September 4, 2011
By Brian Lyman
Spanish is his second language. He began learning it in school when he was 9. His native tongue, a Mayan language, marked him as a country boy in Chiapas, his birthplace in Mexico.
He speaks quietly but clearly. He talks of the daughter he has not seen in eight years; the son he has never seen and how he remembers the cries of people starving in the Arizona desert, but his tone does not waver. He is 40 but looks a decade younger; short, lean and compact. He wears a simple black shirt and denim pants that go just below his knees.
Alejandro (not his real name) has lived in Alabama for nearly a decade, working mainly in construction, including, he said, buildings for the Alabama Department of Public Safety. He is an undocumented alien.
Alejandro was one of an estimated 120,000 people who were in the state unlawfully in 2010, up from 25,000 illegal residents 10 years before, according to the Pew Hispanic Center. That coincided with the overall explosive growth of the Hispanic population in the state — a population that rose from 75,830 in 2000 to 185,602, or about 4 percent of Alabama's population, in 2010.
Alejandro has never sought public assistance; he has been learning English for the past five or six years, but for ease of conversation speaks through a translator. Most of his earnings go to pay for the education of his daughter, 17, and his son, 9, who still live in Chiapas.
"Sometimes it is hard when they have a problem and I can't give them a hug," he said. "I always tell them if they have a problem to call me or send a text message."
He dreams of returning to Mexico, but he wants his children to get through school first. He never heard of Alabama before coming here — and had a hard time pronouncing the word when he first arrived — but has grown to like the state.
"I notice that when I go somewhere else and I come back, I feel like I'm at home here," he said.
'A moment's decision'
Alejandro came to Alabama for the same reason he first left the mountains where he grew up: He wanted to better himself and his family.
"I wanted to get ahead," he said. "I wanted progress. I wanted to learn. I didn't want to stay in the country where no one speaks Spanish."
The 11th of 12 children, Alejandro's family farmed the "poor" soil of Chiapas. Some of his brothers still raise potatoes there; others live in Alabama.
Alejandro's father died when he was 13, and he went to the city of San Cristobal in Chiapas to get an education.
Needing a job to pay for school fees, Alejandro worked in an auto shop from 7 a.m. to 1 p.m. each day, then went to school from 4 p.m. to 10 p.m. He started out making $15 a week. Alejandro focused on work and school, which, he said, helped him avoid abuse.
"Some of the kids that didn't learn Spanish got beat up a lot," he said. "They really suffered. There was a lot of discrimination against the people from the countryside. You go into the city and they treat you badly if you don't learn Spanish right away."
Starting as a mechanic, Alejandro began to specialize in body work, learning painting and soldering. He stayed with the job after school, and after his daughter was born. He eventually reached a top pay scale — about $300 every two weeks.
It was enough to provide food for his newborn daughter. Clothes had to be purchased on layaway. And fees for his child's education began to add up.
"I just kept adding more and more hours to the work day to earn money," Alejandro said. "You can cover the basics, but you can't cover things like Christmas gifts."
Eventually, he grew unhappy with a boss who, he said, cheated employees on overtime and kept most of the fees for car work for himself.
"I always asked for a raise, but they never gave it to me," he said. "And then I realized the only one getting to be a millionaire was the boss."
Immigration had always been a possibility, and over 17 years he managed to save $2,500 for that purpose.
When he had his realization, he didn't hesitate.
"It was a moment's decision," he said. "Because if you plan it too much, it will never happen. Just one day, talking with co-workers, (I realized) this is never going to get any better."
'Only rich people can come the legal way'
Going legally, Alejandro said, was not a consideration.
"I'm poor," he said. "Only rich people can come here the legal way."
Coming to the United States legally is costly and frequently too time-consuming for those looking to emigrate from Mexico.
According to the U.S. Consulate in Juarez, which handles many immigration applications, application fees for certain visas can cost close to $1,000.
Kathleen Walker, an immigration attorney based in El Paso, Texas, said many applicants feel the need to retain lawyers to help navigate through "Byzantine" immigration laws and address problems, which adds thousands of dollars.
And whatever the needs of Alejandro's daughter, he would not be able to come right away.
Due to budget and staffing issues, processing times are extremely long. According to the Visa Bulletin, put out by the U.S. State Department, visas for unskilled Mexican workers are now available for those who applied on or before Aug. 1, 2005.
For businesses, Walker said, "I have to wait from August 2005 until September 2011 to hire them? To me it's illusory that they're fast to respond to legitimate labor needs."
The desert
The alternative is the desert.
In San Cristobal, Alejandro boarded a bus that took him north to a "border hotel" — a "shack," he said, a warehouse filled with 300 to 400 people looking to get into the United States.
To get across, Alejandro paid a guide $1,500 to join a group of 20 people, including children, to make the four-day journey into the desert.
The group rested during the day, sleeping on the ground without any shelter. When the sun set, they walked through the cold desert night, their only compass was the memory of their guide.
"The guide says 'Follow me, follow my steps,'" he said. "If you don't follow, you get lost. There are people who get lost, and they die."
Alejandro brought plenty of supplies — cereal, juice, water, cookies, Ramen noodles. Others went in with nothing but a water bottle.
"There were a lot of people who by the third day didn't have food or water or anything," he said. "They were out there crying in the desert."
If border patrols were spotted, the group laid on the ground to hide; Alejandro remembers one agent coming within 10 feet of a hiding spot. Thick briars could get caught in your skin and if they were not removed with a comb, they could take your skin off, said Alejandro.
The group reached Phoenix intact — which led to excitement. But Alejandro would not stay. He took a minivan to Eufaula, where his two brothers had already gathered.
Alabama
"There wasn't much" in Eufaula, Alejandro said, and so he went to Montgomery.
He first worked as a carpenter, mainly on commercial buildings; an American who spoke Spanish, helped connect him to work, he said. Other jobs came from a grapevine of friends. Later, he got a job at the former K-Mart on Atlanta Highway, doing janitorial work.
He made about $1,300 a month. He was able to save $1,000 and send it back for his daughter in San Cristobal.
"When you first come, you try to get a whole lot together, save a whole lot," he said. Alejandro said he now sends about $1,000 a month to his children.
After K-Mart closed, Alejandro did work in New York. But he felt "homesick" and returned to San Cristobal after a year and a half. He reunited with his daughter and returned to work with the mechanic. But he realized he would not be able to provide for his children in the same way that he could in the United States. His daughter, who was 7 at the time, begged him not to go.
"The little girl is saying 'Don't leave, stay here,'" he said. "That's when it breaks your heart." (Alejandro's son was born after this visit; his daughter plans to study medicine in college next year. The Mexican government will pay for most of her expenses.)
He crossed the desert again. Nearing Phoenix, the guide ordered Alejandro to drop his food; after five miles, the group found that the border patrol had found their pick-up point, forcing them to hide. Alejandro laid on the ground for two days, snakes all around him.
Since returning to Alabama, Alejandro has worked in construction and done mechanical work.
"When I got here, there were practically no Hispanics and almost no construction," he said. "When construction started, the Hispanics started coming."
The state's strict new immigration law, temporarily blocked by a federal judge last week, "terrifies" him. His chief concern is a provision that allows law enforcement to detain anyone who they have "reasonable suspicion" of being in the country illegally.
However, he said he hasn't run into any problems to this point. The law makes it illegal to rent property to undocumented aliens, but Alejandro doesn't expect his lease to be an issue.
"Last time I went to sign the lease, they didn't ask any questions because I know the manager," he said, saying he doesn't expect problems when he has to renew it.
When his children are finished with school, he'd like to return to Mexico, a dream he said many of his friends share. But he has no plans to return for now; he can go where he pleases and has both native-born and immigrant friends here.
"I don't want to move," he said. "I'm happy and accustomed to being where I am."
Source: Montgomery Advertiser
