Born American, but in the wrong place
Our friends at the Claremont Institute and the Claremont Review of Books have once again afforded us the privilege of rolling out a few of my favorite pieces from the new fall issue, which has just been mailed out to subscribers. Everything I think I know about American politics I've learned from the folks affiliated with the institute and the CRB. The magazine also has friends in high places; copies of each new issue are shipped to the White House by overnight mail upon publication. Subscriptions to the CRB are only $14.95 a year; subscribe here.
The new issue carries several outstanding essays in addition to the excellent book reviews. One of the essays tells an all-American story that is particularly close to my heart and that is sufficiently removed from the headlines of the day to serve as a respite.
The Claremont Institute would never have come into existence if a young husband and father had not dared to escape with his family from Communist tyranny 50 years ago. In "Born American, but in the Wrong Place," Peter Schramm, the first president of the Claremont Institute, tells the story. Peter and his family left Hungary after the Communist revolution and made their way to America, thanks to the sagacity of Peter's father:
[W]ith the revolution failing, everyone expected that the Communist boot was going to come down harder than ever. But before we had more opportunities to experience it, an odd accident set us on the path to a very different future. On one of his trips out to secure some bread, a hand grenade landed next to my father but, miraculously, did not go off. That was the last straw. He came home and announced to my mother that he was going to leave the country whether she would come or not. Mom said, "O.K., William. We will come if Peter agrees. Ask Peter."Peter now teaches politics at the Asbrook Center for Public Affairs at Ashland University. At No Left Turns, one of my favorite blogs, he exercises his God-given right as an American to sound off."But where are we going?" I asked.
"We are going to America," he said.
"Why America?" I prodded.
"Because, son. We were born Americans, but in the wrong place."
He said that as naturally as if I had asked him what was the color of the sky. It was so obvious to him why we should head for America that he never entertained any other option. Of course, he hadn't studied American history or politics, but he had come to know deep in his heart the meaning of tyranny. He hungered for its opposite and knew where to find it. America represented to my father, as Lincoln put it, "the last, best hope of earth." I would like to be able to say that this made my father a remarkable man for his time and his circumstances. For, in many ways, he truly was a wonder. But this is not one of those ways. Among the Hungarians I knew—aside from those who were true believers in the Communists—this was the common sense of the subject. It was self-evident to them. I would spend much of the next 20 years acquiring this common sense for myself.
