A few weeks ago, Thomas, Andres, and I were driving to Santa Barbara for the day to attend Thomas’ family reunion. As weekend trips on the 101 can be a bit hectic, Waze took us on the scenic route on the 118 through the Simi Valley and back roads to Ventura. Amidst our bickering about either how loud and possibly annoying the music was (from myself) or how cold it was in the car due to the A/C that was turned up – via stealth mode – by someone experiencing a hot flash (from Thomas), I remember looking up at one point and seeing fields with rows of farm workers picking some kind of crop. They were visible from both sides of the road. Dressed with long sleeves and big floppy hats to protect from the prickly or scratchy plants and often less than favorable weather, they moved up and down the fields. Mind you that although I have currently been job searching, the biggest worry I had on that day was Thomas’ music choices and the temperature of the inside of the car. As we passed them, I stopped a couple of times and said silent prayers for their efforts and sacrifices. I know that the work that they do is hard. I come from a long line of tenant farmers and I know what it takes to get up in the morning and work out in the elements. I hated every minute of it. I would try to find anything to get out of it! However, here were those workers, under the heat of the blazing sun, working to pick some product on a Saturday that we can all enjoy at our dinner table all in the name of a better life for those they hold near and dear to their hearts.
Now, I am not making the assumption that all of these farm workers are here illegally. Of course, there are many who went the direct channels and have permission to work in the USA. There are many who represent generations of Americans who have lived and worked in this country. However, there are some, of course, who were not able to access those channels and found a more elusive, dangerous path to get here with the same goal in mind – a better life for their families. From my very comfortable position of inside Thomas’ car, it is impossible to see or know the difference between those two groups – those here legally and those not.
As a teacher in both McFarland, CA (Yes, like the Disney movie! I knew BOTH David AND Danny Diaz plus others) and Arvin, CA, I knew that some of my students were brought here illegally by their parents. The beauty of the Supreme Court decision from the case Plyer v. Doe is that public schools cannot exclude illegal immigrant students from school; the school cannot ask such questions about current citizen status. Before those of you who may be armchair politicians that tend to lead a bit to the right, on the ready to blurt out about how your tax dollars shouldn’t go to support such students, may I highlight the fact that these students and their families live in the community, purchase goods – thus paying local and state taxes, contribute to the greater well being of the community through churches and other organizations and most likely have taxes taken out of a check – taxes that they will never be able to claim due to their legal status.
What I remember are the faces of the students who did not have a choice of where they lived or where there first day of school would be. Children that were brought to this country by parents who hoped they would have a better life. I remember an Edgar standing at the door of my second grade classroom, trying his best to hide behind his mother who had two other siblings to drop off at other classrooms. She quickly pushed him into the classroom and hurried off with the principal to the next classroom. He was dressed on what would be classified as “new to him” clothing. He was quiet and shy and slowly took his seat. The other students, eager to help make a new friend, inundated him with questions and survival strategies for the second grade. Edgar fortunately arrived at what is now known as “pre-Prop 227” and was placed in my bilingual classroom where we spoke and learned in Spanish a large portion of the day. I remember another student – an Esmeralda – who arrived when I was teaching first grade. She had long, auburn colored curls that were tightly pulled to form a long, cascading ponytail that ran down her back. She was her mother’s only child and her mother lingered at the classroom door. Esmeralda was decked out in a new outfit (not just new to her) and new backpack. However, she arrived with the same spirit as Edgar – timid and shy. She, however, experienced CA public schools for the first time during “post-Prop 227” and was not afforded a bilingual classroom. As part of an English Immersion situation, many of the students did not use Spanish as frequently as most of their world became “ingles”. Similar to Edgar, Esmeralda gingerly took her seat, moved her backpack to the chair behind her, and smiled the best she could as her mother slowly disappeared from view. Two different students … two different years … two different schools … yet, a similar story. At the time, I did not know their parents were not here legally. I had no way of knowing. However over time and after building trust, they confided with me that phrase on heard on occasion “No tengo papeles.”
For parents who say “No tengo papeles” there is much caution that has to be exerted everyday … for themselves … and especially for their family. It’s a precarious life. Yet, both the Edgar’s and Esmeralda’s that find themselves in this country as young children, they grow up only knowing life as an America. In school, they learn our history, recite our Pledge of Allegiance, learn our rules, and learn and speak the language of the majority. These children know Sponge Bob, Dora the Explorer, Spiderman, Disney Princesses and other popular children’s cartoons. Because of their parents’ legal status, or lack thereof, they often do not go back to their birth country to visit. All they know is America where they live and breathe. And these children grow up with dreams and desires originally sparked by their families who brought them there.
I grew up as the daughter of a tenant farmer and such status and low income (my parents tax return at the time reported about $9,000 per year) afforded me a four year college education that was paid for – free and clear. Now, yes, I was born here … My parents were born here … However, without such support, I am not sure how I would have made college happen. I am resourceful but not that creative! My own children – all three of them – received some assistance for the UC system due to my head of household, single parent status, and the number of kids in school at the same time. On the other hand, Edgar and Esmeralda would never have such an opportunity for such support until President Obama enacted an executive order for these “Dreamers” to be able to apply for such status to allow them to have basic access to driver’s licenses, education and scholarship, and other programs. Why shouldn’t they have access to such things needed to carry out their dreams and plans and become the productive American citizens that we have told them they were since they first stepped into the doors of our public schools?
My hope is that senators and representative from both parties – Republican and Democrat – take up this cause that has now been tossed up into the air like a weightless, crumpled up piece of paper. The Esmeralda’s and Edgar’s of this world – all 600,000 plus of them are counting on that event to occur and desperately need our support.
Two freeways diverged ... 