Emigrés

Pity the peace-loving Muslims living here in the United States. Can any of them think themselves safe? Each day subjected to the crucible that is fiery rhetoric, heightened surveillance, and now uneasy neighbors—to suspect? To defend?

According to polls, newly arrived Syrian refugees, or those hoping to land here, face a populace a bit over 50% opposed to their arrival. Maybe higher, even. Most recently, a number of media outlets have recalled American attitudes toward Jewish refugees during the WWII era and how roughly 2/3s of those surveyed thought they should not be admitted into this country.

Deep into his deep dive into the history of rock and roll bands in the Twin Cities, Rick Shefchik, author and a friend of mine, provides a little biographical snippet on the Escapades’ Rico Rosenbaum’s parents. Rico’s mom spoke 6 languages fluently, sang Tin Pan Alley songs in cafes, and worked as a seamstress for Sears. On her arm was her concentration camp number. Her husband was also a holocaust survivor. They lost everything, of course, to the Nazis. But, here they were, raising a son who would be part of that most American of scenes, 60s rock’n’roll.

One slice of my family’s heritage pie is French Huguenot and came to Charleston very early on. While I do not know to what extent the family experienced persecution in their homeland, that persecution is well-documented historically. Nearly half-a-million refugees fled France because of religious intolerance turned bloody.

My family’s history also includes Germany. Out of curiosity—thinking of Japanese-American internment camps—I checked the status of German-Americans during WWII. Several sources concurred that there were just too many here of German descent or naturalized as citizens to lock up. And so we didn’t.

Maybe some voices on the national stage might mull over that reality check.

So, American by birth. Descended from immigrants. Descended from refugees. Most likely some scoundrels in the mix, but most overwhelmingly good folks. Like many of us who live here now.

At lunch the other day, I asked a Cuban-American friend if any of her family would return to the island as part of the ongoing normalization between the two countries. Her response: No, we are Americans now.

That the past is no predictor of the future is true enough, but after three hundred years plus of stirring the pot, onward we go.

We are Americans now.