Some morning thoughts on Trump's wannabe Nazism, food dehumanization, and how immigrants around the world believe in us even when we stop believing in us
I grew up in Toledo, Ohio. My father served in the US Army in the South Pacific where he met my mother, a nurse, in Sydney, Australia while recuperating from a wound. He married my mother after the war. My mother’s parents had emigrated to Australia from England and Ireland after WW1. So we were a family of immigrants. My father would often drive us around the city of Toledo and point out to us where the immigrants lived, the Polish, the Hungarians, the Italians, the Greeks, the Jews and the families of the Mid Eastern land of Lebanon. We would frequent the restaurants of these immigrants enjoy tasting new foods and listening to the accents. We were just youngsters but it was always an adventure and we grew up with a birds eye view of the hard work of immigrants, their dreams coming true and the freedom we all experienced being with each other. Those experiences gave us a sense of belonging to something bigger than our city of Toledo but also the reason people come to America for jobs, a better life and to bring the riches of their communities to us. We are a land of immigrants and we need to appreciate what it means to accept others and envelope the richness of other’s cultures.
Why aren’t people being challenged to ask where their parents and grandparents came from? Census data states about 25% of all Americans have one or more grandparents who are immigrants. What is the fear, resistance and problem to asking Americans where we are originally from, how we came to America, and just looking at who lives next door, works with us and attends same schools as our children?
I grew up in Toledo, Ohio. My father served in the US Army in the South Pacific where he met my mother, a nurse, in Sydney, Australia while recuperating from a wound. He married my mother after the war. My mother’s parents had emigrated to Australia from England and Ireland after WW1. So we were a family of immigrants. My father would often drive us around the city of Toledo and point out to us where the immigrants lived, the Polish, the Hungarians, the Italians, the Greeks, the Jews and the families of the Mid Eastern land of Lebanon. We would frequent the restaurants of these immigrants enjoy tasting new foods and listening to the accents. We were just youngsters but it was always an adventure and we grew up with a birds eye view of the hard work of immigrants, their dreams coming true and the freedom we all experienced being with each other. Those experiences gave us a sense of belonging to something bigger than our city of Toledo but also the reason people come to America for jobs, a better life and to bring the riches of their communities to us. We are a land of immigrants and we need to appreciate what it means to accept others and envelope the richness of other’s cultures.
That LINE... That hit me so hard. Yes. And folks line up the night before to be there at 7 AM.
Why aren’t people being challenged to ask where their parents and grandparents came from? Census data states about 25% of all Americans have one or more grandparents who are immigrants. What is the fear, resistance and problem to asking Americans where we are originally from, how we came to America, and just looking at who lives next door, works with us and attends same schools as our children?