Manifest Destiny, Obviously

Manifest Destiny, Obviously:
A Brief Dissertation of Immigration


As a people, the American public has been exposed to vile, indecent, and lewd acts presented readily in the name of entertainment, sordid affairs of sex, drugs, and murder. We have become accustomed to these crude acts, developed a society surrounded by a seemingly infinite number of them. Our nation is one epitomized by scandal, infamous for the degradation it has inflicted upon the morals of man. We are consumed with the here, the now, only concerned with instant gratification. Life is good when we are pleased and unbearable when we are not. The living conditions and, indeed, suffering of others is never entered into the amalgamated equation. I am happy, comfortable; life is bliss, and that is all that matters.


And so it goes. The nation prospers, and the economy grows. The people are happy, and the government is rich. We are blinded by the bountiful harvest, unable to see the festering fungus that lays before us, blissfully unaware of the impending storm, the looming chaos. And so it goes. Steadily, the crime rate increases. Death ensues. Yet, blinded by the abundant yield, we continue our immoral and decadent ways. Nothing changes. We are but puppets. And so we perform.


On a beautiful Tuesday morning, the strings tangle. We fall to the floor in desperation, fragile dolls, and inanimate beings, lost and confused. And just as the puppet master, the fungi become obvious. The crop is ruined. We gag at the stench. And on this beautiful, brilliant September morning, a day which will truly live in infamy, a sleeping, ignorant, and over-bearing giant awakes. Committees are established. Reports are drafted. Funding is cut. War is declared. And for some unknown reason, the death toll rises, exponentially; indeed, it is a most fascinating conundrum. New committees are established. More reports are drafted, and, yet again, funding is cut. The War on Terror, for terror takes place only in the Middle East, does nothing for the War at Home, and the sleepless giant grows evermore restless.


Vaguely, we become aware of the crime, the death, but obviously (for it is truly obvious when thou art able to see, gaze at the odious world of which you are surrounded, yet still blind to fact, truth, and reality), it is the fault the minority, the ‘they.’ The blame of these transgressions falls onto the strong shoulders of the migrant workers. It is their fault that people are dying. It is their fault that I have no job. It is their fault that the economy struggles and that everyday the might of the American dollar weakens. It is all their fault!


Angry, fearful, and misinformed, Middle America begins to demand that the government do something, take responsibility for this outrageous injustice. We, the Americans, demand that something be done! They are taking our money, our jobs, and our freedom! It matters not that these people have struggled their entire lives just to survive. I want them out! I demand it! I want it now! Instant gratification. And, succumbing to these most reasonable demands, the government grants it, instantly, anything to keep the voters happy.


So, here we are, poised on the crossroads of a new America, a single breath away from what will ultimately become what we are, for what we stand. Indeed, for what do we stand? We are a nation founded solely on the ideals and dreams of immigrants. In the times of yore, the migration of peoples to this land was called Manifest Destiny. Now, it is a crime against nature, a dirty, disgustingly sinful act. It is, perhaps, humorous that the views of the majority shift to conform to its needs, make necessary changes to definitions and ideals to keep it content. Let us laugh at the irony. No one laughs. No one breathes. Poised are we on the final step of hypocrisy, for the step to dignity was lost long ago. But it matters not, for I am happy, content, blissfully unaware, and that is all that matters, obviously.


From this ethereal state of bliss, rise the perpetually changing yet constant misconceptions. We assume that we are omniscient, that we perceive and scrutinize all sides of a problem, that we suffer the emotions and crises as strongly as any character. Because that is what they are, characters, impersonal and arbitrary imaginative beings, untouched by the troubles faced by one in a more realistic setting: school, money, fashion. They are not people. They do not matter. They do not exist. They never have, and they most certainly never will. But in favor of amusement, let us imagine, for the future and livelihood of millions of people is nothing but a game, a simple score to be debated, a fascinating spectacle to be studied, that we have taken the final bound, jumped from our perched position into the vast oblivion that is hypocrisy. Let us pretend that ‘The New Colossus’ has closed her golden door. No longer does she accept the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of foreign land, or the homeless, tempest-tost upon her shores. And for the sake of my artistic license, let us envision a land where the humanitarian is a felon; where an expensive, ineffective wall is erected; where children are taken from their homes, placed into foster-care, while their parents are shipped off to the opposite side of the globe. They are not people. They never have been, and they most certainly never will. It is excruciatingly humorous, and as I laugh, a hollow sound which echoes throughout this hollow oblivion, my heart breaks. And in that single moment, time stretches, warps, becomes nothing but an evanescence of passion, a fading utopia. The future of this nation, indeed the world, is dependent solely on our actions, directly proportional to the amount of study placed on humanitarian efforts. It is possible to reach a global nirvana, a state in which every individual is socially and worldly aware, but it must start here, now. And as we sit at home, happy, content, blissfully unaware, the future dims, and the hope dies. The dark abyss echoes with the hollow sound of a broken heart.


HR 4437, most inappropriately dubbed the ‘Immigration Bill’ (for it opposes that of which it is named) has wrecked havoc upon the quiet, comfortable lives of many Americans. We are forced to watch, captivated by the distasteful, black box that adorns the center point of our living rooms, dens, parlors, our lives, as millions crowd the streets to show their detest for this bill. Indeed, there is a great need for border reform. The security of our nation relies heavily on the safety of our borders, and the Immigration Bill does a superb job of providing such protection. However, the means do not always outweigh the ends, and in our haste to return to the habitual state of unawares, we often forget this. As a nation of educated, knowledgeable professionals, we must strive for a more competent and encompassing solution to this growing problem. No longer are we able to sit by and watch the world crumble, fall into the perilous depths of war, genocide, and famine, because we have become the victim of this erosive entity. We have become the ‘they,’ the impersonal and arbitrary imaginative beings, the non existent peoples of foreign lands. Now, as we stand at equal levels (Our metaphorical giant has shrunken) may we converse, communicate our ideas, convey our passions, and it is only now that we may truly progress.


From our dark hiding place, a single yet brilliant ray of hope cuts through the abyss, barely perceived, but it is there. And with this single ray as a foundation, an epiphany, an example for what is to come, we shall build a stunning star of hope, a colossus. We shall reach a global nirvana, a universal awareness, one day, and when that time arrives we shall be truly, fully, and rapturously happy, content, blissfully aware, and that is all that matters, obviously.