Last September, while on an
early morning walk with my dogs, I spotted an orange knapsack on a
steep west bank of the Santa Cruz River here in Rio Rico, Ariz. I
also saw two baseball caps lying near the water’s edge.
I
waded across the foul-smelling river and opened the orange
knapsack. Inside, I found clean clothing and a half-consumed liter
of a Mexican brand of bottled water. I then unzipped a side pocket
to find a plastic bag of fresh, plump jalapeños. One
jalapeño had just been bitten in half.
I probed into
another pocket to find a wallet into which was tucked a religious
tract. Around its edges was a note written in Spanish: “My Friend:
Please, when you find this note, call my Mama.” The note was
signed, “Muchas Gracias, Pedro.”
There were several long
strings of telephone numerals around the tract’s edges, but most
were stateside numbers. But I recognized the city code of Oaxaca,
Mexico, where I’d lived a few months. Other than the tract, the
wallet was empty. I keep finding such discarded knapsacks, and I’ve
become obsessed with figuring out why they were left behind. Maybe
this one was discarded when its owner and his pal were chased by
the U.S. Border Patrol. Maybe that’s why they fled west across the
river, their beloved baseball caps blowing off as they ran.
Perhaps, Mama’s son shucked off his orange knapsack at
the top of the bank so he and his pal could more easily move
through the thick growth of brush. They may have been captured
there, because most weary Mexican migrants are no match for Border
Patrol agents who leap off all-terrain vehicles.
But
maybe they hadn’t been captured, since I see so few agents in the
Santa Cruz River Valley. Maybe they fled when they’d seen me and my
two dogs. And so, I called out, “buenos días!” to no response.
My dogs and I then waded back across the river where we
found wet socks, which are a migrant’s most critical piece of
clothing. Wet socks make bloody blisters. I’m sure Pedro trespassed
here for a job at substandard wages, perhaps in Tucson’s booming
construction industry or maybe to tend some of Tucson’s splendid
gardens.
But how could I possibly heed Pedro’s plea to
call his mother? What could I possibly say in my far from perfect
Spanish to comfort her when she’ll be so worried about her son’s
whereabouts?
If Pedro failed to find work in Tucson, I’m
certain that he and his pal migrated farther north to harvest
autumn produce at the huge farms at Eloy, Ariz. If they failed to
find work there, they might head all the way off to Delaware to
pluck its chickens. Should they do that, they’ll be helped along
the way by a brother or a cousin working there and using Western
Union to wire them money.
To me, knapsacks and discarded
socks symbolize the ugly reality of our huge problem with illegal
migration. That reality is the wicked combination of “push and
pull.” The “push” is Mexico’s worsening poverty, and its youths
taking dangerous risks to help the family out. The “pull” —
which most Americans would dearly love to wish away — are the
hundreds of thousands of low wage jobs beckoning north of the
border.
It’s now March, a ripe illegal-migration season.
And, despite our spending millions upon millions for more Border
Patrol agents and to install expensive electronic gadgetry in the
rugged mountains that frame my border with Mexico, I’ve been seeing
lots of footprints in the valley.
There’s really no way
to keep out Pedro and the half-million others who come through our
southern border each year. Not until we acknowledge the “push,” and
especially, the obnoxious “pull.”
Meanwhile, I keep
reading that Mexico’s evil Pedro is snatching jobs away from
Americans. I doubt that: I have yet to meet any job-hungry
Americans eager to pick cantaloupes in the fields of Eloy, Ariz.,
during the hideously hot month of June. Even If they did, they will
never work as hard and skillfully as would Pedro from Oaxaca. As
U.S. employers clearly know, trespassing Mexicans are indeed
notorious, but only for being such superior workers.
Most
illegal migrants that trespass to do very hard work are some of
Mexico’s best folk. That’s a huge loss for Mexico, and a huge gain
for the United States. Politically connected U.S. employers know
that, and that’s why our expensive border enforcement is such a
joke.
If I had met Pedro and his pal on my last
September’s morning walk, I would have asked them if they needed
help. I certainly would never have tattled on these two brave
fellows by calling the U.S. Border Patrol.
Jack
McGarvey is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of
High Country News (hcn.org). He lives and writes
in Rio Rico, Arizona.
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