Through desert sands, we have migrated. Through neck-high waters, we have migrated. Through invasive customs searches, and through pinhole eyelets of legalese that ensnared the millions of cousins we left behind, we have migrated. For what we have given, for what we have built, and for all we have yet to accomplish, there is no nonindigenous man alive who dares tell us we do not belong. I am like many. A father. An artist. And, like most immigrants, a teller of obvious truths that are obscured by the fear of otherness.
