It is the day before Thanksgiving. Manuel, a painter is finishing some work in our home. He told me a story that made this holiday and what it stands for more poignant.
I’ve known him for about 2 years and I know he came into the US illegally about almost 20 years ago. He is here legally now. On the few occassons he’s done some work in our home, he has hinted at how he got into the US. Today, he talks to me about his family, about his kids. He is worried he is making life too easy for them. He worries they’ll grow up “soft”. Then he opens up.
“I ran away from home when I was 12 years old” Manuel said.
I was blown away when Manuel told me that. At 12, I was trying to convince my mum to send me to the best and coolest boarding school in Ghana. Running away from home was the last thing on my mind.
“My dad worked as a farm hand for a wealthy farmer in the small town of Yorito in Honduras. I helped my dad after school and on weekends”, Manuel went on.
Manuel’s dad had 19 children so life was hard at home. Manuel made a few bucks doing the chores of the kids of the wealthy farmer. He also got paid by them to carry their bags to school and to fight for them if they got into trouble. According to him, “those kids never lifted a finger!”
Money was always tight and when it was time for high school, his dad could not afford it. Manuel had heard all these stories about the USA, where one could become someone. He asked his dad if he could move to the US. His dad said “NO!” So he ran away.
Before he did that though, he did his homework. He asked around about how to get to the US. Flying wasn’t an option. He had to hitchhike. He came up with a plan. He would hitchhike to an uncle who lived at the El Salvador border, go through El Salvador to Guatemala to Mexico. Once in Mexico, he’ll find a way to get into the US.
One Friday, while supposedly playing with friends, he took of on his journey. For 2 weeks he walked and begged for rides on trucks. He ate what he could find or steal. He slept in old sheds, under bridges in trees. Finally he got to Mexico, which wasn’t as welcoming as he had thought. He was arrested at the border, strip-searched and dumped back on the Guatemalan side.
“Those Mexican border officials are mean”, recounts Manuel. “They are nothing compared to their American counterparts.”
Not to be deterred, he tried again and made it into Mexico one night. He stayed in Mexico for nine months working and saving $300 in that time. With that money, he was able to pay someone to smuggle him across the border into the US. On the night that was supposed to happen, this smuggler never showed up so Manuel stayed another year working and saving. He decided to do it himself the next time. He found out that if he swam across the Rio Grande river, Texas was at the other side. As long as he stayed away from large groups of other illegals and border posts, he would be fine. So one night, that’s what he did. He swam across the river and crawled out onto land in Texas. Back in Mexico, he found out that he had to walk across the Texas desert to reach the nearest town. He was advised to “follow the towers” to get into a town.
About an hour after getting on land, he was sighted by a border patrol agent who asked him to stop and then gave chase. “I’ve never ran so fast my whole life! When I looked back after a while, he (the agent) was just a speck!” For two weeks, he walked across the Texas desert. He had two water jugs that he filled whenever he found a windmill. He had to drop one as both got heavy to carry as he got more tired. He fed on rabbits and rats he caught. He had a box of matches with him and cooked them over fire he made with twigs he could collect. “Most times, they were half-cooked!” When he ran out of water, he drank his urine.
A week into his hike on US soil, he came across the dead bodies of a man and a little girl.
“She lay beside him in his arms. She had long brown hair. The birds had eaten their eyes. I wasn’t scared. I just thought about how mean the birds were.”
About 2 weeks after getting into the US, he came into a small town, whose name he cannot remember. He stumbled into a gas station for some water. The owner was really kind. Days later he hitched a ride on a truck to Corpus Christi, Texas.
Four years after he ran away, he sent his dad $200 with a message that he was alive and well. A month later, he got a letter from his dad. It talked about how worried they had been and feared the worst. It talked about how grandma still cries every night. At the end, the letter read: “I’m glad you are fine now but if I get my hands on you, I’ll kill you!”
Then came Hurricane Mitch in 1998. It devastated Honduras and most of Central America.The US government granted amnesty to Hondurans in the US as a way of helping the country. The thought was the Hondurans here would works and support he rebuilding of their country. Manuel was finally not an illegal immigrant.
Manuel has made a lot of his time here. I got to know him through a builder friend when I needed our deck painted. You see, he is self-employed now as a painter and is doing rather well for himself. He met and married a woman from Mexico who decided a few years ago to move back to Mexico with their 2 children. In 2004, he went back home to Honduras and bought the farm that he and his dad used to work on. “Those kids of the rich farmer never learned the value of work and could not manage the farm!”, Manuel explained. It is for that reason he is worried about his kids.He wants them to learn the value of work. He wishes he could teach them that everyday. He misses them.
“I am really grateful for all I have now looking at what I went through”, he added.
Those words stuck with me. I guess the season made him reflective. Whatever the reason, I thought of my life, what I had gone through to be where I am now and the sacrifices I made and they pale compared to what Manuel and thousands of other illegal immigrants go through to make it to the promised land.The trip from Honduras to Mexico is about 1500 miles and that from the Rio Grande River at the US-Mexico border to Corpus Christi Texas is about 150 miles.
I think of the old Persian saying: “I wept because I had no shoes, until I saw a man who had no feet.”
I think of millions who live in areas torn by war, famine, disease, I think of the sick, of orphans, of those jailed for crimes they never committed, of the oppressed, the abused and I truly count my blessings.
Count your blessings!
Happy Thanksgiving!