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-tossed, to me:
But in small doses.
Let's not overdo it.
Immigrants, legal or no, rally by the thousands across America. Politicians harp. Pundits carp. Citizens join in, frown in disagreement, lend support, toss obscenities, or plug along without even noticing. Where were you today?
Magic laws make borders appear in the desert where Nature makes no distinction. Laws and customs, customs and borders. A fence that keeps out keeps in.
O ye hypocrites in mansions built with the sweat of the criminal expatriate brow.
I'm an immigrant. ("Legal, mind you," a history teacher demurs when we're chatting about today's walkout rallies.) Born in Canada twenty-seven years ago, dual citizen by the rules of the time, son of an American dad and a Canadian mom. She's still Canadian, even after years in the States. Why does she hate America?
I'm proud to be an American. Sing it.
I vote. I pay taxes. I follow the laws and know the lyrics.
On days like this I can feel anarchy fizzing in my veins.
Mr. Tancredo, tear down this wall.
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