‘They Need We’

He was a relic, this one, a throwback. That he was only 32 years old did not matter. This was a man hopelessly outdated in both outlook and method. His name was Sergio. He was crouched on the concrete bank of the Tijuana River, eating an undercooked chicken drumstick, waiting for his chance to cross.

Lettering stenciled across his black T-shirt advertised his destination: California. Now in the old days, his days, a California T-shirt might have provided a clever enough disguise for a border crossing. Things were looser then. It was before Operation Gatekeeper, before the build-up of border guards, before a tall, iron fence was stretched for miles along the international boundary, from the barren, inland foothills right down into the Pacific breakers.

In the old days, crossing involved a simple trot across the trickling river and through a ravine that emptied into a Kmart parking lot. From there he would catch a trolley into San Diego, a bus to La Jolla, and finally an Amtrak train up to Orange County. He had worked in Laguna Beach for almost a decade, clipping lawns, waxing cars. He would go home and visit family in Veracruz during the holidays, knowing he could slip back when it was time to work again. This wasn’t immigration. It was more like a commute.

“It was easy,” Sergio said. “Very easy.”

He stared morosely at the high fence across the river, at the guards perched on every hilltop in their pale green Broncos, at the government helicopter hovering overhead: a scene from a military zone. He waved his hand at it all and shook his head, absolutely baffled.

*

The old days started winding down a couple years ago, when our illustrious political leaders figured out that undocumented Mexican workers could make a pretty decent enemy--good enough, anyway, to replace the Commies who had performed so nobly as the national menace. See, the Berlin Wall had come down, leaving our pols without a boogeyman to shout about. They felt almost naked. So they did a brilliant thing. They built a new wall, and right on our own border.

Goodbye, Checkpoint Charlie.

Hello, San Ysidro.

Somehow, Sergio missed this sea change in American affairs. He was amazed at what he found at the border. In the old days, masses of un-papered workers would gather at the riverbank. Now there were only a few stragglers like himself around, watching for opportunities that would not come. The guards on the other side outnumbered the would-be crossers.

“Too many guys,” he said, “Too many agents. I try for three months to cross. Three times they catch me. All I can do is wait, wait, wait.”

He was aware that others had headed inland, crammed in vans and pickups and hoping to crash--sometimes, all too literally--across the border. Others had the money to pay the higher fees now charged by smugglers, or to buy forged papers. Some had the luck required to beat long odds and actually land legal documents. Not Sergio. He would stay put and take his chances the old-fashioned way.

“Maybe tonight,” he said, “the guards will sleep.”

*

He spoke of his wife and daughter. He was living on the streets here, unable to make any money to send home to them. He explained how jobs south of the border paid only $4 a day, compared to the $6-an-hour he could earn stateside. He spoke with pride of his work at a carwash in Laguna. He also seemed to enjoy showing off his self-taught English. He said he hoped Americans would appreciate the fact he had learned to speak their language.

In short, Sergio gave no indication that he grasped just how much his world has changed. No one had bothered to inform him that he was Public Enemy No. 1, blamed for failed American schools, economic slumps, high taxes, street crime, widespread drug abuse and the heartbreak of psoriasis. He wasn’t aware that the hard-hearts now own the day, and that they don’t care diddly squat about his daughter or his impoverished homeland.

Get this: He thought the United States and Mexico were still allies! And he actually regarded himself as an American asset, willing to take on hard jobs for low pay. “Who up there is going to do the work,” he asked, “for six an hour? They need we.”

He had a point. There always will be demand for low-wage workers on the other side of the fence. There always will be politicians eager to pose as brave little Pattons, turning back the Hun. And there always will be consumers who thrill to the sight of cheap produce and finely waxed cars. To borrow Sergio’s phrasing, we need they. How they get across, however, is their problem.