Immigration rethorn–oops! REFORM!

(the piano on which John Lennon composed “Imagine”)


All of you have seen my serious side, on display here on a regular basis.  But did you know there is a rather flippant, irrelevant–oops!–irreverent side to me as well?

As I prepare myself for adventures in poverty, I intend to post regularly in my blog about stuff that has little to do with writing contests, but everything to do with understanding ourselves, or at least, explaining ourselves to others.  Isn’t that what writing really is?

When I post, I hope you will understand that it is an invitation for you to post your own comments in the little rectangular boxes under each post. We will continue to be apolitical- no Obama bashing or anything titillating about the former governor of Alaska, and nothing overtly religious. We remain an equal opportunity implorer.

So today, like many Americans, I am reading about immigration reform, and it occurs to me that each of us is a country unto ourselves. (No man is an island?–sounds literary)  What policy do we  self-enforce to disallow the immigration of new ideas unto our shores? What borders of intellect do we create to exclude most of the world?

Writing is all about inclusion.

An aside: For the first time in my adult life I am without a valid passport.  I have several passports that ran out of room for stamps while overseas, and rather than issuing a new passport American consulates simply pressed in accordion pages. (One representative passport had 135 stamps, each indicating some transaction with immigration) But the intellect of each of us can permeate any border, and assume the identity (we call it empathy) of our fellow creatures on this planet, without needing the literal stamp of approval of some immigration officer at some checkpoint (peer pressure to conform to the conventional wisdom).

“This land is your land, this land is my land,from California, to the New York Island, from the redword-oops! –redwood forests, to the Gulf Stream waters, this land was made for you and me. ”

But who is you and me?

As child of privilege growing up (or growing sideways?) in Connecticut, we were taught this wonderful patriotic song.  But censored out was the verse in this You tube video.

“There was a big high wall there, that tried to stop me. The sign was painted, said private property. But on the backside, it didn’t say nothin’…This land was made for you and me.”

So here is the whole, rambling point: Immigration reform gives us an opportunity to express the generosity of spirit that makes us uniquely America. It is not a democrat/republican thing.

Imagine…(you know the words)

I decided not to edit this blog.  It is just a ramble.  I’m piano tuning for my tour from the redwood forests, to the…

10 thoughts on “Immigration rethorn–oops! REFORM!

  1. Salvatore Buttaci says:

    Your views on immigration leave no doubts in my mind: I am confused! Did you write this post before or after the Great Immigration Wave of 1900-1920? Did you by chance notice that my father was on that ship emigrating from Palermo, Sicily? If so, did you mention you will know me and that there was a remarkable resemblance between him and the goatherd of his village? I’m at a loss for words, Thorn. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m immigrating or emigrating, but after reading your post today I am convinced I will never know.

      • Salvatore Buttaci says:

        Knock knock
        Who’s there?
        Lincoln who?
        Linkin’ more pun-kers than you can shake a stick at

        Knock knock
        Who’s there?
        Knock knock
        Who’s there?
        Knock knock
        Who’s there?
        Just answer the freakin’ door!

  2. Tiffany Monique says:

    Are you talking about otherizing yourself from yourself and then sailing across the ocean to re-encounter the new country that is you? How would you go about getting your own internal “green card”? Would you “naturalize”, and does that mean you’ve become an ex-pat? Ok, so the way things are going I’ve obviously not had my coffee just yet. As a black woman who loves her hair, despite the way that Western American culture tells her it’s to “ethnic” (despite not even wearing it natural), I can understand feeling like a stranger in Moscow, down the street from my own Starbucks and Panera. I am not impoverished, though I understand fiscal tightness through experience. I’m rich in love of family and friends, and while you opted not to edit, I am opting not to apologize for sometimes being annoying to or annoyed by the world in which we live. I don’t always understand it, and I often don’t like it, but sometimes I have to admit I simply love it – the June gloom of it, the Thai One On and the Pho Ever right next to El Pollo Loco of it. And it includes me, and you, and Sal, and Granny, and Peggy, and and and…

  3. 1948pdobbs says:

    I was just about ready to throw this computer out the window! Sal, you said you felt the same way at times. Lets blame Discus. Now that I am here, I have forgotten why I wanted to be here except to say that in your list of rules for comments to your blog in the future didn’t you say we were not to be political? I am assuming the same rules do not apply to our Roving-Editor-in-Chief or is immigration in a different category?
    Aside from that, my heart goes out to you as you pack up and watch “stuff” sell. You know its just “stuff”, but its your “stuff”. Starting over is hard! Three years ago we watched everything we had worked for in a lifetime suddenly disappear. But that possibility is always right around the corner for “dreamers”. But what would life be without them! At seventeen, I didn’t know what a dreamer was, but I learned quickly what living on the edge meant. As badly as I hate change, I learned to love and respect my dreamer even more as I watched him pick himself up and go again. I also learned that it is the dreamers who provide jobs, looking into the future to scrape up salaries at the end of the month, theirs coming last. Your adventurous spirit is going to be a wonderful asset as you seek what is around the next curve in the road of life. I pray all good things for you and continue to be thankful for all of the people you have introduced me to on the “playground” that I can call friends. I have learned the hard way that thankfulness is thefuel that keeps us going. So, watch for the pink snowflakes, as you head north and remember you have a playground full of people who are better for having stopped to see what was going on at the “Towers”.
    Blessings, Peggy

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