Once upon a time, in the latest years of the 19th century, a young man we’ll call Isaiah (Names have been changed to protect the guilty. Or have they?) lived in England. He had a lovely girlfriend, who was mightily angry with him. You see, he had chosen to leave her, and his wife, to find his fortune in America. She decided if he did not have his traveling papers, he could not leave. So, the best course of action was to burn them. I think there must be something about England that makes angry women burn important papers. Just ask Ted Hughes. I think it’s in the water.

Unfortunately, she did not have his ticket. Isaiah managed to keep that, and so, set sail for America. As you might have guessed by now, Isaiah was my great-great-grandfather. So, I speak from experience when I say, our family motto is something akin to what Bart Simpson said to Lisa when Milhouse was fed into a giant Cuisinart , “Surely something will come along and save the Simpson children.” We live our lives knowing full well that no one gets out of life alive, but surely our demise will not come TODAY. Something always works out.

Isaiah probably felt something very different than the other immigrants as he approached New York Harbor on the day he first saw America. Whilst the masses huddled, yearning to breathe free, Isaiah jumped off the back of the ship and swam for Jersey. Ellis Island would have unceremoniously spat him back out to his girlfriend and that would have been unacceptable. Genetically, we are kings and queens of the backup plan.

Because this was a time before income taxes, Social Security cards and Google, Isaiah made his way in the world without the assistance of a birth certificate or driver’s license. He remarried, had a few children, made some money and bought some land in Lakehurst, New Jersey. If you’re from around those parts, you’re probably familiar with his old homestead. It’s called Fort Dix and McGuire Air Force Base. If you’re not from around there, it’s called “Where the Hindenburg Blew Up.”

One day, Isaiah went for a stroll and got run over by a trolley. Everything always works out until it doesn’t. When it came time for Isaiah’s progeny to claim their inheritance, the U.S. Government informed them that Isaiah never officially existed; therefore, the land was theirs.

According to family lore, Isaiah was issued a death certificate. (I’m hoping if I ever see a copy it says “Unfortunate Meeting with a Trolley” as the cause of death.) IF one were to procure a high-powered lawyer and IF all of the facts of the story hold true, one would be a gazillionaire. Right?

Personally, I think the myth is worth more than the money. But then again, I’m a writer. I have no actual ambition for material wealth. Sure, I’d LIKE to be rich, but I think when you enter “English Literature” into the blank next to “Major” you give up a piece of the pie in return for keeping a piece of your soul. Besides, we all know how these things go. It's probably all complete dinner table flavored B.S. I have about as much chance of getting a check from Uncle Sam as Sarah Palin has of getting a donation from Code Pink. (Yay Code Pink!)

This leads me to the reason I’m relating this tale. I hereby refuse to participate in the discussion about immigration. What right do I have? I am one drowned cheating bastard away from not existing at all. If the U.S. Government can say they own that land, does that give me some right to go back to England? Am I really a British citizen? If they refuse me that, do I get the purchase price of Lakehurst along with interest for the last 100 years? Well, of course not.

But I can dream.