An Immigrant Story
All of the recent discussion of immigration and various proposals in Congress for "guest workers," forced deportation, and the criminalization of undocumented aliens reminded me of the story of a typical immigrant. For the purposes of this writing, we'll call him Juan.
Juan arrived with his sister (we'll call her Elena) in America after a long journey that cost him his last penny and then some. His father and ailing mother back in his country could do little to help him financially, but the economic reality of his homeland made the perils of a journey to America seem like his best chance for a better life. So, with his elder sister, at the tender age of 23, Juan risked all to come to America.
With some help from the local immigrant community in Rhode Island, Juan was able to secure work. It was day labor at first, but eventually he was able to find factory work, which paid better. Most of his co-workers were also immigrants, but as luck would have it, they were from a country other than his, and spoke another language. Still, Juan worked hard, gained the respect of his boss, and eventually managed to move into a low-level supervisory position.
Meanwhile, Elena worked as a domestic servant for some of the wealthy American families in the city. She and her brother boarded in a marginal house, along with another two families. They made the best of it. The work was hard. There was no health insurance, no retirement plan, no benefits of any kind. There was only hard work for a minimal wage, but they were happy to have it. Things were certainly better here than what they had left behind in their country.
About four years after coming to America, Juan married a girl who had recently come to America from his country (we'll call her Catarina). They soon had a child, named Juan after his father, but an accidental burning led to the child's death at age two. There was really no medical care accessible to them, and had there been, perhaps the child would have lived. Another son was born three years later, and this boy was named after Juan's father, Miguel.
A few years later, Juan learned that his mother had died. His father, with his only two children in America, resolved to come and settle here to live out his years with his children and grandchildren (Miguel had been followed by three younger sisters by this time, with a fourth to come). The elder Miguel managed to make the journey, and lived out his final eight years surrounded by family, passing away at the age of 83.
Work at the factory was hard, and the difficult conditions coupled with the poor and increasingly cramped living situation, made Juan susceptible to disease. Eventually, he developed an upper respiratory infection that worsened steadily. With his family depending upon his factory income, and with no savings, he forced himself to continue working until he could no longer find the strength. By this time, his condition was grave. Within a few days, he died at the age of 53. His son, Miguel, was now 24, and it fell upon him to support his mother, aunt Elena, and four sisters.
But Miguel was an American citizen, the first of the family (apart from his elder brother, Juan, who died young) born in this country. He was proud of his country, and when the call went out for the defense of this nation, he enlisted in the Rhode Island National Guard, eventually being promoted to Sergeant.
Now, a few adjustments...
Let us remove the name changes. Juan's actual name was John. Miguel was really Michael, and Elena was actually Ellen, while Catarina was Catherine. The last name of the family was O'Shea, and the year John arrived in Rhode Island was 1881. These are my ancestors. This is my family.
When I consider the uproar over immigration today, I think on the tremendous adversity that my own family faced to come to the United States, to work in difficult conditions and carve out a new life for themselves. I remember how they, in so many ways, built the nation we have today. And, I remember that today's immigrants are doing the same thing, for the same reasons. Why must we assume that these immigrants will be any different? Why do we assume that their children won't cherish American citizenship, fight and die for this country, or become teachers, police officers, lawyers, or even President?
They are not different. They are simply the last to come through the door.
We should not ignore the security of our borders, nor should we grow complacent about reasonable procedures to make immigration orderly and to screen out criminals and those who would do us harm. But let us remember that we are overwhelmingly a nation of immigrants and their descendants, and those of us who arrived earlier should regard the newer arrivals with a modicum of humility, and a sense of awe that America still holds such an enduring promise of a better life for so many thousands upon thousands.
-PMÓS
Juan arrived with his sister (we'll call her Elena) in America after a long journey that cost him his last penny and then some. His father and ailing mother back in his country could do little to help him financially, but the economic reality of his homeland made the perils of a journey to America seem like his best chance for a better life. So, with his elder sister, at the tender age of 23, Juan risked all to come to America.
With some help from the local immigrant community in Rhode Island, Juan was able to secure work. It was day labor at first, but eventually he was able to find factory work, which paid better. Most of his co-workers were also immigrants, but as luck would have it, they were from a country other than his, and spoke another language. Still, Juan worked hard, gained the respect of his boss, and eventually managed to move into a low-level supervisory position.
Meanwhile, Elena worked as a domestic servant for some of the wealthy American families in the city. She and her brother boarded in a marginal house, along with another two families. They made the best of it. The work was hard. There was no health insurance, no retirement plan, no benefits of any kind. There was only hard work for a minimal wage, but they were happy to have it. Things were certainly better here than what they had left behind in their country.
About four years after coming to America, Juan married a girl who had recently come to America from his country (we'll call her Catarina). They soon had a child, named Juan after his father, but an accidental burning led to the child's death at age two. There was really no medical care accessible to them, and had there been, perhaps the child would have lived. Another son was born three years later, and this boy was named after Juan's father, Miguel.
A few years later, Juan learned that his mother had died. His father, with his only two children in America, resolved to come and settle here to live out his years with his children and grandchildren (Miguel had been followed by three younger sisters by this time, with a fourth to come). The elder Miguel managed to make the journey, and lived out his final eight years surrounded by family, passing away at the age of 83.
Work at the factory was hard, and the difficult conditions coupled with the poor and increasingly cramped living situation, made Juan susceptible to disease. Eventually, he developed an upper respiratory infection that worsened steadily. With his family depending upon his factory income, and with no savings, he forced himself to continue working until he could no longer find the strength. By this time, his condition was grave. Within a few days, he died at the age of 53. His son, Miguel, was now 24, and it fell upon him to support his mother, aunt Elena, and four sisters.
But Miguel was an American citizen, the first of the family (apart from his elder brother, Juan, who died young) born in this country. He was proud of his country, and when the call went out for the defense of this nation, he enlisted in the Rhode Island National Guard, eventually being promoted to Sergeant.
Now, a few adjustments...
Let us remove the name changes. Juan's actual name was John. Miguel was really Michael, and Elena was actually Ellen, while Catarina was Catherine. The last name of the family was O'Shea, and the year John arrived in Rhode Island was 1881. These are my ancestors. This is my family.
When I consider the uproar over immigration today, I think on the tremendous adversity that my own family faced to come to the United States, to work in difficult conditions and carve out a new life for themselves. I remember how they, in so many ways, built the nation we have today. And, I remember that today's immigrants are doing the same thing, for the same reasons. Why must we assume that these immigrants will be any different? Why do we assume that their children won't cherish American citizenship, fight and die for this country, or become teachers, police officers, lawyers, or even President?
They are not different. They are simply the last to come through the door.
We should not ignore the security of our borders, nor should we grow complacent about reasonable procedures to make immigration orderly and to screen out criminals and those who would do us harm. But let us remember that we are overwhelmingly a nation of immigrants and their descendants, and those of us who arrived earlier should regard the newer arrivals with a modicum of humility, and a sense of awe that America still holds such an enduring promise of a better life for so many thousands upon thousands.
-PMÓS
posted by Patrick O'Shea | 9:55 PM
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