My father was an Immigrant
                           by Stephen Yulish
Nearly a century ago, my paternal grandfather left his wife and six children
in the Ukraine, Russia and came to America to earn money to help his
struggling family back in the old country (sound familiar?).
In 1922, things became so oppressive for Jews in the new USSR that he hired a
man (coyote?) to bring his family to America. They were smuggled across
Eastern Europe hidden in hay wagons and drinking pickle juice while being
chased by Russian soldiers. My father had nightmares of this ordeal until the
day that he died.
They finally arrived in Warsaw where they boarded a freighter bound for
America. A year after they left their home in Vinnitsa, they arrived in New
York Harbor to the welcome sight of the Statue of Liberty. This was the only
authorized point of entry and there at Ellis Island they were examined and
screened for criminal background and chronic disease. My father had a bad leg
and had to spend months in quarantine until he was finally allowed to enter.
He then went to work in a cigar factory for $10/week. He went to night school
to learn English, paid his taxes, obeyed the law and eventually saved enough
money to buy a small mom and pop fruit and vegetable market.  It was not easy
and he struggled but he loved America. He was not given health insurance nor
assistance in my higher education.
He was furious when I grew long hair in the early 70's and protested the
Vietnam War. He was so proud, however, that even though he never went to
public school and spoke with a thick foreign accent, his son had received a
Ph.D. The American dream had worked (even though he thought that I should have
gotten a trade like a Plum-Ber!).
Today, why cannot people who want a piece of this great American dream play by
the rules like he did? It is only fair and just.
Stephen Yulish Ph.D.