Who’s to say Immigration is bad? I certainly approve of immigration. My paternal grandfather immigrated from (ahem) Norway in 1929, legally. He most certainly assimilated. He married an earlier immigrant, a woman of English and Algonquin descent. He insisted that his children speak flawless English, and would clout my father on the head if his surreptitiously studied Norwegian crept into his native English. This drove a love of precision in the use of our magnificent language through the generations right down to this day. My two sisters and I enjoy sharpening up on each other whenever we get together. My maternal great-great-grandfather immigrated from Denmark, and had similar concerns with similar results. Now our family is a clever, clever bunch, a bon motley crew. Just ask us — we’ll tell you.
Norway is shortly behind Sweden in being culturally enriched by a wave of non-assimilating vectors for horrific plagues, ideological and literal. Great Britain is ahead of France in debasing their principles, while France is winning the race in getting trampled underfoot. After the grandfolks split up, grandfather (“Bestefar” in Norwegian) married a girl from the old country. I never met them, but they would send the most wonderful European Christmas gifts — notably paper castles with instructions in German. We did our best.
My father drifted out west with his mother and sisters Somehow they wound up on the Poague Ranch, and at another outfit near Claunch, New Mexico, where my father, one of many ranch hands but a rare Anglo, saw the artificial sunrise of the world’s first atomic bomb. Turns out he was in the path of the fallout, and lived to a ripe old age of 72, whereupon he died “of stupidity” for a different falling out with his sub-continental doctor about prostate cancer.
His flawless English didn’t help much when his irritable cowboy step-father clouted him on the head with a wrench, leaving him for dead in a ditch out on the open range of a late-stage cattle operation. Made of sterner stuff than supposed, he “had it out” with the man. My sisters and I finally met the storied bad man at a big funeral in a small town — chili served at the only restaurant with more than four tables. My father forbade any of us from saying, showing, or thinking anything about not getting along. We were to address Mr. Poague as Sir, and to say thank you.
When we buried my father just west of Mountanair, New Mexico, my cousin Karl and I wore our Navy officer’s dress blues. All of the cousins (Karl, Kurt, Kell, and Kirsti) had pitched in to build a coffin. it turns out the “grave liner” wouldn’t fit, so there we were, dressed to the nines, slowly becoming waterlogged in a heavy upslope mist, sliding around in the churned up red clay, sawing the handles off of my father’s casket.
My father’s last wife, who doted upon him and took care of him in his old age, had not exactly entered the relationship cleanly, as my father had still been married to my own mother, when those two started carrying on. There was another woman I remember who had been similarly situated for a while, but who for one reason or another did not wind up married to my father — she was also at the funeral. My sisters and I were uniformly opposed to her involvement and aghast at her desire to place a memento in the coffin. But the current wife had remained friends with Ms. K, and was entertaining these notions. At one point this Ms. K came up grief-stricken to introduce herself. With a sister flanking me on each side, I simply said “We’ve met.” She cringed and turned as if I had punched her in the gut, and she and her two oddball friends hupped away down a muddy desert road in their Volvo, disappearing over the ridge as the mist cleared. Happy Trails.
I like our culture. I think it works just fine. English is the language of success, and it is the only language in which our culture is embedded. Even the long-standing and well-documented stability of borders and peoples in the southwest of the US is falling apart as we simultaneously fail to assimilate and fail to control immigration.
I greatly enjoyed seeing Trump DOMINATE the headlines for another 72 hours. The media-democrat party thinks they are hurting him. What’s hurting him is toying with *keeping* DACA, not his “shithole” comments, which merely echo the sentiments of a majority of Americans.