You Are in America Now

“Seven fifty is your change. Thank you, ma’am.” The cashier says in a slightly bored tone, dropping the change into my palm. I grab the pack of beef jerky and turn to leave the convenience store, but a sign catches my eye and I pause. You are in America now. Speak English it reads. Above the words is a picture of Old Glory waving proudly. For an instant I imagine my friend Elisabet reading the sign. She has been here for six years and still struggles to understand the simplest English. She tries -- she tries hard, but almost all of the people she knows are Salvadorian like her, so she has little chance to practice. I wish I could say in a near-quote of Charles Dickens: Man, if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you know who the Hispanics are and where they are.

I’m not Hispanic. But sometimes I feel like I am. I work in a Hispanic restaurant, eat their food, and speak Spanish all day, four days a week. I don’t know how many times the people there have asked me in Spanish where I’m from; I guess they can’t pinpoint my accent. “I’m American.” I tell them in Spanish, “Born in Texas.”

They look at me in surprise, “But your parents are from Mexico or Honduras or something, right?”

“No, they are from here in Arkansas.”

“What? You mean they’re white?”

“Well… Yeah.” I say, not exactly sure of the term.

“How did you learn Spanish?”

“I studied it from books, from a teacher, and over the internet.”

It never fails to completely blow them away that I learned Spanish so well, even though I technically have no connection with anyone or anything south of the border. One question is always in their faces, though they rarely ask it: “Why did you care enough to learn good Spanish?”

In their minds white people in Arkansas are the ones who put up signs that say You are in America now. Speak English. White people are the policemen who don’t care enough to work bilingually, the nurse who has to communicate through the six year old, and the teacher who can’t tell them about their child’s education needs. But, the ones who have been to the restaurant several times and watched me, sometimes comment about something else. “You always start in Spanish, even if the person is very likely to know English as well as Spanish. If English is the language you are fluent in, why don’t you speak that?”

I usually just shrug and say, “I like Spanish.” But there is a whole lot more to my reason than that. I do it because I watch the people that come in. I see their homesickness for El Salvador or Mexico or Honduras or wherever. I watch them run a finger over the map of Central America, buy a calling card and call family back home, stare longingly at the Salvadorian Flag on the wall. I hear them talking quietly in Spanish about Abuelita back home who made wonderful Atol de Elote and Tio Carlos that raised the tallest Maiz. How could I mess that up by making them speak English to me? I’d rather struggle in Spanish than make them struggle in English in the one oasis they have of home. Everyone has a right to create a piece of home. I used to frequent American Restaurants overseas, now I watch the Salvadorians frequent their Salvadorian Restaurant here. It’s a piece of home that connects them with the family they left behind.

Besides, shouldn’t we be telling them You are in America now, so feel free to speak any language you want? After all, most of my ancestors were immigrants. We can’t turn around and say “Well, my great-grandparents were fine if they wanted to speak German, but you and your Spanish can take a hike back to Mexico.” That would be completely dumb.

I love the people who come into the restaurant. I love it when they think I’m one of them. I love it when they know I’m not Hispanic and still include me as part of the happy group. I love hearing tales of El Salvador and the life they hope to make here. I mourn with them when they tell me of family they left behind, friends that were deported, relatives caught in gang life, or neighbors who are mistreated at work. So, convenience store owner, try learning Spanish – then you’ll see America.

Bilingual

I wrote this for Faithwriters.com competition. The topic was "Face to Face Conversation". I place second in the intermediate division.

The windshield wipers flicked back and forth, back and forth in front of Justin’s eyes as he peered into small area illuminated by the headlights. Swaying branches caught the light and glistened for a moment, then swept by and faded back into the darkness. The raindrops appeared on the windshield, blurring his vision, then were scraped aside, just to reappear again immediately. “It wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right.” Justin muttered, breaking the drumming silence.

There was no one in the car to answer him. He thumped the heel of his palm against the steering wheel, irritation plain in his face. He was usually so mild mannered; but now, alone, his frustration boiled out. “Why do I have to be different?” An intersection loomed out of the rain and he braked at a red light and leaned his forehead against the back of his hand on the steering wheel. Glancing again at the light, he reached up and adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could see his own troubled eyes staring back at him. Straight, black hair hung down across his forehead. His facial features and coloring were completely Native Mexican – wide face, high cheekbones and large flat nose. The light turned green. He sighed and pulled forward, shoving the mirror back to its correct angle.

It had started in Political Science class at the university. A civil discussion of current topics had turned ugly. “Well, here is a fence jumper right here I guess.” A girl across the aisle said suddenly, gesturing at Justin.

“I am not. I was born in this country, same as you.” Justin answered quickly, “I just think we need to see things from their point of view.”

“Why don’t you sound like you’re from this country then?” She asked.

It was true that Justin had picked up the accent from his parents. He had lived in a Hispanic community where English was an exception rather than normal until he was twelve, and the Spanish Accent still haunted him. The girl laughed and nodded triumphantly, as he struggled for an answer. “Uh-huh. What? You grew up in migrant worker fields? Your parents were illegal? Now you’re mooching off our education system and you can’t even speak English right? Do you speak Spanish?”

“Yes, fluently.”

“So where is your fluent English? You aren’t American. In my book, anyone who speaks Spanish is unpatriotic. Our language is being threatened and you’re one of the people threatening it.”

It still made him nearly shake with anger. Why did he have to be so utterly Mexican in his looks? His family was of straight Chiapas stock – full blood native. And Bilingual in a completely white, rural area.

Suddenly into his headlights flashed a person, standing in the road. It was a boy, dressed in dark clothing, with a hood over his face, shoulders hunched against the rain, hands in his pockets. Justin barely had time to register the image in his brain before he had swerved around it and hit the brakes, skidding on the wet pavement. The car jerked to a final stop and he opened his door, “Hey! What are you trying to do, commit suicide? Get out of the road!”

The boy was standing there, motionless, his sweatshirt and jeans soaked through and clinging to his skin. Justin climbed out of the car and took a couple steps toward him, “Hey, are you ok?”

“Sick.” The voice was a hoarse rasp, thickly accented, and barely above a whisper. The boy reached a shaking hand up and pulled back his hood, rain ran down his face and dripped from his lips, chin, and hair. He touched his forehead, “Sick. Hot.”

Justin stepped closer, but the boy drew back, fearful. “¿Hablas Español?” Justin asked. “You speak Spanish?”

The boy jumped and looked at him again. “You’re Mexican?” He asked in Spanish.

“My family is originally of Chiapas.” Justin answered in the same language.

Relief flooded the boy’s face, “I should have known! How good to see an honest Mexican face again! I was working on a farm several miles away, but I got sick and they made me leave. But, God sent me someone who could understand.”

“I’m Justin,” He answered, giving the softer Spanish pronunciation of the name – the pronunciation he had dropped when he came to college. With it came a host of memories of home – the Spanglish jokes, the old Mexican love songs on the radio. “And I’m glad I found you.”

Isabel's Letter

The shack was cold and dark. A mouse scuttled across the floor, its claws clicking on the rough boards. Enrique shivered and sat up. The even breathing of the other four men sleeping in the room was not disturbed. Enrique reached for his shoes and crept softly out the door. A chilling wind was blowing up the hillside into his face. Grey clouds raced across the bright moon. It wasn’t quite full, he decided. He sat on the doorstep and pulled on his shoes. Leaning forward, he blew on his hands. His breath fogging white as the wind whipped it away from his mouth. As he took his hands away from his mouth his eye fell on the white scar that adorned his brown wrist. He remembered well how he had struggled to untangle himself from the barbed wire cow fence as the border guard laughed. He had been younger then, only sixteen, young and angry. He had screamed at the border guard in Spanish and tried to punch him as soon as he was free. It had taken two other guards to subdue him. Only when he was in handcuffs did he notice the blood flowing where the barbed wire had torn his skin.

He had come back in two months. The border guard had probably known he would. And here he was, four years later, tanned by the hot sun in the agriculture fields and mellowed by hard work. His hands were rough and calloused from holding the farming tools. His voice had a hard rasp to it after the accident of breathing the pesticide. For days it had not been clear if he would live as he fought to pull his breath past all the allergic reaction and swelling in his throat.

He reached into his shirt and slowly pulled out an envelope postmarked in Mexico. He held it in his hands, staring into the distance. But he saw none of the darkness and tossing trees, no it was bright and hot day in Aguascalientes. The day before he left to come across the wire again, Isabel’s slender form was framed against the window, looking out. “You’ll write me soon, Enrique?” She asked, not turning.

“As soon as I have the money, I’ll write to you.” He had answered. “And send the ring.”

Her soft laugh was musical in his ears. “Don’t forget that.”

He stepped close to her and touched her cheek lightly. “Of course not.”

Now he held her reply in his hand as the wind tumbled a flock of dry leaves past him and made his teeth chatter. He slipped his finger under the tab and loosened it. His letter had been so full of apologies. The housing was mouse infested, the weather was cold, jobs were sometimes few and far between, and the men he worked with were coarse in their ways. What if his description had scared her? He couldn’t bear to look at it. He took a deep breath and tilted the envelope, but only a picture fell into his hand. Isabel’s dark eyes smiled up at him. He turned it over and held it up to read the writing in the light of the moon. One word. “Yes.”

The Panhandler

Another story for Faithwriters. The topic was "Discern".

A slight drizzle was falling as Jim hurried down the street next to the wharf, pulling his ball cap low over his face and hunching his shoulders to ward off the drops. He had worked late and was tired. In this area of downtown Seattle there were usually a fair number of people walking along the harbor and watching the sunset; but now, in the rain, only a few scattered people were out to look at the water. “Hey, spare some change?”

Jim turned to see a man on a bench next to him. He was young – probably in his teens – but prematurely aged. His face was thin and his cheek bones jutted out sharply. Dark strands of wet hair slicked down across his forehead and stood out starkly against his extremely pale face. His eyes were dark and menacing, gazing at Jim with a wild, hungry light. His clothes were dirty and ragged, hanging loosely on his bony frame.

Jim shook his head and hurried on. The teen stood up and stepped after him. “Come on, man. You can spare a little change for a hungry man.”

“No.” Jim said, speeding up.

The youth stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Why not?” His voice was flat, hardly making a question.

Jim shrugged. “I don’t have to tell you.”

The teen stopped, “No. You don’t. But I know why not, and you’re wrong.”

Jim shrugged and pushed past him to continue on his way. Behind him, the boy’s shoulders sagged dejectedly and he collapsed back on the bench.

Jim reached the corner and got on a warm, dry bus. He rode the bus to a warm, dry house. The boy remained on the corner, staring with angry eyes at the stream of cars going past, each with its wipers sliding back and forth, back and forth. At last he got up and sauntered away into the damp darkness.

Washed in Rain

This was another one that I wrote up for faithwriters.com. The topic was "The Sense of Touch". Sorry if it's a little overly brutal.

Dawn glimmers over the edge of city of Caracas and shines into my eyes. I squint into it, then look away as it grows too bright. A light rain is falling and I’m sopping wet. I run my fingers through my black hair and shake my head, sending drops spinning in every direction. I sit up and shiver in the slight wind. Bianca is sleeping beside me, under the skimpy protection of a stone archway. I pull the blanket up around her shoulders. The streets were empty and quiet. Too quiet. I stand and walk the length of the block, looking for the cause of the silence. My heart beats faster and I run back to where Bianca is. It begins to rain harder and she stirs. “Tiago?” She calls.

“I’m here.” I answer.

She rubs her eyes and opens them. Beautiful black eyes framed with long lashes – beautiful, but sightless. She lifts her head and listens. “Rain.” She sniffs and smiles, “It’s so pretty, Tiago, so clean smelling.” Poor child, she doesn’t really know what pretty is. “Rain is God’s way of washing away all the bad in the city.”

“Yeah.” I mumble, glancing up the street again.

Bianca pushes her hair away from her face, then stops and cocks her head to listen. I think she’s hearing the rain, but now her face grows puzzled. “There’s shouting.”

I look out, but see nothing. Listen, but hear nothing above the drumming rain. Suddenly a jeep roars onto the street and squeals to a stop. Soldiers pile out, unslinging their guns as they hit the ground. From up the street, rapid gunfire rips the quiet to shreds. The communist revolution has come to Caracas. I look down in concern as Bianca jerks sharply, but it is only in surprise at the sudden blast of noise. “What’s that?”

“Fighting.” I answer, trying to move farther back n the archway. “The communists have reached the city.” With all her seven years, Bianca knows nothing of the danger behind the explosions. The sound means no more than hammering to her.

She lifts her head and sniffs the air. “It’s bitter.” It takes me a moment to realize that she is speaking of the smell of the gunpowder.

As I grow more nervous, she slowly relaxes. Suddenly a bullet tears through my shoulder and I barely manage to keep from screaming. I clench my fists and grit my teeth, I gasp with the pain. Don’t scare her. Don’t scare her. Blood quickly soaks into my shirt and runs down my arm. Bianca looks up at the sound of my labored breathing. “Tiago? Are you ok?”

“I’ll be ok.”

She nods, oblivious to my pain, and reaches out to feel the rain running off roof. The battle rages around us, but she sees none of it, it’s nothing but noise and strange smells. Shouting? She hears it all the time on the street. Her hand follows the line of drips from the roof a slight smile lighting her face. Her hand comes under my elbow and my blood flows onto her hand. She starts and pulls back in surprise at the sudden warmth. She puts her stained hand to her face and sniffs it curiously. “Blood?” She guesses.

“I’m – shot.” My voice holds pain and Bianca picks the tone out immediately.

“You hurt your arm on something?” She asks. “Don’t worry. Just hold it under the rain. The rain will wash it all clean.”

Ah, child, if only rain could scrub out the stain of battle. The battle continues around us, but Bianca smiles and puts her hand back under the rain drops, feeling the splashing water with delight.

Into America: Final Part 13

Roberto was sitting in the shade of a store building, leaned against the wall. His face was turned down and his fingers were wrapped tightly around his necklace. He had been waiting here in the tiny town of La Mesa for José for nearly two weeks. At first he had eagerly scanned the street, expecting José to come any minute, but now hope was fading. How long should he wait? What if José was still in an American jail somewhere? Maybe the police had killed him. What had happened to José after Roberto walked away?

Roberto heard feet walking towards him. They stopped right in front of him and he looked up, startled. A Border Patrol Guard stood over him. Roberto jumped to his feet and backed away.

“Roberto?” The guard asked.

Roberto licked his lips nervously. “Why do you want to know?”

“Do you have a brother named José?”

Roberto’s lip trembled. They had gotten José to talk. He had told them where to find them and now they would put him in jail too. He turned and ran. The Border Patrol guard caught hold of his arm. “Hey, wait kid. Listen to me.” Roberto screamed, jerked free, and ran away as fast as he could. He hid behind another store building.

A moment later, he heard a voice calling, “Roberto! Roberto! Where are you?”

He knew that voice. It was José calling him. Slowly he crept out of hiding and looked up the street. José was standing there, weakly leaning against the wall of the store. His shoulder was bandaged and his arm was in a sling. “JOSÉ!” Roberto yelled, running to him.

José put his good arm around him and pulled him close. “I told you I’d make it, Roberto.”

Then Roberto saw the Border Patrol Guard behind José, watching them. He pulled away from José and stared at him uncertainly. “Did you bring him?” He asked José.

José grinned and ran a hand through his little brothers hair, “It’s alright. He’s not going to arrest you. Everything is fine now.”

Into America: Part 12

José stayed in the hospital for a week recovering from the wound in his shoulder. His story was all over the newspapers. Mexican boys dying trying to cross the desert was everyday, but a Mexican boy being shot by Minutemen was only once or twice a year, so José had his name in the newspapers. Not that José cared whether he had his name in the papers, what he wanted to know was if he had to go back to Mexico. The answer was “Yes.”

The guard who rescued him was the one who tried to explain. He shrugged, “Sorry José. Shot or no you’re still unlawful. You still belong in Mexico.”

“But – but – I have to try again?” José asked, disappointed.

The guard laughed, “You’re SUPPOSED to stay in Mexico, José. That is the point of sending you back at all, remember? You’re not supposed to tell me that you’re going to try again.”

“Is there any way to keep from getting sent back?” José asked.

“Well, if some family offered to adopt you – that would work.” He said thoughtfully, “I guess I could ask around to see if anyone wants a rowdy, fourteen-year-old Mexican.”

José looked hurt, “Not THAT rowdy.”

The guard only laughed, “Ah, well, a little bit rowdy then.”

“And if a family takes me, they have to take Roberto, my younger brother. He’s in America too.”

The guard looked surprised, “Oh, really? Well, I’ll be sure to add that on. I’ll see what I can do.”

José waited in hope. Two days later, the guard came back. This time he had his young wife with him. “Hey, José! I have good news for you! In my family, it seems that both my wife and I have been missing something. Two rowdy Mexican boys would fill the gap perfectly. What do you think?”

José stared at him in amazement. “You’re going to adopt us?”

The guard bowed, “Of course.”

Into America: Part 11

José lay at the bottom of the gulley crying in pain. He heard shouts and shots above him. Were they still shooting at him? Suddenly a border guard lowered himself over the edge of the gulley and dropped to the bottom of it. “Hey kid, are you hurt?”

“Please don’t kill me. I’ll go back to Mexico. I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t shoot me again.” José begged.

The border guard knelt next to him. “Calm down, kid. I’m here to help you. Are you hurt?”

José rolled over and tried to get up, but couldn’t. “Don’t hurt me, please, I beg you!”

The guard pulled him back gently and laid him back down. “Hey, hey, stop. I’m here to help you. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. ”

José stared at him. “The Border Patrol wants to help me? Be real.”

“Right now, the Border Patrol is here to help. Show me where you are hurt.” The guard answered.

José pointed to his shoulder. “Here. They shot me. Please, do you have water?”

The guard held his canteen to José’s mouth to let him drink. José thought that water had never tasted so good to him. The guard took his radio from his belt. “This is Agent Ortega in the gulley. The kid is down here and he has a bullet in his shoulder from those Minutemen. Get the helicopter up here to get him to the hospital. He’s bleeding badly. Over.”

The radio crackled, “We’re bringing the helicopter around. Be there in a minute. Over.”

The guard took José’s hand and held it. “Hold on, kid. The helicopter will be here in just a minute.”

“Were those Minutemen part of the Border Patrol?” José asked.

The guard shook his head, “No. They’ve been arrested and they’re on their way to jail right now for what they did. They are just some stupid guys who think they can shoot anyone they want in the name of Patriotism.”

Two more Border Patrol guards jumped into the gulley carrying a stretcher with them. “Alright, kid, you’re on your way to the hospital. Don’t worry about a thing. You’re safe.”

Into America: Part 10

The sun was setting again when he woke up and climbed out from the shade of the rock where he had slept. José drank the last of his water and ate the last of his food. He now had nothing. He would have to reach a town with three of four hours or he would die. He made himself keep taking just another step and another and another. As he was walking, a helicopter flew over him. He ran to the bushes next to the road and rolled underneath them. The helicopter hovered over him for a long moment, and then flew away. He crawled back out from under the bushes and kept on walking. Then suddenly, up ahead he saw a white pick-up truck parked on the side of the dirt road – people! They would help him, surely. He hurried towards it. “Help! Help me!” He shouted.

Two men in front of the truck turned at the shouts. Both of them were holding guns. One of them pointed his gun at José and yelled something in English. José didn’t understand. “Help!” He yelled again.

The other man asked in Spanish, “Are you American or Mexican?

José paused, and then answered truthfully, “Mexican.”

The men waited until José was close then stepped out to meet him – and put a gun to his head. “If you’re Mexican, what are you doing in America?”

José raised his hands, trembling with fear. “I came to find work.”

“You came to take jobs away from the Americans. I ought to shoot you right here.”

“Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.” José begged, falling to his knees.

The man laughed and kicked José in the stomach. “We are the Minutemen. We defend our country from dogs like you.”

José felt sick with pain and thirst. “Water. Please give me water.”

The Minutemen just laughed again and hit him blow after blow. José knew he had to get out of there or they would kill him. He rolled over, got to his feet, and ran away from the road. “Stop or I’ll shoot!” One of them yelled after him.

José kept running, gasping for air through his cracked and dry lips. Bang! Bang! He dodged the shots and topped the hill. They were coming after him, their feet sliding on the gravel. José was too thirsty to run far, he was about to faint. In his panic, he saw two border patrol guards coming up the hill in front of him. Between José and the guards was a gulley. He hesitated, not sure which direction to run. Bang! The Minutemen fired again and José felt a hard blow to his shoulder. He yelled in pain and tumbled into the gulley.

Into America: Part 9

The front door into America was closed, but there was always the back door – the desert. Two days passed with José trying to gather enough food to take on the desert. He ran errands for pay, stole the rest, and finally had what he thought was enough. He packed it carefully into his backpack, found a gallon jug of water, and caught a bus west along the border. He got out at Las Polamas and started walking out of town. He needed an empty area, where no one would think of looking for a boy crossing the desert. It was late afternoon and the sun shone down with cruel heat. The desert had no shade and it was not long before he had to start drinking the water he was carrying. “It’ll be better after the sun sets.” José told himself. Finally, as the sun was reaching the edge of the horizon, he began to turn north, going straight across the desert. As long as the light was glowing in the western sky, he knew which direction north was. Then the stars were out and he followed the North Star. But, the desert quickly starts getting cold at night. By midnight, his water jug was half empty and he was dead tired and freezing cold. The ground was covered with sharp rocks, thorns, and cacti and he kept tripping on them in the dark. His shoes were torn and soon his feet were cut and bleeding. “Where am I going?” He wondered, looking around. “Is there a town ahead?”

He stopped to rest, throwing himself on the ice cold sand. “I can’t go any farther.” He whispered, “I can’t.”

But, Roberto was somewhere ahead, waiting in La Mesa. He would wait forever for his brother who died in the desert. No, he couldn’t do that to Roberto. José pulled himself up again and struggled on, limping on his bleeding feet.

In front of him, he saw a line across the desert that shone in the moonlight. It was a dirt road. He hurried towards it, thankful to see this one sign of life. He reached it and walked along it, grateful to have a clear path to walk in. He was tired, so tired. His eyes drifted closed as he walked. It was so quiet and lonely. “Roberto, I’m coming.” José said out loud, just to hear a voice. “Wait for me. I’m coming.”

The sun rose and the heat returned, ten times worse now because he was running out of water. His head ached and his mouth was dry. He began to see pools of water on the horizon that were not really there. They were just mirages. “If only those border patrol guards had let me go! I wouldn’t be out here now in the desert!” He took a rock and threw it down in anger. “I hate you, guards! You only try to kill people!” He looked around, but there was only silence and the empty desert.

Into America: Part 8

The officer entered the room with the Border Guard and touched José’s shoulder. José jumped and looked up, afraid. The officer said something in English, but José couldn’t understand. He shook his head. The Border Guard translated, “How old are you?”

“Fourteen.” José answered.

“Where are you from?”

José hesitated, and then lied. “Juárez.”

“Your parents live there?” The Border Guard asked.

“My parents are dead.” José answered.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“One brother. He is in El Paso.”

The officer took José’s arm and stood him up. “We’re going to get these drugs off of you now.” The Border Guard translated.

They pulled the tape off too quickly and made him bleed. José tried not to yell, but it hurt. “Where did you get these?” They asked.

“In Juárez.” José answered.

They pulled him along through the main room with everyone staring at his handcuffs and spots of blood on his shirt. Behind the building, they put him into a police car and drove him to the jail. There were more questions and more searching. Weighing the drugs, making sure that he didn’t have any more. José had not eaten all day and he felt like he would faint. Finally, the guards noticed that he looked sick and gave him some crackers to eat. All day he sat in a cell in the jail waiting for something to happen. Finally, late that evening, a guard took him out, handcuffed him and put him back in the car. “We’re bringing you back to Juárez. We aren’t going to press charges because you are still a child. You’re papers are canceled, and you will not be allowed into America for two years.” He turned and looked José in the eye. “We do NOT want to see your face at that border crossing station again. Do you understand?”

José nodded silently. The guard pulled into the parking lot of a large store. “Welcome to Juárez.” He unlocked José’s handcuffs. “Get out.”

José got out, and the car pulled away. He was back in Juárez and Roberto was somewhere in El Paso. Now what?

Into America: Part 7

José careful arranged his shirt so the bulges wouldn’t show and handed Roberto his I.D. papers. “Listen, Roberto.” He said seriously, “if anything bad happens, don’t say you’re with me. Here, take the money. Be careful with it. If anything happens to me, just go on. I’ll meet you in – in La Mesa, a small town north of here. Go there and wait until I make it, ok?”

Roberto stared at him in shock. “But, José you said we were going together.”

“We are. Come on. The border is right over here.” José pointed up the street.

The line was long and they had to stand and wait and wait to show their papers and cross. The tape was tight and cutting into José and he wished he could get this all over. He looked up and saw an American border guard watching him closely. José looked away quickly, “In all these hundreds of people, don’t call me to the side.”

They stepped a little closer to the desk as the line moved. The border guard watched them move, and then motioned to José. “Hey, would you come over here, please? Is this boy with you?” He pointed to Roberto.

José shook his head. “No. He isn’t.”

Roberto’s eyes went wide and he started to say something, but José kicked him as a warning. He followed the American guard to a side room. The guard tapped José on the back where the package was, lifted his shirt enough to see it, and handcuffed his hands behind his back. “You’re under arrest for smuggling. Sit here until the officer gets here.”

José’s mouth trembled as he sat down. He could see the line through the door and Roberto watching him. “Go.” He mouthed, “Keep going.”

Roberto started to cry and shook his head. José glared at him angrily, “I tell you to go.”

Roberto shivered nervously, showed his papers at the desk and entered America. He looked back one more time at José, but José was sitting with his head sadly leaned on the door, his hands held awkwardly behind his back. He was not looking at Roberto.

Into America: Part 6

“Come on.” José slung his bag over his shoulder and motioned for Roberto to follow him.

It was morning and the streets were just starting to come alive with cars and people. Roberto silently followed him, his eyes wide and scared. He desperately wanted José to hug him and tell him again that everything would be ok, but all José was silent and unresponsive.

José turned and entered a low doorway. Inside, there was a man weighing square packages wrapped in plastic. Roberto followed his brother in and crouched in a corner, watching. “I’m here.” José said quietly.

The man jumped and turned to look at the boys. “Ah. Good.” He stepped behind them and shut the door. “Well, let’s get down to business. Stand up, kid. I’ll load you first.” He said to Roberto.

José jumped between the man and Roberto. “No. Only me.”

“It’s too much for one boy to carry.”

“You aren’t putting an ounce on my brother, I tell you.” José answered sharply. “If you touch him, I’ll fight you.”

The man shrugged. “Alright. Fine. Take your shirt off.”

José pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor. The man took tape and strapped the packages firmly to José’s thin body with bands of sticky tape. Roberto watched with his mouth open. The man was right. It WAS a lot to carry. By the end, José had packages strapped to his back and all around his legs. The man finished and nodded with satisfaction. “Two full pounds of top quality marijuana. Perfect. Be careful with that load, kid. It’s worth five thousand dollars.”

José nodded, pulled his shirt back over his head to cover the drugs, and took the papers. “Let’s go, Roberto.”

“That tape is too tight.” Roberto said. “It’s cutting into your skin.”

“Be quiet.” José snapped. He turned away so he wouldn’t have to look at Roberto. As José turned, Roberto saw his lip tremble and a tear sparkle in his eye.

Into America: Part 5

The first night they spent on the streets of Juárez, José left Roberto for awhile to go ask about getting across the border. He came back well after midnight, tired and silent. “Nothing.” He said. That was the only word Roberto could get from him.

The next day he went again and the next and the next. Walking up and down asking anyone who looked helpful, “What papers do I need to get across the border? Where can I get them?” But no one said anything helpful. The boys had no birth certificates, and so, no way to get legal papers.

Then José found a man who told him, “I’ll make you a deal.”

“What sort of deal?” José asked.

“I’ll make you papers and give you twenty dollars to start life in America. All you and your brother have to do is a little work for me.”

“What work do you need?” José asked, excited.

“Oh, it’s nothing hard. I have a man in El Paso who needs a few packages brought to him. You’ll carry them to him. That’s all.”

José paused and looked at him nervously. “Carry something across?”

“Nothing big and I’ll give you the papers and twenty dollars.”

José bit his lip and thought it over. He knew what the man wanted him to carry – drugs. If he was caught with his load, he’d be arrested. But, if he didn’t carry it, they would never get any papers. He had promised Roberto that he would get them both across. He told Roberto to trust him and now he had to do something. He would carry it all, that way Roberto would never be arrested. He had to take the responsibility. But he didn’t want to do it at all; he was scared. He wished he could go home, but there was no food or money at home. He saw no way out. Slowly, he nodded. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

Into America Part 4

The train slowed as it entered Juárez station. “End of the line! Get off! End of the line!” The conductor yelled.

Roberto and José waited clung to the side of the train and waited until the train stopped. As soon as it jerked to a halt, they dropped to the ground and started to run. No one noticed they ragged boys running out of the station. As soon as they were well away from the train, José stopped. “Juárez! We made it, Roberto! Look! That’s America right over there!”

They were standing on a hill and below them they could see the city spread out. Behind them was the famous mountain with the words “the Bible is the truth, read it” in large Spanish letters. Through the middle of the city in front of them, splitting the city in two was a river with high fences and walls on both sides. “See?” José pointed. “Everything this side of the river is Juárez and everything on that side is called El Paso. It’s in America.”

Roberto stared at America, so near and yet so far. “How are we going to get there? There’s a big fence. Can we take the big bridge over there? All the cars are going across.”

José shook his head. “No. I asked about that already. You have to show an I. D. and we don’t have one.”

“How are we going to do it then?” Roberto asked.

José shrugged, “Oh, there are ways of getting a fake I.D. We just have to ask someone.”

“But,” Roberto pointed out. “They might want money for a fake I.D.”

José grinned and ran his hand through his little brother’s hair. “Don’t WORRY, Roberto. I’ll figure something out. I have this under control.”

Into America: Part 3

Roberto hesitated, the train was going so fast – what if he got hurt? He was not as brave as his brother, José. But the police were coming, and he needed to get off. Now. He felt under his shirt and gripped his cross necklace, gritted his teeth, and jumped into the darkness. He hit the ground and tumbled roughly. His head hit a rock and he stopped, dazed. All around him were shouts and screams of the illegal passengers of the train trying to jump off or struggling with the police. The train had stopped and the police were searching it, trying to catch all of the people riding it without a ticket. “Roberto! Roberto!” José’s voice shouted in the dark, “Where are you?”

Roberto sat up, holding his hand to his head. “I’m here. My head hurts.”

José dropped his bag to the sand and ran his hand over Roberto’s head. “Let me feel it.” He pulled off his shirt and held it to Roberto’s forehead. “You’re bleeding, but just hold this against it. You’ll be ok.”

Roberto was badly frightened and shaking. He started to cry. José wrapped his arms around him. “Shh. Shh. It’s going to be ok, little brother. You’ll be ok. Listen, we won’t try to jump on this train again. We’ll wait for the next one. Would you like that better?” Roberto sniffed and nodded. José carefully helped him up and picked his bag up. “Come on. Let’s find somewhere to sleep.”

Into America Part 2

Here is the next part of the same series:

It grew dark and Roberto shivered. José walked endlessly back and forth, back and forth on the running board, trying to stay warm. The high desert at night can be quite cold. “What are we going to do in the United States?” Roberto asked.

José stopped and looked at him. “We will work. We will get a job.”

Roberto wrapped his arms around himself, trying to get warm. The train rumbled on; on and on and on. “Will they hire us? I’m only twelve and you are fourteen. Who will hire us?”

“Someone will hire us.” José answered, starting to walk again.

Roberto was quiet for a while then asked, “How will we get across the border?”

José shrugged and looked angry, “How should I know? Just be quiet.”

Roberto lay down and pulled a potato sack around him for a blanket. José stopped again and looked down the tracks. The train was slowing down. He ran to Roberto and shook him. “Roberto, wake up! The train is stopping.”

Roberto jumped up and grabbed his bag. “Police! Police!” The shout was passed from person to person along the train.

“Hurry, Roberto!” José grabbed his bag and ran to the edge of the train. In the dark, he could not see what was below him. He jumped, hit the ground and rolled on the gravel and sand.

Into America -- Part 1

Recently, I was asked to write some stories for English teaching curriculum. These are the stories I came up with -- just put here for those who are interested. The vocabulary is a little simpler than usual because of the intended audience. There are thirteen parts to the story.

The sun was very hot. José and Roberto lay in the shade of a mesquite tree watching the people walking back and forth in the country train station across the dirt road from them. The rails for the train ran only a few feet away. A long whistle called across the desert that the train was coming. José stood up and picked up his ragged backpack from the sand. “Come. It’s almost here.”

Roberto didn’t answer. He was asleep; his head on his arm. José kicked him, “Roberto, wake up. The train is almost here.”

Roberto yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Do we get on now?”

José shook his head, “No. We wait until it is leaves the station.”

Roberto sat up and felt around for his bag. He found it and tied the strap around his shoulders so it would not fall off when he ran. “What station is this?”

“El Ojito. It is not much farther to Juárez now, and then! Oh, Roberto, think of it! We will be almost in the North, in America!” José said.

The train whistled again and started slowly from the station. It picked up speed and went faster and faster. “Go!” José yelled and ran to the side of the tracks, Roberto right behind him. Reaching out his hand, José grabbed a handle on the side of the train and pulled himself onto it. Roberto ran along the side. His left hand was holding on to his necklace under his shirt. José reached to him. “Take my hand! Quick!”

Roberto reached up and José grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the train. “Next stop, Juárez.” José said with a smile. Roberto nodded, breathing hard from his run. José reached over and unwrapped Roberto’s fingers from the necklace. It was a small wooden cross. “It was Mama’s, you know.” José said, touching it lightly.

Roberto nodded.

“You don’t remember her, Roberto, but I do.” José said.

Roberto nodded again. “But, when I wear the necklace I think she has her arms around me. She keeps me safe.”

José laughed shortly, “You’ll need it for all this jumping on and off moving trains.”

Ulma-aeyo

“Ulma-aeyo? (How much is this?)” I ask, holding up a carrot.

“Ee Chun.” The old woman answers.

That is more expensive than the other venders’ prices, so I lay it back down and straighten up. This is Garak Market: a vast sprawling open air food market with vender after vender selling everything from apples to squid to barley to spinach. Each seller sits with their wares spread on the ground before them and hawks them loudly as trucks rumble by and the buyers straggle from one awning to the next. I take in the scene for an instant, but in my mind’s eye I am no longer in Seoul. The buildings grow poorer, the street turns to dirt, the chatter around me blurs into Spanish. In front of me I see a ragged boy with tousled, dark hair looking longingly at the fruit spread out on the sidewalk. “¿Tienes hambre? (Are you hungry?)” I ask him.

“Sí, Señorita.” He answers.

In my imagination, I turn to the vender and buy him something to eat. He smiles and thanks me for his new wealth. “Odiae-gayo?” The venders around me call the greeting in Korean, trying to get my attention. Once again the street is paved and the venders are oriental. The child has vanished.

“Martha, come on, let’s go.” Mommy tugs on my sleeve and we move on. “What were you thinking about?” She asks as we make our way past the grain section to the green veggies.

What was I thinking about? How can I explain that? “Nothing.” I answer.

I’ve always had a vivid imagination, maybe too vivid. I can really create a scene so real that I almost live in a different world sometimes. I feel as if I’ve really walked the streets of Chicago, wandered in the slums of India, lived in Morocco, visited Brazil, and (most recently) been to Colombia when in reality, I’ve only imagined it. Why these certain places? Street children. Los niños de las calles. Since I was a little girl of five or six I’ve dreamed of working with street kids. The country I’m thinking of has changed, the age of the children has shifted over the years, but the focus remains the same. For years I’ve imagined the city streets, thought up plans for starting farms for them to live on, organized feeding programs in my mind, and talked to imaginary children. “I’m going to start an orphanage” I remember telling people when I was five. “It’ll be nice orphanage with lots of games. I’ll teach them to read and all about the Bible.”

Now that I am almost ready to go out on my own, the dream has grown stronger than ever. The children of the street are calling to me. But here I am in Korea. Do I wish Korea had street kids? No of course not. But I know that somewhere there are orphans running the streets and they need someone to come and help them. How I wish I were there! Now, I bide my time and create dream scenes as I walk the streets of Seoul, but someday the dreams will be real. Someday I’ll get my hands into the work that God has raised me up for and called me to.

In a Patriotic Moment...

I sighed in frustration and banged my hand on the table, making all the dishes jump. “If she wanted Koreans, she shouldn’t have hired Americans!”

One of the most frustrating things in the world is to have someone expect you to switch cultures at the drop of a hat. “You are not in America. You must act in Korean way now.” She had said. Did she realize everything that meant?

But it made me wonder, what was it that she wanted? What exactly was this stuff in my brain that she wanted me to drop – this thing called culture? I’ve always admired Patriotism and loved the stories of the founding fathers of our country. But there is more to it. What are the values of America that I miss when I’m elsewhere? Here is the list that I’ve compiled:

1. Independence. I know it sounds like quoting the party line, but it isn’t. How many times have I said “I’d rather do it myself or not at all”? If I’m making food, I can add the salt myself. If I’m drawing a picture, you can keep your pencil to yourself. If I’m writing, you can hold your comments till I’m ready for them. We take pride in work we’ve done on our own. On standing alone. On holding our own separate view. “Everyone is entitled to their own opinions.” Have you ever thought about what a beautiful and very American statement that is? But I am crossing into the next section.

2. Individuality. “We hold these truths to be self evident: That every man is created equal and endowed by our Creator with certain inalienable rights. Among these are: Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” These are words that our country is built on. Surely you have the words “Every child deserves a family.” Do you realize that not every country thinks that way? That in South America, street kids are routinely shot because they are a nuisance? People are always saying “Look at abortion! We are loosing our sanctity of the individual.” But do you realize that in Korea, abortion isn’t an issue? It’s an accepted fact! I remember well that when we were in China, there were two mining accidents: One in the US and one in China. In China there were two hundred minors killed. A few weeks later, the mine was reopened for work. Minors are disposable – it’s better to sacrifice them for the sake of quick progress than impose safety rules. In America, there were thirteen minors trapped underground. There was a humungous effort to dig down and send in a rescue. Everyone held their breath as they waited to hear if they were dead or alive. In the end, twelve were dead and one was alive. BUT, it was worth all the effort for the one life saved. I remember the wondering look on the Chinese students’ faces and they tried to comprehend the value Americans put on that one life. In Korea, handicaps are an embarrassment. If you are blind they lock you away where no one has to see you. In America, we make special arrangements in concerts, churches, departments stores, etc. for the visually impaired.

3. The right to speak out. “The tallest tree in the forest is the first to be blown down.” It’s an old Chinese proverb and explains a lot of their culture. Go with the flow and don’t rock the boat or you’re a goner. Not so in America. “It’s your own country so change it!” is the rule of the day. People always say, “Our country has SO many problems that other countries don’t have.” I beg to differ. Yes, we have many problems. But other countries have them too. Why don’t you hear about them? Cause they don’t air their dirty laundry to the world like we do. And why not? Because they aren’t in a constant scramble to fix everything like we are. Everyone in America has an opinion and they are all yelling at the government and each other to fix this or that or the other. But, in the end there IS something done (usually). In the end, the mess is mostly sorted out and everyone ends up if not happy – appeased. Then we are off to the next rough spot. A few days ago I was reading an article that said, “It is time that America quit ignoring and glossing over its social problems.” That made me laugh. When was the last time you said to someone “What is the answer to gang violence?” or “What is your opinion on the Hispanic immigration?” and they just answered you “I have no opinion.” Or “That’s not really an issue.”? If something is not really being resolved, it more likely to be a problem of too many cooks spoiling the broth than a problem of neglect. In America, everyone is expected to think for themselves and come up with their own opinions on every issue. Everyone is expected to have their own plan of action to solve the world’s problems – whether the plan will work or not is the main issue.

America has problems. I know that. But I love my country for trying to fix the problems, for talking everything out in the open, for valuing each person, for putting personal character ahead of education level or social status. I am American. I am who I am, so help me God. Nothing is going to turn me Korean or Chinese or any other culture.

Crushed Oreos

The dirt pudding recipe called for a package of crushed Oreos. Esther took the package outside to the garage and grabbed the hammer. Our garage there in our off-base house in Tzuzu, Japan was a narrow concrete-floored area, covered with an awning and squeezed between our house and our neighbors’ (not the shoe-throwing neighbor, the one on the other side of us). Pouring the cookies into a bag, she started hammering away, thud, thud, thud. After a few blows, the bag ripped open and six cookies fell out onto the floor. Rats! She had wasted the cookies. Esther picked them up, tossed them into a cardboard box next to her and went on hammering.

The box needed to be thrown away anyway, so she planned to toss it into the trashcan after she finished making the dirt pudding. She closed the flaps of the box and put it on the steps of the back door. After she was inside and mixing whipped cream and chocolate pudding together, however, she promptly forgot all about it.

Our neighborhood got really dark at night. If you stepped into garage after sunset, it was as pitch dark as a stack of black cats. Micah threw open the back door, intending to just run out in his sock feet to get wire cutters from the work bench. As he stepped on the first step, he felt jaws close around his ankle and clamp tight. He kicked his foot, trying to get loose but the jaws held tight. Something was rattling around his foot inside the mouth of whatever it was. As his foot came down, it slid on the smooth concrete and almost sent him to the floor completely. Where was that light? He couldn’t see a thing. He kicked again and felt the stuff rattle, he lost his balance and fell against the work table. Calm, keep calm. Where was that light? He groped for the switch and finally found it.

He stared down at a battered cardboard box with the flaps holding it tight to his foot. He sat down and pulled it off. OREOS?? That was what had been rattling around his foot. What in the world was a cardboard box with six Oreos doing on the back steps? Quickly Micah stepped inside the back door. “ESTHER!! Are these yours?”

Esther came out of the living room, a little surprised at Micah’s angry tone. “Oh, yeah. Thanks. I guess I forgot it.”

“Forgot it? Don’t EVER put something like that on the steps!”

------------------------

Amendment from Micah: Esther didn’t really forget it. The younger kids were always putting whatever they couldn’t think of a place for into the garage. She didn’t want to bother getting her feet cold, so she just put it on the steps.

Answer to Micah from Esther: How could you know my motives? It was an accident, I tell you!

John Mark

An old man and a young man sat facing each other in the lamplight of a dinner table. “Always up for a story, huh Mark?” the older man said, the many lines around his eyes melted as he smiled.

The younger man leaned across the low table, the flickering light playing across his face. “You are surprised at that, teacher?”

The older man shook his head, “Brother, not teacher.”

The other man tipped his head to the side in impatient assent. “Alright, Brother Peter. But please, tell me more. The people followed you around the lake without food and --?” Mark settled back onto the reclining pillows, knowing the story would come.

A mischievous look twinkled in Peter’s eyes, “And we fed them of course.”

Mark started up again, “With what, Tea – I mean, Brother Peter – with what?”

“With food.” Peter took a bit of bread and scooped up some lentils, a smile playing under his beard.

The younger man gave an exasperated sigh, “But with WHAT food? You said yourself that the disciples hardly brought food for themselves, much less for five thousand others.”

“Five thousand other men, you’re forgetting the women and children. There were at least ten thousand in all, I’d say.” A faraway look came into his eyes and he leaned back. “We came up to Jesus and said ‘Hey, there’s no one around here to get food from.’”

Mark listened closely, hardly breathing as he drank in every word. His dark eyes sparkled with intense interest, following every expression on the old man’s face.

“He just looked at us, shrugged, and said, ‘Well, you feed them.’ I was always quick to open my mouth, so I said, ‘It would take two hundred denarii at least! Where do we get that kind of money?’” Peter paused, thinking.

“What then?” Mark asked breathlessly.

“Well, my brother Andrew was asking around and found a little boy who had a little basket of food. He brought boy up to Jesus and we unpacked the basket. There wasn’t much, just five small pitas and two fish. A snack. But Jesus just smiled and told us to get the people to sit down. That was quite a job I can tell you, but after a while we got it done. We had them sat down in groups of hundreds and fifties. Then Jesus picked up that lonely pile of food, raised his eyes to heaven and blessed it.” Peter started to cough.

“What happened?”

“Give me a moment to breathe, child.” Peter smiled, “He started to hand the bread to us. He just kept handing and handing and handing. We kept passing out bread and fish to the people. There was no end to the food! EVERYONE ate until they were full! Then we started gathering up scraps and gathered twelve basketfuls of scraps. We sent that little boy home with more than enough for his lunch the next day.” Peter laughed, “You should have seen his face. Most the crowd didn’t realize what had happened, but the boy knew. He saw it all.”

Mark laughed with him. “Ah, you should write this all down, Brother Peter. Think how much you have seen!”

“No, no.” Peter answered, stretching and getting up. “I have too much to do. I’ll leave the writing to you.” He grabbed his cane and walked slowly from the room.

Mark sat up all the way and started to clear the table, “Write it myself? Well, maybe.” He paused and stared into space for a moment, then suddenly jumped up and left the room. A moment later he returned with quill, ink, and parchment. Carefully, he spread the parchment out and moved one of the oil lamps closer. He wrote late into the night, recording the story Peter had just told.

The next day, Peter was scheduled to speak to a small group of slaves that met in the house of a potter one of the poor areas. Mark took his place among those listening as Peter began. “When I was following Jesus, we were going to the Caesarea Philippi area –”

Mark jumped and looked around desperately; he needed something to take notes. Quickly, he snatched up a handful of a potter’s clay and scratched some notes into it with a stick from the floor. “Jesus asked us,” Peter continued, “’Who do people say that I am?’ John shrugged and said, ‘Some say John the Baptist, some Elijah or one of the prophets.’” Peter looked around with a smile, “None of the people really knew what to think of Jesus. Jesus looked at us and asked, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ All at once, I felt the power of the Spirit on me and I said, ‘You are the Christ.’ It was only by the power of the Spirit that I could have said that.”

At home, Mark looked at his notes. They were messy, but mostly readable. He’d have to be more careful next time to have something ready to write with. He leaned over his desk and began to carefully, transfer the writing to the parchment. One part of his clay tablet had got mashed and was unreadable. Getting up, he walked into the next room where Peter was talking with a couple Christians from the far side of the city. Mark waited patiently until they were done, then asked, “Brother Peter, where were you going when Jesus asked who people thought he was?”

Peter looked a little startled, “Caesarea Philippi.”

“Thanks.” Mark headed back to the room.

“What are you up to, son?” Peter called after him.

“Just following orders.” Mark tossed over his shoulder with a smile, “I’m writing your memories of Jesus.” He walked back into his room, then stuck head back out. “Oh, and was it five fish and two loaves?”

Peter shook his head, “Five loaves and two fish.”