Coming to America

There are a few aspects of Fredy’s story that are staggeringly similar to mine. Both of our countries were destroyed first by domestic political extremists and criminals, only to be ground further into third-world status by American foreign policy. Both our families immigrated to Santa Fe with every intention of one day returning “home.” We both inevitably came face to face with the adage that, “You can never go home again.” Our assimilations into American life had taken so long that the places we were once from are no longer the ones we left.

And there the similarities end. El Salvador fought its civil war for 12 years, from 1979 to 1992, a time preceded by almost a decade of economic strife, political fraud, civil unrest and the repressive government backlash that inevitably follows—all badly stunting the nation’s economic development. This economic stagnation—coupled with the mass re-arrival of former soldiers and resistance fighters who had fled to the United States during the war—created a perfect incubator for the gangs and drug cartels that continue to terrorize the area today.

My family had the good fortune of leaving our home country before the war that destroyed it really became violent. Fredy, who asked me not to use his last name in this column, was born a year before this happened to his home. I didn't see my neighbor get shot through the back of the head by a stray round before puberty. I was never dragged from my bed into flight by my father in the middle of the night, sleeping in a ravine in order to not be kidnapped and conscripted into battle by guerrillas. Fredy was. My family still living in Serbia doesn't pay a weekly "rent" just to ensure that none of their children are disappeared. His living in El Salvador does.

When he finished high school and wanted to go to college, it would have financially meant that his six brothers and sisters would not have gotten the chance to finish high school. So, in order to help lift his family out of poverty, and with only the help of some cousins who were living up here, Fredy moved to Santa Fe and began working—sometimes three minimum wage jobs at a time. When I was 16, I had a minimum wage job, but I think I worked 15 hours a week and quit after two months because, "It sucks."

I've mentioned before how, as a kid in Santa Fe, I felt, on occasion, discriminated against for not speaking Spanish, or for being raised atheist, or for having a weird name. I thought, surely, if I were a little more brown, I would have an easier time fitting in. Fredy has a good number of stories about encounters with racial profiling (have you ever been asked for your social security number at a traffic stop?), but it rarely had to do with the color of his skin. "Why don't you speak English?" he was asked on more than one occasion, "Go back home. You don't belong here."

I came here early enough that I was put in an American school where I was given the resources with which to learn to wield English like a weapon. Fredy got to start at square one in his late teens. Fifteen years later, the progress he has made has ensured a life for not only his family back home, but also the family he started here. For me it was homework. For him it was a literal matter of survival.

Fredy is the American dream. We forget that it so often starts as a nightmare. Count your blessings.


Miljen spends his days thinking deep thoughts about shallow things and drinking good beers with interesting people. Become one of them by emailing miljen@sfreporter.com

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