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| Americans |
March 20, 2007 |
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Dear Friends,
At the Kiva auditorium on Friday morning 165 people from 45 different countries became New Mexico’s newest American citizens.
I’ve spoken at several citizenship ceremonies over the years but they never get old. It’s a reminder to those of us lucky enough to have been born in America of just how precious this gift of American citizenship is. It is also a reminder of the importance of rituals in our woven tapestry of a nation.
We don’t just send someone a certificate in the mail when they have met the requirements for citizenship. They stand in front of a judge, pledge allegiance to the flag, take an oath renouncing allegiance to foreign “princes” and pledge to protect and defend the Constitution. Their name is called and there are hand shakes and pictures and an opportunity to register to vote. It is a big deal, a rite of passage that marks a new beginning, being part of something that is now part of them.
On Friday, I told these newest citizens about my family and how they came to America.
My middle name is Ann. My daughter’s middle name is Ann. The Ann’s in our family have been strong, courageous, hardworking women.
Annie Skalley, my mother’s grandmother, came to America from County Cork, Ireland as a teenager shortly after the potato famine. She came alone and got a job as a maid in the town where I grew up at a time when the signs in the stores said, "No Irish Need Apply." Annie Skalley married an American. It was a bit of a scandal at the time because his family thought marrying an Irish Catholic servant girl was beneath him.
My Grandpa Wilson came to America in 1922. There was no work in Scotland after World War I and he decided to take his chances in America. When he got settled he wrote home to Annie MacIntosh of Aberdeen and asked her to come to America to marry him. They were married the day she got off the boat in Boston. She was wearing a dark blue suit and my Grandpa gave her the wedding ring I wear today as my own.
Annie Wilson came to America with a thimble and a skill as a seamstress. She made wonderful oatmeal raisin cookies and there was always Gingerale in her tiny kitchen. There were some very hard times. The family moved to the town where I grew up the day before Thanksgiving during the depression. My Nana told me she had one dollar in her pocket, so she bought a sack of potatoes. She worked in a shoe factory and my grandfather was a barnstormer and started a welding shop. They raised two boys and made a life for themselves in a new country.
I know these stories because my mother and my grandmother told them to me.
We are our stories. Stories of hardship and hope and adventure and faith and hard work. Stories that teach lessons and give children a sense of who they are and who they can become. The stories of our most recent immigrants will be woven in to make the rich fabric of America. Some day, an old man will sit with a grandchild and show him a picture from a long time ago of the special day he became an American.
Wish you were here,
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