Write What you Know
‘They say’ to write what you know. ‘They say’ that my art is needed in the world right now; that it will be my resistance and my superpower to combat the injustices afoot in the universe. ‘They say’ that there is power in the pen. ‘They say’ I still have freedom of speech in this country I call mine.
‘They say’ that immigrants are animals and overwhelmingly criminals. ‘They say’ that political refugees eat cats. ‘They say’ that dreamers are better off deported. ‘They say’ babies born in this country I call mine shouldn’t be citizens. ‘They say’ our neighbors are letting the drugs and sex traffickers into our country never voicing that the market and the customers hale from this country I call mine. ‘They say’ so much and yet, so immensely little.
The smallness of their words echoes in private chambers to cause fear, hate and sorrow. Loud, clanging cymbals reverberating over innocent, hardworking, and honest people. Chains and handcuffs jingling at the doors of hospitals, churches and schools sound louder than the warm hum of Abuelitas and Gran Granns comforting their grandchildren.
That’s when I knew that I knew that I knew what to write.
I know immigrants and refugees and dreamers.
I know people are made in the image of God.
I know God welcomes the stranger.
I know that they will know we are Christians by our love.
I know it’s complex.
I know that the most proud I ever felt of this country I call mine was in August of 2023.
My husband has worked in the Non-Profit NGO international relief space for 17 years.
In 2023, we had the honor of taking a trip to Colombia, South America to see the work and ministry being done among Venezuelan migrants. Our country guide and interpreter gave us a ‘crash course’ in all things migrant: policy; NGO’s (non-governmental organization); collaboration of entities (food and health programs) and more.
We saw maps of migrant routes, displaced persons living quarters, overnight accommodations and food distributions. We learned Colombia has a comprehensive and good path forward for migrants to become citizens. (This country I call mine could learn from them) They ‘took their neighbors in’ because of the political unrest and literal starvation and poverty the Venezuelans found themselves in. At one time, the wealthiest South American country in a few short years had been decimated by the power and greed of a government untouched by the needs of its people.
Young women and girls will walk miles and miles for prenatal care and a bag of rice, vitamins and insulin. Those that work in the non-profit space work long and sacrificial hours to provide basic care and necessities to those suffering— most immigrants WANT to be home. They want for their nations to have political rest, prosperity, food sources and jobs. They want a country to call theirs. Until then, what song should we hum? What cause should we champion? What place should we provide for those without a home or a country?
We spent the most lovely of days with women and children immigrants. They exuded joy, hospitality and even gifted me— the proverbial rich American — with one of their handicrafts they were making to sell in the market. I was humbled. I felt as if I made a roomful of new undocumented, unaccounted for, walked across borders best friends. They were my people, if you know what I mean.
We crawled back into the taxi after a day of learning the ropes — my husband and I tend to ask a million questions. Our dear friend, Sarah, turned and asked us— ‘what are you feeling? What are your impressions?’ We had learned a whole bunch about the aid the USA had provided through various organizations and the generosity of our country (and quite frankly our tax dollars) to these very human problems of hunger and home. I felt embarrassed to say it. I kinda choked it out awkwardly, sheepishly because it reeked of my American pride.
‘I am proud to be an American and I’m proud our country gives so much to aid these immigrants. Our generosity blesses so many.’ Just one of my takeaways.
In all his travels to fifteen countries, the poorest community my husband has seen was among the Venezuelan migrants living in the rocks and ridges of Colombia’s mountains. People. Beautiful children, attentive and caring parents, hardworking people anxious to go on living— with hope to see their families they had left behind and their homes and land they had ghosted.
That was then; this is now.
That was there; this is here.
My side hustle, career, and volunteer work over the last 23 years has been to teach English to Speakers of Other languages. (ESL) Over the course of those years, I have likely met folks in every stage of immigration: green cards, deportations, birthright citizenship, refugees, work visas, sponsorships, seasonal migrants, undocumented, gainfully employed, asylum seeking, anchor babies, new citizens, those in the process of getting a license, their GED, citizenship and the list goes on. I have met folks from every major continent, every shade of skin and every major language group. I really never knew my students by their status— I knew them as eager learners and in time, as friends.
I know I am no expert.
I know that dehumanization begins with calling people inferior race (the Jews in Germany), cockroaches (the Tutsi in Rwanda), ants (the Venezuelans in South America) and animals (the immigrants in the USA). I know that is the language of genocide.
I know immigrants are people.
I know they eat really delicious food because their hands have prepared it for me.
I know they welcomed me as a stranger to their countries.
I know that the path forward is not more troops, more shackles, more disinformation, more filled prisons, more demeaning rhetoric, more fear and more anger.
I know that the heart of the Father God for the immigrant is one of mercy and that the Jesus follower will be known by their love.
I know I have a greater, higher and better Country I call mine that is not of this world but that I am a citizen of heaven — so this soil I walk is my temporary home. I am a stranger, a refugee, an alien, an immigrant — made in the image of God. We are sojourners walking each other home. Welcome home, immigrant.
Remind me, Lord.
Of all the things I don’t know, let it be said I know YOU.
I wrote this poem in the weeks following our trip to Colombia. I saw a newsclip of a pregnant woman being cut by razor blades attached to fences and ropes at the border, placed there by Texas governance. I had just returned feeling so proud of our country and knew we were at a precipice. The issue is not that reform needs to happen. It does. The issue is how the Church speaks of immigrants and acts toward them. The issue is the ungodly rhetoric and unlawful measures of the government officials who are charged with solving this issue. A society can address its challenges in humane, dignified, ethical, bipartisan, collaborative, nonviolent, and honoring ways. To speak of immigrants as animals and eating pets incites racism, hatred, fear and tribalism. The openhandedness and generosity of the USA makes her great and we should be humbled to remember that.
Welcome Home
I have a homeland
That is rich and free
In all the world,
We are the envied
But our greed gets the best of us
Our pride wins the day
Our guns are killing us
Our unborn have a heavy price to pay
And we turn away the migrant
We close our borders tight
With barbed wire and razor blades
We take up the fight
But just how did we become great
Because we kept for ourselves that which was ours?
How did we become united in state?
Because of a generous spirit, near and far
We boast we are a sovereign nation
The best damn country of them all
But we damn the Sovereign often
The way of the cross, we ignore the truest call
Church in America, oh beautiful
Adorn not yourself with gold braids and jewels
But clothe yourself with a deep mercy
Don’t let your heart be cruel
Welcome the migrant
Welcome the babe
Welcome the refugee
The orphan, the fostered— rescue; Save
Be free with thy money
Helping doesn’t hurt
Give like the foreigned Samaritan
Open your purse; show worth
And lavish the hungry and sick
With a hand of kindness, tender
For we are rich; we are free
Be a light of the Broken-hearted Mender.
I have another homeland
Soon awaiting me
With streets of gold and mansions
My neighbors chosen Divinely
And we will all be citizens of heaven
The only true place of home
Where feasting and rest await us
Never more to roam
So if it’s said as it often is
We are just walking each other home
Then fit your feet, be ready
With the migrant, have no qualm
Walk a mile, then two
Our gait resting on the gospel of peace
Welcome the stranger, welcome each one in His image
From your fears, be released
And may the Lord of all Refuge
Be refuge to the refugee
And may the God of all might
To the migrant, be Mighty.
I have a homeland
That is rich and free
In all the world
We are the envied.
I have another homeland
Soon awaiting me
With streets of gold and mansions
My neighbors chosen by the God of mercy.
Cjz
8.28.23
1pm
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