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The American Dream for Immigrants . . . Or Not


“I’m living the American Dream.”

His skin was black as the midnight sky. His accent was from somewhere in Africa, but I couldn’t place the region. He was clearly well taught in English.

“I’m from the Ivory Coast of Africa

Our language is influenced by the French.”

His car was impeccable, and made in America.  His jeans were expensive, fashionably slit at the knee.  Indeed, my immigrant Uber driver is living the American dream.

I thought back on my own heritage. My forbearers were immigrants from the Caribbean Islands and Ireland.  Through their American work ethic, it was my good fortune to be raised in the suburbs. I was afforded the best education this country has to offer.

I, too, am living the American dream.

His clothes were disheveled.  He was surrounded by other children, all appearing to be  ten years of age or younger. Encaged by wire fences.  Is this what American family values have come to? Are these little ones the drug smugglers and rapists that our nation is so afraid of?

Give me your tired, your poor.  Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Then rip them by the hundreds from the arms of their parents, as the slave masters did in the darkest part of our nation’s history.

I wonder if these children will ever be able to say—

“I am living the American dream.”



written by Amy Bryant, Safety Harbor resident blogger

Amy Bryant 

Author of You Can Go Home Again


  1. Just found this blog. I don’t know if it’s prose or poetry but it’s beautiful. Keep up the good work

  2. Such important messages and so much sadness to predict for the assumptions our children will make about the world. Thank you, Amy. As always food for thought. patricia

    • Thank you for commenting, Patricia. For me it’s all about the children . . . all children. They will shape our democracy.

  3. Yes, Amy, you are right. I do like this latest blog of yours. The timely subject. Timely and unfortunate, sad.
    You say it so differently from how it’s been said by many before. And it hits home … Thank you, Amy.

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