Our neighborhood is populated with immigrants. We were diverse before diversity was cool.
Ileana is from Russia. She lives in an apartment complex nearby and walks the sidewalks in our subdivision at least once a day, sometimes twice. She casually strolls, frequently pausing to take in flowers and shrubs. She is happy to chat, ask about your grandbabies and tell you about her son the doctor now living in San Francisco.
One block down is a couple from Afghanistan. The woman came ahead of her husband, along with their son. She came with her widowed sister and her sister’s four boys. I was volunteering, helping children find their classrooms on the first day of elementary school, when those little boys arrived on their bus years ago. They had identical buzzed haircuts, big brown eyes, spoke no English and were terrified. Our neighbor’s son is now a podiatrist. She and her sister became hair stylists.
Behind us lives a family who fled Cambodia. The mother loves to tell how she opened a day care in her home as soon as they arrived so that their two boys could learn English from other children. She, a seamstress, will also explain the importance of homework and trips to the library. “Have children read, read, read,” she says. “Then one day—they take off!” Her hand shoots into the air like a plane soaring into the sky. One of their sons is now a doctor, the other an engineer.
A couple from China lives next door. He teaches at the med school; she does medical research. Their son graduated high school with our son and went on to earn a doctorate in computer science.
A man who emigrated from India several years ago reupholstered a chair for us recently. His eyes brim with tears as he tells of his dream of immigrating to America “to be an entrepreneur.” He’s not cheap, but he’s very good.
All of these friends, neighbors and acquaintances immigrated legally. Some traveled great distances to keep appointments, undergo interviews and physical exams, and obtain required forms and valid passports. They waited months, or years, secured sponsors and promises of employment, had petitions filed and acquired visas.
It is bewildering when immigration laws apply to some but not others—or the laws are enforced some of the time, but not all of the time.
Fifty-two thousand unaccompanied children have illegally flooded our southern borders since October, most transported by human smugglers. Many of these children are under age 10, some barely old enough to walk. Having overwhelmed our resources, they are housed like an explosion of strays in giant stinking kennels while officials plead for donations of underwear. This is no Ellis Island. This is not the American dream; it is a living nightmare.
There are pathways for getting here, but this isn’t one of them.
Every government and cartel behind this massive crush of children must be held accountable. Fifty-two thousand, with more on the way, is no coincidence. Parents are responsible, too.
The situation screams for the Wisdom of Solomon—justice tempered with mercy. Any nation that uses children as political pawns is a nation without spine or substance.
Dumping children is always an egregious wrong.