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The Thankful Person

A Fictional Work

By W. John Williamson, FCBO NEWS NETWORK Correspondent

“Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage-;
…If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.”

Richard Lovelace
from “To Althea, from Prison”

Acute disappointment and then fear gripped Miguel Rodriguez Maldonado when
he received from I.C.E. the notice for his deportation hearing. Although
the hearing was set to take place in a few weeks, he was, nevertheless,
trying to keep a positive attitude. “At least I don’t have terminal
cancer,” he thought as he prepared some broccoli cheese soup for the anglo
customer on the other side of the counter. “I can be thankful, at least,
for that.”

Rickie Saunders, the customer–a smiling man of about 55 with blue eyes
and light-brown hair, and of medium height–had some thoughts of his own:
“I wonder if this gentleman,” he speculated to himself, “fixing this soup
would be interested in having one of my flyers?” Saunders was the
Democratic candidate for the U.S. Congress in District 6, a predominantly
Republican stronghold that covers North Phoenix, Fountain Hills, and
Scottsdale.

He was in the Blimpie’s subshop at the corner of 43rd Ave and Thunderbird
where, he had hoped, he would be able to use the restroom. When he had
gone in there, however, and gotten to the restroom door, it had said: “For
customers only.” It was then that he had decided to buy something so as
not to appear a freeloader.

“What the heck?” he had thought to himself, “maybe I can hand out some of
my flyers?” They were in the car and he would have to get them, but that
would be no problem. He could get them while he waited for his soup,
which, after he had gone to the restroom, he did. There was time because
there were two other customers ahead of him, and he would need to wait.

“Are you a voter?” Candidate Saunders asked, as he accepted the broccoli
cheese soup from Miguel.

“No, senor,” Migel replied, apologetically. “I’m not a citizen.”

Rickie had brought some of his flyers in and did not want them to go to
waste. “Would you like one of my campaign flyers?” he asked the Hispanic
man. “I’m running of the U.S. Congress in this District.”

Miguel’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Yes, senor. I’d like to have one.”
He accepted the green, blue, and white flyer from Rickie.

Miguel looked at the flyer voraciously, as if he’d love to be a voter, if
he could.

“My name is Rickie Saunders. And yours is—?”

“Miguel. Miguel Rodriguez Maldonado.”

“Nice to meet you, Miguel.” Rickie held out his hand to shake Miguel’s.
Miguel accepted, firmly shaking the candidate’s hand.

“What brought you to this area?” Rickie asked.

Miguel hesitated, his brown eyes looking sad, as if he had some
bittersweet memories he might wistfully like to share.

“Oh, that is a long story, Senor Saunders,” Miguel said.

Rickie’s eyes focused on Miguel unwaveringly, which seemed to encourage
the Hispanic man to continue.

As a 12-year-old in 1968, Miguel Rodriguez Maldonado watched the white
bossman tell his father, Felipe Rodriguez, what to do when picking cotton.
The words were not always friendly.

“Why’d you come here, anyway?” the bossman demanded of his father. “You
hardly earn the five dollars a day I pay you. What good are you to your
family? What good are you to your wife and children? Why do I waste my
time talking to you people, anyway?”

“No problem, boss,” his father would say subserviently. “I do your work,
no problem. You no worry. Felipe is your man. I not disappoint you.
Believe in me. I’m your man. I and my amigos, we get your work done for
you. I am thankful that I have this job and don’t have to starve. I am
thankful that I am working for you.”

At the time, Miguel Rodriguez Maldonado believed this was the norm in
life; believed that this was the way things are. He did not know that
things could be different some day. He was only 12 years old, and still a
boy.

But Miguel saw the fruits of his father’s labor. He saw the results. He
saw the lettuce in the supermarkets of Chandler, Arizona, where sometimes
he went with his mama to shop. The lettuce was green and fresh-looking. He
liked eating it when his mama bought some. The great thing was, more than
anything else, that he knew how the lettuce had got there, because he had
seen his father’s hands take it out of the ground; he had seen his
father’s hands harvest the lettuce and put it in a basket. Miguel knew
what his father did and how great he was. Miguel knew, even at his young
age–he put things together because he thought a lot; he knew that the
supermarket in Chandler–and the supermarkets in Phoenix and Scottsdale
and everywhere else in Maricopa County–would not, could not, exist
without men like his wonderful, hardworking father who picked the lettuce
with his bare hands so that the rich people who owned the supermarkets
could make their money. He was, although he was not sure that most people
felt this way, thankful for his father’s efforts. He was thankful for the
money his father earned to support their family. And he was thankful that
his dad was able to help people in Arizona and around the country get the
lettuce they needed for their salads and to go with hamburgers, along with
the tomato and onion, in the bun.

Miguel was not born in the United States, but in Sinaloa, in Mexico. His
parents brought him to the U.S. in 1966, when he was ten years old. At
that time, parenthetically, Rickie Saunders was a sophomore at Saguaro
High School–the first year it was open–in Scottsdale. At any rate,
Miguel’s parents came over smuggled in the back of a produce truck that
was making a delivery to Tucson. The border was not as closely watched at
that time, and it was an easier feat to accomplish.

His parents headed up to the Phoenix area where his dad was able to secure
work in the lettuce fields of Casa Grande and Chandler. Sometimes his dad
worked in the lettuce fields on the Pima Indian Reservation just east of
Pima Road in Scottsdale. Rickie’s parents and he and his brother and
sister lived one block from that reservation; yet it might as well have
been a different country to them. The only time Rickie ever went out there
was if he was running on the dirt road that was Pima Road was at that
time. He did that briefly when he went out for cross country and he and a
friend would run on that road together.

Miguel’s family–he and his parents–lived in a shack out near the town of
Maricopa south of South Mountain. His dad would ride to the lettuce fields
in a truck along with the other migrant workers; sometimes Miguel went
with them. There was no objection to a ten-year old working, if the child
wanted to, or was willing to. All the growers wanted was the lettuce. The
green lettuce so that they could make the other kind of green–the dinero,
the money.

Growing up, Miguel went to the schools in Casa Grande, as that was the
public school system that was closest to their house. He was not a
citizen, but nobody made a big deal about it. The growers wanted their
dinero. If the migrants came, that was great; the growers could become
rich. If the children of these workers could survive and be part of the
public school system, that was fine. It was the parents, the adults, that
the growers wanted; they were the ones who knew how to do the
back-breaking, painstaking labor of picking the lettuce in the broiling
sun of the fields.

In 1985, when Miguel was 29, his parents decided that they would go back
to Mexico. He had married by that time and his wife, Aracely–also an
undocumented immigrant–and he had two children–a boy and a girl. Miguel
was torn as to whether or not he should return to Mexico, to Sinaloa, the
land of his birth. His kids were ages eight and nine respectively–his son
and his daughter. They, of course, were U.S. citizens, since they had been
born in Phoenix at St. Joseph’s Hospital.

Miguel and Aracely decided to go back to Mexico with his parents. They
took their children along with them. But the experiment did not work.
Their kids were very unhappy, because they were used to the United States.
So in 1987, Miguel brought his family back to the Phoenix area, although
his parents stayed in Sinaloa.

While they had been gone, President Reagan and the U.S. Congress had
enacted some legislation that would allow undocumented immigrants to
become citizens, but, since he had not been in the country at the time it
happened, Miguel did not know about it. So he did not try to become a
citizen at that time. He worked for a while harvesting lettuce and other
crops as had his father, Felipe, before him. But then he graduated to
becoming a truck driver who drove the lettuce and other produce to market.
He had obtained a falsified I.D. that showed that he was a U.S. citizen,
although he was not. He was able to get a driver’s license and live as
though he was a citizen. He paid taxes and had money for Social Security
and Medicare withheld from his paycheck. He contributed to the success of
the United States in that way, let alone his labor–both in the fields and
as a truckdriver–that brought the lettuce and other produce to the market
for the people of our country to enjoy. He felt as though he was a citizen
of America, although, in fact, officially, he was not.

He had also missed the opportunity during President Clinton’s
administration to become naturalized because he had had to go to Mexico to
take care of his ailing mother during her bout with cancer which she did
not survive.

Two weeks later, on Saturday evening, November 15th, Miguel, when he got
to the bus stop to wait for the bus to go home, put his hand in his
pocket, but noticed that he did not have any change. He then took his
wallet from his back pocket and forlornly discovered that he did not have
any money in there either.

He decided to walk home, even though it was about fifty blocks away near
7th Street and Thunderbird. He felt very stressed about his situation with
the immigration and believed that the walking would calm him down. He
recalled that his father, who now lived in Mexico, was in a wheelchair and
could no longer walk. Miguel felt thankful that he could walk, even though
he was 58 years old and not a boy any more. He was thankful that he could
move his legs, put one foot in front of the other, and walk down the
sidewalk by his own power.

He crossed the intersection at 35th Ave. and Thunderbird, heading east on
the north side of the street. He walked lost in thought on the sidewalk
with the westbound traffic on Thunderbird zooming by him. There was a lot
of traffic, it being late Saturday afternoon. Thunderbird Road, as well,
was a major thoroughfare.

Reflecting despondently on his undocumented status and how he had missed
two opportunities to become a citizen, he thought: “I’ve been so stupid,
and now my family is suffering for it. If I have to go back to Mexico,
they’ll all be sad, and I won’t even get to see my own children, and my
own grandchildren, anymore! What an idiot I’ve been! I don’t deserve to
live anymore. I’ve brought trouble on people, my loved ones.

He looked at the approaching cars and trucks and realized that this could
be the solution to his problem. Those cars and trucks were going fast and
weighed tons. There was no way he could ever survive being hit by one. He
was thankful that he had been able to live the life he had, but now it was
too much with all this immigration problem. He had been stupid and, years
ago, missed the opportunities to become a citizen. What had he been
thinking? Why had he not watched the news more often? He felt relief at
the thought that he would not have to suffer anymore. He was thankful that
the cars and trucks were going by at high speed and would kill him
probably instantly. He was thankful that he had lived, but now he was
thankful that he would be able to die and no longer know the pain of
living on the fringe of society, doing faceless jobs and being paid
practically nothing. He gathered up all his strength to step off the
sidewalk into the mechanical onslaught of the speeding traffic. Edging
over to the curb as he paced forward, he thought: “It’s time to end it
all!”

“Miguel! Miguel!” a voice called out to him, a voice that was familiar.

His death-concentration was interrupted. He looked up, trying to find the
source of the voice.

Still on the sidewalk, he stopped walking and turned to his right. He saw
a man in a pick-up truck stopped in the eastbound lane next to the double
center line. The man–youngish-looking with light-brown hair–was waving
at him and trying to get his attention.

“Miguel!” The man called out again. “It’s me! Rickie Saunders! Are you all
right?”

Rickie and his girlfriend, Molly, had been in the vicinity checking to see
if any of his campaign signs were still up that they could take down.

“Rickie Saunders?” Miguel thought. “Who—”

Then it hit him: “Yeah,” he remembered. “That guy running for Congress.
The politician…”

“Senor Rickie!” Miguel abruptly called out in return, waving back at his
friend with his left hand. He almost stepped off the curb out into the
street to cross over to the truck, but realized suddenly how dangerous
that would be. He held back from the street, then shouted: “How are you,
amigo?”

He watched as Rickie made a U-turn and pulled over next to him in the
westbound lane, stopping to pick him up.

Molly opened the passenger-side door, then scooted over next to Rickie to
make room for Miguel who quickly got into the vehicle.

Then Rickie accelerated quickly so as to catch up with the speed of the
flow of traffic headed in the westerly direction.

“Are you on your way home, my friend?” Rickie asked, out of breath from
the yelling he had done to get Miguel’s attention.

Miguel looked at him with relief, as if, Rickie seemed to perceive, he had
found the solution to a problem that had been tormenting him.

“Yes, amigo. I am now. Thanks to you, yes, I will see my family soon…I
am very thankful that you came along, Senor Saunders. You saved my life.
And I am thankful.”

Rickie did not understand that Miguel meant what he said literally. He
thought Miguel was just meaning that he and Molly had saved him from the
inconvenience of walking home.

“Not a problem, Miguel,” Rickie said. “Where do you live? We will take you
there.”

“Near Thunderbird and 7th Street,” Miguel said.

November 20th: Miguel and Aracely are watching the President on their TV
in their living room in the evening as he gives his speech regarding his
executive action on immigration.

As they listened, they heard President Obama say: “If you’ve been in
America for more than five years; if you have children who are American
citizens or legal residents; if you register, pass a criminal background
check, and you’re willing to pay your fair share of taxes — you’ll be
able to apply to stay in this country temporarily without fear of
deportation. You can come out of the shadows and get right with the law.”

They heard him go on to say: “Are we a nation that tolerates the hypocrisy
of a system where workers who pick our fruit and make our beds never have
a chance to get right with the law?” And also: “Whether our forebears were
strangers who crossed the Atlantic, or the Pacific, or the Rio Grande, we
are here only because this country welcomed them in.” And finally, they
heard him say: “Thank you. God bless you. And God bless this country we
love.”

The dam broke and the tears flooded from Miguel’s eyes. The hot tears of
grief and joy streamed down his cheeks and fell, soundlessly, to the
ground. The tear-duct rain at that moment was infinite and eternal; it was
a rainstorm that would never stop. He fell to his knees and clasped his
hands together in a thankful prayer. He
knew that finally a door had opened for him that had been closed for too
long. That a light was glimmering from the darkness. That the light of
esperanza, of hope, had not died and was now going to renew the life in
him to live a better day tomorrow. For his son, Miguel, Jr. and his daughter, Silvia, too; and his
grandson, Ramon; and for all the members of his family in America wherever
they might be.

“Thank you, God! Thank you, Lord!” Miguel Rodriguez Maldonado called out. “Thank you, President Obama!” Then he added: “Thank you for understanding my pain!”

Aracely stood and put her hands on her husband’s shoulders, squeezing them to let him know he had her support. Then she too got down on her knees, but for the purpose of kissing her husband on the mouth to let him know she shared his deep feelings of thankfulness.

“Tomorrow,” she declared proudly, “we will call I.C.E. to request the papers for our work permits!” Then, with her head held high, she continued: “Tomorrow, my love, things will be better!”

Miguel looked at her and smiled. “Yes,” he said, “our time has come at last!”

###

Copyright 2015 by W. John Williamson. All rights reserved.
Scottsdale, Arizona