’s not an isolated case. When I lived in Ann Arbor, the church I went to had a Korean service. An entire room in the basement would fill with these wonderful people, and if you lingered after the English service upstairs, you could hear them down there, under the sanctuary, happily singing and worshipping together in their native tongue. What’s that, you say? You’re in America, learn English? Isn’t that a bit moronic? Maybe if you’re in England, learn English.
America has little of its own culture or identity, why suddenly claim one? Why are we so protective of a lifestyle that we’ve made up like a patchwork quilt? Isn’t there room for more bits of calico and plaid? As these people learn English, they are certainly welcome to converse with each other in their comfortable familiar language. I know that if I were ever to be an expatriate, I would want to continue using English when possible, as well immersing myself in whatever language(s) spoken in my new home. And I would hope that the natives would welcome me with a just a bit more warmth than some of us offer strangers.

Immigration reform is the war cry today. Sure, it’s wrong for these people to come to America with their children and families and take advantage of our welfare system. I don’t see anyone doing anything about the American citizens who abuse it, though. I don’t think it is fair to hold people to two different standards: you, foreign leech on society, you don’t deserve food stamps- you native leech- here you go! Oh, popped another kid out? Here’s more money, a house, and college!
Don’t get me wrong- America has borders, and there are laws to get in properly. Stricter enforcements need to be put into action; there are people here who have gotten here the proper way. Several generations of both my own and my husband’s family have papers to show their naturalization. They came here, they learned our language, they integrated into our society, they took the vow. This is how it should be. But those rules do not give us party to abuse, incarcerate, or malign those who have not yet followed these steps. Many of these people are escaping awful situations in their homeland: abject poverty, genocide, torture, war, rape, filth. Who are we to deny them care and support? Who are we to demand they come here speaking the language that we ourselves brought with us from another foreign country? Who are we to demand they remove their sacred head coverings and vestments? Are we the same dictators from whence they just fled?
Thank these people for the colors, textures, cultures, and variety that they bring to our land. If something strikes you as wrong- a religion or way of dress or speech, ignore it as you would some other people group native to us. Welcome them. Their native crimes are not welcome here, as they are not welcome in their homeland- polygamy, genital mutilation,
-but don’t let isolated incidents taint your view of any people group. Every different country in the world is represented in this land, making the most colorful and varied of tapestries. No one deserves more or less of the American dream for the length of their citizenship.
All of you who can allow yourself to hate the stranger on your shores can slap a flag on your car and congratulate yourself on your imaginary patriotism. I choose to know America for what it is meant to be- a land of opportunity. For everybody. And that, my friends, is what love of this country is really about.

You can find me in my local supermarket, buying borscht.

Labels: bigotry, diversity, foreign policy, immigrant, immigration, patriotism