Tuesday, June 26, 2018

Losing Our Ellis Island Ideals

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” This is the message our ancestors read as they entered the United States.

Ninety-eight percent of us are descendants of an immigrant. What if your heritage determined whether you were allowed in? What if your culture, your color, your beliefs, your sexuality got you arrested as you landed on Ellis Island or turned away at our borders? The only ones denied entrance were the criminals and the sick, to avoid spreading illness to our young country.

To some, that sounds preposterous. To others, it sounds like history repeating itself. To anyone who is not a white, Anglo-Saxon heterosexual male, America has not always been accepting of you. Women, for centuries, were second-class citizens. No voting rights, owned by their husbands, unable to buy anything of true value (land, for example), and expected to fill a role outlined by her station in life. Today, while women seem to have attained equality, we clearly are not. You need only look at the pay of CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, or the number of them who are male vs. female. Or our highest positions in government. For true equality, remember the definition – Equality is treating everyone the same and can only work if everyone starts from the same place and needs the same help. Equity is giving everyone what they need to be successful. 

Our nation was once founded on that principle. Let’s have equitable opportunities for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Except that it wasn’t.

As soon as the boats landed, we began killing Native Americans. When we realized how horrible that was, instead, we shoved them onto reservations and said, “Here, we’ll give you a small piece of the land you once roamed freely.”

Our founding fathers owned slaves, sold them for profit, and denied them an education. And when slaves wanted their freedom and tried to escape, they were beaten and often lynched.

Years later when we were appalled at the Nazis’ concentration camps, while we built our own internment camps for the Japanese.

After 9/11, we rounded up thousands of Muslims and shipped many to Guantanamo Bay, guilty until proven innocent. And innocence didn’t always warrant freedom. Then we shocked and awed Iraq, a country that had nothing to do with the 9/11 attacks. We couldn’t. The bin Ladens had decades-long ties to the sitting President’s family. Thanks to the internet, these connections could no longer be hidden. http://listverse.com/2018/01/06/10-bush-bin-laden-connections-that-raised-a-few-eyebrows/

We’re fickle, we’re reactive, and we possess selective memories. For many years, we rejected the sick to prevent the spread of disease. But now? Now, that sickness is brown-skinned hope. Hope for people who once possessed the land we took from them. We are deporting a people who once possessed the very city I’m visiting in California. Mexico once inhabited most of what is now California, New Mexico, and much of Texas. So when people insist we “send them home,” perhaps we should consider what that means. We welcome the wealthy immigrant flying in from Europe, but we push away those walking in chasing the American dream.

Despite our nation’s administration insisting, “Family Separation is necessary because smugglers and gang members are using kids to get into U.S,” those people account for less than 1% of who enter. Empirical evidence supports it – immigrants are less likely to commit crime. Most are who work our shrimp boats, our fields, our factories. One southern Texas family said on Fox News last week, “Without migrant workers, I will struggle to get shrimp boat workers. They work hard, they never miss a day of work, and they fill a necessary need in south Texas.”

When Secretary Nielsen said, “In the last five months, we have a 314% increase in adults and children arriving at the border fraudulently claiming to be a family unit.” While true, contextualize that. That is less than 1% of those who come through our borders. AND let’s put all of this in perspective. There are families who have been here for years, have full-time jobs and yes, they pay taxes. They are raising families, have children going to our schools, and trying to make a better life for themselves. When we spout off to become a citizen the right way, many are doing just that. But it takes years.

So now, we are tearing children away from their mothers and fathers, shipping parents back to Mexico. Border patrol workers are horrified by what they’re being asked to do. One at Falfurrias, Texas said the “zero tolerance” immigration policy makes him feel like a Gestapo officer.

Viral photo June 2018     


                                     Children sleeping who’ve been taken from their parents.

And the similarity is easy to see. Nearly 12,000 migrant minors are in our care, and images of them being yanked from arms of parents, put into cages, sleeping on the ground…how can we look back at our history and be appalled, when we’re re-creating it?

These Holocaust photos look eerily familiar…


Zero tolerance is not the stance this country was founded on or built believing, even if we didn’t always employ it. Our first presidents were immigrants. And every single American reading this is a descendent of an immigrant, unless you are 100% Native American. It is our American right to be informed, but it is our human responsibility to be educated.

We can still strive for equity, if not equality. When someone is looking for opportunity, what does it mean for us to say no? By taking people who have lived here for years and sending them back to Mexico yet keeping their American-born children, who are we becoming? A nation that builds walls, deports split-apart families, and slams a door on children wanting a better life?

I guess it all depends on which country you’re coming from.





Friday, May 25, 2018

Mother's Day Motherless

My first Mother’s Day without my mom, 
only a few days after the 14th anniversary of Daddy’s death, 
     emotions fill me, 
          consume me, 
                drive me to the keyboard 
     reminding me why I write.  

I write to share the depth of loss swelling inside me. 
I write to release this sorrow that could consume me. 
I write to relate what many before me have known… 
That just because Mom is gone doesn’t mean she’s gone.  

I write to convey a love only mother and child can share 
I write to connect with others who’ve known the loss of family 
I write to soothe the ache that builds, 
     that fills 
          that spills all around me 
When all I can think about is the loss of a childhood. 

What I can’t remember about growing up is gone 
My firsts are no longer a phone call away 
                I don’t know what memories are lost but I know I’m lost.  
Without parents, 
am I still a daughter? 

My mom quoted often, 
"A son is a son until he takes a wife but a daughter is a daughter for all of your life."  

But what about after? 

The ache will ease but the loss is permanent. 
I lost more than my mom.  
      I lost my connection to my past, 
          to my childhood
               to 20 Lake Drive.  

With so many friends who are part of my circle, 
I’m not without family.  

But I am now an orphan.  

And nothing I write will change that. 
But it’s a salve I need now more than ever.  

Thursday, August 31, 2017

Keeping Life in Perspective

Today, on a morning radio show in mid-Missouri, a DJ was talking about being too busy to bother answering a survey about racism in America. "Folks are on their way to work, they don't have time to try to convince people they aren't racist...if you're not racist, you shouldn't have to prove to everyone it's true. People are busy, they're trying to get to work, to drop the kids off, to deal with life...they may not have time to answer some silly survey." Listening, I was first angered by his glib disregard for the role activism has and can play a role in this country. No one is ever too busy to be an instrument for change.

Then I was at work, listening to two professors discuss politics, each on opposing sides of today's wide divide. "No matter what middle America says or does, it doesn't matter," one of them said. "Big business and the top 1% control it all. Our votes don't count." Both men nodded, agreeing on this point. I wanted to shout, "Wow, as white men, your vote has always counted...it's women, minorities, the oppressed who've known what it's like to not have our vote count, shame on you!" I wanted to tell these men to open their eyes, to be present, to strive for equality for all and to be tolerant and accepting and don't waste any opportunities to save the world.

After my class ended, I drove back to Columbia to see my mom who lives in a memory care unit.

Her face lit up when she saw me, but she was careful not to say my name. Because she wasn't real sure who I was.

I sat with her while we listened to Father Jerry give a quick sermon, during which she kept trying to tear the Psalm's handout she was reading because she said she needed it for the puzzle she was doing (no puzzle existed).

I helped her to the lunch table in her wheelchair, but kept having to remind her to raise her feet. She kept forgetting that her feet on the ground kept the wheelchair from moving.

I got her set up at the table, but she kept trying to fold part of the tablecloth and a piece of her blue jeans, saying she needed to get them fixed, did I have a needle?

Her tablemates passed around a pencil, circling what they wanted for lunch. When it got to Mom, she looked at it and picked it up with her left hand. Instead of her usual right hand, she attempted to circle with her left then dropped it, giving up. I asked what she wanted and circled the items for her. Then she resumed messing with lining up the table cloth with her jeans.

When her food came, she picked up her fork with her left hand, passed it to her right, held it in her fist, then set it down. She had forgotten how to use it. I cut up her meat, offered her a bite, and she said, "No I'm full, I already ate before I got here...let's go home." Another employee came, gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze, and Mom said, "Will you tell her to leave me alone?" She was talking about me, because I was trying to prompt her to eat. I got up and hugged her, told her I loved her, and she beamed, "I love you too, Lou Lou." Her use of my nickname made me ache and I had to hurry out while I could still see to walk.

Once I got to my car, I realized how important those hugs and each "I love you" are.

No matter how frustrated we get with social justice issues or how angry we get over the political climate in America, there's nothing that will keep life in perspective more than to see your mother losing herself. I want to crawl into her brain and free her, let her out, let her go. She wants to go. I see it in her eyes. Her will to live has diminished to a blip. For our pets, we consider it humane. For our people, we make them suffer.

It helps to remember that life isn't fair, that someone else has a tougher go of it, and that in the grand scheme of things, life is brief. Love every day...love life, love your family, love yourself. It matters. Tell those you love how you feel. Show them. And above all else, keep life in perspective. Loving those close to you matters. It's really all that matters.