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EDITOR’S NOTE—For nearly two decades, our online magazine has published stories, reviews and columns about religious and cultural diversity, focusing on values we share around the world. We do that because we believe peace is possible by recognizing that—out of many, we may be one. You know: e pluribus unum? One of the core values shared by billions around the world is a concern for compassionate care of immigrants and, in particular, refugees. Why?

• Jewish origins begin with immigrants, especially the ancient Israelites’ fleeing slavery in Egypt as refugees searching for their Promised Land.
• Christians, every year in their Christmas story, remember how Jesus’s family was forced to leave their home and take refuge in Egypt to escape Herod’s murderous rage.
• Muslim origins include Hagar’s life-and-death struggle as a refugee with her son Ishmael until God personally intervened to save them.

So, with apologies to Johnny Cash for borrowing the cadence of his hit song—we are proud to present this new “song” by retired immigration lawyer Alan Pampanin.

Is your heart still moved by e pluribus unum?

Perhaps you will remember the journeys of your own friends and family as you read these lines.

By ALAN PAMPANIN
Contributing Columnist

You’ve come from everywhere, man!

You’ve come from everywhere!

Cambodia, Nigeria, Bulgaria, Uganda, China, Argentina, Lithuania and France. Vietnam, Brazil,
Pakistan, Kurdistan, Ireland, Switzerland.

I danced you to the places where you became citizens of the United States.

Your stories moved me.

You were a husband and wife from Canada who wanted the same citizenship as your twin daughters who came to the ceremony with you.

Ceremony.

An event as old as humankind for very important matters.

Taking an Oath requires a ceremony. You will be naturalized. Your daughters were about 11 years old and the Officer from Immigration asked them if they would recite the Pledge of Allegiance for the crowd including their proud, thankful parents.

I pledge allegiance to a symbol, the flag, and the republic for which it stands, e pluribus unum, parents and children becoming one nation under meaningful ideas.

Naturalized.

In San Francisco, San Jose, Detroit, Chicago, New York, Orlando and LA, and of course in Boston, often at Faneuil Hall—where they discoursed on principles, and pondered dying to attain something larger: human dignity and this thing called freedom.

You were from China, a concert pianist. You hoped to be scheduled for the oath in a modest location; Faneuil Hall would be about as large as you would tolerate. You called in shock to say it was at Fenway Park, a shrine of sorts itself used for gigantic oath ceremonies in the summer.

I told you I would ask to reschedule.

You called back: No, I’ll go ahead with Fenway. I want to get my citizenship.

The day after the ceremony, you told me it was one of the best days of your life. As the ceremony began the officer called out countries of the world alphabetically: “Albania, Argentina, Austria”—they would stand up country by country—then sit down as the next group stood up. “China” and you stood up, proud to be Chinese and proud to soon be part of this group, too.

“The Dominican Republic, Ethiopia, France” and more and more, “Germany, Haiti, Ireland, Netherlands, Nigeria, Russia” the people stood, then sat and looked at each other and around the stadium.

We are all about to become unum.

I loved it, she told me, and am so happy we did not reschedule.

You were from Vietnam, separated from your parents when Saigon fell, lived in the wilds eating insects, moving constantly to avoid hostile troops from North Vietnam and Cambodia finally finding a refugee camp, getting to the United States and reaching eligibility to apply for citizenship. I accompanied you to Faneuil Hall.

There was a snag. A final document was needed. I found a seat in the balcony and watched. A black, female federal court judge came out to administer the oath. It must be performed with uplifting solemnity. I thought how many in that crowd would have had in their home countries a woman from a minority group holding the significant role of being the minister of freedom, of welcome to your new home.

A person on the floor blurted out “God Bless America!” as the ceremony progressed. After, I met you outside and felt your elation and my own questions.

I asked: Why are you feeling so happy when my country contributed so much to your misery and separation from your family?

You understood my question, looked at me and with a bright smile replied: ‘I am so happy!’ Now you could apply for your parents and see that brothers and sisters joined you here in the country you now claimed as your own, which had welcomed you moments earlier as one of us.

E Pluribus.

You were 45 years old from Russia living with your very elderly father and mother in government supported housing in Boston. You were tall, handsome with a soft, gentle face and compassionate eyes. Your mother and father explained you could barely speak, due to a physical limitation since birth. They cared for you every day. You needed citizenship before they died to continue in public housing. They were terrified you might even be sent back to Russia. Your father and mother told me there were few to no services in Russia for such a man; you would be rejected, a wretch, a nothing.

They had to get you citizenship.

They knew the law was changing to allow persons with mental disabilities to apply for citizenship but it had not changed yet. Nonetheless, we applied. Your parents would not wait. Not much time was left for them.

We arrived at Faneuil Hall; the new law was not in place. The Immigration officer in charge grasped the situation at once and she told me to take you to the back row, off to the left. The floor of the hall is sacred ground during citizenship ceremonies and only the applicants can be there. I told her that he would be lost without his father close by. She recited the rule then generously turned and walked away. Your father remained by your side. When the time came to take the oath, I watched as your father lifted your right arm, holding it up before the flag, before the judge, another arm reaching up in the crowd to take the oath.

Did you know what you were saying? Did you know why your father held your right arm up? Did you sense his determination? With hundreds of others, you took the oath and became an American. Did you know what the oath was for?

I did, your father and your mother did, others near you probably did.

We took it with you, we took it for you.

You became an American. Your father and mother could die in peace. You would not be returned to a country that regarded you as no better than a dog.

And so, to you—and for you—all those who find respite and relief in becoming citizens of this country—

To you—and for you—who find common relationships with your children, parents, and neighbors—

To you—and for you—whose hearts are moved by e pluribus unum—

To you—and for you—for whom ideas of freedom strike mystical chords, I pledge Allegiance.

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Alan Pampanin retired in 2024 after more than 40 years as an immigration lawyer handling deportation and asylum cases and operating a successful business immigration firm in Cambridge and Woburn, Ma. Alan had hoped to include photos of some of his clients, now American citizens, with this article. But he readily understood their reluctance to show their faces in the current environment.