Last Night...

...was an interesting night for James and myself. Let me set the mood a bit. As anyone who has been in the US for the past two years already knows, immigration is sort of the issue du jour. Almost everyone feels strongly on the issue one way or the other. I tend to take a liberalist/economist point of view on the issue, all the while keeping in mind that except for a very few of us in this nation, all of our families made the same journey to this land. But I still feel a little detached. Today there was a New York Times article about corridos (sort of Folk Songs from the North and Central American Spanish-speaking countries) that were being made north of the US border. All I could think while listening to these songs was 'I think this would sound better to Mariachi.' You see while I share a common heritage and language with most of the immigrants coming from the South, it is very easy to separate myself from their story, their plight. It's almost the same feeling of American pride I gained while living in Mexico - it didn't come from a feeling of superiority but rather a feeling of actual difference between our cultures; Mexican/Latino and American. A difference that, at the very least should be respected.

So I don't actually know many immigrants. Many of my friends at Stanford are second or third generation Americans; undoubtedly a tribute to the hard-working nature of immigrant families. But the Mexicanos and Latinos I know in the US usually come from a somewhat privileged background with American roots just as deep as mine. Yesterday my parents and James' parents met up for dinner and we had a great time and we covered a range of political topics (as usually happens when you get at least two lawyers together) and we all came to the same progressive conclusions on issues including immigration.

Once James and I were able to ditch the parents and head out to 6th street for the night, we ran into the immigration issue head-on. Outside of our parking garage a shoddy-looking character, about 5'3" in heights spotted us and managed to utter, "disculpame"to me and James, hoping that one of us spoke Spanish. We both do. The man was dirty and slurring his speech, so I immediately assumed he was like one of the many homeless in Austin looking for some change from the college students going out on 6th street. But he was different from the others. His teeth were brushed, his hair combed, and instead of the handout, he was looking for any work that could be done at night in Austin. We told him we didn't know of any and he started directly into his story when we gave him our attention.

He came from Honduras. He had spent 30 straight days on the road, paying various people a total of $8,000 for transport - a sum that he and his family had been saving for a long time. He took mostly trains and had lost his shoes crossing the river. There he also lost his traveling buddy to the border patrol. He said that there are six main crossing points where you can walk through the river, but these points were heavily guarded, and a certain percentage of people are expected not to make it across. In Laredo someone donated a pair of leather cowboy boots to complete his journey. I can recall a few politicians who are fond of these types of boots. He asked that if we didn't know of any work, if we knew where he could eat. There are plenty of cheap food options in downtown Austin at night, so we headed to the nearest pizza parlor and he whaled down two big pieces of pepperoni and juice as he continued his story. He was broke at this point in his journey and he didn't know a single soul in this city. He vowed he would learn English, but only knew the phrase "Yeah." His only life-line are some family members that live in Houston, but at this point he no way of reaching them. He said that the Bible said that "God will take care of you." He had sinned in the past, but he put his faith in God to make this journey safely, and in that faith he felt secure.

Now that he had gotten some food in his stomach, he needed a place to crash for the night. I also noticed that he speech was no longer slurred, meaning that the guy was actually very hungry at the time he found us. James flirted with the idea of having him over at his house, but I said that while we might be able to do a lot for this guy, we still needed to practice a certain amount of discretion. So we learned of a shelter a couple of blocks away and led him there. It was closed by that point and the worst of Austin's homeless population seemed to be up to no particular good outside of the place. There were druggies, she-men, dead-beats and the like. Probably around 40 total homeless people. James and I were in our nicest jeans and button-down shirts and definitely putting our necks on the line. But the person most scared at this point was our friend. He didn't like these people, and refused to talk to a man I found who spoke Spanish. The only time he swore the entire night was when he demanded to leave the place. I couldn't blame him. Even though he had no money, that is not the situation he wanted to be in. A crowd of homeless started to form around us and we left immediately.

We were out of luck. He asked if he could at least accompany us to the bar, but I knew that without any ID, nobody gets in to any Austin bar. A quick call to James parents advised us that a cheap motel on Austin's east side was probably the best bet for our new friend. We walked back to our car and told him that we would find a place for him to stay. He greatly appreciated the ride in the car and moved the umbrella and phone book in the back seat to the trunk to assure us that he wouldn't steal anything. He also appreciated La Ley radio station that we put on as our ride began. He told us of Honduras and its many beautiful beaches that foreign tourists constantly visit. But the country's people are starving, he said. His family that he lived with was a total of 25 people. They lived an agrarian lifestyle and desperately needed the money that he's expected to earn in the US. We finally found a Motel 8. I ordered the room as if for myself and James and I showed him how to work the lock that worked with a plastic card instead of a traditional key. We told him that many people in East Austin speak Spanish and to avoid the police and a certain type of old-school Texan that we tried our best to describe. He said he understood.

All he needed was a small amount to buy a phone card to contact his family and Houston, and the most difficult part of his journey would be behind him. We gladly handed him $10 and finally gave formal introductions. Jose Luis, as it turned out was his name, was very grateful. He should just be leaving the motel room now and hopefully be getting in contact with his family. James and I will probably never see Jose Luis ever again. "Good luck," was the last advice we gave him.

He is one of millions. Good luck to Jose Luis and every other.