“Do not oppress a foreigner; you yourselves know how it feels to be foreigners, because you were foreigners in Egypt.”
Exodus 23:9 (New International Version)
Immigration! It’s the word that’s been on just about every American’s lips these days and a lot of the talk isn’t very nice. An issue that should be bringing out the best in us turned us into bitter rivals? Our southern border has become a seive, with multitudes entering the country illegally. Our poltical leaders seem to be approaching the issue with blind indifference to the will of the American people. Our immigration movers and shakers seem to be down right incompetent. Is Alejandro Mayokas, for instance, the type of leader who inspires confidence in those of us who are pleading with him to fix things? I think you know the answer to that question.
This is where we are. Our immigration system is a mess. It shouldn’t be that way, but it is. How, then, should, or could, it be? What would it take fo fix it?
I realize I’m just a front line troop in the third line trench, but I believe the solution to our immigration problems revolves around three ideas – opportunity, a willingness to work hard, and integration. An immigration system with those three core elements can, and will, succeed. It’s worked before in our history and it can work again.
For most of our history we have walked a fine line between acceptance and suspicion when it came to strangers coming to our shores. Our own individual histories taught us that America was a land of plenty, flowing with “milk and honey.” We believed there was room for everyone in this country. That sentiment was expressed admirably by Emma Lazarus, whose stirring words are inscribed on our Statue of Liberty that graces New York Harbor:
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
While the words of the poem are noble, if has often taken us time to live them out, particularly when it came to immigrants or strangers.
I can’t speak directly to the issue, but I am well acquainted of how difficult it was for my forebearers when they came to America. I’m the son of an immigrant woman from Newfoundland and a Irish-American man who grew up in Boston. My mother came here in about 1920. She had very little education (third grade) and even less money, But she was armed with grit and determination. She believed this country was a land of opportunity. My father died when I was six years old, but over the years I learned that, for all his problems. He was a loyal American, a man who wanted desperately to join the Marine Corps when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor on December 7th, 1941.
As I was growing up, my mother would often tell me that my roots were Irish. Every time she told me that I’d ask, “How Irish am I?” She’d smile and respond, “You’re as Irish as Paddy’s pig.” I took that answer to heart and maintain to this day that I’m Phil Dillon and I’m as Irish as Paddy’s pig. I maintain that identity in spite of the fact that my D.N.A. says I’m only about 48% Irish.
The Irish journey from their homeland to America was long and often tortured. It started in 1690 when William of Orange invaded Ireland and laid siege to the castle at Athlone in County Westmeath. The castle was known at the time as “Dillon’s Castle.” Unfortunately, for the Dillons, or others who may have lived there, William of Orange defeated them and they fled to France.
For the next 150 years or so, the Irish were ruled by the British. In the 1840’s there was another pivotal event in Ireland’s history – the great “Potato Famine.” A massive blight came over the Irish potato crop and by the time it was over, over a million of the Irish people had starved to death. Their rulers, the British then made a fateful decision. Seeing that feeding the Irish would be quite expensive, they decided to ship them off to America in rickety sailing vessels described by Edward Laxton in his 1998 book as “The Famine Ships.”
The Irish, my descendants, have been here in this country ever since.
It hasn’t always been easy. The Irish were Roman Catholic, which set them at odds with many of their new countrymen. They occupied the lowest places on America’s social ladder of the times. In one particularly ugly chapter of those times, the infamous “Draft Riot of 1863” that took place in New York City. For several days, Irish mobs, protesting the inequities of the military draft of that time, turned he protest into a race riot. To this day, it remains a painful scar in the Irish memory.
Even with these ugly chapters, the Irish not only survied, but assimilated and flourished in America, and they did so without losing their distinctive Irish culture. The exploits of the Irish regiment called the “Fighting 69th” and their loyalty to America in World War I have become legendary. Every March 17th, America celebrates St. Patrick’s Day. It’s known as a day for “the wearin’ of the green,” parades, and plenty of Guinness. It’s the day you’ll see Americans of all social castes and races wearing buttons proclaiming “Kiss me….I’m Irish.”
The same holds true for other nationalities who have come to this county. I live in Emporia, Kansas for about twenty years. It’s a town nestled near the Kansas Flint Hills. One of the most amazing distinctives about the town is the fact that it is about twenty-five percent of its population is Latino, principally from Mexico. And, oh what wonderful assets they are to this country. I remember many morning strolls around Emporia, listening to migrants singing joyfully as they mowed lawns or nailed shingles into roof all around the town. Their joy was infectious, as was their love of their families. I always enjoyed my occasional conversations with a man named John Lopez when our paths crossed at the post office or a public meeting. Once in a while I would see his wife, Vickie at city hall, doing her due diligence to her duties as register of deeds or the county,
Like the Irish, Emporia’s Latino community celebrated “Cinco de Mayo,” celebrating a great Mexican victory over the French forces of Napoleon III at the Battle of Puebla in 1862. It has become a festive day in Emporia, with the other 75% of the city celebrating with their Latino friends and neighbors.
America has been graced by so many stories of immigrants who have come here. I think back to 1956. The people of Hungary were revolting against Soviet tyranny in the streets of Budapest. They fought courageously, but Nikita Krushchev’s tanks overpowered them. The free world took notice and many Hungarians were offered opportunities to live in democratic countries. The United States brought about 30,000 Hungarians to America in a way that wasn’t riddled with government bureaucrracy. Churches and social service agencies were asked to find American families who would host Hungarian families as they attempted to sink roots down in a new land. The program worked beautifully. While there were barriers like language and culture to overcome, the Hungarians assimilated to American life. They worked hard and contributed to the communities where they had been planted. Every once in a while at plant or office, some knucklehead would blurt out “Those damned Hungarianss are a worthless bunch.” That knucklehead’s statement was met immediately by an American worker. “You damned fool. I know Joe and I know his family. They are living with me and my family. They’re honest, decent, hard working people. Unless you’d like to out and play in the gravel with me, I’d suggest you apologize or shut up!”
I could go on and on. Our neighbors across the streets are Vietnamese. They’re delightful people. Many of them came here after Saigon fell to the communists in 1975. Some came on American transport planes. Some set themselves adrift on junks into the South China Sea. Not all of them survived the perilous journey, but the ones who did have become valued members of the American community, You couldn’t ask for better neighbors!
My son’s wife, Judy, is a first generation Laotian-American. Her parents escaped the tyranny of the Laotian communists. Their long journey to America wound its way from Laos to a refugee camp in Thailand. Judy’s parents actually met for the first time at the refugee camp. As fate (faith) would have it, they fell in love and rest is history. A generous American found them a place in America, with Ting, Judy’s father, getting a job at K.U. Medical Center. A generation later, their daughter Judy earned a PhD in School Administration and my youngest son, Michael, met and fell in love with her. They’re now married and have a son name Ronan.
I feel very blessed to be part of such an amazing convergence. We are now not only in-laws, but grandparents to a Laotian–Irish Amercan child. That’s what can happen when immigration works as it should!
There are a couple of recurring themes present in the lives of the immigrants I’ve told you about thus far. There three things that brought them here, opportunity, freedom, and a deep desire to integrate to the American way of life without losing the distinctive elements of the cultures they left.
During the early years of the new millennium, my wife and I were privileged to host young students from the Republic of Moldova, Vietnam, Colombia, and China.
While I could give you examples from our shared experiences with each of these students, there is one that stands out in our minds. It was our year of hosting a young woman from the Republic Of Moldova named Corina Nour. She had applied for and been accepted into a State Department program called FLEX, which matched prospective students from other parts of the world with American families. In Corina’s case it matched up a young woman from a former Soviet Republic with with my wife and me. At the time Corina’s approved application was making its way through the administrative network I knew little or nothing about Moldova, FLEX. or Corina. My wife and I had been on vacation and had just gotten home to Emporia. We got settled back in and my wife started reading the local newspaper to see what news we had missed while we were gone. There was a story about a need for host families in Emporia. As soon as she read it she told me that she’d like us to apply for one of the host positions. I was hesitant at first, but I could see that this was something Nancy really wanted to do. So, we applied to become hosts.
Not long after that we got a file from the folks at FLEX that included a brief profile of Corina that included an admiring essay she’d written about Thomas Paine’s “The Rights of Man.” I was really impressed. Now, I’m more of an Edmund Burke cconservatve myself, but I saw wome potential
for interesting kitchen debates with this young woman and realized how wise Nancy had been when saw this progam as a fit for us.
Whan I look back at that year I really marvel at the adventures we shared with Corina, the lessons we learned, and the love we shared. That year seemed to go by at light speed. For me, the most valuable lesson I learned about Corina was her dedication and drive to always do her best. I learned that her grasp of American history was much better than it was for her American counterparts. I was amazed at her grasp of languages. Her English was quite good, as was her Russian, Spanish, and French, and Romanian, her native language. And, her debate skills were extraordinary.
When the time came to take her to Wichia for the trip back to Moldova we had to fight back the tears. We were really going to miss her.
Time passed and we’d occasionally correspond with Corina. At some point we saw an opportunity to bring Corina back to Emporia. She’d told us she was exploring graduate programs in business. Nancy and I saw that Emporia State had such a program that might fit her need. We told her that of she wanted to come to Emporia she could stay with us. We’d under-write her first year and then when she saw more clearly how grasped opportunity and hard work can pay off in America she would be on her own. So, she took the opportunity and ran with it. And, how she excelled. I remember Nancy once telling her that she could get an occasional “B” in one of her classes, but that wasn’t going to work for Corina. It didn’t take her long to succeed beyond her wildest dreams. She became a graduate assistant and excelled at that. She would also occasionally go to the Emporia State’s Kansas City mini campus to help teach a course up there.
It all seemed so effortless. Corina always seemed energetic and happy. Then one day she came home and I saw something I hadn’t seen in Corina before. She looked like she was having a bad case of “the blues.” I asked her if she was alright and she tried, unsuccessfully, to convince me everythings was okay. I kept probing and she finally blurted out, “It’s not fair, Phil. I do all the things the professors I’m assigned to ask me to to do and then professors who have American graduate assistants come to me and ask me to help them. The American kids say they don’t have time or don’t want to do it, so they ask me to do it for them. That’s not fair, Phil!” I then asked her if she was able to keep doing it. She said she could, but it just didn’t seem fair. I told her she was right, but recommended she keep doing it. “These professors aren’t stupid. They’re well aware of who they can count on when push comes to shove. I’d bet when a really good opportunity comes up and they’re asked for recommendations for who might fit the bill for that position they’re going to remember that you were the person they could count on. So, Corina, my advice is to keep doing what you’re doing. It’ll pay off in the end.”
About three weeks after that conversation Corina got word that had earned a working internship at Cisco Sytems in California. It was a splendid opportunity and it was well earned. Corina had come to America to explore opportunity, worked hard, and reaped the rewards. She was starting on a rewarding professional path that paid very well.
Corina’s story doesn’t end there. While in California she met a young man whose parents had emigrated to America from Iran to escape the clutches of the mullahs in Tehran. They fell in love and got married in Lake Tahoe. As serendipity would have it, I had the privilege of officiating their wedding. It was the only time I have used my Masters degree in theology or my ministerial license. I will treasure that opportunity as one of the great privileges of my life.
This is the way immigration should work. My wife and I saw it with Corina. We saw those same elements at play in the lives of people like Thom, a young woman from Vietnam, QI Tan (pronounced Chee Than) from China, or Karen Martinez from Colombia and her husband Thiago Lins from Brazil. They all saw opportunity here in America, worked hard, and became integrated into the fabric of American life.
Opportunities are still available for those willing to pursue them. Less than a wek ago I met a couple of Uber drivers who had taken me to my appointments at the Veterans Administration Hospital here in Kansas City and then brought me home when the appointments were complete. One was a young immigrant from Ghana and the other was a young Ethiopian woman who had seen an opportunity, worked hard, and had integrated to our America life without losing their ethnic identities.
This is immigration as it should be.
Trragically, those threads of community seem to be fraying for a good part of the crop of immigrants that have been coming to America in recent years. Far too many are coming for some convoluted sense of entitlement that supplants opportunity and hard work. Worse yet, many don’t want to assimilate to the American way of life, with little or no desire to become part of the fabric of American life.
The problem stems, in part from the cultures some immigrants have left and in part due to what believe are foolish changes America’s political leaders have made when it comes to immigration. Our current policy, which bypasses the tried and true formula of opportunity, hard work, and integration is a disaster. And worse yet, millions are entering this country illegally, often seizing illicit opportunity or government handouts instead of working hard and integrating into the fabric of American life.
We desperately need to go back to the tried and true formula of immigration. We need to return to the philosophy that opens opportunity for immigrants, expects hard work in retturn, and the promise of a life integrated into the lifeblood of America.
It’s the only formula that will work!