Our nation is built upon a history of immigration, dating back to

In the noble and far-seeing words of Ami Bera, a son of immigrants and servant of the public good, we hear an echo of America’s oldest truth: “Our nation is built upon a history of immigration, dating back to our first pioneers, the Pilgrims. For more than three centuries, we have welcomed generations of immigrants to our melting pot of hyphenated America: British-Americans; Italian-Americans; Irish-Americans; Jewish-Americans; Mexican-Americans; Chinese-Americans; Indian-Americans.” These words are not merely a reflection upon history — they are a call to remembrance, a song of origin, a reminder of the sacred diversity upon which the United States was founded. In them we hear both gratitude and warning: gratitude for the countless souls who built this land, and warning that to forget their unity is to betray the spirit that binds them.

Ami Bera, himself of Indian descent and the child of immigrants, speaks not only as a statesman but as one who stands upon the long road of those who came before him. His words arise from the awareness that America was not born from bloodline, but from belief — a belief in freedom, in labor, in the dignity of human striving. He reminds us that the nation’s strength does not come from sameness, but from synthesis — from the weaving together of many peoples into one enduring fabric. When he speaks of “hyphenated America,” he honors the truth that identity here is layered, that each citizen carries two heritages: the legacy of their ancestors, and the promise of this new world.

From the earliest days, this vision was both the dream and the struggle of the land. The Pilgrims, whom Bera names as the “first pioneers,” crossed an ocean not for wealth, but for freedom of conscience — an act of courage that set the pattern for millions who would follow. Yet America’s story was never that of one people alone. It is the story of the Irish laborer who built the railroads, the Chinese worker who forged steel and endured exclusion, the Jewish refugee who fled persecution and brought wisdom and art, the African slave who, through suffering, gave birth to endurance and song, and the Indian farmer, like Bera’s forebears, who came with knowledge and hope to a land that promised both trial and transformation. In each generation, the newcomers remade America — and in turn, America remade them.

The philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote that “America is another name for opportunity.” But opportunity, Bera reminds us, is not given — it is built, and built again, by the hands of those who arrive with nothing but will and faith. In this way, America is not a static place but a living experiment, renewed with every arrival, expanded by every new voice. The strength of this nation lies not in walls, but in bridges — bridges of language, labor, and love. The “melting pot” he speaks of is not a cauldron of conformity, but a crucible of creation, where distinct metals join to form something stronger than any one alone.

Yet there is also pain in this history. The path of the immigrant has never been easy. From the suspicion faced by the Italian stonemason, to the exclusion laws against the Chinese, to the prejudice endured by the Mexican farmworker and the Indian professional, each wave of newcomers has met resistance. But, as Bera’s words remind us, the greatness of the United States lies not in perfection, but in perseverance — in its ability to grow through struggle, to expand its circle of belonging generation after generation. Each time the nation widened its embrace, it became more itself. Each time it closed its doors, it drifted from its purpose.

History offers a mirror for this truth. In the early twentieth century, the American poet Emma Lazarus gave voice to the spirit of the immigrant through her immortal words inscribed upon the Statue of Liberty: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” Those words, like Bera’s, are a covenant — a promise that the soul of America is not bound by race or creed, but by compassion and courage. They remind us that those who come seeking liberty often guard it best, for they have known what it means to live without it.

Thus, the lesson of Ami Bera’s reflection is both timeless and urgent: to honor the heritage of immigration is to honor America itself. Let none forget that this nation was born not from purity, but from plurality; not from exclusion, but from encounter. To reject the immigrant is to reject the very breath of the Republic. Each citizen, whether newly arrived or descended from generations past, carries the responsibility of remembrance — to see in the face of the stranger the reflection of their own ancestors, who once came seeking the same promise of hope.

And so, let these words be carried forward as both praise and instruction: cherish your roots, but open your branches. Welcome difference not as threat, but as renewal. For as Ami Bera teaches, the strength of America lies in its hyphen, in the joining of worlds — in the sacred bond between the old homeland and the new home. In that joining lives the true meaning of freedom, the ever-burning promise that this nation, built by many, belongs to all.