Tears of an Immigrant’s Daughter

What has happened to our country of welcome and opportunity?

I woke up in tears the other day. That has happened a lot lately. A lot. My heart feels heavy, the sadness and grief are a weighted blanket, but not one that brings comfort, rather one that weighs me down with such a sense of loss and pain that it can, at times, immobilize me, freeze me, imprison me. 

I don’t know what to do lately or which direction to turn in, so I will write. I will write to allow space for the tears and pain of my soul to come out and be heard, be seen, be cared about.

A bit of my background

My parents were both immigrants. They took huge risks and a leap of faith coming to a new country, to make a better life for themselves and me. 

It was hard. My mother, the only of 5 daughters that was not yet married, was the only one that came with her parents to America when my grandfather was able to apply for them to come. She knew no one, spoke no English, left the rest of her sisters, (including her twin sister), her friends and family behind. 

My father came separately (my parents met and married in the U.S.). He worked hard to learn a trade so that he could make a living, learning plastering and bricklaying. He worked so hard. I remember him slowly walking in the door at the end of his work day, exhausted. He would clean up, eat dinner, try and watch some news, sometimes falling asleep in front of the tv, and go to bed to sleep so that he could start the same routine all over again the next day. This would be 6 days a week, sometimes 7. 

I was an only child. My mother had several miscarriages, they wanted more children, but had only one, so their love and protection was fierce, so fierce that I sometimes felt suffocated. As an elder, I understand that now. They were holding on tightly to what they had, as they had lost so very much.

The courage of immigrants

They endured hatred, name-calling (there were many insults to Italians and especially to Sicilians, who were all branded with the title of “mafia”.) And they persevered, taught me to be so proud of this country as well as my heritage. My father would make sure to take me to the 4th of July parade and fireworks, my mom would make sure to cook turkey (along with traditional Italian food) for Thanksgiving. They were grateful to this country for what it had given them. Voting was a sacred honor. 

I felt their pride and their pain and sacrifice. I am grateful for everything that they endured, what they gave me, for my life here. 

And here we are today, with mass deportations. Families, children, people who risked so much to try and get a better life and provide a better life for their families are being sent away. I am not talking about the criminals, which, I believe, are not most of the immigrants.

These immigrants are often so hard working, vulnerable, eager to do what is needed, grateful for work that others might not take, grateful for any opportunities provided, loving their families and doing their best. A woman who used to clean my home would bring me her culture’s traditional food during the holidays. My gardener/handyman would bring me a plate that his wife prepared for me on Christmas Day. The warmth and open heart of these people would touch me deeply, reaching out to me and including me. making me feel seen and cared for. 

We are a country of immigrants

Most of us come from ancestors who immigrated here. Mine are more recent, but part of that group that makes up our country. I have felt such pride in the past calling myself an American, being part of a country that welcomes others.

Yes, there is also much shame and sorrow about what has been done to those that have labeled as other in the past, what was done to the Native Americans, black people, other ethnicities and groups that were feared for their differences. It has not been a perfect history, by any means. But, we were beginning to see more and more of what our nation did to others, and trying to repair that, at least in part. The past cannot be repaired, nor should it be forgotten, as we need to learn from it. 

But our intention can be to do better, to be better. Race, gender, ethnicity, customs, love in all of its forms…we can try to learn, to include, to accept, to understand better. We have a long way to go, but we can have an intention and path before us.

And here we are now. Here we are. My heart is aching for all the people. My soul aches about the inhumanity, the division, the hatred, the pain on all sides.

The Statue of Liberty must be weeping these days. 

Our country has been a world leader, trying to work with all nations, and again, very imperfectly. And now we are building walls of exclusion. Exclusion can be done physically, financially, and a host of other ways, exclusion from common humanity, from cooperation, empathy and kindness. It seems that money and power have become the new gods, for some leaders at least. 

Grief and hope

I am deep in grief. I will let myself feel this grief, let it wash over me and through me. I am older now, and even though I hang onto hope that this too shall pass and that love will triumph, I don’t know if it will happen in whatever time I have left on this precious earth. I may not get to see the other side, but inside, I still hold hope for the future and generations to come. I feel hope when I see people protesting, resisting, judges showing courage to try and slow down this attempted coup that we are witnessing. 

I love this country, what is has been and tried to be, for most of my life. I believe in what the Statue of Liberty stood, and still stands, for. I appreciate this country in what I believe is the unique way that children of immigrants can. I pray for her soul to survive. May my tears of an immigrant’s daughter join with the tears of all who are grieving, mourning, and still hoping and fighting. May all our tears form an ocean of compassion, love, strength, endurance, resistance, resilience, and result in the final triumph of love.