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.”

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.”