Workers on the landscaping crew look different this spring. They’re typical American guys now – overweight, sporting baseball caps and tattoos.
The Mexicans used to bug me somewhat – they didn’t speak English so it wasn’t possible to communicate with them as they worked in neighbors’ yards. But they were very friendly and polite. And everyone vouched that they were meticulous, hard workers: “Try to get them if you have a project,” I was repeatedly advised. One neighbor used to let them use his cell phone on their breaks, so they could call across the border to speak to loved ones. They wept in gratitude, it had been so long since family contact.
Five Mexicans used to jump off the truck in years gone by to tackle spring clean-ups. Today three Americans have arrived instead. Probably for the same price.
“Looks like a whole new crew this year,” I commented to the three rakers as I walked past.
“Yup,” one said. “Sure is.”
“Where’d the other guys go?” I didn’t slow my pace, just kept walking my dog, trying not to act all that interested.
One stopped raking and started to say, “Well….” and was immediately cut off by the other shaking his head and saying, “We don’t know. We don’t know.”
The third was on his cell phone.
As I walked away, I heard them laugh. Snigger, maybe’s more like it.
I don’t know if the Mexican workers were fired due to lack of documentation, are in hiding, or have been rounded up by I.C.E. I do know that I could never understand how Germans could have allowed their neighbors to simply disappear and not ask more questions, not demand that it be stopped.
Yet now, I flounder not knowing the best course of action to stop this madness in my own country.
Journal Stories 