My mother divorced and then married a man of Scotch-Irish extraction. They had a daughter who grew up and became a librarian.
And the chain was extended.
I married a woman whose forebears came here from Poland. We had four children who now are:
— A retired firefighter who saved lives and property.
— A middle school teacher counselor who guides children.
— A president of an international firm that assists American companies in dealings with other countries. Including, ironically, Romania.
— A Realtor who facilitates the American dream of home ownership.
Between them, they’ve produced eight more links in the chain, including two African-Americans. It’s too soon to say what all those children will grow up to be, although two are members of the National Honor Society.
Those are the kind of results you might get if you allow chain migration: a baker. A high school teacher. A pilot, a newspaper writer, a librarian. A firefighter, a school counselor, a business executive and a Realtor.
So far, no one in the chain has turned out to be a felon. No one in the chain became a terrorist. No one belonged to a gang. (I will admit to having been a member of the Shiloh Athletic Club, but there wasn’t a lot of violence involved. Mostly we just sat on bar stools and grumbled about the Browns.)
There’s nothing really all that remarkable about my family’s chain. There are millions of others in this country just like it. And there’s a name for what all those chains have produced.