Mojados (Aka wetbacks)

Previously posted in my diary at the Agonist

Manuel Garcia is as steady a ranch hand as they come. And like a lot of agricultural workers here in Texas, he is a native of Mexico. He first found me shortly after I had been released from prison. I was working on a small ranch my dad owns near Luling, Texas, thinning an oak forest with a chainsaw and selling firewood. The work was brutally hard and dangerous--the weather hot and humid--the wood heavy. But I had spent five years surrounded by the constant noise and confusion of a federal joint and appreciated being alone in the forest. And the hard work was a kind of therapy--a way for me to heal. I drank an entire five-gallon jug of water each day to combat the heat. Wild mustang grape vines often held up the trees after they were cut and caused them to fall in unexpected directions. One false move could leave me crushed and buried. Bumblebees, hornets and wasps stung me. I risked being bitten by copperhead snakes; in one year's time I killed twenty-five of them. Poison Ivy and Poison Oak covered the trees. My skin itched and broke out in rashes. Stinging scorpions crawled out of the wood. Razor sharp chain cuts through human flesh with ease--on one occasion I cut my big right toe nearly off through thick leather boots--on another it was my knee which got slashed. I drove myself to the hospital and paid in cash--I had no health insurance. And then went back to my job stitched and bandaged.
Manuel drove up one day and said he wanted work.

Yeah, right, I thought to myself.

Very few can hang with such work; those who have the endurance often lack the skill to get any real production with a saw; those with the skill lack the endurance or the will to work so hard for so little money. The man I was looking at was small and slender--he probably weighed about a hundred and forty pounds. Dark brown eyes stared from the smooth-skinned face of a man containing a lot of Native American blood--maybe a pureblooded American. But he appeared confident. And he told me he was an experienced woodcutter.

"I'll pay you twenty-five dollars a cord," I told him. "The more you cut, the more you make." That way, I wouldn't take a beating. I could split and stack the wood and sell it for a profit no matter how much or how little he produced.

Manuel showed up in his car and opened the trunk to reveal a good Stihl saw. And, as they say here in Texas, I saw nothing but ass-holes and elbows for the rest of the day. He cut and stacked six cords of wood. And returned for more the following day.

People think Lance Armstrong is tough.

I also continued cutting wood. I hired another Mexican to haul the wood to a central pile. This man, Enrique, was older than I, but also tough as nails. He, too, was mostly Native American, born and raised in San Luis Potosi, built on a blocky frame with smooth muscles and a generous finish to his body. But, unlike Manuel, modern power tools were foreign to him. He preferred a machete to cut paths into the woods, and worked without stopping, loading heavy rounds of wood into a crude trailer.

Whatever Manuel and I cut, he hauled.

This pile of wood soon grew to resemble a small mountain. I bought a hydraulic wood splitter and began splitting and stacking cordwood. One day a young white man drove up and told me he wanted a job.

"No you don't," I told him

"Yes, I do."

"OK then. Here's the deal. I'll pay you ten dollars a cord to split and stack wood. The more you do, the more you earn."

This young white man began splitting and stacking wood after I showed him how. I returned to the woods and resumed cutting. Just before noon, I decided to check on him. He was sitting on the log splitter out in the open sun, without a hat, red-faced and sweating. He looked as though he were about to faint. He had finished about three-quarters of a cord in four hours. I helped him finish off the cord in a matter of minutes.

That afternoon, he split and stacked another half a cord. When I paid him his fifteen dollars he exclaimed, "You're ripping me off."

"No, I am not. I can't afford to pay you any more than that and still make money. You're just going to have to do more in a day."

That afternoon, Manuel told me one of his brothers had arrived from Mexico. He had walked for four days to a place where it would be safe for someone to pick him up, north of all the border-patrol checkpoints. This, after being caught and returned to Mexico twice, just days before.

"If he wants a job, I'll give him one," I told Manuel.

The next morning Manuel and Jorge showed up for work. And the white boy as well. I offered the same deal to Jorge as I had the boy from Luling. I put the white boy to doing something else--running a weed eater around the wood yard, where he could watch Jorge work. I agreed to pay the white boy by the hour.

Jorge split and stacked nine cords of wood and earned ninety dollars. Thereafter, he averaged seven and a half cords a day, and quit by 3 pm. The white boy just quit. He never returned.

Here was the dilemma I faced: Wood sold for $135/cord in the city. But wholesalers would pay only $80/cord in order to leave a profit for themselves and they complained at that. Manuel earned $25 per cord. It cost me $10 to get it hauled out of the woods. $10 more to get it split and stacked. The landowner generally gets $10 per cord, meaning the wood cost me $55 a cord to get it ready for sale. I had to wait until a buyer came along with borrowed money invested in the stuff for a $25 per cord profit. Out of that I had to buy and maintain my equipment. And feed myself and buy fuel. Then I had to help load the wood for the buyer. I simply could not afford to pay any more and stay in business.

Over the years I have raised watermelons, tomatoes, and other vegetables. Currently, I raise beef, hay and horses. Our farm also produces, cotton, corn and milo. And time and again I run into the same scenario. I find myself trapped between trying to pay my hands a fair wage and making even a meager profit while providing food, clothing and fuel for the rest of you. If I hire illegal aliens I face possible fines or jail time.

Ask any farmer or rancher why they hire Illegals. The fact is, these guys will do work few raised in our country want to do--at any price, and they will do it cheaper.

We all want cheap products. And most of us want a job sitting in the air-conditioning making a lot of money. Meanwhile, Mexicans clean our motel rooms and wash our sheets. They slaughter our livestock. They cook our food, sweep our floors, pick our vegetables, pave our streets, build our homes, cut our lawns and pick up our trash. And live in fear of being picked up by our border patrol and sent home.

* * * *
Manuel was very shy and quiet and hard to get to know. One day, I asked about his childhood.

He told me that at six years old he had gotten lost in a city.

"Lost?" I asked.

"Yeah. My parents left me with my sister. They were planning to move to her city from the ranch where we lived. But they didn't know that my sister was drinking and doing drugs. She didn't come home for a couple of days so I went looking for her. I couldn't find her. There was no food in the house. So I went out looking again and couldn't find my way back to her house."

"What did you do then?" I asked.

"Well, I found some other kids like me. We slept on benches near the train station and ate out of trashcans. I asked people for spare change. You know, you can eat a lot of things that look rotten and they won't hurt you. I ate the vegetables the vendors at the market threw away. I dug through moldy bread and got the good pieces out. Sometimes I'd watch someone eating a sandwich and they'd feel sorry for me and give me part of it. For fun we'd climb on the trains and hang on to them until they got to this hill where they'd slow down and then we'd jump off. Sometimes the police would try to run us out of the stations, but we'd just wait a while and then come back. What could they do to us?"

"How long did you live like that?" I asked.

"About six years. Until I was twelve."

"How did your family find you?"

"One day a woman from our village recognized me and took me home."

"Were you glad to get home?" I asked.

"Not really. I had gotten used to living on my own and not having to answer to anyone. I also didn't like watching my dad get drunk all of the time, so after a couple of years I ran away and went to la frontera (the border). I started crossing and working in border towns on this side of the river. I'd wash dishes or cut grass or pick fruit--whatever I could find. Sometimes the border patrol would catch me, but after a while they all knew me by my name and I knew them. They'd turn me loose and I'd be back in a couple of hours."

"Was it hard to cross the border?"

"Sometimes. I watched others that didn't make it when the river was high. One time I was nearing the bank. I was drowning. I reached out to grab something and my fingers kind of sunk into it, and I lost my grip. So I grabbed again. Then I realized I had grasped the rotting body of a man. I almost died from fright. This still haunts me. His flesh was like really soft and slippery and came apart in my hands. But I couldn't let go"

I watch the horror cross his face as this memory comes back to life, once again.

"Did you ever get beaten up or robbed?"

"All the time. When I was a little kid scavenging for food, the biggest strongest kids always got the best stuff and we got what was left over."

"What do you think about others who come looking for work in this country?" I asked him.

"I don't understand a lot of my people. We work hard and do jobs no one else wants, but we bring Mexico and our bad habits with us. Then we learn your bad habits. We make all this money and then spend it on fancy trucks and jewelry and expensive boots and hats and getting drunk and doing drugs and chasing whores and we forget our families back home. So, we have nothing that matters. No home. No business. And our families have nothing back in Mexico. Not all are us are like this, but a lot are."

"Do you send money home?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"At least a hundred dollars a month. My parents eat on that. When I can, I send more."

"What do they eat?"

"Beans, potatoes, rice, noodles, tortillas, eggs, and some vegetables and fruits. Sometimes a queso (cheese). Meat is very expensive. A kilo of meat costs 60 pesos per kilo ($6). That is the entire daily wage of an unskilled laborer in my hometown. So, if they want meat, they must kill a pig or a goat, but usually they sell them instead to those who live in the city with better jobs."

"What do you think of gringos?"

"Well. It is very nice in this country. But you throw a lot of stuff away. I've been to the dump grounds and seen the things in there--really good and useful items.  I bet you could feed most of Mexico on what you throw away in this country. And they won't even let anyone dig through it to get out the good stuff."

"I can't understand why you have all these beautiful farms and ranches but no one wants to work their own land. All your children go to the city. Nothing but old men are left on the farms and the ranches. Who is going to take over when they die? I think it will have to be us. Who else knows how to do the work?"

* * * * *
Manuel is one of the lucky ones. He was here during the eighties when amnesty was offered to illegals that had been here for a number of years. His employer at the time helped him obtain a visa. He works hard, pays his taxes, obeys our laws, and takes good care of his possessions and his business. He appreciates the opportunities the United States offered him. And laments for those who still sit at home and suffer.

He now works full time on a ranch for my father. He never steals. He's dependable, smart and strong. He can drive a tractor and operate just about any kind of farm equipment. He tends to the needs of our cattle. He welds and builds fences and corrals. He knows how to raise grains and produce. Our grass is always mowed and our gardens teem with fruit, vegetables and flowers.

Many others, his own brothers included, are not so lucky. Currently it costs Mexicans around $1,500 to pay a coyote to get into the country illegally. And at that price, a Mojado's life is at stake. Quite a number die each year trying to get here. This is an impossible amount for a worker in Mexico, so other family members already here save money to pay the cost of passage.

Perhaps the next time you sit down in your most comfortable pair of jeans to a steak or a hamburger, and watch as the flames of a fire illuminate and warm your house or cook your food, you should remember Manuel. That meat, those tomatoes, that lettuce, and those clothes you wear--most of these items are presented to you, courtesy of Manuel Garcia or someone like him.

When I ask him about problems in this world--things like the current situation in Iraq--he just shrugs. "What can I do?"  He has little advice to offer concerning government policies--it's as though all of that is above him and beyond his control. But he never seems to be able to understand why we always are at war.

No explanation I offer is good enough. He says nothing but I can tell by the puzzled look on his face. The look says, why would anything on the other side of the planet concern us enough to kill those people?

A jet fighter roars overhead practicing war maneuvers and he looks up, bewildered.

Then he picks up whatever tool is at his disposal and resumes working. He remembers some really hard times and gives thanks for what he has. But he never forgets. He will never forget from where he has come.

He smiles as he works, but there is a hint of sadness in that smile.

Manuel's ancestors have lived on this North American continent for thousands of years. He and his predecessors crossed a river to get to this land. Most of the rest of us crossed an ocean.

Which leads me to ask, "Who are the Mojados here?"

* * * * *
Like many Mexicans nationals here in the United States, Manuel is hesitant to express an opinion about our current president. Perhaps he feels it is not his place. He is grateful to be here and reluctant to offend anyone. He comes from a culture where people like him have been suppressed so long they have no voice.

But recent opinion polls for parts south of our border paint an unpleasant picture. Bush's disapproval rating in Latin America is somewhere around the eighty-five per-cent level. Folks, that means seventeen out of twenty people down there don't like the guy. You'd think such a fact would be disconcerting and give cause to a little introspection on the part of our president.

But, in the case of George W. Bush, you'd be wrong.