In one poetry class lesson, I used to begin by asking how many people were immigrants or relatives of immigrants. A few hands would go up, including mine.
Whoa, I’d say, I don’t mean just this year or last, I mean in the history of your family. Many more hands were raised.
Gee, I’d say, we must have a lot of Native Americans in here. Almost all the hands were now raised.
Come to think of it, I’d say, even Native Americans came here over the Bering Land Bridge so even they are immigrants. All the hands were now raised.
We'd then read and discuss Emma Lazurus’s wonderful poem inscribed on the base of the Statue of Liberty. It is who we are, it is what our country is about.
The New Colossus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
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