On this Fourth of July, my favorite holiday ; to honor the memory of my late parents who were first generation Americans born of Italian immigrants — my favorite Langston Hughes poem rings eerily true today :
Let America be America again. Let it be the land it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain. Seeking a home where he himself is free.
( America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dreamers dreamed — Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above.
( It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe.
( There’s never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this ” homeland of the free.”)
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark ? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars ?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek — And finding the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope, Tangled in that ancient endless chain Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land ! Of grab the gold ! Of grab the ways of satisfying need ! Of work the men ! Of take the pay ! Of owning everything for one’s own greed !
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil. I am the worker sold to the machine. I am the Negro, servant to you all. I am the people, humble, hungry, mean — Hungry yet today despite the dream. Beaten yet today — O, Pioneers ! I am the man who never got ahead The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream In the Old World while still a serf of kings, Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, That even yet its mighty daring sings In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned That’s made America the land it has become. O, I am the man that sailed those early seas In search of what I meant to be my home — For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore. And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea, And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came To build a ” homeland of the free.”
The free ?
Who said the free ? Not me ? Surely not me ? The millions on relief today ? The millions shot down when we strike ? The millions who have nothing for our pay ? For all the dreams we’ve dreamed And all the songs we’ve sung And all the hopes we’ve held And all the flags we’ve hung, The millions who have nothing for our pay — Except the dream that’s almost dead today.
O, let America be America again — The land that never has been yet — And yet must be the land where every man is free. The land that’s mine — the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME– Who made America. Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose — The steel of freedom does not stain. From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives, We must take back our land again, America ! O yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath — America will be!
Having just watched the incredibly moving historical piece and quasi- documentary film, “The Jackie Robinson story” (1950), in which Jackie Robinson plays himself, this Langston Hughes poem is even more meaningful.
The sweet, guileless, and intensely patriotic role of the gruff old owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers, Branch Rickey, stands in the sharpest possible contrast to our deeply traitorous President.
Why is he a traitor? Time will tell whether the dots will be connected on his actual treason, but he is already the worst kind of traitor: he is a traitor to the best values of the American experiment.
This President is determined to betray everything good in America:
-democracy and fair elections,
-the equality of all people,
-equality of opportunity,
-freedom of speech,
-freedom of the press,
-freedom of religion,
-freedom from want, and
-the pursuit of happiness according to one’s own particular vision of that place somewhere over the rainbow.
In place of that most American dream of chasing our rainbows he thrusts cynical fraud, fear of our fellow man, and a culture that grovels before the Master and mammon.
While he is yet to achieve unbridled power, we must not fool ourselves. These are the values of the dictatorial regime, not the free, self-governing, and democratic people depicted in the hopeful, post-war “The Jackie Robinson Story” and embodied in the tremendous courage of Jackie Robinson and Branch Ricky, two American heroes..