Asylum

I had two lovely guests stay with me this weekend. My granddaughter, Lilly, and her best friend, Chloe, flew down from their respective colleges to visit with Grandpa and, hopefully, enjoy the Palm Beach weather. Unfortunately, the temps were well below normal, and I ended up giving them some of my flannel hunting shirts to wear around the house in the evening. They still had a ball, driving my car and visiting with Lilly’s aunt and dining out at fun restaurants. For a short time, my house was transformed into a dormitory, with the contents of the girls’ suitcases transforming most of the surfaces and floors. I didn’t mind the temporary disorder and displacement of my things as the girls were delightful company––surprisingly open and easy to talk with, despite the generational gap. Chloe shared an interesting bit of her family history, about her parents’ journey from Russia to the US in the 1970s. She described what it was like for them growing up in Odessa and how life in the Soviet Union was like “another planet” compared to life in America. There was rampant antisemitism and corruption in the Soviet Union, and access to immigration required payoffs. She said Jews even had their passports and identity documents stamped with the word “Jew.” I was surprised to hear that, and it was a sobering moment in an otherwise carefree weekend for the girls. Chloe’s story, told over a lovely dinner, was an immediate and powerful reminder that part of the promise of America is asylum.