WHEN I see “foreign” hands quietly go through a little gig
wherever—diner kitchen, apple orchard, snowy roadside, building
rooftop, front lawn, city garage—for few dollars paid, I don't see
bent backs or weary eyes, I see hearts and souls. America is the
haven of plenty, the promised land—where greener pastures lay
gently so freedom could frolic with proud trees, jubilant wind and
tall buildings. This is where humanity converge, where a voice in the
wilderness could resound beyond the seas, a giant stage where a mere
whisper is heard by a throng, and a slight wave of a hand could move
a mountain...
But
most immigrants sailed the turbulent oceans and flew the uneasy sky
and left behind families, friends and the warm intimacy of their
culture of birth—not to wonder over the immaculate grandeur of
snowfall, or drown in the euphoric glee of Times Square, or marvel at
the flawless magnificence of the Grand Canyon, or bungee jump from
atop the mighty Statue of Liberty, or rock `n roll in an almost
endless expanse of generous lawns of grass...
These wayfarers,
pilgrims and voyagers carry a heavy load of dreams tucked in their
shallow pockets that are not necessarily measured by dollars paid for
hours rendered. That Dream may not exude the scent of apples, instead
it could be the Dream of Apples, a dream so abstract and hazy yet so
alive and insistent like the incessant rumble of monsoon rains on tin
can roofs, or the howl of tempest in the eye of the storm—that
never left them, these accompany them as they rest their bodies and
pause their minds at the end of a day in the peaceful quiet of a
transient room.
The
glorious joy that seep through their veins as they watch families
share dinners or Saturdays at the park equal the fleeting happiness
of seeing their loved ones stream along, in and out, on a computer
screen, or the sweet smile that squeezes out of their eyes when the
little child left at home opens a box of blessings sent from America,
and then burst into a tearful, happy dance...
These adventuring souls
not only bring with them a thick notebook of things to buy and places
to visit, most of all—they drag with them a long history of pain
and new stories of agony that is not easy to comfort or heal. Their
loneliness is not the isolated discontent of winter cold or the
excruciating alienation of bleeding hearts that can never be pacified
by so many open doors ushered by so many generous smiles. Their
souls will remain unwelcome, their hearts will stay beating a distant
beat that only the sweet songs of summers somewhere so far, so far
away, could shelter...
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