i am an immmigrant!

Immigrants in Our Own Land

by Jimmy Santiago Baca

We are born with dreams in our
hearts,

looking for better days ahead.

At the gates we are given new
papers,

our old clothes are taken

and we are given overalls like
mechanics wear.

We are given shots and doctors
ask questions.

Then we gather in another room

where counselors orient us to
the new land

we will now live in. We take
tests.

Some of us were craftsmen in
the old world,

good with our hands and proud
of our work.

Others were good with their
heads.

They used common sense like
scholars

use glasses and books to reach
the world.

But most of us didn’t finish
high school.

The old men who have lived
here stare at us,

from deep disturbed eyes,
sulking, retreated.

We pass them as they stand
around idle,

leaning on shovels and rakes
or against walls.

Our expectations are high: in
the old world,

they talked about
rehabilitation,

about being able to finish
school,

and learning an extra good
trade.

But right away we are sent to
work as dishwashers,

to work in fields for three
cents an hour.

The administration says this
is temporary

So we go about our business,
blacks with blacks,

poor whites with poor whites,

chicanos and indians by
themselves.

The administration says this
is right,

no mixing of cultures, let
them stay apart,

like in the old neighborhoods
we came from.

We came here to get away from
false promises,

from dictators in our
neighborhoods,

who wore blue suits and broke
our doors down

when they wanted, arrested us
when they felt like,

swinging clubs and shooting
guns as they pleased.

But it’s no different here.
It’s all concentrated.

The doctors don’t care, our
bodies decay,

our minds deteriorate, we
learn nothing of value.

Our lives don’t get better, we
go down quick.

My cell is crisscrossed with
laundry lines,

my T-shirts, boxer shorts,
socks and pants are drying.

Just like it used to be in my
neighborhood:

from all the tenements laundry
hung window to window.

Across the way Joey is
sticking his hands

through the bars to hand
Felip� a cigarette,

men are hollering back and
forth cell to cell,

saying their sinks don’t work,

or somebody downstairs hollers
angrily

about a toilet overflowing,

or that the heaters don’t
work.

I ask Coyote next door to
shoot me over

a little more soap to finish
my laundry.

I look down and see new
immigrants coming in,

mattresses rolled up and on
their shoulders,

new haircuts and brogan boots,

looking around, each with a
dream in their heart,

thinking they’ll get a chance
to change their lives.

But in the end, some will just
sit around

talking about how good the old
world was.

Some of the younger ones will
become gangsters.

Some will die and others will
go on living

without a soul, a future, or a
reason to live.

Some will make it out of here
with hate in their eyes,

but so very few make it out of
here as human

as they came in, they leave
wondering what good they are now

as they look at their hands so
long away from their tools,

as they look at themselves, so long gone from their families,

so long gone from life itself,
so many things have changed.

 

I guess I chose this poem because it’s something I really
care about. A message that will forever stay inside of me and will follow until
I die. A word I was called since I was four, when I came to the United States. An
immigrant.

And though it hurts to be called an immigrant, I’m
proud of being an Ecuadorian. But because I was not born in this country, I will
never have the same advantage as the people who were born here.  I don’t visit my family back home and it’s
been almost ten years since ill seen my grandma. I practically don’t know how
it feels to have grandparents. To feel their love and touch. And I just watch
my brother go to Ecuador every year. And it hurts a lot to see someone I care go
to Ecuador and not take me. I know I’m jealous.

     But what really touched me in this poem is the sentence “We are born with dreams in our hearts, 

     lookingfor better days ahead. “. The poet right here is looking through the eyes of an
immigrant. Feeling what us immigrants feel. Because people want what’s best for
themselves. We are dreamers and we dream of high education, of a nice home with
a nice roof. We dream of better salaries and a light bulb. And to not walk a
large distance just to get some water. But unlike some people who aren’t
immigrants we the immigrants must work much harder. Since our descendants didn’t
leave a home behind for us or something that would make it easier to go on with
life. And since our descendants didn’t come to the United States for us.

     
we must start from scratch and cross the border.  We must leave our family and friends behind to
accomplish our dream.  We must do what’s
best for our family. We must look forward to a refrigerator full of food and
for good health. We must look forward to better days.

      what bought me and my family to New York was
me. I was sick at that time and my parents didn’t have money to pay a surgery. And
without that surgery I would have died. So my mother came to New York and
worked hard in a restaurant, slowly learning English and getting the money I needed
for the surgery. And once the surgery was over my father thought we should get
a better life. So my father left and I stayed with my grandmother. I was alone
for two years, but I got to go to school. And finally when I was four I came
here. I don’t actually remember anything and hope it stays like that. It would
be much too painful if i get a flashback.

   

      and it’s never easy for immigrants to
cross the border. My dad tried three times finally succeeding on his third try.
My uncle came to the United States too. He was young, 19 years old. When he got
here he had trauma. he had witnessed coyotes rapping women while in the border.
.They have to cross a lot of countries. They have to walk, run, sail and
finally take a plane.   And yet many don’t
succeed.

      And the
last few lines starting from “But in the end…”was surprising too. It’s all true.
The poet knew just what happens at the end. Some have some happiness. For others
it ends badly. When immigrants are finally here they end in poverty. Or hate.
Sometimes even missing the old times. When the place they came from looked much
better than the United States. But happily for me and my family all went well. We
have earned all the money we need to buy a car and during the last ten year we
had built a big house in Ecuador and a store. We even have extra money for
college and vacations. Now we are ready to move on. I am ready to meet my
family once again. And so when I graduate this year were moving back to Ecuador.

   but other people are not going back home. They
have raised children here and sometimes immigrants are afraid of their own
country. Only if they knew what it feels like to be back home. And my aunt is
one of those immigrants, who tries to talk me out of going back home, but all I
could say in my mind is “ I’m ready, I know it, Ecuador is where I belong.