December 21, 2011--Snowbirding: English

We never talk politics. We like each other too much to spoil our relationship over our likely different views about Iran, health care, and taxes. So, when the other day during breakfast, seated side-by-side, when he asked me with a sly smile if I had heard the latest list of 10-things-I-want-for-Christmas, I bit.

“Well, the first one, of course, is to get rid of Obama.” His smile became a grin.

Uh, oh, I thought, here we go, but couldn’t constrain myself from saying, “And I bet number two and number three are the same—‘All I want for Christmas is to get rid of Obama.’”

Still grinning he said, “That’s funny, but not correct.”

“This doesn’t sound like David Lettermen to me.” I was hoping that maybe I could joke my way out of getting in any deeper.

I like Stan, I really do. He’s from Mississippi, moved to South Florida many years ago—to “get away from all the rednecks,” he once told me (though I knew a streak of deep South values and attitudes overlay his wryness). He had traveled the world and things had rubbed off on him and in the process rubbed off some of that Mississippi good-old-boy down-home.

“That’s for sure. This wish list is not your New York sensibility.” You see why I like him? He knows how to give me the business. “But if you want I can give you a few more.”

Though I was trying to concentrate on my coffee, hoping he’d change the subject to something more congenial, he proceeded when he didn’t hear anything back from me.

“Number two—Send all the immigrants back to where they came from.”

“All?” I couldn’t help blurting out, coughing from inhaling my coffee.

“Mainly the illegal ones. I suppose a few good ones could stay.”

“’Mainly’? And what ‘good ones’ might that include?”

“I suppose some of those Indian doctors at the hospital. Though when I was there last year having my prostate Roto-Rooted I could barely understand a word any of them were saying.”

“But without them . . . ?”

“I know what you’re going to say--that I wouldn’t be able to pee straight.”

“Sort of.”

“Which leads me logically to number three—that English should be the official language of the United States.”

“You mean it isn’t?” I had decided to give up on my coffee. “The last time I looked the Declaration of Independence was written in English.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they insist on having a Spanish version next to it in the Archives.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Exaggerating. To make a point.”

“You made your point. And to tell you the truth for me it’s not much of one.”

“My view is that immigrants—and by that I mean legal ones—should be sent home”—he made a dismissive gesture—“if they don’t learn English after one year.”

“That would have meant my mother’s parents would have been sent back to Poland and would have wound up in Auschwitz.”

Now it was his turn to stare at his coffee. “And what about your grandparents?” I pressed on. “Where did they come from?”

Not looking up he muttered, “Not my grandparents, my great-grandparents. They were from Germany. That’s where they came from.”

“And where did they wind up?” He looked up at me not understanding. “I mean in America. Where did they settle? New York? The Lower Eastside?”

“Nebraska.”

“Where? I didn’t hear you.” I was fully out of the closet and, in spite of Rona glaring at me, continued, “I think I can tell you how they got there. To Nebraska, of all the godforsaken places.”

He turned fully to me, clearly curious. “I never did learn that. From my grandparents or parents. We didn’t talk about that. I know a lot about them but not that. I assume they had family there and they went West to join them.”

“Possibly,” I said, “But I think there’s another explanation.”

“Go on,” he said. By then the top-10 list was forgotten.

“You won’t like the answer,” I said. It was my turn to do the smiling.

“I still want to hear it.”

“They came over, I assume, in the middle of the 19th century.”

He nodded. “I think it was about 1855.”

“That’s what I would have guessed because a lot of German immigrants came over at that time. And you know why they came?”

“Because the streets were paved with gold.” I knew he wasn’t being serious.

“Sort of. Back in Germany they were probably recruited to come to America. Not to pick up the gold on the streets—though some were literally disappointed when they got here and didn’t find any—but because of the promise of cheap farm land. Germans were known to be good farmers and most of the land in Germany at the time was in the hands of the nobility. There wasn’t much available for just plain folks. They had to work other people’s land. They were basically serfs. So the promises they heard about America were what lured them here.”

“This could be true,” he said.

“And the joke in many instances was on them because the land they were recruited to buy was some of the most arid, least fertile land in America. Like much of western Nebraska.” I paused.

“Well, at least they were legal immigrants. Not like the ones we should round up and send home.”

“They may have been legal but you should see what politicians at the time and newspapers in their stories and editorials said about them. About people just like your ancestors. It was not a pretty picture. When times were hard, like now, there was a lot of agitation to send them back to where they came from. Especially the ones who settled in the east coast cites and who voted for Democrats. Like today, the Republicans then were the ones who wanted to send them home.”

“Plenty of your people feel the same way,” he said, reenergized, “It’s a very bipartisan point of view. In fact the top-10 list I was telling you about was sent to me by one of yours.” I shrugged, not understanding. “Democrats. Liberals. Like you.”

“I get you. But one more thing before you race away.” I had noticed him fumbling in his pocket looking for cash with which to pay his bill. “I assume on your Christmas list is a wish for the government to stop regulating businesses. Am I right about that?”

Softly he said, “In fact that’s number seven.”

“Well, pretty much all that land in Nebraska and elsewhere out west was U.S. government land—after we took it from the Indians—and then they gave it to land speculators if they promised to settle it. Or, if it wasn’t for free, they sold it to them for literally pennies an acre. They in turn paid people like your great-grandparents’ passage to America and then sold them the land at huge profits. That doesn’t sound like free market capitalism to me.”

Rona was tugging at my sleeve and whispering it was time for us to leave. We had a long list of chores to do.

“But one more thing,” I said to him. “I forgot to ask. You said earlier that you’d send immigrants home after one year if they fail to learn English. Right?”

He sensed where this was going and said nothing.

“So what about your great-grandparents? Did they learn English after one year?” He had gotten up off his stool. “From your trying to ignore me I suspect they didn’t.”

By then he had paid and was already heading for the door.