Battle Hymn of the Republic

This rendition of The Battle Hymn of the Republic is absolutely beautiful.
http://www.greatdanepromilitary.com/Battle%20Hymn/index.htm

Anna's Response to illegal immigration

This past semester I took a class on Mexican American culture. Through out the semester I really struggled with the message that I thought the teacher was presenting. I am not one to try to please the teacher with answers that I think she wants to here, but I also have a desire to get good grades. So, I am not one to actively seek out a fight either, although I will stand up for what I believe.
During the mid term test I struggled, as it involved a great deal of essay answers. Mentally it was excruciating as I tried to give the answers that I felt in my heart, while not appearing agitated or disgusted with what I was reading in my books.
Later, I found out that the teacher often has classes that want to ban immigration all together, so the approach is more to bring people to the middle, where immigration is positive without condoning illegal immigration.
I watched our message board closely, to see how others were reacting to the class as well and I was pretty discouraged. I saw a movement from prejudice to reverse discrimination. Then I came across these two entries that kind of summed up what I felt was happening one the one hand, and how I felt on the other hand.
Understand that Anna grew up under the Communist regime of Russia, and after Slovenia gained its independence she was able to come here legally on a visa. I have grown to have a very high respect for her. I did not include the name on the question as I did not feel it relevant it was the feeling that I think many had according to the other questions that were asked.
I did not want to edit Anna’s answer as the emotion was absolutely felt in her broken English.
I don’t know what it was, but it made me cry when I realized that she understood the difference between how some Americans treat others and what AMERICA has done for so many.


Racism author's name withheld
When I first started to take this class I was very racist. If I would drive down the street and see rims that cost more than the actual car I would think, Mexican. Most of the time I was right too. I always wanted the Mexicans to go back to Mexico everyone else to go back to their Country. I admit that I was very close minded and this class has opened my eyes and changed my views. After reading about how much Americans have used Mexicans, I feel like we owe them alot. If that means that they work in America illegally, I am fine with that. I feel very guilty for the close minded attitude towards them. Does anyone else feel this way?

Author: Anna Sukupova Posted on: 11-07-08
racism First of all, it is brave you opened up and wrote about your feeling toward immigr. at second, I do not think it is O.K. do anything illegaly, it is not fair to people they DO obey the law, like me . Also , I do not think you owe anything to anyone. Unless you had hired immigrants and did not pay them for work they have done for you. ;) OR you are member of US Congress capable to fix immigration issues. Evidentally, they have not done good job so far. The guilt should go to people they have have power to make changes, - US govern. , state governm. , and first of all Mexican governm to improve living conditions for their own citizens, so they are motivated to live at home. What is happening in US is actually unethical capitalism creating internationalist policies based on greed which destroy America’s domestic manufacturing base for cheap labor ,domestic businesses supporting porous southern border, and threatening national security for collateral retail profits from drug trafficking, all types of border smuggling, cheap illegal wages, foreign criminal investments, and profits from related social problems etc.. I do not feel as I should feel guilty for that . Mexican immigrants can make choice for themselves where and how they want to live. I am really sorry for all illegal immigrants, they have to face some problems in this country. I have some Latino friends, they are just great people and hard workers. But ! have you ever thought , that they are people in the world , they are living much worse life then Mexican immigrants in US. ?? ! But not everybody can come and live in States. USA is not a " dream land "anymore and has to face its own troubles. I came only because US governm. offered me visa for 10 years with permit to work and study . But I learned language before I even came. I do obey each single law of this coountry and pay taxes, just like you. As for me , this class is very interesting, but I really would not make my opinion or attitude based on two books and couple of disscussions. Be honest , If an illegal immigrant pays thousands of $$ for shiny rims on tires, does he really have such as " poor life ?? ;))this is my answer to your question, and I answered as the immigrant . anna.

Time With My Dad: A Foundation Of Goodness

My father was a big man. He stood 6’3” tall and weighed probably between 240 and 270 lbs. depending on the year. His presence commanded respect, not just because of his size but because he earned the respect of all that knew him. He never assumed that he deserved anything that he did not earn. He was true to everyone. He did not respect a man because of the color of skin or the religion he professed. You had his respect until you proved otherwise. My father wore his familiar khaki uniform almost every where except church and other rare occasions. His hands were big and rough from years of hard work, but his heart was just as tender as his hands were rough. I can not say that my father was perfect, and he would have been the first to tell you so. But to me he was close enough.
I was not my father’s only child; actually I had 11 siblings 6 sisters and 5 brothers. My mother and father had both been married once before. My mother had 3 children from her first marriage and my father had 4 from his first marriage. I was the oldest of the 5 children that my mother and father had together. My father never treated any of his kids different; we were all his, even when we were teenagers.
Time with dad was cherished by all. In fact the whole neighborhood loved my dad. He was one of those adults who took time to spend with his kids and their friends. I recall at his viewing several of the neighborhood kids came through the line and reminded us of those days when he would pack as many kids as he could fit in his truck, and they would go to West Jordan Junior High School to go swimming. The older kids remembered this much more than I did. My sister Cindy, at his funeral, reminded us that when we went to the pool several of the kids would try to dunk him, but my dad fought back. Finally, when he had had enough he would take them down with him and swim under water until they all let go. Time with my dad was certainly cherished by all.
When my father became part owner of a farm in Fairview, Utah, I was the one who got to go with him nearly every weekend to work on the farm. Sometimes my brothers, Doug or Mark would come with us, but those trips were my trips with my dad, anyone else was just tagging along. My dad made me feel special, like I was his favorite. I know that it bothered him that he couldn’t spend his time with all his children the same as he did with me. I can still hear him saying, “I hope that the others don’t feel left out. I really wish that I could give them some of same the experiences that you and I have had.” He said that on more than one occasion. I did not realize the sincerity of his words until I was much older. Somehow though, I did know that I was one lucky boy.
I don’t remember the road from Salt Lake City to Springville, but I remember the road between Springville and the farm. To me that is when the trip started. Once we turned off the freeway and headed into Springville I would look for the Top Stop restaurant. The Top Stop’s unique leaning A-frame store front made it a memorable landmark. We would either stop there, or across the street at the Chicken Bucket. Then we would head Southeast on the old Highway to Spanish Fork Canyon. That was back when you had to go through Springville to get to Spanish Fork.
Often by this time the sun was down and most of the ride was in the dark. My view on the way down was from the headlights. In the darkness it is amazing how your other senses kick in and memories of sounds and feelings become more clear. I don’t remember a lot of conversations between my father and I during those drives. I know we talked, but mostly I remember just being with him. I remember listening to the football games on the radio as long as we could before the static overtook the reception.
That was back in the days when BYU was just starting their glory days. I don’t even remember the names of the Players, other than Gary Sheide, Marc Wilson and Tod Christensen. Paul James and his unique brassy voice was the voice of the cougars. He was as much a part of the team as LaVelle Edwards.
“Wilson is back to throw… he’s got time… he throws….It’s caught … on the 40 Christensen breaks one tackle and he’s on his way he’s on the 30, the 20… 15…the 10…5… touchdown BYU!” Paul James had a way of making the radio more colorful than T.V. when we were at home for a game we would often turn off the sound of the T.V. and listen to the radio. His voice was music to a BYU fan’s ears. Someday I dreamed that I would be on that field and my name would be called over the radio. It never happened, but that’s okay, I played High School football and enjoyed it thoroughly.
I remember listening to the rev of the engine in dad’s old ford pick up truck as we ascended Spanish Fork Canyon. As we began our descent from the top of Spanish Fork Canyon we passed through the small town of Thistle. Thistle consisted of a few old wood panel homes and a red brick school house that you could see at the edge of the headlights as we passed by. There were no store fronts or street lights. Beyond Thistle, in the darkness all I could see was the shadows of pinion pines and sagebrush and the occasional glowing eyes of any number of critters wandering near the edge of the road.
I remember looking out the window. I was only 4yrs old at the time, so the dashboard obstructed the view ahead of me. So the only good view that I had was out the side window. My dad was the other source of sensory input as we drove along he would announce any excitement ahead, such as a deer crossing the road at which I could stand on the floor of the cab to catch a glimpse if I was lucky. Sometimes I think he would say things just tease me and get me excited. His sense of humor was sometimes lost on me, especially as we turned down the Milburn Rd about 7-8 miles from Fairview. The Milburn road took us down between a small canyon and into the valley where our farm was. Just as we came out of the canyon my father would hand me a bottle of apple juice.
Now, you need to know that in about 10 seconds from the time he would hand me that bottle we would cross over the railroad tracks. I fell for it almost every time. As I lifted the bottle to my lips he would bounce over the tracks; Juice would slosh up over the sides of my mouth and down the front of me; I would complain, rant and rave, my dad would just smile and try to hold his laughter in. If on the off chance that I caught myself before we hit the tracks, you’d have thought that I won some great feat, but after my brief celebration I would raise the bottle to my lips and he would jerk the clutch on the truck and there I was left with juice running down my shirt. My dad just grinned and laughed his shameless laugh.
While there on the farm I was given my tasks to perform. I learned a lot about farm life, about life and death, about our responsibility to take care of God’s creatures, and about the resources that God has given to us for our benefit. I also happened to learn how to swear, much to the chagrin of my father.
One morning, Betsy the cow kicked over her milk bucket and started running away. My father was mad. He blurted out, “That damn cow!” I realized that my dad was upset and I didn’t know what to say so I said what he said, “Yeah, that damn cow!” With that my father turned to me and gave me one of talks that I will never forget. He said, “Now son, just ‘cause I said it, doesn’t mean you have to.” Somehow my little 4 year old brain realized that my father wanted me to be better than him. He did not want me to make the same mistakes that he did. Now, I can’t say that was the end of my swearing. As anyone can attest when you own a vehicle you are liable to lose your religion a few times. Somehow I never took those words of my father at face value. What he told me was much bigger than that moment. It was a life lesson. “Be better than me and let your children be better than you.” That is what he was saying.
The weekend always ended so quickly and we were back on the road. This time we were headed home. My vision was opened to many of the things I could not see before, the old barns that had once housed horses and cows but had fallen prey to weather and age; small wooden dwellings that had been abandoned long ago replaced by a new generation of homes; And those shadows in the darkness turned into vast forests of pinion pines and sage brush. The mystery of the darkness was gone and my eyes were wide open to the world ahead of me.
This road has changed since my weekends with dad. The old Highway was replaced by a new one. The Top Stop is no longer there, replaced by a parking lot for the grocery store. Thistle, that little town, was flooded when a mudslide blocked the river. All that remains is a skeleton of the old redbrick school house and the roof of an old house that protrudes out of swampy marsh left behind by mother-nature. The road between Thistle and Fairview has increased its population of homes. LaVelle Edwards and Paul James have been replaced by a younger crew. Even that old farm of ours has changed hands.
My Father is gone now. But his example will ever remain with me. I am far from being the man that my father ever was, but there is hope, as I hear my fathers words spill out of my mouth, “Now son, just cause I said it, doesn’t mean you have to.” It is times like these that I realize just how good my father really was and the responsibility I have to pass on his goodness to the next generation.