Beside the golden door

Today is not the fourth of July, the independence day of these United States, but for some reason I am drawn to remember this poem and the Statue of Liberty upon whose base it is engraved. It is a legal holiday here in America, the Monday in February called 'Presidents Day' which is a combination of the birthdays of two of the greatest Presidents: George Washington, our first, born on the 22nd of February, and Abraham Lincoln, our 16th, born on the 12th. These Presidents used to be commemorated on their actual birth dates, and for me as a boy growing up in Chicago in the 1950's, that was great! Two days off from school in my month (my birthday is the 8th of February).

Whenever I read this poem and view the Statue I am almost brought to tears, because I am only the second generation of my family born here, my grandfather Casimir having passed through Ellis Island in 1902, to get married and start our family here in the New World. The real reason I am almost brought to tears is that the dream of America, which somehow still survives among many of the peoples of the world, is now an impossible dream for most of them. The 'golden door' spoken of in the poem is now closed. The land that spreads outward, north, east, south and west of the tiny island on which the Statue stands, has become a grace-hoarding continent. Still sparsely inhabited in much of its territory, still loaded with mineral and other natural wealth, it has become an over-protective bloated caricature of itself. That is why I am near to weeping when I think on these things.

I am for opening the country up to those who really want to live here and make America great. I am for leaving our whimpering, self-pitying protectionism behind, and realise that we are a strong, brave and capable people, just as we have always been, and we can be generous too, and there is no limit to our genius, when we're not living in fear. Fear of what? Fear almost of ourselves. Having the 'what if' mentality instead of the 'so what' spirit. We are still a young nation, only a little over two centuries old, and have a future ahead of us, a great future, if we only unclench our fists and open our hands to receive our brothers and sisters who want to mix with us and build on the freedoms we've fought for and been blessed with.

I will get off my soapbox now, and if I haven't lost you, invite you to read this poem, and if you share my vision, pray for our country to reopen its doors to the world, and rather than being the world's policeman, become its sanctuary, and the home of heroes.
             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-tossed to me,
             I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

— Emma Lazarus, 1883