I look up into my family tree. I see my two parents. And their four parents. And their eight parents. And so on. And so on.
Each of us descended from seemingly countless people. Every branch in the family tree has the story of two lives that intersect. Each story unique and meaningful. Go back a few generations and all you have are names, dates, a few apocryphal stories, a picture here, an heirloom there. Go back even further and eventually you have no names, just unknown ancestors. But their stories are no less unique and meaningful. It seems we lose connection with our ancestors astonishingly fast.
For those not indigenous to North America, most of the branches in our family trees have a story of immigration. I have been thinking about the threads of family lineage and the stories of immigration that brought me to this place and time in America.
America, America
God shed her grace on thee.
And crown thy good
with humanhood
so we can all be free.
-- Libby Roderick, America, America from CD If You See A Dream, 1990
Step with me across the years to see the uncommon, yet common, story of American immigrants.
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