AN IMMIGRANT'S LONG-CHERISHED DREAM; LEGAL STATUS

Special to El Rrun-Rrun

I remember way back when, maybe some 50 years ago or so, I crossed the Rio Grande across the rock berm by Villanueva just west of Brownsville.

I was just 16, and I wanted to earn some money to send it back home to help my family. As the oldest boy of our eight- member family, I had no other way.

I had only gone through la primaria in Matamoros until my parents couldn't afford to send me to school and I started working picking cotton in the fields of Tamaulipas.

One day, when we were working a field near the Rio Grande, I saw another boy my age across the river who was also picking cotton. I asked him how much they paid el kilo. He said they paid by the pound, $2.50 per 100 pounds. I did the math and found out that I was getting paid less than half for the same amount in kilos.

I decided to go across as a mojado, at least the cuffs of my pants, anyway.

And so my life began as an illegal immigrant.

After cotton pickers were replaced by machines, I moved on to construction as a helper in Houston. I soon learned the ropes and in time became a maestro, who could lay out a building and read blueprints as well or better than the trained U.S. workers.

Even though I was more capable than most, I was always paid less because I was illegal. I didn't care. The money was still good and I sent money to my family, my seven brothers and sisters. Eventually my father and mother died and I couldn't go see them because I was afraid I would be caught crossing the river.

By then I had traveled all over the United States and worked at everything you can imagine. I was a waiter in New York, a fruit picker in Michigan, a kill-floor supervisor's assistant  in a hog slaughter house in Minnesota and milked cows in Iowa.

I worked with a $100 Social Security number and false ID (papeles chocolates) I sent for - like all the rest like me - from a system known to illegals in California.

Sometimes the real owners of the Social Security numbers owed child support and I ended up paying their debt through payroll deductions. When there was more than one child, I just sent away for another set of papers and moved on.

These were dirty, dangerous jobs, and I met good people and bad ones of all colors and races. No race has a monopoly on good or bad people. I learned not to judge people by their appearance. Sometimes I was helped by the people I least expected and when I expected good from some I was disappointed.

I married a woman - also illegal - who I met in Nebraska. I still worked with crooked papers and looked into straightening out my immigration status after we had our first child. But the INS required that I return to Mexico and leave my family behind (we now had a child and another was on the way) while they considered my application.

But who was going to provide for my family for months on end while I was gone?

So I stayed and remained illegal.

I had no medical insurance, no retirement benefits from the company, no Social Security. Now with five children who were American citizens, it got harder to maneuver through the system. I learned to live in the shadows and hide when I could be discovered. I learned to live with fear as my constant companion.

My kids were embarrassed with their friends when I couldn't participate in their school activities like other parents.

I couldn't get health or welfare assistance during slow times at work and did odd jobs like shoveling snow from driveways, yard work, or small construction jobs to make ends meet.

I forgot who I was. I only knew who my identity called for me to be so I could work. I had no home in Mexico to return to anymore.

I finally became legal in the least expected way.

I was working in construction atop a six-story apartment building in Saginaw, Michigan when I slipped on frost that had formed overnight on the lumber  crossbeam and - wearing no harness to cut down on costs - I fell to my death.

The ambulance came and took me to the hospital and they called my wife when it was apparent the end was near. The justice of the peace pronounced me dead and my wife told them my real name which was written on the death certificate.

I was no longer afraid. I was finally legal.