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September/October 2003
I Love you Daddy Dirty
Fingers Juan Rodrigo and his father patiently sat under a tree. They were waiting, waiting and watching, their eyes fixed on the river in front of them, the only thing separating them from the United States of America. Juan’s father had dreamed of this day all his life, the escape to freedom. The night before the escape, José got a call. It was from a person that José called the Coyote. The Coyote gave them all the details over the phone, where, when and how to escape. Juan would always ask who Coyote was, but his father would always respond, “Someone who we owe our life to.” Jose
stared at his old digital watch. It was 12:32 in the morning. The Coyote
had said at 12:45 a.m. the river patrol would be off duty until 1 a.m.,
giving them fifteen minutes to cross the river. “Start blowing up
your bag now,” Jose said to his son. You see, the father and son
did not know how to swim. The Coyote was very clever though and he knew
how to get them over the river. Two
years before José's and Juan’s escape, they lived about ten
miles away from the U.S. border in a place called Salvatore, Mexico. At
the time, Juan, José and José’s wife, Carmen, lived
in a little apartment near Carmen’s job at a grocery store where
she was a clerk. Jose made his money as a pool hustler and Juan, then
thirteen, would accompany him and learn the tricks of the trade. Juan
looked at his watch, it read 12:45 a.m. “Let’s go,” he
said to his son, and trudged into the Rio Grande. The Rio Grande was a
dirty brown that looked disgusting, even at nighttime. The Coyote proved
right with his trash bag theory and crossing the Rio Grande was a breeze
until they reached the other side. It was almost sunrise when José decided they had lost the border patrol. The two had cramps digging like nails into the side of their stomachs. They sat under a tree as the Texas sun rose over the horizon. “Dad?” said Juan. “Yeah?” his father answered. “What do we do now?” “We find work,” said José. “Doing what?” questioned Juan. “Whatever they accept us at,” answered José. “Ok,” said Juan. Over the next four years they worked at random farms picking crops. Two years after they arrived in America they got a job at a place in South Carolina called Orwell Manor, a farm in which they picked lettuce, peppers and such. Their pay was minimum wage and they lived in a trailer near the farm which they shared with nine other men and women migrant farmers who escaped into the country like themselves. “Hey dad,” said Juan. “Yeah?” “Why is it that we live in America, the home land of the free and we are treated like slaves?” “I
don’t know Juan, I just don’t know,” said José. Backbrace Burning up each others lives
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