\\<\/iframe\>Dear immigrant,
No, not you, brand-new to America. You, the middle- or upper-class guy whose ancestors came over on the Mayflower, or through Ellis Island. I’m going to tell you my story. I’m a second-generation American on my dad’s side. We’re Italian; my dad’s dad came to America when he was 8 and, later, did what many immigrants do: he worked blue-collar jobs, as did his two oldest sons. Our family paid it forward: the parents sacrificed to make their kids’ lives better. He had four boys, who had nine children. Of those nine, three of us have (or will have within the year) post-graduate degrees. One of us has her doctorate. One of us is an engineer; another is a mathematician. Two of us work with children. Our grandfather’s legacy is a family of Americans who love to be American.
And yet, we would not have allowed his family in today. Yes, he came here legally — laws made that easier 100 years ago — but in his bloodline was a thief who was hanged in Italy and a man convicted of taking kickbacks from the Italian government.
I come from criminals and religious refugees.
The New York Times — that liberal rag so denounced by so many extreme conservatives — once said rattlesnakes made better neighbors than Italians. A mob in New Orleans hanged a group of Italian immigrants.
My maternal grandmother, the sole non-Italian in my blood, comes from German Jews. Her family fled Germany, leaving behind land, a paper mill and Jewish persecution, for a new life in the United States. Her father was born here, but when she married my grandfather, an Italian, his family treated her unkindly. No need for that kind in America. His people hadn’t arrived here that long before, and yet, they didn’t want “others.”
We all came from immigrants, and everyone already here either feared, hated or feared and hated the newest boatload of us.
I come from criminals and religious refugees.
Had Donald Trump been president, I would never have been born. My cousins would never have been born. Our parents would not exist. My great-grandfather would have died in a Nazi concentration camp; my father’s father would have lived a pitiful existence, with no dreams or hope.
My America means hope, not hate. I implore you today to remember who we are as Americans and stand with me — with all immigrants — in honoring the spirit of America, the values that allowed my family to become Americans and the greatness that comes from our beautiful melting pot.
Please don’t vote with hate.
Yours in heritage, Cathy
This article appears in Nov 3-10, 2016.