Part II. Adaptation
This part of my story is perhaps the most difficult one to tell. I’ve been trying to connect dots. It’s also been a long decade of experiences and it’s hard for me to keep up with a journal.
So let me start with a big thank you to Milwaukee. We’re a community that made possible for me to become the person I always wanted to be. I’m forever grateful. I feel so comfortable with our city that I also feel the need to address those things I dislike; social anchors.
For the first time in years I wasn’t working. A guy from Mexico City finally hired me, I was painting houses or something called detailed painting, we walked around the rooms checking for imperfections and fixed them, I couldn’t believe the size of those homes, gorgeous homes. I prefer smaller houses to be honest with you, but they’re still nice to look at. Three weeks later I was still waiting for a first check, or cash or whatever, any money. When I asked this guy he got all offended and asked me to trust him, that they were doing everything to give me my first check, and one morning he “forgot” to pick me up, and that happened for another week, I received a check for $50 for my work, for hours of work. Fortunately the restaurant I was supposed to work at in the first place finally called me, so I was more excited than angry at that moment, plus I had time to adapt to Milwaukee, walk around and learn its history, streets and parks.
I was learning new skills since all I really knew was related to seafood (which later would be tremendously helpful) and I was having fun cooking for a busy restaurant, lots of overtime. That kitchen was clean, busy and my coworkers were very friendly. One of the cooks was Mexican too, he showed me all the dirty secrets of being a line cook, without cutting corners, he never complained about work and is an example of a disciplined cook, a creative one too and a humble worker. English was a real barrier in the kitchen, the first night I was by myself I was looking for the server “Pantry” printed on the ticket, you can imagine how funny that was for the rest of the kitchen, but they had patience and I got better with the time. Anyway, my first paycheck was almost $150, I sent all of that money to my mom, and I was desperate for my second check, I needed clothes, food and pay my rent for my bedroom. So that’s what I did once I received my first real fat check, I went to a thrifty store across the street and got the kind of clothes I would wear if I was 60, so lots of grandpa pants and shirts, I got different clothes few weeks later so no big deal, it’s not like there’s that much variety at a thrift store. A Lutheran church helped me with food, a box with random goodies and always a butternut squash for some reason.
I also wanted to do the right thing and get my state ID, you need it for everything, I lost the count but I went to the DMV many times and every time I went there I needed another form of paperwork, a bank account, a bank account with more movements, another photo ID that was not my visa, passport, Mexican voter ID, Mexican driver’s license, I had my original birth certificate, I don’t even know what else they wanted, and every time the clerks would give me a photocopy with a list of requirements, the requirements I already had in hand! The state of Wisconsin, in anticipation of the REAL ID Act, passed a state law in March 2006 entitled Act 126, which took effect on April 1, 2007 where does the queue starts in order to become a citizen if you can’t even apply for a state ID? For a whole year before this law went on effect I tried everything, on March 31st 2007 I tried for one last time, and so did thousands of Milwaukee residents and I’m sure thousands of people in the state and other states with similar laws. The line was a mile long, I’m not making this up, immigrants from Latin America, Eastern Africa, the Middle East, it was cold and cops were outside being precautious, like we were going to start a riot or something, because really? We don’t have time for that, we need to go back to work, so calm down. With just the minimum levels of hope I finally received my state ID, that day I didn’t even shave or anything, so I looked like “El Zorro” but I had an ID, I went into my car and I broke into so many emotions, it’s like becoming a person again, a year later. Keep this in mind when you think of voter ID laws, because this story applies to even US citizens and people born here. I opened a savings account and got a tax identification number, because believe it or not immigrants of all sorts pay taxes, I can’t speak for all, but I know must do, it’s not only an official statistic but something you see and hear in the community. So I was feeling better because when you have that American dream in the back of your head you try to be as ready and organized as possible just in case.
While I was waiting for my state ID a number of things happened to me that made me feel shaky and feared that I would get deported, it’s a fear I can’t even describe to you anymore. I’ve been more fortunate than many other immigrants with less documentation, there is no “back of the line” there is no line, it doesn’t exist, each person is a different case and some people have better luck than others. But two moments were especially nerve-wracking. The first one involves an oyster. That beast was solid as concrete, that shell ate and broke my oyster knife and both the tip of the knife and the shell broke my left index and I got them encrusted, cutting muscle, skin and bone. Pain was so horrible but also my fear. Presidential campaigns were starting to brew and W. Bush wanted to push an immigration reform, congressman Sensenbrenner was nonstop talking about the evilness of our presence and Sheriff Arpaio was the new fad, all I remember is seeing a number of reports on the news of immigrants being deported after visiting ER, I don’t know if that actually happened but I wouldn’t doubt it, random deportations happened so we were pretty paranoid in the Southside, I also didn’t want to lose my job so I covered my finger with all the tapes, gloves and towel. Second day I was starting to feel a little funny so I waited until the third day that I was off (I hate calling off) and my hand was infected and puffy. I still can’t fold that finger that much. But it got fixed, doctors talked to me about my rights as patient and immigrant and I gained faith in society, my fear was only fear, a fictional fear being imposed through propaganda in order to keep us, down is the right word? The second and more painful event was my first and I promise last DUI, for some reason at .06 even when the limit is .08 and I initially got pulled over because I was “navigating” in a quiet suburb at 2am. Well, it was work’s xmas party and I admit, I had one glass of Bailey’s, didn’t eat all day because you know how cooks are, and I was very tired. So my blood was weak and I was driving a 1991 Pontiac Bonneville in Waukesha. The use of force was unnecessary because I was in complete state of shock, when I saw the two police cars I said to myself “this is it, I’m going back to Mexico” I cooperated but got immediately handcuffed, one of the guys hit my head and pushed me against the car, he laughed at me because my only ID at the moment was a library card and I’ll be honest with you, the first thing that came to my mind at that moment, even when I was in thunderstruck was that scene of The Big Lebowski with the fascist cop “I’m sorry I wasn’t listening” but anyway, I got hurt, denigrated and sent to the hospital for a forced bloodwork, not before inspecting every inch of my old but perfectly clean car. Coworkers helped me out and I don’t even know what they did because I slept in a basement that night and nothing happened, I went home, took a shower and went back to work.
The first year I was working extra on my English, a combination between watching TV and interpreting, public library, and few months after my arrival I joined MATC, I meet great people there and it was a nice way to decompress from work. I don’t know how long it took to dominate the language, I mean I still struggle especially with the pronunciation. I was starting to feel more confident, talked like a parrot showing off my new skills until some hate eroded my self-assurance. I was invited to a party, my first American party, with live band and everything, I thought I was fitting in, people were talking to me and I thought I was doing well until the next day that I overheard two of the guys mocking my accent and saying how they didn’t understand a single word. That really crushed me, people say I’m very sensitive but if you put yourself in other person’s shoes and practice some empathy you would feel the same way, or perhaps angry, but the sentiment is there. The second painful moment happened at work, one of my number of jobs I had. Workers and chef/owner used to play scrabble after work at the restaurant, they all played and laughed, socialized. A server finally invited me and the chef said “NO! I have to finish payroll and he’s going to take forever, he doesn’t even know” right in front of me, like I didn’t exist or anything, zero consideration, perhaps my English was still developing but it wasn’t as bad at that point, I also know how to drink wine and laugh. I can’t forget her daily deliberate attempt to hurt me and my dreams. The third and last traumatic moment associated with English as my second language happened to be more personal, I’m still not ready to share that story, but I stopped talking in public pretty much, the bullying was so bad I was so ashamed of talking in Spanish and English in places where I didn’t know people, if I spoke Spanish people would turn around and gave me the stink eye or the “OMG AN IMMIGRANT, CALL BILL O’REILLY” (still happens, but now I don’t care) and if I tried speaking in English some people would say “God! Why can’t these people try learning the language” or my favorite one “how long have you’ve been here? …. why do you still have an accent” I don’t know, perhaps for the same reason these people can’t mind their own business after how long of being on planet earth? But these moments shaped me, I’ve been healing but it is part of what defined me as a person, teachers at MATC were the people who kept me on track.
Let’s see, how many restaurants? Seafood, German, Fancy-vegan-vegetarian-American-small-dishes, Mexican, Key West, New-American and a hotel. Besides: Painter, gift shop clerk, dishwasher, bar back, host.
At one point I was working at 4 different places at once, two full times and two partimes. One of the part time jobs was a Saturday and Sunday bar back. I would say I really don’t recommend doing it because that caused me prediabetes for the first time, that and a list of pains I learned to ignore. I also got my Pontiac stolen so I was riding the bus all day, I would say, don’t do it, but just like me at that moment I didn’t have a choice, it was never a choice. You either work in order to balance your budget and progress or you settle with what you have, which is never a logical option when you’re poor, you’re poor not by choice and it is expensive to be poor. I was helping my mom with some medical bills and my brother was in school, they were for years my number 1 priority and so was my dream to one day being financially afloat. I did saved some money and that went away along with every possession I had with my ex marriage, which I won’t talk about but I had to start all over again.
So I lost everything again, well, I gained debt and I was alone again. No friends, just work. I was living in the attic of a friend, he pretty much saved my life but I had to move on, I was employed after all so I was confident I was going to make it again. But I was homeless for a little bit, I did have some garbage bags with some clothes, being busy at work was a blessing, I had a roof above me, and nobody noticed I was in bad shape at the moment, for few days, until one of my bosses said to me that people were talking, so he opened his house to me until I found some place, the first night I slept like a baby and I took a very long shower, he fed me and we watched ESPN. We found a place, one room with DirecTV and WIFI, no guests allowed (like I cared) and we shared a fridge. Place was nice, my roommate was very cool guy, he introduced me to archery, one of my favorite hobbies.
I defeated diabetes for the first time and I hope last time by running every morning at 4 or 5ish in the morning, I was strictly vegetarian and I was practicing my kind of meditation and by that I mean Pink Floyd, but honestly any music and a good pair of headphones.
In 2010 I was tired of trying to fit in, tired of adapting and just ready to go back home. With the money I saved I was planning my return, I was more scared than excited because after that many years away you really don’t know what it used to be your home. So, when I came to this country I was organizing the vote and other stuff in Sinaloa, election night in Mexico back in 2006 was a nightmare, the left lost by only 0.56% and the Electoral College only allowed the recount of 2% of the ballots after months of impugnation. Total fraud, in order to legitimate Calderon’s win he declared war on drug cartels, these cartels were fighting a civil war themselves or a war for territory and power, the aftermath is well known now, more than 100 thousand killed, thousands displaced, terror everywhere that is not a resort city, tanks on the streets. A Mexico I never experienced, I was scared of moving back, it was not the country I knew.
I bought my plane ticket, one way to Mexico City. I quit from my jobs and said goodbye to my colleagues and bosses. I didn’t have much to pack, same amount of belongings as when I started. One of my friends then invited me over to their Thanksgiving party, and I truly thought it was a party so I dressed up with what I could, brought some wine and cheese, nobody at the party until an hour later that a loud person got into that apartment talking about college football and her grandma, I was just sitting on the couch until she acknowledge me, she wasn’t as fancy so I was a little confused with the situation, I usually overdress by accident, but anyway, I fell in love. We had a lot in common. Other friends came over to the party and left us alone in the living room, it was pretty obvious that we had chemistry and we didn’t care much about our surroundings. After that night I needed to ask her out, I didn’t care about my plane tickets or plans, and I always have a plan, call me boring but I’m not the most spontaneous person only this time I needed to do something out of the ordinary. She said yes, so I cancelled my plans, my mom and brother weren’t that sad that I wasn’t coming back, they heard me happy and as usual empowered me. I talked to my employers and begged for my jobs back, I still had some days anyway, but that was close. We picked a place, Jen recommended an Italian restaurant close to her house. I had no other fancy clothes for my date so I went to Boston Store between shifts and grabbed whatever black sweater and tie, I went to work and I was counting the seconds, finally left in a cab and magic happened, that was the perfect date, coming from a person who hates dates and I didn’t have that many dates before. I was so happy, and I’ve been so happy ever since.
Ten years it’s been in Milwaukee and adaptation was very hard for me, I’m still working on learning the culture, but I’m done trying to fit in. Because I learned how to accept myself and strongly embraced the idea of multiculturalism rather than assimilation. We’re a nation of immigrants, a melting pot, but we chose to make it harder for new waves of people to remake their lives in this country, empathy and love are universal languages
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
In a decade of becoming American I have participated in almost every solidarity march for immigrants in Milwaukee, I only missed last year’s, that march started in 2006 too, and to our community it’s a moral boost, we march because we want you to see us, we want us to respect our roots and accept them, we want you to know that our accents aren’t going away, that we have a heart, we make mistakes and we learn from them, we march because we invested our lives in our community.
My first march was in 2006, the first one in Milwaukee. We were thousands and I will never forget how many people on Water Street and 1st street from businesses to apartments and cars were cheering for us, that day I officially felt welcomed.
