I live in a busy city in Texas, a border state with Mexico, and I see many refugees where I live. They're often families with children, selling flowers at street corners or asking for money at busy intersections.
My great grandparents were Italian and Polish immigrants. They labored in the coal mines of Pennsylvania and factories of Ohio to give their families a better life. My father's maternal ancestors were Irish immigrants fleeing the famine.
I often wonder what it was like for them, leaving the only world they knew for the hope of a better one. And I wonder what's it like for my new neighbors, and the promise that sent them to Texas.
Life is so complex today, and it's heart breaking when our political differences trump our humanity. We don't have a shared understanding about how we honor each other and live as a shared human family across the divides of cultures, borders and countries. As we live into this understanding, I think it starts with seeing - to truly see each other. And perhaps to offer another a bit of the help that has been given to us.
PS - I just discovered this beautiful song, Refugee, by Laura Baron. The music video is especially touching. You can watch and listen here.
Room at the Inn
"There is no room in this country for hyphenated Americans.” - from a speech given by Teddy Roosevelt in 1915 *
My great grandfather was a coal miner
in the Pennsylvania mountains. When
the miners went on strike, they didn't eat.
The Red Cross brought my great grandmother
rice and butter which she buried in the yard.
If they'd brought her olive oil and flour
she'd have cooked a feast. At Ellis Island
Zaccagnini become Zack. At the grammar school
Damasiewicz became Demser. At the Ford
Motor Company Poles and Slovaks were told
to abandon their traditional clothing
in a giant pot. They came out reborn,
dressed in suits and carrying American flags.
Today a woman in a worn head scarf and skirt
stands at the stoplight, her daughter in a stroller
beside her. Another daughter hides her face
from the too fast traffic. Between her
broken English and my broken Spanish
we say hello. As I hand her the cash in my wallet
I wonder about the woman who brought
my great grandparents rice. Whatever kindness
was given to them, I pray, shower it on her.
Let her know there is welcome in this land.
* The quote at the beginning of the poem and the story of the melting pot at the Ford plant come from David Dean's essay Roots Deeper than Whiteness. All credit goes to him.
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