LETTER FROM THE EDITOR 5/12/08
THE HISPANIC ON THE BENCH
He was there at nine in the morning, sitting on the bench just inside the Wal-Mart doors with a wide but tentative smile, like a friendly puppy wary of being hit. He was a middle-aged Hispanic man, chubby, with a comfortable belly, the anonymous kind of man usually seen mowing someone's lawn or sweeping an office. His clothes were clean, but faintly stained with traces of many days of work, and his shoes were scuffed with miles of wear.
He was still there at nine o'clock that night, eyes a little desperate now, the smile wavering. His story was as obvious as if he were holding a sign, and he is the first of many.
The man probably paid a coyote to sneak him across the border many years ago, when he was young. He spent most of his life in America, gradually losing touch with old friends in Mexico until his home country was a foreign land. He never made good money in America, but he could always make some money, because there were always jobs. He drank his share and found a woman and had kids, and the kids grew up and went away, and finally so did the woman, and suddenly he was alone, with only his buddies around.
He had learned to speak some English, but not a lot; and he learned to spend his money, because if he tried to save it, the money would get stolen anyhow. It never even crossed his mind to open a bank account or apply for citizenship. He was, after all, an illegal, paid secretly, with no record anywhere, sometimes cheated and not paid at all. But it was okay, there was always another job. All he wanted to do was work during the day and relax at night and avoid the migra, the immigration cops. He was comfortable. And time flowed by.
Then suddenly, the jobs didn't come so easy. The boss who had employed him for more than a year wouldn't look him in the eye when he announced the job was over, that he couldn't hire illegals any more. He checked the places where there had always been work before, but no one would hire him. There was a lot more competition for work now; younger men who were newly across the border and hungrier, women who would clean the offices cheaper, and there were fewer and fewer jobs for illegals.
He could find a little bit of work here and there, but it paid less and less, and prices for everything kept going up. The day came when he couldn't pay the rent, and the landlord kicked him out. He stayed with one friend, then another, until their wives complained, until he finally ran out of friends. He had always worked, always had a place to live, always paid his way. He was a good man and a proud man, he did not know how to ask for charity.
Now he sat on the bench in the all night Wal-Mart, with nowhere to go and no idea what to do. Maybe, if he sat there all night and smiled at everyone who passed by, something good would happen. Because the cast-away man who had worked most of his life in America was all alone now, and had no idea what to do next. No idea at all.
Wina Sturgeon, Editor