We
Are All Immigrants
I am an immigrant. What does it mean? And, more importantly
in this political climate, to whom, neighbors, colleagues, or the INS? After
forty years of being legally in the US (35 as citizen), I’m still struggling to
explain to myself what this means.
There are refugees or forced immigrants, and there are
voluntary immigrants. Forced immigration can be political or economic, can be
domestic or international.
The Census Bureau reports that the average American moves
about 12 times in a lifetime, some for jobs, others for marriage or family, and
still others for retirement (Colorado Springs has its fair share of retirees).
Witness the array of bars and restaurants in town and
you’ll quickly perceive the appeal of Springs Orleans for those who moved from
the south and are looking for comfort dishes reminiscent of “home cooking” all
the way to Edelweiss with its distinctive old-world German cuisine.
Are Korean or German spouses of military personnel involuntary
refugees or voluntary immigrants who chose to marry their loved ones and
believed a better future awaits them here? Each case unfolds its own narrative,
its own web of circumstances.
My parents were refugees, escaping Germany in the late
1930s to survive the inevitable Nazi onslaught. They chose to leave at a
particular moment (and thus escaped the concentration camps), but their
“choice” was obviously involuntary.
When I think of my own immigration, a voluntary one from
the comfort of my bourgeois home, it looks laughable compared to the ordeals my
parents had to endure on their way to the British mandate in Palestine. I could
have gone back; they had no such luxury.
My own process of assimilation took some years,
experiencing anti-Semitism for the first time in my life. Perhaps what saved me
was my (compulsory) service in the IDF (as every young man and woman have to
serve in the military), so I was given some respect when encountering quizzical
locals in Colorado who respect the military.
I recall the day when I stood with my attorney and two
neighbors, one a veterinarian, the other a balding gas-distribution owner and
scion to a legendary local family, to discuss our development plans for the
Warehouse complex. Three Caucasian males with their attorneys, looking at a
century-old decaying building I just bought with my sister and brother-in-law.
The two neighbors insisted that I had no right to develop
the building, that it would adversely affect them, and that they would use the
arm of the law to block us. I thought it would be a friendly exchange in which
we would explain our vision.
At some point, the elderly bald man turned to me and said:
we don’t need newcomers like you here! Why don’t you go back to where you came
from!
I turned to my attorney and asked whether I should punch
him or respond. He kindly deflected the tension and begged me to remain calm. I
was young, the two neighbors were old. Really, I asked him, just remain quiet? I
did remain quiet.
I had to come up before City Council for approval, since my
neighbors appealed every zoning and building permit we manage to acquire,
legally, mind you. The mayor was magnanimous and Council members supportive, thankfully.
Now, some twenty years later, an abandoned building is
paying a hefty annual real-estate tax bill, business tenants are employing
dozens of young people and paying sales taxes, and in general, what used to be
drug and prostitution area has been cleaned up. The police thanked me at the
time!
I’m still an immigrant, perhaps a more successful one than
when I accepted a tenure-track position at UCCS in 1996. That position, too,
was risky at the time, with less than 3,000 students in a commuter campus.
Times have changed. The Warehouse is a downtown institution.
My involvement with Smokebrush, Kimball’s movie theater, my dear partner Perry
Sanders in the Mining Exchange complex, and a couple of other restaurants in
town have all been downtown contributions. The city has grown as well.
UCCS is a local powerhouse with more than 12,000 students
and more buildings than I ever imagined. The reputation of the university
extends internationally, far beyond the impact it has on the local economy. All
the faculty moved into town from elsewhere.
Do we want to stop growth? This was the sentiment of one of
the guys who hired me: too much traffic, he complained (with 150,000
population). Don’t you want the energy and diversity that all newcomers bring
to our lives, whether they come from Chicago or Syria?
Next time you have a hatred-like itch, don’t scratch. Stop
and think: are you Native American? If not, you are an immigrant, too!
Raphael
Sassower is professor of philosophy at UCCS. He can be reached at rsassower@gmail.com See previous
articles at sassower.blogspot.com
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