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Today, in dealing with Donald Trump's horrific, increasingly militarized actions toward migrants in this country, TomDispatch regular Frida Berrigan reminds us that, at some point in the past (if you leave aside Native Americans), we all came from somewhere (else). In this grim moment, that thought sent me searching through my old papers until I finally found an account my aunt Hilda wrote about her father, my grandfather, so many years ago. Her father, Moore (probably originally Moishe) Engelhardt, came from a Jewish family in what is now Ukraine. And I thought today, as an introduction to Frida's piece, I might offer a little evidence of where I "came from" once upon a time. Here's how my aunt's long account begins:
"Your great-grandfather, Moore Engelhardt, a boy of 16, arrived in New York from Europe in March 1888. It was during the famous blizzard, and after a sea voyage of about 30 days. He had no money. He often said that he had a German 50 cent piece in his pocket when he landed. His trip had to be in the cheapest part of the ship -- way down below in steerage. Poor boy, I'm sure he was seasick a good deal of the time. Since he was alone, he sort of attached himself to a family of a lot of children, and for the first few months in America I imagine he slept behind the stove in somebody's kitchen.
"I don't know the whole story of his trip from somewhere near Lemberg [now Lviv in Ukraine] in Poland to Hamburg where he boarded the ship, but from the few things he told me about it, I gathered that it wasn't easy. He worked at anything he could find to earn money for the trip, saving every penny he didn't need for daily living. I do know that it took him two years. His last job was as a scribe for a lawyer in Hamburg. There were no typewriters, but he had a beautiful handwriting, almost as perfect as printing.
"The reason for his trip to America at the early age of 14, besides the stories he had heard about gold in the streets of New York, was, as he told it, a strange one."
And so, as she goes on to describe his experience, it indeed was. But let me stop there with my little personal reminder that, somewhere along the line, we all did indeed come from elsewhere, including, of course, Donald Trump, whose mother was an immigrant (not that he ever highlights that when he talks about immigrants). And with that in mind, let Berrigan take you into a world from hell that none of us should remain silent about. Tom
Courage Is Contagious
Moving from Fear to Action in a Disturbing World
"It is pretty wild how you can make someone mad by just holding a sign," my 18-year-old Ro told me, as an irate driver peeled out of the intersection, shaking both his middle fingers at us but managing not to hit us. Phew!
Ro was right. It didn't take much to turn a perpetually busy intersection in New London, Connecticut, into a discussion forum on presidential overreach, cruelty, and immigration politics -- with all the excesses, including those fingers, of the Age of Trump. In fact, all it took was four of us, four signs, and a little midday coordination. Oh, and some noise makers! Our signs said: "New London cares about our neighbors" and "ICE Not Welcome" and two versions of "Vecinos, no tienen que abrirle la puerta a ICE." The translation: "Neighbors, you do not have to open the door to ICE."
We stood there for an hour or so, clanging noise makers, waving those signs, and telling our neighbors to be careful about the rumored activity of the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency (ICE) in our community. Cars slowed and beeped, drivers waved -- mostly their whole hands, but sometimes just that one lone finger -- and some called out "Thank you" or "Gracias!" To our surprise, even a reporter and photographer from our local paper showed up.
New London is a small city -- or maybe just a big town -- of fewer than 28,000 people. According to the 2023 Census, we are 51.8% White, but only 12.8% of those Whites (myself included) send our kids to the public schools. I've always thought that doing so was a strength in our community. And thanks in part to that, I've become capable of maintaining a passable conversation in Spanish with my neighbors and the parents of some of my kids' friends.
Unfortunately, I don't know any Haitian Creole or French, but that community is growing in New London, too. I worked for a while at a local food pantry and I loved hearing the gentleness in tone as my young Haitian coworkers helped older Haitian ladies with their food boxes. Their voices grew soft, respectful, and full of warmth.
Recent immigrants are my neighbors, friends, and have been coworkers at my jobs and other responsibilities, but when, on a recent Friday morning, I got the text about ICE entering New London, the last thing I wanted to do was launch myself into action. I had a grant application due later that day. Ro, a senior, had a random day off from school but also a looming college application deadline. We were sitting next to each other at the library plugging away and nowhere near done. But I found that I couldn't just sit there. I had to do something.
I texted a few people, including a friend with close ties to Spanish-speaking communities in our town, passing on what I'd heard.
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