The Welcome Shore

1
An Invitation

Could Antonín Dvořák get a visa today? The celebrated Czech composer came to New York in 1892 to assume the directorship of the National Conservatory of Music. He spent the next two and a half years composing, conducting and, during long summer breaks, touring the country. He wrote some of his most enduring works here, most notably the Symphony No. 9 (the "New World" Symphony) which was premiered at Carnegie Hall to instant and wide acclaim. Famously, he spent the summer of 1893 in the Czech-speaking town of Spillville, Iowa, where he wrote his "American" String Quartet, which was also premiered in New York during the following season.

Dvořák, a native of Bohemia, championed the incorporation of folk music into classical compositions, and during his time here he advocated for an American form of composition that would draw inspiration from Native American and Black American musical traditions. Fittingly, the conservatory in New York admitted women and non-white musicians as students. This was unusual for its time but was one of the reasons why the appointment appealed to Dvořák, who wished to see American composers — indeed, the musicians of all nations — recognize their indigenous folk music and to celebrate the talents of all their artists, regardless of race and gender.

The time that Dvořák spent in America was perhaps the most fulfilling period of his career. This episode was celebrated as an international success story of which both Czechs and Americans could take justifiable pride.

But if a musician of high stature were invited to assume a prestigious post in New York today, how welcome would he be? Would open-minded artists who actively sought and promoted the music of minorities be castigated as a "multiculturalist" or "woke"? Would they be derided in some political circles as dangerous radicals? Would some culture warriors denounce their efforts to shine a spotlight on music that was not truly American (i.e., not white)? Would some in the government seek their removal on the grounds that they posed a national security risk? Would they even be let into the country in the first place?

More to the point, given the political and cultural situation in the United States today, would someone like Dvořák even consider coming to live here? Why would someone with a thriving career, an artist lauded and welcomed throughout Europe, want to risk his reputation, his sanity, and the safety of his family in a place that was increasingly inhospitable to foreigners?

We can scarcely count how many musicians, artists and writers have taken refuge on these shores over the centuries. A fortunate few came, like Dvořák, under pleasant circumstances, but the list of desperate exiles is almost too long to reckon: escapees from fascism, communism, and garden-variety despotism on several continents, who found a welcome home in American's cities, universities and cultural institutions. Add the names of scientists, architects, political dissidents, and just ordinary human beings trying to free themselves from persecution and/or poverty, and we will have assembled, more or less, the roster of America itself. Every non-native and non-slave American, or their ancestors, chose to make a physically and emotionally difficult journey, to uproot themselves from some distant place to put down new roots here. They often came under duress, but always by choice.

2
One America

We were never supposed to be a tribe. Constitutionally, there is no us or them. It is antithetical to the very notion of America, the exact opposite of e pluribus unum. Not one blood, but one nation. We thought we had put that antiquated and cruel concept of humanity behind us when we crossed the oceans and built a country on a radical new concept of equality. Beginning with the Mayflower Compact, written by religious zealots not known for their open mindedness, the rights of the community were extended to all residents, even non-believers.

Of course we have fallen woefully short of achieving the ideal of equality. But while our many failures are often cited as evidence that America is not what it pretends to be, and ought not to be lauded as a beacon of hope, what exactly is the alternative? If we abandon the project of democracy, if we turn our back on our imperfect Constitution, what then? What would the country be like if we didn't have this ideal as a guiding principle? This truth is self-evident: we would be just like every other country, defining our nationality by race, ethnicity or creed, divided by color, culture or sect. In a word, an endless, often violent clash of tribal loyalties, with freedom and prosperity only for the strongest. But, some would argue, since we practiced slavery, massacred native peoples, attacked immigrants, and interned Japanese-Americans, among other notable cruelties and injustices, how are we any different or better than those countries that don't even pretend to care about equality? At least they are not sanctimonious hypocrites like us, who preach to the world about our moral superiority when we are in fact guilty of our fair share of crimes against humanity.

The difference is that without the ideal at the core of the American foundation, it would be more difficult, maybe even impossible, to self-correct. Without it, there would likely be no Bill of Rights, no Civil Rights Act or Voting Rights Act, no suffrage for women, no Americans with Disabilities Act, no same-sex marriage, no Supreme Court ruling affirming birthright citizenship. Clearly, many other modern democracies also have expansive civil rights and gender equality, some having surpassed us on many fronts. But how many countries established and defended these rights before the United States enshrined the principle of equality before the law in the 18th century? It is not implausible to assert that if other countries have by now exceeded America in their commitment to freedom and equality, it is because America set down the principles by which the world has long measured the struggle against injustice.

Walt Whitman, writing in the years before and after the Civil War, argued forcefully in his poetry and prose that American democracy was a natural extension and culmination of the Christian idea that all people are equal in the eyes of God. By establishing an earthly republic in which we are all equal before the law (only white men initially, but steadily if slowly expanded since), America planted the idea in the mind of mankind that we could aspire to create a society of equals that was previously available only in the theoretical afterlife. Until then, people believed that they had to wait for their heavenly reward before the immortal soul could experience true equality. But Whitman maintained that the Founding Fathers had a singular vision of a superior kind of society, here in this world. Despite witnessing first-hand the horrific bloodletting of the Civil War, and convinced of the evils and immorality of slavery that justified the fighting, our first great poet was unshaken in his belief that America was the best way forward for humanity.

Would those of Christian faith dare to suggest that the church is a failure because people have failed to live up to the ideals of love and charity that it preaches? Naturally, non-believers would likely think so, but this is true for all forms of faith, the American creed included. If you think America, by virtue of its many sins, is simply a failure and unworthy of defense, then you are obligated to explain just what sort of country you would defend. You don't have to be satisfied with every outcome — how could anyone ever be? — to revere and emulate the original intent. Either you believe in the endless fight to create a more perfect union, or you do not believe in the union as it is constituted at all.

3
Last One In, Close the Door

Whenever America has gone through rough times in the past, whether economic hardship or political turmoil or even war, we could always console ourselves that, by one critical measure, America was still the world's most enviable nation. The proof: many people have always wanted to come here. Not just because of our wealth, though that has long been part of the appeal of America, but primarily because of the promise of freedom. No one ever tried to escape from America by clinging desperately to the runners of a helicopter or the landing gear of a plane, or by risking their lives on an inflatable raft in the open seas, or by crossing the Darien Gap or the scorching Sonoran desert on foot. People, by their thousands, by their millions, only ever wanted to get in. It made us proud, and made us feel, no matter how profound our differences, as if we had something fundamental in common with everyone who has ever called this country home.

It still should. Fewer people may be knocking on the door at the moment, which is only to be expected given the harsh treatment they can expect upon arrival. But they still want to come, and would indeed continue to come in very large numbers if they could. Our prosperity has not only been a magnet for the world but has also enabled us to be generous. Whatever economic difficulties we may be facing, we remain an immensely wealthy nation that is more than capable of welcoming the stranger. Historically, each wave of immigration has greatly contributed to the nation's wealth, preparing the way for yet another generation of dreamers to seek their fortune here.

Hopefully, one day soon, the tide of anti-immigrant hysteria with turn yet again, and the teeming shores of other less fortunate nations will again spill over onto our own. And the wandering souls of the earth will be greeted again at the golden door with characteristic American kindness.