Undocumented and Unseen
America from the Back of a Pick Up Truck
Story by Anonymous // Art by Thuy Ngo

As we head out in the truck passing several exits north on highway 101 seeing cars rushing, I wonder about the current political events that affect these undocumented men in the truck, my co-workers.   We are all construction workers, undocumented, and most of the men are older then me.   We all wonder what will happen to the fate of all of us, whether we will finally get our licenses or continue to struggle through even harder times.

The other day we heard that the Minute Men were out in the desert protecting our nation. We walk off the truck and work the days in the silence. These men's thoughts float in the heat of the day. They are of English words like “Minute Men,” “Real ID,” “Licenses,” and “Terrorists.” We are all pouring down sweat and the bitter burning taste flows the word that we have all become familiar with – “illegal alien.”

These mansions that we work at throughout the highways are like pyramids that are erected in grand majestic reflection of the society. And we are the mason builders that have gone from city to city town to town leaving only the trace that it is actually our work.   On TV we always hear, “Aren't they stealing from our country?” The question is ironic as the workers open their checks and look at the social security money taken away from them that will never be returned and leaves the owner of the number reaping the benefits. Is this the way a crook steals from the nation, by having the government take their hard earned money? None the less, it is the price we have to pay.  

From the highway, the row of cars pass during the afternoon and in the mornings. Those drivers all have licenses that we are told we cannot receive. Yes, a license to drive is a privilege that shouldn't be taken for granted and people should be properly trained before they get on the road, but simply taking away the right to drive when people have families is absurd. It reminds me of the time when people weren't allowed to vote because they didn't know how to read, and if someone gave them the opportunity, these people could be honorable citizens. Plus, could a terrorist attack really happen because these construction workers were given licenses?

As the sun goes down, we head back from work and a long day in a town where people's identity has been taken from them. The workers go home and on their TV watch Minute Men sitting around and waving their flags. So the patriots have finally found their great threat, their enemy, their terrorist, us. These people that leave their country's poverty and corruption and enter the world of the unknown. No language, no friends, no family, only a hope and a dream and in the words of W.E.B. Dubois “flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone.”

Also Read:
Who You Calling 'Wetback'?
A Chicano Becomes The Immigrant
Story by David Madrid
Art by Fernando Amaro Jr.