What about all of the oppressed minorities in the US? How do these minorities bear on the notion of American exceptionalism?

Brent Li

H Block

What about all of the oppressed minorities in the US? How do these minorities bear on the notion of American exceptionalism?

            Why did we move here? Maybe it was the weather. But it doesn’t rain much in Southern California, much like on our old farm back in Valle de Las Palmas. But maybe that’s the reason why we had to move; our crops never grew. But not.

            “Luis! ¡Despiértate! Wake up! You’re going to be late for work!” Mother cried from the kitchen.

“¡Un momento Mamá!” I replied dully.

It was time for my Sunday job as a garden worker for the Whites. Mr. and Mrs. White were two of the richest − well, probably the only two rich − citizens of San Diego. Most of the others were immigrants like us, trying to escape our “poor and broken past”, as mother called it, from back in México.

“¡Papá ya está! Dad’s already there! You better hurry up before the Whites get someone new to replace you!” Mother warned with angry love.

I dismissed the threat, but I knew it wasn’t empty. There were hundreds of us illegals, undocumented, wetbacks, whatever you want to call us. The Whites could replace me in half a heartbeat.

“I’m going, I’m going. Can I have some breakfast at least?”

“No! Luis Lopez, you’re already half an hour late, just go!”

I left the small shack of a house we now called home and started on foot at a brisk pace towards the Whites. To be honest, I liked my job as a garden worker. I got to do the things I loved: be with nature, enjoy the sun, play with the Whites’ dog. On top of that, I made money.

“Money’s what makes the world go ‘round,” I thought, pondering dad’s famous saying and the real reason why we moved to America.  

Dad always loved money. But money was so hard to come by back in Valle de Las Palmas, when our old farm kept getting robbed by passing highwaymen or perished from the droughts. Moving to America would solve that, of course, I mean everybody was doing it. America was the “land of opportunity”, where hopes and dreams became realities. Here in America, we could get real jobs and get real money. Most importantly, we could make a name for the Lopezes.

My father aspired to become a world-class entrepreneur and so he put every dólar y centavo he earned into savings for his business school. He wanted to give us the life we deserved, to let us live the “American Dream”. Problem was, he couldn’t get into business school, or even just have a bank account to put his savings into, because we were illegal. Yes, America sounded like paraíso, but we had more of a chance at winning the lottery than getting legal citizenship into the United States. And if we won the lottery, why would we even need to move here anyway? Still, too many Méxicanos like us wanted to come to America for the U.S. to handle, legally at least, so most of us got here the normal way; just hopped the border.

Lost in thought, I almost forgot where I was going. I heard the gruff voice of my dad coming from behind me.

“¡Oye! Luis, where are you going? We’re over here!”

I had walked straight past the Whites’ house.

“Oh sorry Papá. I … was going to go around the back to get the tools,” I lied awkwardly, trying to cover up my foolishness.

“¿Estás loco? Are you crazy? We have all the tools here already. Get to work, you’re an hour late.”

I picked up a shovel and began plowing a miniature field for Mrs. White’s new vegetable garden.

“So did you hear?” said Pepe, one of the illegals who worked with us on Sundays,  “Old Carlos got picked up by la migra last week. He’s getting sent back to México.”

“¡No me digas! Really? ¡Qué terrible!” pitied my dad, “And he was just about to finish his citizen papers, too.”

“Sí, I know, I know. But he said he was going to come right back. He still needs to work more odd jobs to make ends meet,” said Pepe.

I had never seen la migra − the immigration police − before, but from the stories I heard, they were every illegal’s living nightmare. I didn’t understand why, if America was so wonderful and great, they wouldn’t allow us to be here. Wasn’t the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness a right in America? And we were in America, weren’t we? La migra and the government worried us all that America was nothing more than a mousetrap set with the promise of prosperity as the cheese.

Just then an electrifying scream filled the air.

“¡LA MIGRA! ¡LA MIGRA! ¡CORRE, CORRE, CORRE! RUN!”

Chaos erupted. Suddenly a dozen workers began sprinting and scattering in every direction like a bunch of professional athletes with blindfolds on. Not knowing where to go or where to hide, Papá and I ducked under the porch of the White’s house and waited for the police to leave. It seemed the American Dream was only just a dream.

So why did we move here? Maybe it was the weather.