American Money and the Flow of Illegal Immigration on the Rio Grande
Life on a Remote West Texas Ranch My Simple Proposal for U.S. Immigration ReformBy Maria Luisa MirandaiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Maria Luisa Miranda
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-0815-4Contents
Dedication.........................................................................................vIntroduction.......................................................................................ixChapter 1: Penicillin, Por Favor...................................................................1Chapter 2: A Speck of Red..........................................................................9Chapter 3: Justo Whistles a Tune...................................................................15Chapter 4: Night Riders............................................................................19Chapter 5: Humberto and the Black Wild Cows........................................................23Chapter 6: Lost in the Arroyo......................................................................37Chapter 7: The Sandstorm Stranger..................................................................43Chapter 8: Sharing Sandia at Cave Ranch............................................................47Chapter 9: A Family of Three.......................................................................51Chapter 10: Little Green Men.......................................................................55Chapter 11: Hot Coffee with Lard...................................................................61Chapter 12: Packrats for Lunch.....................................................................65Chapter 13: Desert Feline Soup.....................................................................67Chapter 14: Illegal Immigration....................................................................71May God Continue To Bless America..................................................................81US Immigration Historical Landmarks Researched and condensed by MLM(1795-2010).....................83
Chapter One
Penicillin, Por Favor
The whistling songs of the west wind, the crisp rustle from the leaves of aged cottonwood trees, and the even trickle of cool spring water all welcomed an arid summer morning at the remote Rustler Springs Ranch in far West Texas.
After two cups of hot coffee and a soft, warm flour tortilla with honey butter, I, Maria Luisa Miranda (or just Lou, as I was known), stepped outside to greet the morning and begin my daily chores.
From the empty horse corrals comes an unknown, quivering voice: "American money! American money!" Slowly, I tiptoed to the faded cedar posts of the corral and peeked over. There, in the midst of the corral, were eight sweaty, emaciated, sunburned, and starving illegal aliens (all male) who had walked hundreds of miles to reach El Ojito, or Little Spring.
"Food-we need food," said the man offering American money. "We ran out of food three days back after crossing the Rio Grande. We pay American money for food and drink. Here, take this American money and give us food, por favor."
I stood there speechless for a few moments and then explained to him that I had plenty of water and food to share, but I would not take his American money. I don't know which left me speechless: his fluent mastery of English, or his heartbreaking condition.
Immediately, I offered them sweet, cold well water to drink, and I brought some warm tortillas and beans that I had prepared earlier. I had been waiting for the arrival of my husband, who was coming in after a week on another ranch. While this bunch of ravenous souls sat eating under the shade of crooked salt cedar and cottonwood trees, the phrase "American money" danced in my mind.
American money was the reason my husband and I had chosen to live in the West Texas hills on a remote ranch, miles from the nearest town. After all, a steady job is something to appreciate and hold on to, even out here in the desert.
The eight desperate fellows savored the moment. They ate and drank in slow motion, talking very little.
Flashbacks from my childhood entered my mind as I sat there watching them consume every bit of their simple meal. I recalled my own parents' story of crossing the Rio Grande from the state of Coahuila, Mexico. They had crossed the river illegally as newlyweds in the late 1940s, eventually living at this very ranch. Their first three years of married bliss were spent on the same remote West Texas ranch I now lived on, in a tin and cardboard one-room shack that was held together with baling wire. Dust, wind, rain, and snow were all regular guests at the shack.
In January 1954, my family was finally caught by the U.S. Border Patrol and deported to Juarez, Mexico. They were apparently deported under the U.S. Immigration's historical landmark of Operation Wetback, which forced the return of all undocumented immigrants back to Mexico.
In Juarez, at the tender age of twenty, my mother began to experience labor pains for the fourth time in her life. A close family friend promptly accompanied her north across the border, just long enough to deliver her fourth American child: me! I came into this world as Maria Luisa Sanchez at Southwestern General Hospital in El Paso, Texas. Thanks be to God! I could have been a Mexican national living in a Third World country or could have become an illegal alien myself. Just the thought of not being an American citizen like my siblings frightens me. I am the only one of seven siblings who was not born in Pecos, Texas.
The never-ending trail of immigrant tears from gross poverty, illness, and despair that many undocumented immigrants must traverse is not one to be envied. American money entices people to gamble with their lives by illegally crossing the river in Texas or the desert in Arizona. As long as American employers offer American money, the poor and desperate will come. Illegal immigrants usually take whatever wages they can get, with no concern for minimum-wage requirements or health benefits. After all, some American money is better than none.
My family eventually gained legal entry into America and moved back to the ranch. At the time of our deportation, my father was earning less than $200 a month as a ranch laborer.
He was willing to earn meager wages in exchange for the opportunity of a better life in America.
As a child, I suffered the consequences of life in an illegal-immigrant family. During my early toddling years, I was dragged several hundred feet by my father's old ranch truck while he and my mother obliviously engaged in a furious oral altercation. Because of their illegal status, they did not feel comfortable driving me to the closest town for medical treatment. After this very stressful, painful, and unjustified event, they bathed me in warm water and picked rocks and pebbles from my raw, bloody body for weeks. I have been told that I cried every day, all day long, as my tiny bones adjusted to what would eventually become the rest of my painful life. In their fear and ignorance, my parents did not seek professional medical help for me. They feared accusations of child abuse-or worse. Their greatest fear was of deportation back to their Mexican homeland, where American money would become a faded dream.
Several years later, possibly as a result of the unfortunate dragging accident, I suffered an attack of rheumatic fever for several days. Luckily, a local deputy sheriff drove my mother and I to the hospital. My swollen joints and fever were finally treated by medical professionals for the first and last time during my childhood.
All of my confusion, pain, and suffering might have been avoided if education had been a part of our lives.
We as Americans must share in the duty of educating as many illegal immigrants as possible on legal entry rules and laws, on the benefits of citizenship, and on the consequences of illegal entry, thus protecting our country from soaring costs in our public health-care system, public welfare system, and public school system.
We must set higher expectations for America, the greatest country in the world, and for anyone who wants to come and share our great country. It is our American duty to exemplify and teach integrity, dignity, and responsibility to all immigrants, with liberty and justice for all who enter our great country-whether legally or illegally. (People can be educated behind bars, too.)
After many years as resident aliens, both of my parents became American citizens. My father and mother continued to work at the Rustler Springs Ranch for many years, while my siblings and I studied the environment. These are the most memorable years of my life.
I remember the sound of trickling spring water outside my window at night. I remember catching frogs, tadpoles, and minnows in the cool spring. I remember the tickle of the dragonfly's feet on my nose. I remember the smell of wild celery and the pungent taste of tender, wild watercress. I remember the cattle bellowing in the distance. I remember hunting for tiny arrowheads with my family by the Salt Draw (a dry, grassy creek). I remember the hot earth scorching my little feet. I remember not owning a pair of shoes. I did not like shoes, I remember. Shoes were restricting, confining, blistery little things that took my freedom away. I remember my bloody, stumped toes and the occasional mesquite thorn. I remember hiking into the hills when I was four, accompanied by four of my siblings. I remember crossing the thicket in the arroyo without any shoes. I remember exploring the Tinaja, a stone formation where early Native Americans and cattle rustlers once roamed. I remember the laughter and the tears. I remember the blooms of the desert thistle. I remember Daddy's hat waving in the distance. I remember ...
My family continued to live and work at the Rustler Springs Ranch long enough to have two more children (for a total of seven). My father was earning $200 a month when he moved the family to a nearby town so that his children could receive a better education.
As I sat in the shade watching eight hungry men eat the food I had prepared for myself and my husband, I was forced to focus on the here and now.
"What time do you expect your husband to come home?" asked the same man who had been doing all the talking for this tattered group. "I need medical attention, and I need your husband's help. I am very ill. I have chills and need penicillin now! I have American money to pay. Pinicilina, yo necesito pinicilina ya!"
"Penicillin?" I repeated. "We don't keep medications out here. All I have is aspirin, if you like. Aspirin may help the chills and the ill feeling."
He did not respond, so I directed the group to the hay barn, where some old Army cots and stacks of fresh, green alfalfa hay offered them a safe place to rest. "We will wait for your husband to return," he finally said and then added, "My name is Marcelo." I bid them a good day and went back inside the bunkhouse with my daughter (an eighteen-month-old toddler) and Millie, her black, curly puppy. I did not feel threatened or intimidated by these eight men in any way. Instead, I felt empathetic.
My husband's old, blue truck finally rolled in during the late evening hours. He was exhausted, hot, hungry, and not thrilled with the presence of company in the barn. He knew most of the men and spoke to them in a friendly tone at first, but became irate and loud when Marcelo made his demands. Marcelo asked my husband to give him a penicillin injection with the same syringe and penicillin that he used on sick livestock! My husband refused, fearing complications. With that, he bid them a good night and asked them to move on the next day.
The smell of fried bacon filled the early morning air. My husband was awake at three thirty the next morning, making coffee and breakfast for himself. He always left the coffee on and enough breakfast for my daughter and I to enjoy. This particular morning, however, he was also very stern with me: "Oyeme! Dijo mi viejo. You can feed them a little something if you want-muy poquito! Then they have to go!" he said. "Tell them to move on. We cannot help them anymore." He drove off in his old Ford truck and would not return for another week. He was bound for the Dilihunt Ranch. His best horse, Mango, and the remuda (working horses) were eagerly awaiting his timely arrival.
My husband's concern with the company in the hay barn was not without good intentions. I was in my first trimester of pregnancy with my second child, out there alone, and he feared someone may try to take advantage of me. However, the hombres left early in the morning after a quick breakfast, just as my husband had asked. I did not see them leave. Hung with a piece of baling wire from the latch of the barn door was a paper wad of twenty-five American dollars.
I had been raised around many illegal aliens who had worked for my father, so I did not ever fear or distrust them in any way. Instead, I found their complicated lifestyle interesting. I felt concern for them and always wanted to know more about them-where they stayed and how they lived, whether in tent camps, wet shacks (small, one-room shacks that generally lacked kitchens or bathrooms), abandoned barns, and so on. My father's own complicated life as a ranch hand had lasted many years. Later in life, he was promoted to ranch foreman. He hired hombres, (illegal immigrants) as he called them, for all kinds of general ranch labor. I do not condone my father's actions in any way, but now that I'm older, I understand why he hired illegal immigrants: they are a tenacious and hardworking people.
Several of these hombres were like family to us. They partook in the care of my siblings and I, often sharing rhymes, games, and songs with us. This was the only life my family and I knew and loved.
Marcelo and his companions were only the first group of illegal aliens I encountered that year. I met thirty-eight desperate men who had braved the illegal journey into America, on foot, in search of that much-needed American money. Although I have been raised among illegal aliens, I do not fully comprehend the suffering and extreme hardships that these determined people exposed themselves to while struggling to acquire American money and a better life. Minimum wage, vacation or health insurance are usually the last items on the priority list of most illegal immigrants. Earning American money is at the top of the list. In their minds, a better life is laced only with American money. These are the rest of their stories.
All the incidents in the following stories occurred in far West Texas during 1973 and 1974.
Chapter Two
A Speck of Red
The loud roar of the windmill motor was like the sound of a helicopter flying low over the meandering springs. My daughter and I were in the rare company of my industrious husband. He had invited us outside to watch while he dedicated his efforts and undivided attention to the ailing windmill motor. "Ven y platica con migo afuera," dijo mi viejo. "Pero yo nomas oia el ruido de el papalote rumbando!"
My husband said, "Please come outside and talk with me." I could only hear the rumbling of the windmill motor.
Little Epis carried an oatmeal can full of colored fish-tank pebbles that she enjoyed decorating the shallow parts of the spring with. With Millie by her side, Epis was allowed to sit, run, splash, and throw pebbles in the cool, clear spring water. She was also allowed to catch a shimmering minnow or hold a tiny tadpole in her eager hands. I even allowed her to munch on watercress and wild celery.
I, on the other hand, sat on the tailgate of our faithful 1968 Ford truck and tried to enjoy the rustling of the cottonwood trees. Suddenly, I noticed a rising cloud of dust in the distance. The cloud advancing on the horizon was like the dust clouds that the horses raised when they raced to the spring for water, except for one thing: I could see a speck of red amid all the dust.
The sight of such a large cloud of dust filled me with a sense of foreboding. What was happening? I turned and spoke to my husband in a loud voice, "Someone is coming! Oh, honey! Yo miro algo rojo en la distancia. Es una manchita roja en medio de una nube de tierra. La nube viene avanzando rapido, con mucha tierra. Are you listening to me, honey? Me estas escuchando viejo? Parece que viene alguien!" "It looks like someone is coming!"
My husband looked up at me from where he knelt by the tired motor and said, "Si te escucho, pero lo rojo que miras es el Mango. Son los caballos que vienen a la agua."
My husband agreed that something was approaching, but he assured me that it was Mango, his hardworking horse, and the rest of the remuda (or large group of working horses) coming to water.
The speck of red made me doubt his horse theory. Not convinced by his answer, I jumped off the tailgate and moved to a high spot by the spring to get a better look. I had just adjusted my eyes to my new position when suddenly, the dust cloud turned into many human silhouettes moving at a fast pace! I ran to inform my husband, who couldn't hear me because of the roar of the motor. At my insistence, and as the speck of red moved into range, my husband finally stood up to take a closer look.
"That is a large group of men approaching, and one is wearing a red rag around his neck," he said. He groaned. "Go and get the fresh water pail ready, and I will greet them."
I took my daughter by the hand and led her and Millie back to the house. As I was walking, I heard a sound like the sudden rush of many horses galloping to water. I turned to see many men running toward the spring. They confronted the spring much as the horses would: Some dropped to their hands and knees, slurping and splashing. Some flopped on their bellies, sipping, gurgling, and spattering the salty spring water at the same spot where the livestock drank!
Instantly, I called to them, "No, no tomen agua salada!" The ten hot, dusty, thirsty hombres turned a deaf ear to me as they drank the cool water. So I yelled out in English, "No, don't drink that salty water. We have fresh water!" The dusty ten continued to ignore me, focused only on the blue sea before them.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from American Money and the Flow of Illegal Immigration on the Rio Grandeby Maria Luisa Miranda Copyright © 2010 by Maria Luisa Miranda. Excerpted by permission.
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