Thursday, November 26, 2009

Some Thanksgiving Thoughts on Illegal Immigration

At the moment of writing, there is what you might call an infestation of squatters, noisily partaking of their Thanksgiving feast on and in various parts of your body.  They were not invited but that is of no matter.  They are probably viral in nature and although you are several removes from the likes of St. Francis or Dr. Schweitzer, you bear them no malice because of their viral nature; more to the point they are uninvited.  They were not asked to participate and thus with every chomp from them, for every call for seconds or to send the stuffing down to this end of the table, you are increasingly more appalled by their audacious presence.

They have been here before, sometimes in other, even more viral forms and you have sent them packing.  True enough, the last time you required some help from a splendid and talented surgeon/urologist, but that was then and these squatters are rowdies in comparison, but nevertheless pesky.

This may make it sound as though you take a hard line on undocumented virus, but far from it.  There are any number of squatters doing nicely on your landscape and you wish you had the time to get to know them in some closer way than you do.  Even in your cranky and smoldering cholers of the moment, you understand that there are some organisms that have migrated to you, even had families, that are, as you are, in for the long haul and have common goals.

This is the time of year much favored by writers because it is the beginning of a season where families and friends gather to celebrate the significant joys of being alive, about, and together.  Writers know that these gatherings may also involve another aspect of the human condition, which is to say politics.  Uncle Fred tends to drink a bit and complain about a football game, Aunt Mildred steadfastly refuses to try anything new in the way of stuffing ingredients, and growing numbers of nieces and nephews dramatize their issues with animal-related foodstuffs, tucking righteously into a gelid cube of tofu or reminding said Uncle Fred or Aunt Mildred that Jell-o does indeed contain animal parts, which makes it a no-no.  These may be times of great trauma, of devoutly wished never-again resolutions for family gatherings, but these moments are also a part of love, companionship, and, dare you suggest it, grace.  What would Thanksgiving be without Aunt Mildred's intransigence or Uncle Fred's tipply remembering the days when the Chicago Bears were a football team to be reckoned with.

As far as your own squatters are concerned, you have downed such pharmacopeia as you could manage, all in some way geared to get them out on the streets where they must fend for themselves. At the risk of seeming smug about it, you wish the rest of you a happy Thanksgiving.

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