I’m reading this hate-filled immigration thread and thinking about the place that I grew up and spent most of my life in, a small manufacturing city in Massachusetts.
I remember going to (my band played at) a company party for the largest manufacturing concern in the city, a fabric company - one of the largest manufacturinjg concerns in the state. I think it was something like 10,000 employees - it was big. Practically all I heard spoken was portuguese.
The last place I lived, the last apartment - my two closest neighbors - the older generation in these households, spoke no english - only portuguese. Clean, quiet, nice neighbors. I have known many, many people who do not speak english, who live in my hometown. I went to a tailor for several years who spoke no english. We used a sort of pantomime to communicate. He did good work on the expensive suits I used to wear to work.
My father’s neighbor across the street, who shovels dad’s sidewalk in the winter, and generally looks out for my elderly father, speaks no english. Another neighbor, years ago, who dug a long trench for my father, and who would accept no payment, spoke no english.
Certain markets, neighborhood places, little groceries - no english - good favas (beans) - this may have changed - some of this is rather current information, some is not.
I don’t remember much talk about this. The school department was always rather proud of ESL, or Bi-lingual ed - whatever was in style - they did their job, whatever it was. I know a lot about the school department in my town, know a lot of teachers, taught in the system for a while.
I’m sure there are those who griped about those who spoke, who speak no english. I was never one of those.
One of the ten largest manufacturing concerns - and many other smaller ones - fabrics, textiles, flocking, dye houses - textiles - immigrants - I have been in many of those mills - sold insurance with an interpreter.
Commerce somehow continued. Continues. Good neighbors. Good friends.
In Florida - the restaurant I work in - kitchen crew - some with no english. No one bats an eye. No one cares. No one complains. Not the boss, not the waitstaff, not the cooks who speak english. No one cares. Business gets done. These are good employees, good neighbors, good friends. It’s a good restaurant, and a profitable one.
Is this so difficult? We are so challenged, so threatened by this?
Grow up, america. Or grow younger and more childlike. Everyone’s so serious about this language thing, this english language thing. As if it is a real problem. Have some fun and enjoy the tapestry, the panoply, the richness. The music of these languages.
The music of a commercial kitchen when it’s humming. The rhythym. The song - the songs. It’s like opera.
This is not one of america’s real problems.
This is just hatred.
Have a malasada (a portuguese doughnut).
Some sweetbread. Some home-made wine.
Relax.
I thank my lucky stars to have grown up where I did. When I go back, I see Mr. Furtado sometimes, across the street from my dad’s. I wave. He waves back. We smile. That is enough. He knows I am grateful.
It is enough.
