The Immigrant and the Bean Counters

   There was a knocking at the border wall. At first, it was light tap, and they paid it no mind. Then, the knocking became louder and a voice cried out, "Anybody there? Could you let me in?"
   One of the caretakers poked his head around the wall. "Yes, can I help you?"
   "Just wondering if I can come in," replied the person who had been knocking.
   "And, you are? Do you mind telling me who you are?"
   "I'm the Immigrant," came the reply. "I'd just like to come in, if you don't mind."
   "I see," the worker said. He looked the Immigrant up and down. "Well, if you wait here just a moment, I'll go see what we can do. Just wait right here."
   He disappeared around the wall, and into a large building called the Caretakers' Building. Down the hall he walked, past office after office, all filled with bean counters counting beans. At last, he came to the largest room of all, called the Caretakers' Room. In it, all the lead bean counters were gathered.
   "My fellow accountants," the one caretaker said, "There is a gentleman outside, knocking, wanting to come in. Shall we let him?"
   The bean counters looked at each other, as if in surprise. "We will have to count," one exclaimed, and they each scurried to a table, where piled-high beans awaited them. They counted frantically through the night, and in the early morning hours emerged with the final count.
   "One-hundred-fifteen billion dollars," announced the lead bean-counter. "That is how much it costs each year for illegal immigrants. Can I repeat that? One-hundred-fifteen billion dollars!"
   "Yes," cried another, "And, I counted how much they contribute to the economy, and only came up with $11 billion."
   "Clearly, then, they cannot come," said a third. "Obviously, they cannot come. It would be absurd."
   Suddenly, a large man in a cloak entered the room -- a giant of a man whose head all but brushed the ceiling. He walked down the aisles of the room, past table after table, eyeing the piles of beans. "So, then," he finally said, "is this what it is all about?"
   He reached into his cloak and brought out a down-sized replica of a statue that stands in New York Harbor. He squinted a bit to read the words inscribed at the base of the statue. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free," he read. "It shouldn't surprise you that the poor and huddled masses aren't going to be much of a money-maker for you." He set the statue on one of the tables, next to a pile of beans. "Well, then, which stands taller in your eyes, the pile of beans, or the statue?"
   As it happened, the pile of beans and the statue were about the same in height.
  "Well, which will it be?" the man in the cloak asked. He looked kindly, but firmly into their faces. "You know, I'm of a mind to clear this whole room out and replace you. Taking care of humanity is not a matter for bean counters."
   He looked up and down the aisles, into their faces. "The choice is yours, whether you let these people in. But, if we had humanitarians making the decision, I believe they would make a different decision. You reduce the Immigrant to a commodity. You reduce the question of whether someone should be allowed in this country to a matter of economics."
   He paused, then turned and walked out of the room. As he exited, you could hear him whisper. "Not so, the humanitarian."
  As he walked the hall -- now out of reach of their ears, but still whispering to himself -- he said, "Nor would Lady Liberty deprive them. Liberty should not be just for those who you can make a profit off of. If Lady Liberty is right, it is for the wretched refuse, the homeless, the tempest-tossed."
  He walked, quietly for a moment or two, then said, "Give these to me."