I Can Learn More
We met only once, but I will never forget the look of determination on the young man’s face as he said: “I can learn more.”
We were in a tiny restaurant along the Interstate in Utah. It was six-thirty in the morning, and we were the only customers. The service was slow. The young man was wrapped in loneliness, and I had engaged him in conversation.
He spoke hesitantly, choosing his words carefully, and, although he spoke English well, I sensed that he was new to our country.
While we waited for our breakfast, he told me that he had come to the United Sates just four months before. His home was in Romania, and, following his formal education, he had spent three years as an electrician’s apprentice. He had become restless under the regulations and restraints of the political system and had found political asylum in Austria. In time it became possible for him to emigrate, and he was now on his way to join a cousin in California who had preceded him to the States three years earlier.
There was a note of sadness in his voice as he told of leaving his family, for he felt quite certain that he would not see his parents again. As for many others before him, he knew that there was a price to be paid for freedom and opportunity.
He was an intelligent and thoughtful young man, and I discovered that he spoke French and German, as well as his native Romanian. It was then that I complimented him on his fine command of English, only to have him respond apologetically about his limited choice of words. He hesitated briefly before responding; lines of determination marked his fine features as he said: “I am young; I am only twenty-two; I can learn more.”
As we said good-bye, I wished him well, thinking of many other emigrants from Europe — our parents and grandparents among them — who came to our land seeking freedom and opportunity and who were eager to learn. They have given us much, and we are indebted to all of them for their willingness to give as well as to receive.