WHAT IS AN AMERICAN?

Evening Star, Issue 23697, 3 October 1940, Page 12

WHAT IS AN AMERICAN?

A LIVING AMALGAM [By R. H. Markham, in the ‘ Christian Science Monitor.’] As i was walking up the main street of Fort Smith, during a brief visit in that attractive Arkansas city, I saw a business sign bearing the name “ Yankoff.” The familiar appearance of the word made me wonder if its bearer wasn’t a Bulgarian. So I mounted a wooden stairway and ushered myself through an open door into an empty waiting room. Since I didn’t want'to wait, 1 boldly rang 1 , a bell that seemed to be designed to call somebody. It did. A door was soon opened by a pleasant, blue-eyed, brown-haired lady, who instantly recognised the bell-ringer and and gave him an exuberant Balkan welcome Befoi'e it had subsided the lady’s husband appeared, with a new onslaught of goodwill. The Yankolfs were old friends from Bulgaria. After a long conversation, full of reminiscences, Mr Yankoff related the

following incident:—“A Fort Smith fruit merchant from Italy told me this morning he was sorry for me. When I asked him why, he replied, ‘ Because those Nazis are going to seize your country.’ ‘No one can seize my country,’ I retorted. ‘ Why, 1 thought it was a poor, weak little State,’ the Italian said. ‘ Well, you’re wrong. It’s the mightiest country on earth,’ I answered, ‘ I’m an American!’ ” Such wore Mr Yaukoll’s sentiments. Ho is an American. Ho came here to bo an American. I think he is as much an American as anyone in his State. Not long after visiting Fort Smith 1 was one of America’s' 13 Pulaskis. Arriving late at night, 1 wont to a restaurant, where I was served by Ahemed, a friendly Mohammedan from Albania. He expressed sorrow over the plight of his former laud, and said, “ When we Americans make the world democratic, Albania will be free again!” That was the first Mohammedan American I had talked with. His wife is a West Virginian. Once in visiting Oklahoma I took hmch at its little town of Guthrie. As 1 paid for my appetising meal I remarked to the cashier, “ This is a Greek restaurant, isn’t it?” “ No,” he answered emphatically, “ it is an American restaurant, owned by an American of Greek origin.” Not far from Guthrie is the little Kansas town of CofFeyville, which for our family is distinguished by two notable events. First, one of' my twin daughters married a young mail from there.' Second, a vigorous son of Ger-man-born grandparents taught in the high school there. WILLKIE AS TEACHER. This young man, called at the time Lewis W. Wiilkio, represented a verv typical American reality.

Most of the people in Milwaukee, Chicago, Detroit, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Philadelphia, and a dozen other important cities were like him—namely, foreign-born or children of foreign-born. Some of them were called foreigners. But intensely patriotic, straightshooting Coft'eyville never considered its rather restless young teacher anything but American. And now in the east and west, in the north and south, millions of Americans have spontaneously and enthusiastically arisen to declare that this grandson of foreign-born Germans is one of the most hopeful and inspiring Americans in the United States. Americanism springs from the hearts of people. It depends neither on blood nor religion. It is a living spirit. At Charlottesville, Va., I heard a debate between an aggressive exponent of Fascist ideas and an ardent champion of democracy. The crusader for authoritarianism said: “ I am of American stock for generations back.” The democrat, Dr Carl Friedrich, said: “ 1 came here from Germany IS years ago to visit I liked it and I stayed. I love the freedom and respect for individuals I find here!” Most of the people hearing the debate felt the “ foreigner ” was the true American. They knew him at sight. SADNESS IN HUNGARY. A young mother living in Cambridge, who is a friend of the family from Budapest, Hungary, is unspeakably sad these days She is a Hungarian Roman Catholic of Jewish descent. Her husband is a Hungarian-born Lutheran of the same origin. She has said to me, “ I can’t be brave any more when I think of my relatives in Europe. My hopes are all vanishing. My only comfort is that my baby Tony is a nativeborn American.” What is Tony? A Roman Catholic-Lutheran-Jewish-Hun-garian from Harvard, And a pure American, a native-born son, an inalienable member of our nation and people, a citizen of this land of hope. The Stars ami Stripes are as much Tony’s flag as they wore Abraham Lincoln’s. We, the American people, are Mohammedans, Roman Catholics, a dozen sorts of Protestants and Jews; we are Germans, Slavs, Dutch, British, Latins, and Irish. We are mixed as no other people on earth. And we can’t, help it. We are a living amalgam, and no one can unscramble us. At a cousin’s table 1 sit down with a refugee who has come into our family. “ My father fled from Russia,” he said, “ hidden in a hay wagon; he sought a land of fi’eedora.” Thus I hold upon one knee a baby relative in whose veins flows the blood of Irish rebels, and on the other knee a baby relative whoso heart throbs with the fire of Russian revolutionists. Another cousin is married to a Yugo- 1 slav who has no religion, but whose groat Slavic race belongs predominantly • to the Eastern Orthodox Church. “ And why are you here?” 1 asked. “ To escape the Hapsburg yoke and find freedom,” he replied. < A sister-in-law says, “ I came from Norway.” i

My sister’s husband says, “My people came from Germany.”

A son-in-law says, “ My forbears came from Holland.” That’s how America seized our family. We crossed mountains and rivers in covered wagons. We lived in sod houses. We had Bihles iu our hands, kneeled every morning in prayer, founded churches, and hoped to build a world after our own Anglo-Saxon pattern. But that was vain; wo were only drops in the stupendous American flood. Wo didn’t direct its current; it carried us in its sweep. Other people besides us sought freedom and goodness and wealth and life. We all mingled to-

gether. We merged in America’s torrent We became the American people. Jeptha, great - great - grandfather Jeptha, come, gather your flock together and call the Markham sheep by their names. We’re Russian and Celt and Slovene; we’re Scandinavian, German, and Jew. We are Americans. We are the American people, a new nation in a new world.

We’re not what you expected. Grandpa Jeptha, but come, visit us all —in our workshops and mines, in our forests and fields—and see if we aren’t boconliug a great and hopeful nation.