My Neighbor Is A Migrant

My first day at the shelter caught me off guard. I didn’t spend much time talking with migrants that day, but quickly bonded over the game of fútbol. Running up and down the court, passing the ball, and defending attacks, I felt like I was at home, playing soccer with friends. If I had not know better, I would have had no idea these guys were on a long, arduous journey, on which the fate of their futures and their very lives clung. I would have had no idea that some of these men – the “lucky ones” – would soon be labeled as “illegal aliens.” They sure didn’t look like “aliens” or “illegals” to me. In fact, one of the guys at the shelter looked nearly identical to a friend of mine in Texas. I was struck right away by the fact that immigration was no longer an “issue” about which I had an opinion. Immigration is an activity undertaken by real people – people searching for efficacy over their lives. People searching for the same freedom to live, earn money and live comfortably that I take for granted each day. These people helped me to realize that immigration is something that is happening all around me. I am affected by people who immigrate, and the decisions I make also affect these individuals’ lives.

I was initially taken aback by the fact that one of the individuals at the shelter looked like my friend. A little while later, a young man arrived sporting a Texas State hat – the state university that is less than half an hour from my home in Texas. Then, I met a man named Santos. Santos was trying to make it back to Houston, the same city in which much of my family lives. Santos had been living there for a year with his wife and two kids before being caught by immigration and deported, leaving his family behind. During his year in Texas, Santos worked construction jobs in College Station – the same city that my brother lives and attends college in, the same city in which my parents met. I realized that my life is intertwined with Santos’ in many ways. Santos was not an “alien” or an “issue,” he was my neighbor.

View of Shelter from the Tracks

A few days later, I met Franklin. Franklin, or Franky as everyone at the shelter called him, approached me speaking flawless English. He asked me where I was from, and I responded “San Antonio, Texas.” Before I even finished responding, Franky began talking about the Spurs. He shared his love for Tim Duncan and Manu Ginobili, and how he thought that DeMarcus Aldridge was a great addition to the team. I warmly embraced the topic of conversation since the Spurs remind me of home and family. I would soon find out why Franky knew so much about the Spurs.

Fanklin is from Honduras. When he was fourteen years old, he was struck by a stray bullet from a nearby gang fight. Franky was not seriously injured, but the incident was taken seriously by Franky’s father. Franky’s dad, who was living and working in the U.S., made arrangements for him to be brought to the States. Franky did not want to go; his whole life and his family were in Honduras. Plus, he did not feel that he was unsafe. But, he felt obliged to follow his dad’s request. He was soon on his way to the U.S. via Mexico and La Bestia.

Franky made it across the border and moved in with his dad in Iowa. He enrolled in school for two years before beginning to work. At eighteen, Franky was arrested for DUI and deported. At this point, Franky had made friends in the U.S., had become accustomed to life in the States and was awaiting the arrival of a baby girl. Franky decided that he would return to the United States.

Franky made the journey by train again. This time he settled in San Antonio, where he began to work as a landscaper. He moved into a house in Northeast San Antonio – near Retama Park and The Forum – with a woman who worked in a clinic. Together they had a son. Franky quickly became a San Antonian. He became a Spurs fan, and enjoyed weekend trips to toob the San Marcos River and jet-ski on Canyon Lake with friends.

On July 4^th, 2014, Franky’s future would take a turn. After being clean from drinking for many years, Franky was swept up in the excitement of Independence Day celebrations, and began drinking with friends. While driving to the stores to purchase more alcohol, Franky was pulled over and arrested for driving under the influence. He spent the next two months in a detention center before being sent back to Honduras.

"La Bestia." Seen from Shelter on Rainy Day

Franky told his girlfriend – with whom he lived and had a son – that he did not know if he would be back. Trying to make it to the U.S. is always a crap shoot. It takes a lot of luck to survive the gangs, the train, La Migra, the desert, and other travails of the journey. Entrance to the U.S. is never guaranteed. Knowing this, Franky told his girlfriend that she could move on with her life. They agreed that he would still retain the right to see and speak with his son.

Franky spent the last year in Honduras, working construction and spending time with his mom. During the year, Franky spoke on the phone with his kids in the States. Though initially content to be back with his mother in his home country, the sound of his children’s voices soon stirred paternal instincts within Franky. It pained him that he could not be there to comfort his kids when they were sick. He also struggled to explain to his eight year old son why he left. All that he managed to say was that he had to leave for a while, but would be back soon.

Now, Franky is traveling north again to try to make it back to San Antonio, to his son. He was already deported once from the state of Tabasco on this attempt to make it to the north. As soon as he and his friend reached the Honduras border, they boarded another bus and began the journey again. He knows he’s not guaranteed to make it back to the United States, but he’s hopeful. He’s made it twice, and already on this journey he’s made it through the perils of Chiapas and other southern states. He prays he’ll make it again, so his son no longer has to ask why his dad is not present at school events when all the other kids’ fathers are.

Talking to Franky was refreshing. Franky was kind, outgoing and full of life. I was sad to see him leave after spending time with him for several days. I told Franky good-bye and wished him luck on his journey. Franky looked at me and said, “Remember, Go Spurs Go!” Little did he know, “Go Spurs Go” was a code my parents use to tell me “I Love You.” They began using this phrase when I was in fifth grade, knowing that I would be embarrassed if they told me they loved me in front of my friends. Thinking back to this, Franky’s words took on a new meaning. I looked back at Franky, and with a smile on my face, replied “Go Spurs Go!”