opass

Let me return to the theme of illegal immigration, since it seems George Bush is determined not to let it go away. He and his cabal are apparently willing to defy the will of the citizens and ram this amnesty bill into law by any means they can.

As I wrote in my previous entry about immigration, those who will benefit from amnesty are not the kind of people we need as fellow citizens. They are not community builders but are rather net takers from the community.

I lived several years on the US border with Mexico as well as in Mexico itself. I’ve had a lot of contact with illegal immigrants in various ways: as a volunteer English teacher for them at my church, as their co-worker and supervisor, as their neighbor, and as a frequent traveler in that region.

Let me tell you about Jorge and Enrique.

But first my credentials, okay? I’m an admirer of Spanish culture, have read as many books in Spanish as I’ve read in English, and speak both languages equally well. I have a BA from a Texas university in history with a concentration on Latin America and the Spanish Empire. I also did graduate studies in Latin American Studies in Mexico. But let’s be clear on what’s Hispanic okay? The word origin denotes something or someone from Spain, Hispanic coming from the word España. I will, however, use it here in the way Americans use it, albeit incorrectly.

I’d be willing to accept any Spaniard to the US as an immigrant. But those who come from Mexico and other nations in the Americas are not really Hispanic, but are in fact predominantly of a tribal and Indian culture. They may speak Spanish but that’s clearly the only link to Spain that they carry. You can bet that few, if any, of them have ever read (or heard of?) Cervantes, even if they can read. Most read at a very limited level; comic books are very popular in Mexico and Central America.

Okay, back to Jorge and Enrique. When I was studying in Mexico I returned to the US one time on a semester break. I’d left my car at my sister’s house in northern Minnesota and was going there to get it. I traveled by bus from Mexico City to the border at Laredo, Texas, about a 20 hour ride. Then continued by bus with Greyhound going north. At our stop in Dallas two young Mexican men boarded the bus and it was quite obvious they were illegals. We conversed a lot during the long bus ride as well as at the many stops along the way.

They were from the Mexican state of Chihuahua , the one that borders west Texas, and crossed the border near El Paso . Their plan was to go to Minnesota because they’d heard from others that jobs might be available there. They knew nothing about Minnesota but just had some vague idea that’s where they wanted to go. So near El Paso they hopped a freight train carrying automobiles, telling me they rode in air-conditioned comfort because the keys were in the cars. The train stopped in Dallas and they then found their way to the Greyhound station where I met them.

They had just enough money for bus fare to Minneapolis and spent almost nothing on food at the rest stops. It took a couple of days to reach that destination so I got to know them very well. They were not the kind of people I’d seek out as friends (they had about as much intellect as a box of rocks) but under the circumstances they were entertaining. And I was getting some really interesting insight into the world of illegal immigration.

We arrived in Minneapolis at about 5:00 AM. and I immediately asked about my connections to continue to my sister’s house. I learned that she lived on a one-bus-a-day minor route that leaves Minneapolis at 3:00 AM., making for a fun-filled 23 hour layover for me.

So I stayed with my illegal friends for a while longer. As soon as we got off the bus they asked me where Minnesota was. I said Minnesota is the state and they’re IN it. The name Minneapolis meant nothing to them and they were visibly distraught at not finding themselves in a place called Minnesota. The concepts of city and state were meaningless to them, although their country has the same political structure as mine.

One of them had heard that a used car lot on Broadway hires illegals. This was ALL they had to go on, the only reason for traveling across a continent without money for food or to return home if things didn’t work out. I imagine this snippet of information came out while drinking beer with some folks back in their home village. They had nothing written down, had no names of cities, streets, or people to work with.

I’d lived in Minneapolis before and knew my way around so I offered to take them to Broadway but warned them it’s far away and that it’s also a cross-town street, meaning it would be hard to find which used-car lot is the right one. They didn’t want to spend money for a city bus so we walked to one end of that avenue, then began trekking across town.

I was getting pretty impatient with these cretins and their disorderly and unfocused minds but gritted my teeth and persevered. . . for my own learning experience. I also began thinking that there’s potential for writing a novel about goofy characters like these.

So we spent most of the morning walking from one end of the city to the other, stopping at each used car lot on Broadway. At each Jorge would study the sign to see if it brought up some recognition for him, to try to recall if THAT was the name his fellow beer drinker had said.

These guys were really out of their element not having any other Spanish speakers to talk to. They asked me several times where Minnesota was, perhaps suspicious that I might be tricking them. One time we met a Latino-looking man on the sidewalk and they tried to ask him where Minnesota was. But the guy just shrugged his shoulders and moved on, apparently not being a Spanish speaker.

I’d made up my mind earlier in the day that I was not going to rescue these guys from their own stupidity. If they are so stupid to travel thousands of miles on wisps of rumored information and do it without funds, well then they deserve their fate. But by noon I was hot, tired, thirsty, and footsore. They were ready to admit defeat and wanted to go back to the downtown area. I broke my own rule that one time and paid our fares for the city bus.

We had an inexpensive snack by buying a couple of rolls in a bakery, each of us paying for our own food. Jorge and Enrique began to show irritation with each other and that soon turned into a loud argument, ending with Enrique reproaching Jorge for suggesting this fruitless journey.

The men knew my plan was to pick up my car at my sister’s house and then drive it back to Texas so they asked if they could ride with me back south. I said no for two reasons: one, my sister is a law-and-order kind of woman and would not appreciate my taking outlaws to her house, and two, I was just getting pretty tired of these guys by this time.

I figured I now had to get them connected with the Hispanic (sic) community so they could use the resources it offered. I checked the yellow pages and found a non-governmental organization that seemed to fit their needs. I called and after explaining the situation was told to bring them over.

After another long walk we arrived at that agency only to find that the counselor, although of Mexican descent, did not speak Spanish well enough to deal effectively with these guys. She was eager to help them, however, and asked me to stay and translate for her.

Minnesota is about as socialist as any American state can be, and this girl really knew her stuff about tapping into all of that state’s public and private sources of help. First thing she did was get us a free meal at a nearby community center. While we were eating she interviewed Jorge and Enrique and filled out some forms.

Then she drove us over to the state’s welfare office to get the men on the dole. While driving she tried to converse with the guys and asked them what they did in Mexico. Enrique had worked on a ranch. Jorge stated that he “helped” people cross the border, saying it in a tone that suggested he was a man of compassion. The woman followed that up by asking “And did you charge them for that help, Jorge?” SILENCE. . . Jorge knew he was caught and I burst out laughing at both their naivety. I don’t think she intended to entrap him like that; I really think she was just trying to converse, to be friendly.

So that friggin Jorge had been a coyote, eh? Those guys charge not hundreds of dollars, but thousands, for “helping” people cross the border. And where did he invest his earnings? Probably on women and wine and entertaining friends; he surely didn’t invest it wisely because here he was stranded more than 1500 miles from home with about two dollars in his pocket.

Well my esteem for these guys had been hanging around the zero point all day anyway but at this point it dipped really low, far, very far into the negative range.

The counselor got them enrolled in Minnesota’s welfare system, enabling (how appropriate is THAT word in this case, eh?) them to have a few days in the state’s welfare hotel with meals. The idea was to get them off of the streets. . and maybe jail. . and time to link up with sources of employment. It gave them breathing space.

She was kind enough to get me a room at the welfare hotel too so that I’d have place to hang out until my bus left at 3:00 in the morning. And since I was on the welfare rolls for those few hours, I also got a free meal that evening, thanks to all you kind taxpayers.

That evening I walked around the hotel a bit and ran into Jorge and Enrique chatting with other Hispanics in a recreation room. They were still asking where Minnesota was. Cripes!

So I got to spend some time in the world of illegal immigration. George Bush and Teddy Kennedy, folks who should know better but insist that we legalize 12 or 15 or 20 million of these types. What are they thinking?

This is a population unlike our own, one that cannot plan their lives beyond getting the beans for the next meal, one that has no sense of propriety or legality or truthfulness, and apparently one of very limited intellect.