What goes around – some thoughts on Veterans Day

When WWII broke out, my father tried to enlist.  He was 35 at the time with a wife, a toddler child and another on the way.  The armed forces said “No.”   So, he went back to work at his desk on the mezzanine in the Chanin building on 42nd Street in New York City as a passenger representative for the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad.

 While he wasn’t able to don the uniform of any of the armed forces, his job made him valuable to the war effort. The government had a mission for him.  He was part of the planning team that arranged and implemented the transport of Italian and German prisoners of war around the United States.  He was the “tour” director for prisoners of war, accompanying these young men to their respective prisoner of war camps.

Later, in much the same capacity, working for the railroad, he coordinated with international resettlement agencies to move refugees from World War II to new lives in the United States.  His charges were people, often whole families, from Eastern European countries.

Both assignments were energizing for my father for many reasons, not the least of which were his memories of the stories that his relatives told him about his grandparents’ flight from Ireland during the famine.

“They were country folk,” he would say, “so hungry and dropped into the confusion of urban 1850s Brooklyn.”  He would share stories with us of their struggles and their triumphs in their new land, a family still seeking goals that were unimaginable in famine-wreaked Ireland.

My father loved the work with the refugees in the sense that he could help these people, when, in the past, there was no one to help his ancestors. Again, he shared stories with us about the refugees and the people with whom he worked from the resettlement agencies embellished with a smattering of phrases and words in Italian, German and Ukrainian.  I think that I knew how to say “Where is my luggage?” in German before I was able to read in English.

Somewhere in the leavings of my move from my childhood home are examples of the fabric patches the prisoners and the refugees wore.  The patches for the POWs designated a destination; the patches for the refugees indicated which voluntary agency sponsored their arrivals.  I’ve searched unsuccessfully for them for years.  Why? Well…

Fast forward to the 1980s.  My father’s oldest child, meaning me, became the refugee resettlement director for Syracuse Area Catholic Charities.  And, while I didn’t ride trains around the country, it was my job to recruit and train local church communities so that they would be able to sponsor families fleeing the wars in southeast Asia.  My desk was in a tiny area carved out of a larger area on the first floor of the House of Providence on Onondaga Boulevard in Syracuse.

With nothing in the way of resources, we crafted a way to recruit and train groups of good people to help the human fallout from the Vietnam War begin new lives in the United States.  It was marvelous to see how the groups and the individuals in those groups were able to reach beyond their cultural comfort and help people adjust and thrive. There were no patches for this.

Most of the refugees with whom we worked were from the rural areas of Vietnam and Laos.  Some were marked by the Viet Cong, the Pathet Lao and other insurgent groups because they had assisted the American soldiers in some capacity.  Many lived in thatched huts. Running water was water in a stream.  Formal education was limited, sporadic if available at all. Some had spent years in refugee camps in neighboring southeast Asian countries.  Some had horrific stories about trying to escape by boat.  They arrived at Hancock, often late at night, clutching their 190s (the form that proved who they were and that they had passed a security check) dressed in tropical clothing. Their only luggage was their hope for a better life.

These refugee families had only a scant understanding of the changes that were to happen in their lives again.  They were grateful for being rescued.  They worked hard at low income jobs, saved their money and became homeowners, proud to be able to pay their taxes. They immediately made good use of the educational opportunities here, moving past a former life of subsistence farming and illiteracy to see their children graduate from college.

When the time came, I stood with them as, with tears in their eyes (and in mine,) they took their oaths of citizenship.

My Dad was no longer here when I undertook this particular job, but I think he would have appreciated my enthusiasm, the heartfelt pride in the generosity of the resettlement groups who befriended and mentored the refugees and in my country that brought these “tempest-tossed” to our shores.   This is what my Dad was willing to fight for those many years ago.

There are many ways, I think he would say, to serve, to make the world a safer place for democracy. To lead by example. We salute and cherish the service and sacrifice of those who wore the uniforms of our armed forces. We believe, too, that a uniform can be a business suit or jeans when the ammunition you carry is welcome and opportunity in a participatory democracy.