Carmen Firan
The World and Us
Sipping my morning coffee. The sparrows have gone crazy. They’ve lost patience, flinging themselves from one branch to another, chirping away. They are, after all, the strongest and most adaptable birds, having landed in America with the first settlers.
It is Shabbat, and the neighbors to our right, Bukharin immigrants from Uzbekistan, dressed-up in their long, black coats, go to the synagogue. The man leading the way, the woman following behind.
The Pakistani from across the street also leave for their mosque, in a different attire. The man leading the way, the woman following behind. Their young Israelis neighbors don’t go anywhere; they may throw a party which will lead to a certain smell by sunset, and we will yet again pretend a skunk got lost in the neighborhood.
The Chinese next door recently celebrated their New Year. A Monkey of conflict — which will rule our destiny for 2016 through unpredictable and incendiary actions. At least that is what is said. Their windows are forever shut, nothing connects to the outside world. The wife, born in Hong Kong, carries a small umbrella in the summer to protect herself from sun. We have never seen her face. The husband – never around - owns a Japanese restaurant in Manhattan. Yes, Japanese. He leaves home early in the morning and returns late at night. I could call them good, quiet neighbors. Almost invisible.
The neighbor to our left is German, married to an Armenian man. She sweeps the yard with strong gestures, mumbling something about the lack of discipline displayed by the kids next door who spit their chewing gum wherever they feel like it and throw candy wrappers into the flower bushes.
A tall, blonde Polish woman, the cleaning lady for a Russian family, has a day off and has decided to bike to Forrest Park.
The Hungarians who live on the corner of the street, good Roman-Catholics, leave for evening mass. The man leading the way, the woman following behind. The man walks tall, wearing a green cap resembling Trump’s. Two Mexicans are fixing their roof with a background of samba music coming from a cell phone. They work for a company owned by an Albanian. The owner is a licensed contractor. If Trump has his wish, perhaps the two Mexicans and others like them, will be thrown over the wall back to Mexico and poverty.
On the other corner of the street lives an Indian family. The smell of curry makes it into the street; a cat naps on their front steps; a white, late model Mercedes car sits in the driveway, while in the backyard a stone shrine protects the home.
Our ethnic neighborhood, where Oriental aromas mix with those from Eastern Europe, has a new neighbor: a Romanian-born writer, relocating here from the Ozark mountains of Arkansas. We welcomed him with ginger-tripe soup and stewed cabbage seared in coconut milk as well as grilled minced meat rolls tasting just as they would back home. And, of course, we had plum-brandy, genuine Transylvanian moonshine, like the one made in Arkansas.
The only American-born individuals are a heavy-set man married to a Croatian woman who owns a gallery in Soho, and a stock market agent. His Filipino cleaning lady also cleans for an Indonesian family renting the second floor of a house from a Greek business man, where a Turkish professor visiting at New York University lives on the first floor.
We live very well, mixed-up like this. Each to his accent, customs, and nostalgias. The same Colombian gardeners take care of our lawns. We share the same postman: a black man from Tahiti, who dances from house to house delivering the mail, wearing his iPod buds safely tucked into his ears; he smiles in a very friendly way.
A United Nations street, like many others in many big cities on the East and West coasts, or anywhere else in the world for that matter. Globalization wasn’t necessarily what brought us together. Some are refugees from totalitarian societies, others escaping religious persecution. Some immigrated for economical or professional reasons, others simply in hopes of a better life — “in the pursuit of happiness.” Some people risked their lives coming here, leaving everything behind and starting out again from scratch, reinventing themselves in their adopted country. Others spent hard times in refugee camps before receiving entry visas, living through traumas and sacrifices.
New York wouldn’t be so intense and dynamic if it weren’t for the immigrants who infuse it with energy and tonic diversity. Tolerance: that was the measure of the adventure, of acceptance and adapting to the boiling cauldron of the city, spiced up with condiments and seasonings, hopes and illusions, brilliant minds, talents and ideas thrown in. And work. Much work.
“We are a nation of emigrants” is a slogan used by many politicians and leaders in their speeches targeted to gain electoral support or popularity. America always knew how to attract and stimulate talent from all over the world, recognizing it and gaining dedication in exchange. However, there is another side to the face of immigration. The illegal one, itself multiple-faced. The Mexicans who cross the border illegally and then work for anything, under the table, work sporadically, remain humble, and keep their heads down, with the single goal of sending a check back home to their large and hopeless families. They pick crops in California, work in construction, or as dishwashers in restaurants, as night-guards in supermarkets, carry heavy loads, basically undertake any low-paying jobs. Nannies or caretakers from Latin America or the Caribbean islands work hard and are dedicated for very little money, staying as much in the shadows as possible, hardly noticeable in big, wealthy mansions. Youngsters who leave their countries out of despair, risking their lives to cross the border and accept any kind of job, no matter how low or poorly paid, without any protection – jobs Americans are not taking any more. Some of them pay income taxes, hoping laws will pass someday to legitimize their status.
Trump promises to throw back over the borders about eleven million immigrants, to build a big, insurmountable wall on the border with Mexico, and to let in only those immigrants with exceptional abilities, capable of graduating from colleges like Harvard, Yale, or Princeton. He hasn’t yet mentioned whether they will also need to be blond and blue-eyed. Other candidates in the primaries last year didn’t say a word about their plans for handling illegal immigrants, out of fear perhaps of confronting their electorate with controversial topics. Border states like Arizona, Texas, and New Mexico take illegal immigration to heart, for illegal immigration is also connected with drug trafficking, violence, and other crimes.
As I sip my morning coffee I wonder how many of us, the immigrants of yesterday and today, still have compassion and understanding for people who leave their countries and homes to escape terror, war, or hunger.
About 1,100,000 refugees arrived in Germany in 2015. Europe was invaded by the largest wave of refugees since the Second World War. Some believe there is an organized Muslim assault on Western civilization. Among the war’s refugees – poor people who had their lives and homes destroyed by bombs in Syria and Iraq – are Islamic fundamentalists, ISIS agents, impostors, and criminals. Many European cities enthusiastically welcomed refugees only to face demonstrations by the right against immigration, while furious refugees, powerless in their adopted countries, revolted against their hosts. Boat-loads of refugees continue to anchor in the ports of Turkey and Greece. Other unfortunate refugees from Africa head toward other European shores. Europe’s empathy for refugees and exiles wears down, sympathy for them is wearing thin, and everybody is trying only to consolidate and keep his own position, his hard-earned spot under the sun. The older immigrants in America and Europe are turning against the new arrivals, asking that the borders be shut and undesirables expelled.
Some people think that respect and authority are inevitably connected with being heavily armed, starting wars, intimidating – basically being the police of the world. On the other hand, thirty thousand people die of gun shots every year in America, approximately half the number of Americans who died during the entire Vietnam war. These are not victims of terrorism but at times victims of people who are psychologically unstable or who are members of mobs shooting at each other as if the wild west were not long gone.
I sip my morning coffee thinking that the world doesn’t belong to us. Not because of world conflicts and tensions, nor because of the potential invasion of foreigners. It doesn’t belong to us because we are estranging ourselves from one another, from ourselves. We live in a cold world. Technology is more and more efficient, rapacious and more and more detached from touch, communication, or compassion. Ours is a world where individuality is destroying the warm sense of community. Nothing will be as it used to be, skeptical voices predict. Interesting times are coming, which could also mean dangerous ones. Let’s pull down the blinds.
It is quiet on my street. My neighbors go to work, come back from work, park their cars and lock themselves inside their homes. Here they have all sort of gadgets, screens, tablets, Iphones, Ipads, and Ipods to keep them company. Quiet. Only the birds searching for mates break the silence.
The world belongs to them.
Sipping my morning coffee. The sparrows have gone crazy. They’ve lost patience, flinging themselves from one branch to another, chirping away. They are, after all, the strongest and most adaptable birds, having landed in America with the first settlers.
It is Shabbat, and the neighbors to our right, Bukharin immigrants from Uzbekistan, dressed-up in their long, black coats, go to the synagogue. The man leading the way, the woman following behind.
The Pakistani from across the street also leave for their mosque, in a different attire. The man leading the way, the woman following behind. Their young Israelis neighbors don’t go anywhere; they may throw a party which will lead to a certain smell by sunset, and we will yet again pretend a skunk got lost in the neighborhood.
The Chinese next door recently celebrated their New Year. A Monkey of conflict — which will rule our destiny for 2016 through unpredictable and incendiary actions. At least that is what is said. Their windows are forever shut, nothing connects to the outside world. The wife, born in Hong Kong, carries a small umbrella in the summer to protect herself from sun. We have never seen her face. The husband – never around - owns a Japanese restaurant in Manhattan. Yes, Japanese. He leaves home early in the morning and returns late at night. I could call them good, quiet neighbors. Almost invisible.
The neighbor to our left is German, married to an Armenian man. She sweeps the yard with strong gestures, mumbling something about the lack of discipline displayed by the kids next door who spit their chewing gum wherever they feel like it and throw candy wrappers into the flower bushes.
A tall, blonde Polish woman, the cleaning lady for a Russian family, has a day off and has decided to bike to Forrest Park.
The Hungarians who live on the corner of the street, good Roman-Catholics, leave for evening mass. The man leading the way, the woman following behind. The man walks tall, wearing a green cap resembling Trump’s. Two Mexicans are fixing their roof with a background of samba music coming from a cell phone. They work for a company owned by an Albanian. The owner is a licensed contractor. If Trump has his wish, perhaps the two Mexicans and others like them, will be thrown over the wall back to Mexico and poverty.
On the other corner of the street lives an Indian family. The smell of curry makes it into the street; a cat naps on their front steps; a white, late model Mercedes car sits in the driveway, while in the backyard a stone shrine protects the home.
Our ethnic neighborhood, where Oriental aromas mix with those from Eastern Europe, has a new neighbor: a Romanian-born writer, relocating here from the Ozark mountains of Arkansas. We welcomed him with ginger-tripe soup and stewed cabbage seared in coconut milk as well as grilled minced meat rolls tasting just as they would back home. And, of course, we had plum-brandy, genuine Transylvanian moonshine, like the one made in Arkansas.
The only American-born individuals are a heavy-set man married to a Croatian woman who owns a gallery in Soho, and a stock market agent. His Filipino cleaning lady also cleans for an Indonesian family renting the second floor of a house from a Greek business man, where a Turkish professor visiting at New York University lives on the first floor.
We live very well, mixed-up like this. Each to his accent, customs, and nostalgias. The same Colombian gardeners take care of our lawns. We share the same postman: a black man from Tahiti, who dances from house to house delivering the mail, wearing his iPod buds safely tucked into his ears; he smiles in a very friendly way.
A United Nations street, like many others in many big cities on the East and West coasts, or anywhere else in the world for that matter. Globalization wasn’t necessarily what brought us together. Some are refugees from totalitarian societies, others escaping religious persecution. Some immigrated for economical or professional reasons, others simply in hopes of a better life — “in the pursuit of happiness.” Some people risked their lives coming here, leaving everything behind and starting out again from scratch, reinventing themselves in their adopted country. Others spent hard times in refugee camps before receiving entry visas, living through traumas and sacrifices.
New York wouldn’t be so intense and dynamic if it weren’t for the immigrants who infuse it with energy and tonic diversity. Tolerance: that was the measure of the adventure, of acceptance and adapting to the boiling cauldron of the city, spiced up with condiments and seasonings, hopes and illusions, brilliant minds, talents and ideas thrown in. And work. Much work.
“We are a nation of emigrants” is a slogan used by many politicians and leaders in their speeches targeted to gain electoral support or popularity. America always knew how to attract and stimulate talent from all over the world, recognizing it and gaining dedication in exchange. However, there is another side to the face of immigration. The illegal one, itself multiple-faced. The Mexicans who cross the border illegally and then work for anything, under the table, work sporadically, remain humble, and keep their heads down, with the single goal of sending a check back home to their large and hopeless families. They pick crops in California, work in construction, or as dishwashers in restaurants, as night-guards in supermarkets, carry heavy loads, basically undertake any low-paying jobs. Nannies or caretakers from Latin America or the Caribbean islands work hard and are dedicated for very little money, staying as much in the shadows as possible, hardly noticeable in big, wealthy mansions. Youngsters who leave their countries out of despair, risking their lives to cross the border and accept any kind of job, no matter how low or poorly paid, without any protection – jobs Americans are not taking any more. Some of them pay income taxes, hoping laws will pass someday to legitimize their status.
Trump promises to throw back over the borders about eleven million immigrants, to build a big, insurmountable wall on the border with Mexico, and to let in only those immigrants with exceptional abilities, capable of graduating from colleges like Harvard, Yale, or Princeton. He hasn’t yet mentioned whether they will also need to be blond and blue-eyed. Other candidates in the primaries last year didn’t say a word about their plans for handling illegal immigrants, out of fear perhaps of confronting their electorate with controversial topics. Border states like Arizona, Texas, and New Mexico take illegal immigration to heart, for illegal immigration is also connected with drug trafficking, violence, and other crimes.
As I sip my morning coffee I wonder how many of us, the immigrants of yesterday and today, still have compassion and understanding for people who leave their countries and homes to escape terror, war, or hunger.
About 1,100,000 refugees arrived in Germany in 2015. Europe was invaded by the largest wave of refugees since the Second World War. Some believe there is an organized Muslim assault on Western civilization. Among the war’s refugees – poor people who had their lives and homes destroyed by bombs in Syria and Iraq – are Islamic fundamentalists, ISIS agents, impostors, and criminals. Many European cities enthusiastically welcomed refugees only to face demonstrations by the right against immigration, while furious refugees, powerless in their adopted countries, revolted against their hosts. Boat-loads of refugees continue to anchor in the ports of Turkey and Greece. Other unfortunate refugees from Africa head toward other European shores. Europe’s empathy for refugees and exiles wears down, sympathy for them is wearing thin, and everybody is trying only to consolidate and keep his own position, his hard-earned spot under the sun. The older immigrants in America and Europe are turning against the new arrivals, asking that the borders be shut and undesirables expelled.
Some people think that respect and authority are inevitably connected with being heavily armed, starting wars, intimidating – basically being the police of the world. On the other hand, thirty thousand people die of gun shots every year in America, approximately half the number of Americans who died during the entire Vietnam war. These are not victims of terrorism but at times victims of people who are psychologically unstable or who are members of mobs shooting at each other as if the wild west were not long gone.
I sip my morning coffee thinking that the world doesn’t belong to us. Not because of world conflicts and tensions, nor because of the potential invasion of foreigners. It doesn’t belong to us because we are estranging ourselves from one another, from ourselves. We live in a cold world. Technology is more and more efficient, rapacious and more and more detached from touch, communication, or compassion. Ours is a world where individuality is destroying the warm sense of community. Nothing will be as it used to be, skeptical voices predict. Interesting times are coming, which could also mean dangerous ones. Let’s pull down the blinds.
It is quiet on my street. My neighbors go to work, come back from work, park their cars and lock themselves inside their homes. Here they have all sort of gadgets, screens, tablets, Iphones, Ipads, and Ipods to keep them company. Quiet. Only the birds searching for mates break the silence.
The world belongs to them.