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(American flags on porches image via iStock)
Although I live and work in Italy, I am a first-generation Jewish Italian-American. My dad came from war-weary Europe to make his way in America. He traveled with all the essentials, which in those days were two battered suitcases, a shopping bag and a crumpled shred of paper that bore the address of a sponsoring cousin. The family spoke not a word of English but my dad recalls how words weren’t necessary. When they saw the Statue of Liberty they broke down in tears of joy for what they believed was their salvation and indeed their only hope. In those days immigrants had to have an American sponsor and a job. They had to learn English a