These politicians making laws in Arizona are making themselves sick to kick the hard-working immigrants out. It’s as if the U.S. is a theme park where only the privileged may enjoy the exciting ride of a rollercoaster economy. Undocumented immigrants have been in America working for less for years, and suddenly it’s a big surprise. We, offspring of squatters, Mexicans, are once again terrorized by white superiority and pushed to the other side, split apart. Two states east of Arizona, in Texas, Mexicans and anyone who looks Mexican worries about similar laws being passed in the Lone Star State. But our life goes on, con o sin papeles.
We ate burgers and fries and drank soda—the diet kind. We sat and people-watched by the entrance of the great monument dedicated to consumerism—un Wally-World (there’s one in every major part of town—you know, the one where prices fall—I heard there’s one by Teotihuacan—fast-food establishment attached). We sipped from a colored straw sticking out of a to-go cup with a lid. And we laughed at the passersby. And we laughed at ourselves because we were passersby. Her ribs are in pain. My mother is in pain.
Earlier, when I took mom to the clinic, I witnessed una angelita cubana speak. She works in one of those neighborhood clinics where the working poor go when the pain is just too much y no hay dinero. Es una clínica hispana. Donde te saludan en español. El dolor de mi madre was too much today, so there we went. That angelita cubana watched over my mother today. She tended to mi ‘ama with care and affection. Con una voz suave.
¡Que la Guadalupana bendiga a las enfermeras! ¡Que Cuatlicue nos proteja!
Mi madre, aquella mujer, que en México, dio luz a un hijo hace más de treinta años. Le duelen los huesos de tanto trabajar en este lado. Su vida ha cambiado. En su primer cruzada, una costurera y onion-picker. Regresó a México y trabajó de secretaria ejecutiva, pero las situación económica cambió. Y cruzamos. Se convirtió en una limpia-casas. La limpia-casas de gringos ricos, pero siempre será hija de petroleros mexicanos. Hija de petroleros y hoy ciudadana americana, inmigrante. Les limpia la casa a los banqueros, doctores y empresarios. Todos con sus respectivos hijos a los quienes ella ayudo a levantar. Ayudo a mandarlos al college alla por Bryan, Tejas para que sus papás pudieran ser dueños del mundo. Familias americanas con valores americanos y un poquito de mexicano. Mexicano comprado.
We spend the money we make—poquitos dolares americanos. And everyday we see how far the dollar stretches. We stretch dollars more so than ever before. Little by little our household loses commodities. We haven’t had cable TV since January 2010, when Houston was freezing every other day. At first, mamá complained that her telenovelas would disappear unexpectedly. Blackouts de telenovelas. “Esa antena no sirve!” She used to say. But I am happy that the antenna doesn’t work. Believe it or not, I am glad we no longer have cable TV. A long time ago she used to write poetry, back when we lived in Mexico, when she had time to write. Tonight we write together. Thank you broken antenna con flat-screen TV. Espero que poco a poco ella también te deje. Pinche televisión flaca.
Living en este lado se ha complicado. Otra vez. Those of us who look mexicano make gabachos nervous. I can assure you that it’s not because, as popular belief claims, undocumented immigrants don’t pay taxes, or because we don’t want to learn to speak English, or because we take advantage of the pristine American health care system (I have waited in the emergency room at Lyndon B. Johnson and Ben Taub with a gold-carded American-citizen mother in pain—sent home because there was nothing wrong with her, as they said), or because we supply those who can afford to self-medicate with drugs from our neighborhood corners. No, we make them nervous for other reasons, because we are beginning to look more like the majority and no longer the minority, porque si nos dan papeles es como si nos regresaran nuestra tierra, because the children of immigrants have gone to school and learned all about oppression. Por eso.
Esos arcos de oro, they make me think. But I had to take my mother there for her after-clinic-visit treat just like she took me when I was a kid. And that Wally-World where prices fall has it all. Tires for your car, school supplies for students, fresh vegetables for those who like to cook, frozen food for those who don’t have time to cook, a garden center with mulch para los yarderos, a pharmacy that closes at nine, y los arcos de oro for a mother’s after-clinic-visit treat. She refused to get her prescription filled anywhere else. “Es mas barato” she tells me.
Paid with American dollars, dollars earned by our immigrant sweat, we chowed down on a burger and fries and drank soda—the diet kind. Tax included. No pickles for me. Y esas leyes de Arizona nos separan. Con o sin papeles.
Chronicle of Higher Education