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Our first temporary home in the U.S. was in Larchmont, NY—right outside New York City. It was early March 1957, I had just turned 7 and didn’t yet speak any English. My American father registered me in the local public school about three blocks away. Each morning I would walk down the block, around the corner, and across the street. My mother—who didn’t yet speak much English—worried about me. “Do the other kids make fun of your language? Are they mean?” she would ask me in Spanish. I would tell her what my teachers and the helpers at school taught me: “No, mama, if they laugh at me it’s only because they don’t understand. Some people are afraid of what they don’t understand. One day I will make them see how much fun I am. The teachers told me this.” I made friends with a crossing guard who slowly and with a lot of hand signals taught me about rules of crossing streets and about buses (I had never seen a school bus before.). At school I was part of a new program for recent immigrants. It provided reading and language special help, guidance programs for adjusting to this new country, and a program to teach the fundamentals of government to prepare for citizenship. I loved all of these classes and teachers and learned their lessons quickly. I didn’t get to play with other kids very much, but gradually during recess I started to be included in some of the games and loved running and jumping rope and giggling . At the end of the school year that June, my teachers gave me a small American flag in a little ceremony and told me to "grow tall and strong like our fine oak trees." Spontaneously all the kids cheered. That August when we moved to Passaic, NJ, I was enrolled in public school there and was given a number of tests to see where I would be placed. Third grade. I was placed in third grade. I had advanced so much in a few months that I skipped second grade entirely! I owe a great deal to the Larchmont public school system and have been grateful my entire life for their help, concern, and care. Much later when I was awarded my PhD in English, I thanked them, along with so many others, who helped me become someone I hoped would make them proud: A very grateful American. I had my small flag with me. I still do.  “Why do we have to see a battleship? It’s not doing anything. It’s just sitting there.” I was a disgruntled 7 year old in 1957 as my father traipsed my mother and me to yet another historic site. We had arrived from Montevideo, Uruguay, in the winter and now that it was summer my dad wanted to show us history—the history of his country that was going to become my country. In truth I was horrified when we visited Antietam and saw the mass graves and I could not understand how so many people died in one battle of the Civil War. There, and at so many other sites, my father patiently explained the complicated history of The United States. I didn’t realize it at the time of course, but all of these excursions and all of these lessons were building something monumental inside of me. “This battleship,” he explained as we stood before the massive structure, “was full of men who were deeply committed to the concept of freedom. They were willing to die for it. See, we live in a country where we believe freedom is a fundamental right.” Then I remember asking him, point blank, “So, is this country perfect now?” He sat me down, right there on the deck of the ship, sat next to me and said, “No. It’s not. So many people still don’t have basic human rights. There is a lot of inequality in our system. Too often people in power abuse it. Too often people think money is what matters. Too often there are angers and grievances of one group against another.” “Then why is this such a great county, Papa? You said we were great. And why did so many people die?” I asked almost in tears. This made no sense to me. “Because,” he began, “we keep perfecting our system. One of the greatest things is that our country fixes and adapts and refines all the time. What makes us great are our ideals. Have we met them all perfectly? No. Not yet. But we keep working at it. You and your children and their children will keep working at it. Because America is not perfect country—But it is a perfect ideal. A perfect goal.” I understood this. I understood not being perfect but trying over and over to get it right. And so, here we are, on the eve of the contentious and strife-ridden election of 2020. We are not perfect. But I believe in America. I believe in our great ideals even while recognizing our flaws. I believe in our rule by law and, when needed, in our ability to peacefully change laws in a civilized, reasonable, constitutional manner. I believe that we are a people full of pride in our nation. Much of that pride comes from how we conduct ourselves when we win or when we lose an election. We do not want to resort to savagery, because we know the process of our democratic system will prevail. Eventually. I believe in our shared understanding that truth and justice ultimately not only will prevail but will increase our strength and compassion. I believe that our nation wants to lead the world not just in capital and power, but in lighting the beacon for “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” for all. I believe in America.  |
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