His skin was black as the midnight sky. His accent was from somewhere in Africa, but I couldn’t place the region. He was clearly well taught in English.
“I’m from the Ivory Coast of Africa.
Our language is influenced by the French.”
His car was impeccable, and made in America. His jeans were expensive, fashionably slit at the knee. Indeed, my immigrant Uber driver is living the American dream.
I thought back on my own heritage. My forbearers were immigrants from the Caribbean Islands and Ireland. Through their American work ethic, it was my good fortune to be raised in the suburbs. I was afforded the best education this country has to offer.
I, too, am living the American dream.
His clothes were disheveled. He was surrounded by other children, all appearing to be ten years of age or younger. Encaged by wire fences. Is this what American family values have come to? Are these little ones the drug smugglers and rapists that our nation is so afraid of?
Give me your tired, your poor. Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Then rip them by the hundreds from the arms of their parents, as the slave masters did in the darkest part of our nation’s history.
I wonder if these children will ever be able to say—
“I am living the American dream.”