My girlfriend and I recently moved from my home town of Seattle, Washington to northern California. In the Bay Area, even more so than in Seattle, immigrants of all kinds, but especially Hispanics, dominate the human landscape. I already had a pro-immigrant bias before moving here, but I’d like to share a few observations that have made me even more in favor of working out a way for as many foreigners as possible to come to the United States to live, work, and enrich their lives and our society with their contributions.
I rented a 15′ Uhaul truck with a tow dolly for my car, and with the help of my power-lifting girlfriend and a few friends, loaded all our worldly possessions into it and drove the 850 miles to our two-bedroom apartment in Palo Alto.
Not wanting to saddle my hapless love with yet another day of carrying heavy things, I drove to Home Depot the next morning to hire some help. A couple of middle-aged Hispanic guys were chatting together in the parking lot, and I asked if they new anyone who’d be willing to help unload a moving truck for $20/hour for what I estimated would be a 3 – 4 hour job. One of them asked what I was moving, and after I described the two queen beds, couch, and other assorted furniture, he said he was game, and I drove us back to the apartment.
Jose, I’ll call him, worked tirelessly with me, hauling everything up carefully, only accepting some bottled water as a benefits package, and politely declining my invitation for lunch. He said little, but worked hard and continuously, clearly having done this before, and offered wise, laconic advice on the proper way to turn a chest of drawers, or to rotate a box spring into the house. We finished in record time, about 2 hours, after which I drove him back to Home Depot and rounded up his wages to $80 as a token of his industriousness (and with admonitions of my girlfriend not to ‘exploit’ our new worker ringing in my ears. She is less enthusiastic of being a part of the job-creating class than I am.) Jose gave me the first smile of the day, thanked me, shook my hand, and went on his way.
Jose spoke English decently, and told me in our brief conversations to and from his erstwhile job site that he had lived in East Palo Alto for 10 years in a bedroom he rented for $1,000 a month; it was $500 only 4 years ago, but inflation has crept up everywhere in the Bay. Jose did mostly carpentry and other construction work, and sent money back to his family in Mexico. He indicated it was too dangerous for him to be in Mexico, but said his family was safe when I asked about them.
I have no idea whether Jose is here legally or not, and frankly I don’t really care. I needed someone to do tough, brief work with me ASAP for a reasonable price, and Jose came through in spades. This was the first time I’d ever hired a day laborer, and it worked out wonderfully.
This story illustrates what I’ve observed from varying distances hundreds of times: most immigrants to the United States work honestly, intelligently, and hard, often harder than native-borns like myself, either because they have to or because the ones who attempt to come here are more motivated and skilled than those who don’t.
The immigrants I know in America include:
- The Hispanic yard maintenance guys shoveling dirt out of a pickup truck on Thanksgiving day while I strolled by leisurely after eating a gut-busting turkey dinner with my family.
- My very bright and thoughtful Indian data analyst colleague who earned his Masters in the midwest, studies American politics more closely than I do, and told me about his trip with his friends to Glacier National park, describing a spot that was the “most beautiful place in the world” that he’d ever seen. He fortunately beat the odds in the H1-B visa lottery, managing to win a 3-year extension to his visa, despite only a 40% chance. I feel bad for the other 60% working just as hard and intelligently as him, and contributing just as much in economic surplus and taxes, who had to disrupt their productive lives and relationships in the US and return home through no fault of their own.
- The Mexicans migrants in wide-brimmed hats picking strawberries in the 100 F heat with while I roadtripped in air-conditioned comfort down to Monterrey Bay to enjoy a county fair last weekend, stopping at a farm stand to buy some of the delicious, hand-picked fruit for a song.
- Countless other other coworkers, neighbors, restaurateurs, Uber drivers, friends, and friend’s parents, all of whom came to the US seeking a better life for themselves and their families, and most of whom found it.
I also think about the would-be immigrants whom I’ve had less contact with, but whose stories are even more poignant in their rejection. I met a thin, boyish-faced man of about 40 in a rural village in the Philippines who was the youngest son of a mother who emigrated to the east coast of the US 15 years ago to work as a nurse. His dream all these years had been to join her there and live and work in America. He worked in construction and carpentry in the Philippines where wages are about $6 per day for unskilled day laborers, and stressed how he could have, and would have, done nearly any type of work in the US in order to move there. After finishing his story, he stared off wistfully for a few seconds, and then stated simply that he’d given up on his American Dream. His annual visa applications had been rejected year after year, despite his mother and her stateside friends’ entreaties on his behalf, and he had decided that fate–or more likely God; the Philippines is very Catholic–clearly did not intend for him to make the move.
My weekend to the Monterrey fair ended with a rodeo. The audience was probably 80% Hispanic. One announcer narrated in English, and the other in Spanish. Both the Mexican and American flags were presented, and both national anthems were played. The bronco riders were a mix of brown and white faces, and were cheered by all. Four white US servicemen performed a bull-dodging stunt while surrounded by rings of fire, and a European bullfighter had been flown in to leap impressively over a charging bull (three times!) It was the only US spectator event in my memory where as a white person I’ve been in the racial minority, but I felt perfectly welcome. The mariachi bands, elephant ears, tacos, 4-H exhibits, crowds of happy families, and the mix of languages all blended together for a uniquely enjoyable American experience.
That fair was a microcosm of how I view immigration to America: there are many pillars of the American system that people come here for and that are mostly enjoyed and revered by all of us. The elephant ears, corn dogs and wooden roller coasters are the rule of law, freedom of, or from, religion, and a peaceful political process. Other things that immigrants bring to America may not be for everyone (spicy salsa, or burkas, say), but as long as they don’t violate the rights of others living in American, we tolerate them peaceably, even if we view them with suspicion (deep-friend Twinkies, say.)
The real win is when immigrants bring something new and valuable to this country, as they have done for hundreds of years. Just consider food and drink alone, which I’m prone to do…:
The Germans brought beer (God bless them!), the Italians pizza and pasta, the Scottish whisk
ey, the Jews, in league with the Irish, corned beef and cabbage. More recently the Japanese brought sushi to our collective table, the Chinese gave us dim sum as a hangover-curing brunch alternative, and from Mexicans we obtained the taco, which is probably the most revolutionary thing to come out of Central America since Pancho Villa.
I rest my case: Viva la inmigración!