An excerpt from Time -
The Border Is Not the Problem
By Dinaw Mengestu
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| A new U.S. citizen, leaving a 2018 mass naturalization ceremony in L.A., waves the flagMario Tama—Getty Images |
When my father arrived in America from Ethiopia in 1978, he was resettled, with the help of an immigration agency, to Peoria, Ill. He found a job working on the factory floor of a Caterpillar Inc. plant, and by the time my mother, sister, and I joined him two years later, he’d already found a two-bedroom apartment two blocks from the Catholic school my sister and I would attend.
It was a startlingly American childhood, made more so by the fact that we spent our weekends at a Southern Baptist church on the other side of town. My parents, raised in the Ethiopian Orthodox church, had never heard of Southern Baptists before coming to America. But every Sunday, there we were, in the front pews, the first and only Black family to have ever attended the church.
On a recent cross-country road trip, my wife and I decided to take our two children on a detour to Peoria. My family had left the city at the tail end of the 1980s recession, when unemployment hovered near 20%. I wanted to see if we could find Sharon, one of the members of the church my family had been especially close to. I hadn’t spoken to Sharon in at least 10 years. We arrived unannounced at her doorstep just in time to take her to lunch. It was the first and most likely the last time she would meet my family. On the drive to the restaurant, Sharon pointed out the Greek Orthodox church near her home.
“Your mom and dad tried to go there,” she said, “but the priest or pastor told them not to come back. He said they would be more comfortable somewhere else.”
When I told Sharon I had never heard that story before she didn’t seem surprised. She shrugged.
“That sort of thing happened a lot back then,” she said. “Your parents had a hard time fitting in.”
I was about to ask Sharon how they were able to do so at a Southern Baptist church, but she saw the question coming.
“Your mom and dad met with Brother Gene, and he saw that they were good people and told them they would be welcome in his church,” she explained. “Before you all came, though, he went around and called every single person. He said if anyone gave your family a hard time, they’d have hell to pay for it. And that was it. I don’t think anyone bothered you at all.”
It felt like a confession when Sharon told the story, and I suppose to some degree it was. If no one at the church ever told us to our face that we didn’t belong—if no one ever explicitly asked us to leave—it was because the good people of the church had been compelled, even threatened, into accepting us. Had they not been, it’s unlikely we would have ever lasted more than a week at the church.
Given the current apocalyptic narrative surrounding immigration, it’s hard to imagine the leader of a conservative Southern Baptist church making a similar kind of phone call today. Whether or not Brother Gene knew my parents to be good people, he knew they were refugees, and in the early 1980s, the political and cultural framework had yet to solidify into the often dehumanizing imagery that’s common today.
https://time.com/7004943/the-border-is-not-the-problem-dinaw-mengestu/
