Make Copies of the Statue of Liberty?

There is absolutely nothing I can do about the immigration mess brought on by children from Central America flooding across the U.S. border. If those youngsters were pouring into Cape May County it might be different, but for now, it’s not our problem, or is it? Again America is made to look like the ogre on the international stage. Who could possibly be against children looking for a better tomorrow? Nobody. The big problem is simple, money. Who will pay for their clothes, their shelter, their food, their education, their other living expenses? For sure, they won’t be boarded in the White House, which isn’t a bad idea, since it is “the people’s house.” That won’t happen, so we won’t go there.
Since every country seems to be pointing accusing fingers at us, how about spreading the wealth? Why not let the international brotherhood accept some of the children? Feed them for a fortnight, then ship them off to France and Russia, Sweden and Libya, Portugal and South Africa. How about some going to Japan and a few to China and Canada? Why must it always be the United States that has the open arms? Is it because we started something, and now we can’t stop?
Is it because we are the only nation that has a Statue of Liberty that hordes of the down-and-out look here for a brighter future? Suppose, just for chuckles, we made a few copies of Emma Lazarus’ famed “The New Colossus.” Would its words be accepted in India or Iraq, Poland or Kenya?
When did it become the ultimate responsibility of the taxpayers of the United States of America to pay for anyone and everyone who crosses the border and declares themselves in need of a place to live and food to eat? The entire subject of “illegal immigrants” bothers me. It’s troublesome because the subject essentially changed the rules of the game in mid-play.
Undeniably we are a nation of immigrants. Few, except Native Americans, who got the rawest of rotten deals from a “civilized” people can truly say this is “their” land. Every one of us has kinfolk who came from afar. When they decided the old country no longer held a future for them, and they saw the land of golden opportunity known as America, they had to go through a process to become citizens. Many were turned back, with hearts and lives broken, but that was life according to the rules of immigration.
Today, like a children’s game of tag, if you put one foot here, you’re “safe.” You made it home, and who can point you to the door? If they do, “they” are the ones discriminating against the poor downtrodden masses.
If those countless border crossers want to come here, pay their way, and make this place home, do it on par with what every other immigrant did since the gates opened. Then, once here, study to become a citizen. Take the time to learn the history and the laws. Finally, take the same oath those people took on May 1 at the Cape May County Administration Building to become U.S. citizens. That’s the way to do it, don’t sneak here and believe there is some magical right to stay and freeload, because there is none.
Having made the trip to the Statue of Liberty once, I can truly declare it gave me goose bumps to think what that symbol meant to so many over the years who clung to a thread of hope for a brighter future. They came, and here we are. This is not “our” land, although we live here for a brief spell. Regardless of ownership, it is a land of laws. Since that is the case, those laws must be obeyed or chaos will result.
What will those children think about this nation that just lets them walk in, sit down and start to exist? Enforce immigration laws, become citizens, or look to one of the world’s other countries.
In case some other nation wants a copy of Emma Lazarus’ “The New Colossus” here it is:
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-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”