In the photograph above is Mr. Kevin with his sweet daughter. Mr. Kevin perpetually has this smile on his face and positivity radiates from him. He teaches little ones in my school. He also rides a motorcycle with his beautiful wife and baby on the back of it and all of us agree that they are as hot as the Obamas.
As one of the Honduran teachers, Kevin was given the responsibility of conducting the Spanish classes for the Americans. After the first day of class, Mr. Kevin realized that we had pretty developed Spanish skills, so took the opportunity to instead to use our class periods to teach us more useful things such as naughty words that students shouldn’t be using in our class, how to dance “punta” (the national dance of Honduras) and the proper usage of ridiculous Honduran pickup lines. He is quite arguably our favorite Honduran. At least he is mine.
Last night we gathered for “Baleadas, Beer, and Bitching,” our Friday night ritual in which we eat baleadas (a sort of Honduran burrito), drink beers and bitch about our week. This week of BBB was extra special though, because Mr. Kevin came. We had a wonderful night and also found got a curveball thrown at us from Mr Kevin.
Don Josh, one of the teachers, was talking with Kevin for about an hour about his life and Mr. Kevin told him that at age 18 he unsuccessfully made the long journey on top of the trains to the states. We were amazed to hear this.
This journey is a sort of rite of passage for young Honduran boys, however it is anything but the kind of adventures that American teenagers embark on. Mr. Kevin rode thousands of miles on the tops of trains with his money and identification sewed into an inseam of his jeans chasing a pipe dream of establishing himself in the US with a liveable wage. He was robbed on a monthly basis from gang members, policemen and immigration officials, and although he was never harmed, boys just like 18 year-old Kevin make this same journey are often bludgeoned by branches, disfigured by gangsters, knocked off of trains, and dismembered by the wheels of the trains when boarding and exiting the trains while they are still moving. It is a truly arduous journey that you can’t even begin to imagine.
Mr. Kevin made his way all the way through Honduras, through the length of Guatemala and deep into northern Mexico. Most incredibly, he made it through Chiapas, Mexico, a region notorious for being so violent with activity by roves of gangs that rob, attack, and kill immigrants that the trains that travel through this region are known as “Death Trains.”
Mr. Kevin made it through this region and deep within Mexico when he was caught on the roof of one of these trains by Mexican immigration officials (yes, the Mexican government fights immigration just as vigilantly as our government does) and he was deported. Many boys follow this same route that Mr. Kevin did and after being deported will try 6 or 7 more times to reach the states, travelling on these trains for multiple years usually in search of a parent in the states that had to abandon them in search of a liveable wage. Kevin’s father was in the U.S.. Kevin, didn’t even know him, having only spent one month with him at age 11 when his father came back to visit for Christmas.
Kevin, however, decided that one attempt was enough. He came back to Honduras, got a higher education, began teaching at our bilingual school, got married, is raising a beautiful daughter and is in the process of buying land to build his dream home upon.
I was so shocked by this story. I knew that this narrative was so common. The majority of our students have at least one if not both parents living in the states, working so they can send money to feed and send their children to our school. These children are usually raised by a grandparent or aunt, never knowing their parents. I didn’t know that Mr. Kevin was one of these kids too. We were so amazed that Mr Kevin, with his sweet smile, and gentle spirit would undertake such a harrowing journey.
I also have such a feeling of gratitude that Mr. Kevin didn’t finish his journey. After all, what would he have made that long journey for? To come to a country where people call him a Mexican, and assume he is stealing labor from citizens and freeloading. He would probably be living in a dangerous part of LA, sharing an apartment with other undocumented immigrants and sending whatever he had back home, just scraping to get by.
Instead, Mr. Kevin has built himself a beautiful life here. Of course it is not that rosy. Not that simple. He still doesn’t know his father. He still probably struggles financially. But the truth is that Kevin is such a rarity. He is actually surviving and supporting a family without having to leave them behind.
I am glad Mr. Kevin didn’t make it. Maybe that’s a little selfish.
Great post, Nathan. Dave Whitaker and his buddy Sam just came through NYC. On the first night as we walked in gloomy weather, Sam asked "why are there all these immigrants on bikes with no helmets in the rain?" It took a moment to register since it is just the way of life here, and I said "Oh, those are the delivery boys."
ReplyDeleteEvery time I receive a "free" food delivery, I'm faced with some 17 year old immigrant, usually from Central America. I try to pay off my guilt with a few extra dollars in tip, knowing that those Western Union remesa fees can be high. That's some reverse culture shock that will never go away now that I know some of these people personally. It's a strange world where such hardship for so little payoff results in a compelling calculus from their point of view. I sincerely believe that you are trying to change that calculus in some small way every day you walk into SJBS. Hope your first day went well.
Thanks for the comment, Laurence. This experience will detinitely change me forever. Just today I played two truths and a lie with my kids as a getting-to-know you activity, and one of the girls in my class's truths that she chose was "I don't have parents."
ReplyDeleteIt was something important that she wanted me and the rest of the class to know. I had asked them to write something unique, but the hard part about it all is that her truth is not all that unique at our schools.
Trying to diffuse the situation and show support, I asked her who she lives with and she said with her aunt. I asked her if she loved her aunt, and she said of course. I said that it's so great that she has a wonderful aunt, but was thinking in my head, "holy shit, this poor girl."
I guess like anything though, it is just her reality and she accepts that. Her other truth was that she is kind.... it showed.
Wowza.... first day
Thanks so much for posting this, Nathan. By the time you finish your year in Honduras you'll have a book in the offing.
ReplyDeleteIt is amazing to me that so many Americans (estadounidenses) are unaware or simply indifferent to the hardships of immigrants, regardless of their status. So many of us are the children or grandchildren of immigrants that you would think we might have some level of sensitivity and empathy.
Your ability to speak Spanish provides you with a stronger bond with Latinos in the States once you return, but with stories like these embedded in your memory, social justice should be second nature (as if it weren't already).
I knew quite a few "illegal" immigrants in NY. One thing that people need to understand is that immigration laws are quite different now from what they were during the late 19th century, when so many foreigners were "welcomed" to our shores (essentially to provide cheap labor for a growing industrial base).
It's a very complex issue, but without empathy we're basically lost, and only marginally human.
Keep posting this stuff. Wonderful!!!
your cousin David
nathan, i walked into the church for the BCA the other day and opened one of the smaller rooms, in which I found a bedroom. A squatter was living there with a collection of survival items--deodorant, walkman with CD's...and on the wall, a picture of (i assume) him holding his daughter. he works for the construction/realty building that owns the church now and is housing their workers in the church while they work on neighboring construction projects. it broke me in two to see that photo of him and that sweet girl...he's here working for his family, surviving, squatting in a once german-lutheran church, occupied by a hassidic construction/realty company. immigrants fighting other immigrants for space and using one another for labor is startling, complicated, rooted in a hierarchical web of which i had only a small glimpse in that flash of photograph on the wall.
ReplyDeleteanyway...well, i don't know what else to say. except that mom would be so very proud of you.
Wow, char, I bet you didn't expect that. New York is such an interesting place. So many different people with so many unique experience. Thank you for saying so. Mom would definitely say the same about you :)
ReplyDelete