May 21, (Serendipitously the birthday of my honey, the best step-dad, Curtis) Cynthia Leitich Smith posted my guest blog “Kelly Bennett on Celebrating Fathers: Daddy, Father, Pop, Son, Shel, Cash and Cole.” In asking me to write about what inspired my 2 new picture books, Dad and Pop, illustrated by Paul Meisel and Your Daddy Was Just Like You, illustrated by David Walker, she challenged me to undergo a little psychotherapy. Here’s the link to my guest post. And whatever you do, don’t stop there–Cynthia’s website, Cynsations is as rich and luscious and smart and funny as Cyn herself! Indulge!

Anyone living in the USA whose ancestors weren’t immigrants raise your hands? Only Native American’s, First Nations People, should have a hand up…and then only pure bloods.

My American heritage dates back about 150 years, post Civil War, post slavery. (I like that part—it’s nice not taking blame). My father’s family came from Sweden and England, and were part of the Western Expansion. (Indian Relocation? Guilty). My mother is of Portuguese ancestry (with a little Scot-English we like to pretend never happened). Our Portuguese ancestors came here from the Azores in ships much like Columbus’s Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria, small, crude, wooden. The ships sailed around the Horn—Cape Horn, the tip of South America, a journey called “a great challenge” by sailing aficionados—stopped in Hawaii and finally arrived in San Francisco Harbor. Immigrants who traveled this route were called “Green Horns.”

My grandfather’s mother, her husband and children left the Azores in the late 1800s. Long months later, my grandfather’s mother was the only one in her family to step ashore. Her husband and children died during the crossing. A “green horn,” alone, poor and grieving, she took the best job she could get, doing laundry. She remarried and had one son, my grandfather, Joseph Thomas Silva, born in America.

When I was 8 or so my grandparents were visiting and my step-father, having recently joined the Elks Club, proudly took us to his Club . As Elks do, the men got to comparing how long they had been members. My grandfather, also an Elk, pulled out his card. The man he was talking with whistled. “Wow! You’ve been a member a long time,” he marveled.

My grandfather looked at him. “I would have been a member longer, but back in my day, you wouldn’t let my kind join.”

My grandfather’s story is far from unique. If you’re descended from recent immigrants, you may know first hand how hard life is for anyone coming to America who does not speak American English with a USDA approved accent—aka one traceable to a southern, northern, Midwestern or eastern state—or  broadcaster bland. Others, like me, look back through American history, through your own family history. You’ll uncover layer upon layer of injustices and difficulties new immigrants endured before finally being accepted as Americans. Sure, we love, love, love having “them” –African “them” to plow our fields,  Chinese “them” to build railroads, Italian “them” to build our cities, Mexican “them” to harvest, clean, sweep, paint, garden, do all the “dirty jobs” we don’t want to do. But who do they think they are wanting citizenship? That may have been our ancestors’ right, but its not theirs…

What about that statue in New York Harbor, Lady Liberty, officially “Liberty Enlightening the World”? Should we sandblast the words off the base of her statue: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses?” Or paste a new sign over it: Only the wealth, white, and those under “work/study contracts” from Eastern Europe need apply, the rest of you immigrants—especially those of you already living and working and paying taxes here—shut up, do your job then get out. History be damned, the good old US of A is Full Up so Get Lost…

With regards to making my way around, after five years living in Jakarta, I thought I had it figured out. Feeling quite capable and confidant about riding in a taxi–many of our friends take taxi’s everywhere—I had Sugiman, our Friday driver, drop me at the SOS Medical Clinic, and continue on his way to the airport to meet our friend, Justus’s flight.

Justus and his sister Trinity are visiting us for a few weeks. While they are here, we are flying to Kalimantan where we’ve organized a weekend-long boat trip to view the orangutan in the wild. Although malaria is not much of a risk, the trip organizers suggest participants take malaria prevention medication. As expected, I zipped into the clinic, and a half-hour later zipped back out, Malarone in hand, and asked the car-call attendant to hail a taxi.

Blue Bird is the preferred Taxi company in Jakarta, because the drivers are supposed to be trained and know their way around. Borrowing on Rick’s line from Casablanca, of all the drivers in all the taxis in all of Jakarta, I had to get the one driver who didn’t have a clue where I wanted to go.

In basic, gramatically incorrect but servicable Indonesian, I rattled off my street, nearby main roads, the neighborhood, even Pasar Mingu, a large traditional market near my home (which every Jakartan knows well. It’s like saying at the base of the Eiffel Tour in Paris). He shook his head at every possibility. Was he saying no, that he didn’t understand me? Or no, that he didn’t know those places?

“Ask the guard,” I suggested, pointing out the window to the main opening the clinic gate.

The driver looked back at me, “Where is this place?” He asked. He didn’t know where he had picked me up?

“SOS Medical Clinic” I said. I felt my eyebrows rise and tried to keep the duh…out of my voice.

He nodded, and then asked the guard something, but whatever answer he got, it was not satisfactory.

“Tidak apa apa,” I said, “no problem, I’ll call my house. My maid can tell you where I live.” So I pulled out my handphone, called Rusnati, and asked her to  give him directions.

The driver pulled the taxi to the side of the road, took the phone and listened for a second before turning back to me.

“What road is this?” he asked.

Needless to say, it was a longer, winding road home…