There has been much talk in the news about the so-called “illegal alien” problem in the United States. As a writer and someone who has expatriated to Mexico, I try to keep my writing finger on the pulse of the news copy coming out of the United States.
Funny, the stories are directed at undocumented Mexicans, ignoring that they are not the exclusive ethnic group composing the “illegal alien” populationbut that’s another story.
I spent my Saturday with a delightful 10-year-old Mexican boy named Christian. This child is in the free English class that our friend, who lives outside townel campooffers to the little kidslos campesinoswho live in the country.
These are the kids of the farmers and the poor who cannot afford to live in town and who often have to do without even the most basic services.
Originally, we went out to see our friend to have lunch and catch up on news. After our lunch, we retired to the living room to chat. There, our friend informed us that one of her students asked if he could come and meet us.
Never have I spent a more delightful afternoon as I did getting to know this little boy.
Christian lives on the farm with his “abuelos” (grandparents). He does so because his Mom and Dad had to go to the United States, illegally, to get jobs. They haven’t heard from either of his parents for years. They have simply disappeared.
You would not know that sadness permeates this child’s life. When he entered the room, I saw that he was a tall, healthy-looking 10-year-old with soft black hair, a beautiful mocha complexion, white teeth, and a contagious smile.
I stood to shake his hand, and afterwards he shook my wife’s hand kissing her gently on the cheek–a well-heeled Mexican caballero at the age of 10.
I was profoundly impressed.
The child sat in the living room with us quietly, never interrupting, never acting bored; there was no squirming or wiggling about. He, in fact, hung on every word and spoke only when the adults had a lull in their conversation. Then he asked questions that I did not think possible coming from a 10-year-old.
After we were talked out, and we adults had exhausted our topics, Christian asked if we would like to go for a walk to see the beautiful view.
I thought I would fall off the couch.
I have to say, without fear of contradiction, that I do not believe I would hear, in a thousand years, an American child that age (or most any age) offering such a suggestion.
This child/man led us up a softly sloping hill to a cross at its top. We stopped and he pointed out the huge expansive view. It was indeed impressively beautiful, but even more impressive was the expression on this child’s face as he stared in silence at the profundity of it all.
He then asked me if I would like to climb with him on the cement pedestal on which the giant cross stood.
I agreed.
We climbed together, gazing at the view. I watched this little boy with my heart torn. He was enjoying a simple pleasure, with his new gringo adult friends, and yet I could not help crying to myself at how his little heart must break because his Mom and Dad were not there with him to enjoy what I had the privilege of sharing. And how it must break his heart (and he probably knows) that his parents may have perished in the attempt to get to the United States in their effort to get jobs to provide a better life for their precious boy.
No one has heard from them in years and probably never will againI know Christian must know why.
Yet, the tears that I have even now are tempered by anger at the anti-Mexican sentiment that you find in the United States toward the poor and unfortunate of Mexico who risk their lives coming to the U.S. for their little childrenchildren like Christian.
There are some “Americans” who would say of Christian’s parents,
“They’ve run Americans out of countless cities and communities. They’ve trashed school systems and bankrupted 86 hospitals. They’ve thrown trash throughout the park systems. They defy laws by not carrying car insurance, driver’s licenses, work off the books paying no taxes, brutalize our schools with their language, spread drugs, and more terrifying are the thousands of cases of TB and hepatitis they spread into Los Angeles. ” [1]
Need I say more? I cannot see the computer screen for my tears.
[1] MEXICANIZATION OF AMERICA; By Frosty WooldridgeMay 30, 2005 NewsWithViews.com
Doug Bower is a freelance writer, Syndicated Columnist, and book author. His most recent writing credits include The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, The Houston Chronicle, The Philadelphia Inquirer, and Transitions Abroad. He is a columnist with Cricketsoda.com and the Magic City Morning Star, and more than 21 additional online magazines. He lives with his wife in Guanajuato, Mexico.
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