Immigration Through the Eyes of Immigrants

Jamie

[My] experience began Saturday, May 20 of the year 2000.  It was the second time that we tried to cross into the American dream.  The person who was going to take us across the border from Mexico to the United States was a lady named Alma; she hid us in the trunk of a compact car, which was very uncomfortable.  She told us not to move for anything, and if immigration caught us to tell them that we had all three bought the car together.  I was wearing three pairs of pants and four shirts underneath my jacket because they would not let us take suitcases, and the heat was suffocating.  I remember that first I got into the trunk, and then my brother.  We were both situated in the same position, with my face against his back.  It felt a little bit difficult to breathe, but when the car began to move I could breathe better, but not very well.  Soon, when we were in Tucson—what bad luck—a narcotics patroller stopped Alma and took her out of the car.

That was when my nightmare began.  They closed the car completely with us still lying in it.  I couldn't find any air; I tried to find a pocket of oxygen somewhere, but my brother told me, “Don’t move!  Don’t push me; you’re hurting me!”  But the sensation of asphyxiation was unbearable.  I don't know how long I was in that torturous situation when soon everything started to get dark.  I lost feeling in my body and something incredible happened—moments from my life began to fly by like a movie.  It is very strange to begin to die like that.

Then my brother yelled, saying that immigration had tried to open the trunk, but could not, so they broke the back seats.  Thus I began to feel air again, a lot of air.  I could not move so they pulled me out by the hands and left me lying against the car until I could talk and see.  I thanked them and they put me in a patrol car where Alma already was.  They gave me water and the immigration officer turned the air conditioning on high. 

This is part of what one has to go through to achieve the American dream.

Juan

In my life I have known many stories of people fighting daily in order to move ahead in search of opportunities to survive and fulfill their needs and those of their families—people like me and others trying to achieve hopes and dreams.  To forge a better future with strength, work, and dedication even though it means the tears of an anguished mother facing the painful situation of knowing that her children are far away, watching time pass, praying that she will receive good news from her children.

What I can now tell is only a short part of a long story of my life, in which one day I left my house seeing the tears of my mother and my siblings as they watched me set off for dangerous places in which many lose their lives.  These thoughts pushed us forward and led us to a point divided by a deep and wide river.

Upon arriving there, I, my father, and the others had to look to the other side, trying to get to it; and on the first try only one made it, but soon returned.  The second time, we tried two at a time—I with my clothes in a bag full of air and my dreams with me.  I dived in but only got to the middle of the river when the bag full of air that had supported me broke and the current dragged me and my clothing under, flooding my mouth and lungs and dreams so that I felt desperate, pleading for anyone to help me.  One person tried, throwing me a dry log that came to me, and I with even less strength pulled my head out of the water; I could see my father crying with the other people, only to submerge again—tired, without strength, with my lungs full of water and in my mind remembering every instant of my life, every moment together with those I care for, sadness, joys, and so many things, so many dreams mixed with so many motivations.  For them, I prayed to God; and in that moment I remember what he said to me: “Ayúdate que yo te aydaré” - “help yourself so that I might help you” - and with my knees on the rocks at the bottom of the river, I found the strength to propel myself up.  And taking his hand, I reached the surface and swam to the shore where I began a new opportunity to continue forward, live happily with all the beauty God has given me.  I give God thanks for all of the strength, faith, and family that he has given me, only him, my God.

(from “Hands of Harvest, Hearts of Justice,” a North Carolina farmworker curriculum produced by the NC Council of Churches’ Farm Worker Ministry Committee and the National Farm Worker Ministry)

Stories are taken from individuals working in North Carolina, interviewed at the Episcopal Farmworker Ministry, Newton Grove, NC, Summer 2002