An Open Letter to Donald Trump
Dear Mr. Trump,
I want to introduce you to an American story that you might relate to as your constituents may as well. I am the daughter of a real American. My father was raised on a farm, born poor and was smart enough to raise the capital to get through college and eventually medical school.
A small town guy, he settled with my mom and my sisters and me in what amounts to a village in the coal region of central PA. You might know Pottsville as the home of Yuengling Brewery, “America’s Oldest Brewery”…it’s a small town with values that extend to the core of what being American is all about.
I remember my father getting visits from farmers, and others with barter items that they would bring if they couldn’t afford the surgical procedure needed. He was thrilled to be taken on a fishing trip, given a farm fresh eggs, or shown the little nuances and hikes along the Appalachian trail in exchange for the barter he could offer — an appendectomy, gall stone removal, even ingrown toenail (ick) repair.
My father never drove a foreign made car. Never. I myself was proud to drive a Ford all through the nineties in my father’s footsteps. When the larger big box chains moved into town, and the mom and pop stores began to suffer, he would insist that buying a hammer at Ace was worth the extra $0.50 if he had it.
A staunch 80’s republican, he and my mother would go to the fancy $1,000 a plate dinners, and proudly display framed photos of Tom Ridge and the Republican Arlen Specter in our parlor. I loved watching them watch the debates and how they always seemed to understand how this country worked. My mother, no slouch herself, has her Masters’ in economics from SUNY at Albany. I understood the politics of Reagan at the age of 11, and I was a believer in the American Dream, my father was living it. A self made man, with gumption, courage, and an education. A man so humble, I often heard him describe himself as a laborer. “Me? I sew for a living”. He would rather hear your interesting story.
When I entered college along with my two sisters, we became staunch feminist liberals. At break, we’d sit around the big Thanksgiving table and have spirited discussions among the family about birth control, the right to life, euthanasia and just about every political battle there was. We are in fact, a very typical all American family. Today, my sisters serve their communities by having become a doctor and an attorney.
My father raised me with such a love for America that when I got married, not a single item on my Macy’s registry was made on foreign soil (and I’m a brat that loves Noritake china). My father taught me to put my money where my mouth is. It irritated him greatly when children of privilege took this country’s wealth for granted.
My father is retiring this year after 42 years of service in a Catholic Sisters of Charity hospital right there in central PA. The lobby of the hospital now proudly bears his name: Abdul Wahhab, MD.
My dad is a Pakistani, Muslim immigrant. He never once put God before Country, and never will. Me either, but you sure are making it hard. You oughtta maybe give him a call and talk to him about what it means to be a real American, Mr. Trump. Someone needs to show you.
My father’s contribution to this country came at a time when our nation was in a doctor crisis, there weren’t enough to serve our small towns and my father never hesitated to share his skill in the most destitute communities. His contribution and the contributions of so many immigrants are amazing — the most among these are the patriotic American legacy of first generation kids they have raised here. We are grateful beyond what is reasonable for what this country did for and means to us.
Without this sense of inclusion into our American communities, you are essentially leaving our kids to wonder if ISIS, a group that does welcome them is a good call. This is not regurgitated rhetoric, but something I have considered very carefully as a privileged, rebellious teenager myself — I see how a careless interaction with a rude person could turn me. I’m not kidding about that.
We need to embrace our immigrant Americans as my father was — emboldened by the American Dream, he wanted nothing more than to have good American kids.
Without our common bond as Americans, we are just a tribal nation like the ones my parents left behind.
Mr. Trump, my people know how to operate in tribal nations. Instead of teaching you how to be an American, my dad will gladly teach you how to tie a rope bed and make a clay house. I’m worried that is what will happen to my country should your rhetoric take hold.
Talk to us. We are an educated, civilized people. We are immigrant families. We are American. We want this conversation.
Best,
Rubi Nicholas
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