A Place at the American Table

My maternal great grandmother came to the United States from Germany when she was just 14 years old. She traveled alone, sent with a small collection of items to begin her new life in America. I know almost nothing about her, except that she told my grandmother never to marry a German (a sweeping declaration I found confusing as a child).  Today, generations later, my sole link to her is a dark, claw-footed table that sits in my sunroom. Some days I wonder why I didn’t ask more questions.

It’s hard NOT to think about one’s immigrant roots these days. It feels like a time to consider all the “what-if’s” and “but-for’s” of our cultural and national lineage.

I was born into a middle class family here in the United States of America. I didn’t have  to haul water for my family or sell fruit in a market as a child. I went to school and learned how to read and write (arithmetic – well, I tried). I had enough food, shelter and love to grow. I had more than I needed.

As an adult, I’ve kept the middle class foothold I was granted at birth. My husband and I own our home and (with some help from family) our daughter has graduated from college debt-free (listen to my gigantic sigh of relief). No, we don’t summer in the Hamptons or belong to a country club, but we can afford Netflix and dinner at Constant Spring (as if anyone could ask for more).

Mine is a fairly ordinary American story. At least for a white American with a not-too-distant immigrant past. This nation has absorbed and nourished generations of immigrants. Although I say that with the knowledge that my German great grandmother visually “blended in ” to a majority-white America.  Many immigrants from the countries identified and targeted by the current presidential administration don’t.

Admittedly (yes — ADMIT it), our past is littered with racial and ethnic transgressions that I can’t possibly do justice to here… but at least our rhetoric has tended toward generosity. In my lifetime, our national words have been of pride, but also of diversity and inclusion; of loyalty to country, but also of openness. We have celebrated the differences the world brings to our shores, our prairies, our purple mountain majesties.

But now, our language flirts with arrogance and aggression. Say it out loud, this new slogan: “America first!”.  It reminds me of Shel Silverstein’s “Ladies First!” poem, the one about the little girl who demands to go first all the time. As you might guess, it doesn’t end well.

Say it again: “America first!”.

Does it feel right in your mouth? In your ears? Is this who you want to be?

Not me. It makes my bones heavy and my heart sag, this phrase. This way of being. This sending “back” of people who live among and with us, who came here for work or love or hope.

If the current political climate doesn’t hurt your heart (oh, please say it does), perhaps it should hurt your head. Both nationally and locally, we need immigrants. Just imagine Goshen without its many Latino-owned shops and restaurants. County-wide, we are short-handed in the labor market, with the RV industry in need of thousands of workers. At a recent luncheon in Goshen, the Chamber of Commerce president voiced concerns to Rep. Walorski about the potential negative economic impact widespread deportations could have in Elkhart County.

In short, forcing out significant numbers of our residents will weaken us. If we don’t stand up for and with our immigrant neighbors, we could lose them — some through deportation — and others because they seek out communities where they sense more support than we’ve mustered for them here.

Yes, now is the time to consider the “what-if’s” and “but-for’s” of our past.. and our future.