Mexican Immigration Essay, Research Paper

I am a sixteen-year-old boy from southern Mexico City. My family lived in poverty and when my father was killed in an accident the flow of money abruptly stopped. My brother, fifteen-year-old Jose, and I am planned to cross the border and head to the United States. The two of us tried to scrounge up enough money to hire a coyote to help us across, but we both decided that we?d be better off if we kept the money for unexpected expenses. We said our final goodbyes to our family and set off early in the morning. Even though it was morning it was still extremely hot outside, but that was normal July weather in Mexico. The rest of the city was quiet, except for a few stray dogs wandering aimlessly through the streets. We worked in the mountains collecting coffee beans that year, so we both knew the mountain routes very well, and decided to cross there.

We got to the mountain trail at one in the morning, hoping to get to the United States by at least five o clock. We knew that we probably couldn?t but gave it a try anyway. We reached the bordering fence at about five thirty, but the easy part was behind us. We knew that this was the ideal time to try to cross the border, but what we didn?t know is that the border patrol agents knew that too, and were waiting for the illegal immigrants, during the time of the year that it will be easiest to find jobs. An agent caught my brother abruptly, but I managed to hide in a nearby bush so the agents couldn?t see me, but I sure could hear them. They made snide remarks about the Mexicans and were talking about how the poverty-stricken Mexicans shouldn?t be allowed in the country at all. In two hours when I hadn?t heard their voices for quite a while, I got up and started walking to the distant lights of San Diego. It was a long walk, about two hours long. I met with a man named Remundo Gomez, who told me where to go to find a farm in need of cheap labor.

The farm was way out in the country, but I lived on the farm so I didn?t mind too much. The pay was three hundred dollars a week, which was like a fortune compared to my old pay of three dollars a day. The boss had a little difficulty in understanding me not because my Spanish was bad, but because he only understood English. You?d think that a man who works with purely Mexican Immigrant workers, who only speak Spanish, would have learned the language by now.

There was no diversity at the farm, everyone was Hispanic, and all of the wealthy Americans live back in the big cities like Los Angeles and New York City. They had all of the great paying jobs of over a thousand a week, or almost everyone. Although I haven?t met anyone who has less that a four digit weekly pay, I?m sure that they?re out there.

The following days were harsh, trying to understand what to do from the English-speaking boss. I got most of the instruction right the first time, but I forgot to reseed a small patch of strawberries and got yelled at because of it. With all of the extra money I made I was able to send about and hundred dollars home every month for my family. They?re always grateful, or at least I think, I haven?t gotten a letter back from them yet.

I live with a group of other immigrant Mexicans. Together we retain our Mexican language and heritage, at least for now. I can see that future generations will become Americanized and lose some of their culture and heritage. The best we can hope for is to blend the best of both cultures.