It's a story that resonated in my mind over the years. At first it was just an adventure, predicated on actual experiences my father lived through pursuing a dream. As time passed, and a lot of time passed...from my teens to today at 82, I became aware of certain connotations. Mainly the word...IMMIGRANT, to move from one region to another, and probably with good cause. It's a word that transcends Conservative, or Liberal, white or black, Christian or Muslim. The true meaning is blood, and how much of it you're willing to shed to reach a dream. Through the years as I grew up, and witnessed my country evolve through the Industrial revolution; it was a time of plenty. How you got here, legally or not, was your business. If you had two hands and the ability, and willingness to work hard, you were acceptable. It's amazing how time erodes the meaning of a word, especially the word IMMIGRANT. Today it means more like an INTRUDER one who forces himself in. Maybe it's because of all the technical advancements that made us less reliable on labor, or just the fact that we got fat and contented, and see people as a threat. I really don't know what the answer is, or how it will be fixed, but I can still feel my father's pain as his arm was torn open by rats in the hole of a ship. To my father getting here was like surging from under water to reach a breath of fresh air. I'm glad you made it dad, and as the cover shows you were rewarded with a beautiful family. Thanks pop, your son Anthony
