The Mexicans

A lot has been going on here in my world. Coincidental to the momentous developments in national politics, the island has been threatened by a seasonal hurricane and a Mexican construction crew showed up to begin our planned renovations. It has been dicey, to say the least, trying to keep up with the news, prepare for the storm and work with the carpenters. Computer time has been hit and miss while answering questions and dodging workers parading through my work space.

Despite the turmoil, or perhaps because of it, I have been thinking about the Mexicans who for the past week have been here daily, rain or shine, working and smiling while they sometimes got driven off by rain. Without intimidation or fear, they ventured on the roof when needed and tirelessly carried heavy sheets of plywood and equipment up three and four floors.

My thoughts couldn’t help but turn to the nasty arguments that Trump and his acolytes trumpet about immigrants whom they characterize as criminals, rapists and druggies. I ask where they are, who are they? Show them to me. What I see are people who want to be here and show up for work on time and do so willingly with a joie de vivre that belies their reality.

What I see is the “American story” that has been unfolding since before the Declaration of Independence, a story that we all share as immigrants. My great grandfather left modest beginnings in a Bavarian village to seek a better life. He migrated to northern Iowa, cut ice out of the Mississippi River to start an ice company and fought in a German speaking regiment in the Civil War for a nation he had only been part of for four years. Like your ancestors, perhaps, he embodied who we all are as Americans, something that we can and should all be proud of.