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On Memorial Day: A Look Into My Family Scrapbook

By Joe Guzzardi

"When the United States entered World War II in 1941, my father Giuseppe —an Italian immigrant—worked at North American Aviation, then a major aircraft manufacturer.

In the years leading up to the war, Dad’s main responsibility was
working on the P-51 Mustang assembly line located at North American
Aviation’s Long Beach facility.

During the war’s middle years, nearly 16,000 of the durable, single-
seat, long-range fighters were manufactured and sent airborne. Most
aviation historians consider the P-51 the era’s best American fighter
plane.

Like the other 90,000 North American Aviation employees, Dad had an II-
A occupational deferment.

My uncle, five years younger than my father and born in New York,
didn’t serve overseas either, although not for lack of trying.

Upon graduating from Princeton University, Walter went to enlist in
the Army. But, told he was colorblind, Walt couldn’t join.

Undeterred, Walt decided to pursue a career in the Army Military
Intelligence Service.

As a first step, the Army enrolled him in the University of Chicago.
Because Walt had a strong academic background, he was put in a class
to learn Mandarin. But before beginning, the university advised Walt
that he had to demonstrate some evidence that he knew a smattering of
Chinese.

Walt walked to the closest Chinese laundry to ask the proprietor to
teach him how to count to ten.

Even though Walt’s tutoring was in Cantonese, that was good enough for
the Army hard pressed to find linguists.

Next, after mastering Mandarin, the Army assigned Walt to Fort Riley,
Kansas to learn to ride horses and mules. That was quite a feat for a
city boy from the Bronx. His small class was taken along dark, rocky
jungle roads in preparation for their ultimate destination: the Burma
Road.

Just before being shipped out, Walt went to Washington, D.C.
headquarters for a final briefing. At the last minute, his superiors
made the decision that because of Walt’s language skills, he could do
more for the war effort at home by translating sensitive documents.

In the meantime my Sicilian grandmother, who followed my father to
California, was broken- hearted when Italy entered the war on the Axis
side.

Although my grandmother was by this time an American citizen and a
devout Franklin Delano Roosevelt supporter, Italy’s betrayal
embittered her toward her native country.

On Memorial Day, my family’s role in World War II is much on my mind.
Although no one experienced combat, all played their part.

They were assimilated Italians that loved America—true immigrants,
true patriots.

Of the dozens of things that are so frustrating about our non-stop
battle for immigration sanity, the most infuriating is the deliberate
misuse by the mainstream media and the ethnocentric lobbyists, of the
word “immigrant”.

During my nearly quarter of a century fighting the immigration fight,
I’m annoyed a lot of the time—more than my doctor would say is
healthy.

I’ve been exasperated when I visited my mother in immigrant-dominated
Los Angeles, when my English as a Second Language students resisted
learning, when open borders advocate Bruce Springsteen put a damper on
my night out, when immigration-driven sprawl changed my old Lodi
hometown from a sleepy agriculture hamlet into a San Francisco bedroom
community, when I went to the medical clinic and when I heard the term
“in the shadows” while looking out at a sea of illegal aliens on every
Lodi street corner.

But when reporters and their editors use “immigrant” purposely to
describe illegal aliens in an effort to evoke sympathy and spur
readers into pro-open borders activism, my blood boils.

In truth, I define “an immigrant” much more personally than even the
word’s specific definition.

I use “immigrant” to describe not only an individual who entered the
U.S. legally but who also has assimilated.

When someone comes to America but continues to live as if he were
still in his native country, then what purpose is served? If you ask
me, that immigrant is just taking up a parking space.

On Memorial Day last year, I wrote about my English as a second
language class. As the holiday approached, I reviewed with my students
our schedule for the remaining two weeks of school.

When I wrote on the board, “Monday, Memorial Day, No Class” I
questioned how many students understood the significance that the
holiday holds for them.

I was disappointed but not surprised when no one knew anything about
Memorial Day.

Although my class consisted of many recently sworn-in American
citizens, some of whom had studied the Civil and World Wars, Memorial
Day drew a blank.

What a pity. Most of these legal immigrants dream about coming to
America. Yet when they get here, they live a life indistinguishable—
save for HDTV— from the one they lived in their native country.

Essentially, unassimilated immigrants ignore the tens of thousands of
heroic soldiers who fought and died during dozens of wars over
countless decades to preserve the American ideals of freedom and
justice.

When I hear “immigrant,” I remember the Guzzardi immigrant family—
proud Americans that passionately embraced their new country.

If only all immigrants adopted America as fervently as my ancestors
did, then the nation today would be a better, less contentious
place."

http://www.vdare.com/guzzardi/090522_memorial_day.htm