Dear America, I’m sorry, but we forgot.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,”

When we invite the tired, and the poor, they are likely to come. When we invite them to our home, they deserve to be welcomed.

Dear America, I’m sorry, but we forgot.

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

The huddled masses come from everywhere. They don’t always look like us. They don’t eat the same foods as we. They don’t always pray as we. Just as we were different upon the shores of America, so often are they.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Dear America, I’m sorry, but we forgot. We were once homeless and tempest-tossed and longing for a place to call home. We came as strangers, acting like conquerors, barely able to survive. Those who struggle through the storm know only that the chaos of storm cares little for who is in its path. Not rank, nor wealth, skin color, or faith; all are subject to the death and indignities of storm.

Dear America, don’t be a stranger – to our past or to our future.