A 85 year young lady tells every one where she is coming from…
Next thing I know, I hear them arguing about the political correct way to deal with all those immigrants coming into the United States.
One of my tables is getting louder and louder. They had already three rounds of drinks so far and I am waiting for their food to come up. These are eight full-size well-nourished businessmen from Northern California in their forties and fifties who have been playing golf in nearby Pebble Beach. After settling the money part of their bets and finishing their talk about scores, one starts with politics. Next thing I know, I hear them arguing about the political correct way to deal with all those immigrants coming into the United States. It’s all about “Should or shouldn’t we allow them into the country!”
“It’s not only the illegals who cause the problems.”
“Immigrants, they work for less than Union wages and everybody hires them for they provide cheep labor, everybody hires them.”
“Even the governor did hire some wet backs, didn’t he?”
“He blames his wife.”
“As long as they are available as cheep labor, people will hire them!”
“So let’s close the borders!”
“Yes! Kick them all out.”
“Send them all back to where they belong!”
“It’s them, these illegal s.o.b.s who use and abuse our welfare system isn’t it?”
“…like rabbits and we have to pay for their babies.”
“We pay for everything, hospital delivery, medical bills, schooling, welfare and social security.”
“They clog our streets and drive without insurance.”
“They are no good for our economy, sending all their money home . . . ”
“They are the nation’s real problem. All these mother f……s should stay home. We do not need any more of these . . . ”
Having a discussion is okay, but this group of men is getting too loud. The whole dining room is hearing their debate. Every customer at every table in the restaurant is listening. I am not too keen to go and tell them to keep the voices down. Nevertheless, I know I better do so before other guests start complaining. Slowly I head for their table. I guess all I can say is, “Please gentlemen can you keep your voices somewhat down?” On second thought I have to tell them to refrain from cussing as there are ladies in the room.
Yet before I get to say anything, a frail looking older lady is stepping in my path and I hear her angry voice, “Young men, you should be ashamed of yourself. How can you talk like this about immigrants?”
I notice eight big mouths popping open, eight pairs of eyes and as many sets of ears are focusing on the tall simple dressed but authoritative acting lady. She has everybody’s attention, it’s quiet at the golfer’s round table, as a matter of fact it’s quiet in this section of the restaurant. Everybody wants to hear what this gutsy lady has to say and she does say what she feels she has to say:
“I am an immigrant. I came here seventy-five years ago. If they wouldn’t have allowed me into this free country, I too would be dead. Like the rest of my family who stayed behind in the Old Country!”
She gives each man a quick glance. “Look at yourself! None of you looks to me like a Native American. Your parents or grand parents must have been immigrants at one point. Just like me! Where would you be if they wouldn’t have allowed your forefathers into this country? Ask yourself where would you be today?”
She relaxes and a forgiving smile appears on her face as she says, “Never mind boys! Today is my eighty-fifth birthday, and I am thankful. It’s all by the grace of God and this great country we are allowed to live in. Please listen to me! Let us keep the doors open for all the new arrivals.”
I help her with her chair as she quietly sits down. Many guests applaud her, including the table of golfers.
I take good care of her table and bring her a special dessert with a birthday candle. The eight golfers apologizing send the “birthday girl” a flower-bottle of Champagne. She is all smiles. At the eight top the subject has changed now they argue about organized religion.