Have We Forgotten My Father's America?

A young boy, only 16 - his Italian black hair blown wild by morning breezes, strains to see over and beyond the broad shoulders of his older brother. The two stand arm-to-arm and ten deep with the other passengers - all pressing forward against the shipīs railing. His eyes search to penetrate the mist and fog of the mid-September morning. Someone shouts excitedly, "There she is, there she is!" and all eyes turn. Through gray clouds, something emerges in the distance. Then, he sees her! At first, just an arm and hand lifted high – a hand holding a torch! Then - almost in full view - the draped, crowned and welcoming figure already known to the world as "Lady Liberty".

The boyīs excited heart skips a beat as the Patria – the ship bringing him from sunny Mediterranean shores and across the Atlantic - approaches the fog encased city. The draped figure now towers high above their uplifted faces. Suddenly - almost magically – clouds and mist part wider. As shimmering rays of golden sunlight penetrate down and beyond the lifted torch, a vision becomes clear:

America! There is America. The buildings glow in the light of the new day. The skyline is endless! It is there! Just beyond Lady Freedomīs upheld arm. America! Glittering in the morning sunshine like a jewel newly birthed onto the azure velvet of surrounding waters.

He is entangled by swirling conflicted emotions. Yes, he is overjoyed to be in America. But still, he is somehow haunted and saddened by an eerie premonition that he may never see his parents or his boyhood home again. Yet, just beyond the ships rails, America beckons - with her promise of freedom. He smiles. He wipes quickly at unborn tears least his brother guess his heart. At this distance, America looks clean and pure. Its promises are bright. It is 1920.

This boy will be my father.

He spoke no English and he was Catholic. He made America his home and - in dark fulfillment of his hidden anguish that day on the deck of the Patria - he never again saw his mother, his father, his sisters or the small town square of Polestina, the cradle of his youth.

His American uncle took him to silent movies and he learned to read and speak the language of his new country by watching and hearing translated the words on the silver screen. He learned to love baseball and the red, white and blue. He worked hard. He married, raised six children and died at only 60; taken early by a lung cancer some thought related to his years of work in the acetic and unfiltered fumes of a factory.

He lived just long enough to see his youngest graduate from college and be on his way to becoming a psychologist. It was his last occasion with tears - or so the family story is told.

He was an American! Proud of his adopted country yet hurt and angered when any neighbor demeaned his cultural heritage or misunderstood his faith in God and Pope. He loved America but also cherished the images of the sun-drenched hills of Calabria and the warm blue waters of the Mediterranean that remained bright in his mindīs eye. In Italian, he wrote home regularly till his mother died - sending money to her when there was a bit to spare. He provided too for his own family. He taught his young second generation Irish wife how to make "real Italian" spaghetti; and he again could come near tears on hearing Lanza sing "OīSolo Mio". He never learned to pronounce certain English words like "bridge" and "stairs".

He was an American. He loved the Fourth of July. It never passed without a picnic, a ballgame on the radio and Momīs special summer macaroni salad. He was a man of few words but by example taught his sons to be men and his daughters to be gracious.

He and the huddled masses had been welcomed by Lady America and promised freedom. That was enough for him and the tens of thousands of others who came both before and after.

Fast Forward: 2004 and beyond - Americans are urged to sign petitions to "Stop Immigration Now". Cultural diversity has become a dirty word. Some beat a drum that would test, by their own definition, each citizen for their "patriotism". "Love it or leave it" and "accept without question" are phrases adopted by goose-stepping groups. Flying the national airways is now a serious adventure of sometimes standing stripped near-naked and defending to armed guards the innocent use of a nail file. Politics has become meaner and possibly more vicious than ever before in our history. Religious tolerance dips low. "The few" are demanded by "the many" to get in line or else! Leaders call for changes in the Constitution which would - for the first time in history - take away rather that extend rights and freedoms. America has become a land of "usī and "them". The reds and the blues.

Had my father lived to see this America, he would not have recognized it. He would have been saddened.

The great Lady Liberty has been wounded. For only the second time in history, her doors closed on September 11, 2001 when New York suffered a terrible blow losing nearly 3000 lives in a dastardly act of terrorism. And sincethen, her heart has hardened. Her masses now huddle in fear behind her once flowing robes. Her promise of freedom has been eclipsed by catch phrases like "homeland security", the "patriot act" and "protect our borders". Her torch no longer shines a welcoming beacon. American voters think mostly of defense and attack.

Some, in this land of the free, for sake of "national security" and job protection want to shut down immigration. The media and our leadership warn daily of the perils we face; some real - but most imagined. We wince with fear in anticipation of injury at every sudden and violent world event. We read the list of daily dead – those young men and women who sacrifice themselves on the alter of our homeland anxiety. We view the shrinking list of American friendly nations; nations who no longer see Americans as leading the world in freedom but rather view us as hypocrites. America is hated again. The 1960s "Ugly American" has risen from itīs slumber.

In our anger and fear, we have lost those emotions that stirred the souls and hope of my father and his fellow passengers when they first saw Lady Liberty hold high the torch of freedom.

Where is America? Where is my fatherīs America!? Is she forgotten? Where is the America that welcomed him and his brother that mist-shrouded September morn so many long years ago?

I know America must still be there. I must believe she only slumbers. I must believe that my fatherīs America will re-emerge; that once again she will gather her robes and stride across the land - lifting high her torch of freedom; that America will come from behind its armies of guns and walls of fear to resume its place in the world community where it will again be known as a bright and shinning symbol of justice and freedom.

My father would recognize this America; and, like the hope filled boy that day on the deck of the Patria, he would smile again and tip his hat to the Lady at the gate. The Lady Liberty who still stands at the portals of the dream called democracy.