Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Immigration is not a matter for politicians to debate. It is a matter that is deeply, profoundly moral. Nothing will condemn us more, in the sight of God, than in the way that we treat strangers and foreigners.

Especially concerning to me is the recent idea of language regulation through the declaration of an “official language.” My own county, Spotsylvania County in Virginia, shamefully approved such a thing.

There is nothing more appalling than the degradation of language– any language– for the purposes of political gain.

I know it’s hyperbolic– I know it’s melodramatic– but I can’t help remembering the concept of language as expressed in Orwell’s 1984. That one day, all expression, all thought, all communication will be able to be summed up by two words: Big Brother. I’m afraid– perhaps baselessly– that this movement to route other languages elsewhere, is the first step to that sort of final solution.