My father left Russia when he was eighteen, to escape pogroms and, also, I remember vaguely, to avoid being conscripted into the Russian army, from which, once conscripted, no one ever left. These were days when everyone wanted to come to America, the land of the free and where the Statue of Liberty opened her arms to all who came to its shores.

My father never stopped loving Russia, the home where he was born, and his simple childhood. Unlike for my mother, his memories were good.

Because my father loved one land, it was natural for him to love another.

From the first instant my father arrived in this country, he fell in love with America, and he never stopped. To the day of his death, he adored and admired this country. Everyday he thanked his lucky stars for the gift of being here. He never got over how lucky he was. He loved the government and every president. America could do no wrong. My father was fervent. My father meant and lived every word of the pledge of allegiance and the lyrics to America, America, God sheds its light on thee and crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea.

My father kept his citizen papers, the official document that attested to the proudest moment of his life, folded in his wallet. When he died, I took his citizen papers from his wallet, unfolded the document, and framed it, creases and all.