The Fabric of Our Society

Our local newspaper had another vitriolic letter to the editor today titled, "Illegal Aliens Hurt Our Country." It was the usual ill-informed venom about how American workers are being displaced and burdens placed on social services and education by freeloading criminals from across the border. Any political will aimed at redressing the problem of undocumented workers is "a government bent on destroying the fabric of our society" according to the author.

The fabric of our society. As an artist, the metaphor conjures an image of millions of threads in a variety of colors, textures, or weights, some long and fine, some loose and frayed and some strong and taut, that hold a clear tiny piece of the overall pattern together, like a young man I know who I will call Arturo.

Arturo works on a small horse farm where a few hunter jumpers are trained and a few race horses are bred. He maintains all the stalls and paddocks and does most of the mowing and grounds work. Arturo is Mexican and undocumented. He brought his seventeen-year-old wife across the border when he was twenty. That was nearly thirteen years ago. Now they have a son who is ten and twin girls who are six.

A few months ago Arturo was able to see his parents for the first time in more than eight years. His younger brother was born in the US and was able to sponsor his parents as permanent residents. They now have a green card and can come and go across the border at will. Arturo's children met their grandparents for the first time.

Arturo works seven days a week, at least two regular jobs with horses and then additional weekend yard and home maintenance jobs. He will come to work ill rather than let his employers down. He attends his community evangelical church two or three times a week. He doesn't smoke, or drink. He pays his bills, pays taxes, and sends money to Mexico to help his parents with younger siblings that he hasn't seen since they were babies. He had a legitimate driver's license until South Carolina refused to renew it this year.

The lawyer he consulted said that there is at least an eleven year wait for Mexicans who petition to gain legal status. Arturo's son will be old enough to sponsor his parents before then. The cost for each of the many documents in that process tripled during the summer. Arturo says that he feels like a prisoner. He thinks he might be able to stick it out for a couple more years.

"What will you do then?" I ask.

"Go home, back to my town, maybe start a business," he says. He is smart. He has saved his money. He is looking toward his future in a small city in central Mexico like he once looked to a future here. If he goes, when he goes, the large absence of his determination and his decency will be felt by many people here, me among them. Mexico's gain will be our loss, and a tiny hole will emerge in the fabric of our society.