Moving On

by Danny Jacobs

I never really liked long car rides. As my family and I drove on a dusty dirt road, I remembered the first time I traveled to Mexico when I was four years old. My brother, Carlos, was a baby at the time and my youngest brother, Cesar, wasn’t born yet. We were traveling to see my grandparents in a town called Michoacan. I remember being in a car for more than twelve hours, and my parents taking turns driving to prevent falling asleep at the wheel. I pictured my grandparents’ home to be luxurious from my parents’ descriptions but, when I got there, I realized I was wrong. They lived in a small, simple, old house. On the road now, I had the same depressed and gloomy feeling I had during my first trip to Mexico except this time was ten times worse because we had been deported. This trip was not a visit.

I had lived in Stockton my whole life. I was fourteen years old and a freshman in high school when my father got the order to deport while my brothers were in middle and elementary school. I enjoyed going to school and I liked most of my teachers and classes. Being in school gave me the opportunity my parents never had: graduating from high school. I was pretty quiet and shy and I always did my work and maintained good grades, but could never achieve the family goal of finishing high school. My dad worked for a construction site and earned a reasonably good paycheck. He was a hard worker and the boss never received complaints from him. My mother did not work outside of the home; so, she had time to make our lunches and meet us after school to walk us home. My father always got home from work late. Sometimes he would be so exhausted, he’d skip dinner and go straight to bed.

My parents settled in Stockton after crossing the border illegally. They lived in Stockton for about twenty years. The thought of leaving my only home made my stomach turn as I tried to forget the reason why we were leaving. I tried to remember good times as I drifted back into my flashback.

On weekends and sometimes after school I would take Carlos and Cesar to the park. They would play with each other but not with the other kids in the park. We didn’t have many friends because we didn’t want to share our background with anyone. I knew the consequences if somebody found out our parents were illegal, and I made sure that didn’t happen. While playing soccer with my brothers, I examined them. Carlos was the biggest kid in the family. He wasn’t overweight; he was hefty, but strong. He was like the security guard of the family. Cesar was small and very sharp. He loved math and was one of the brightest kids in his class.

As the drive continued, I thought about leaving one good friend behind- Josh. Josh was a boy in the same grade as I at Stockton High School. He was known for his athletic ability and his overall nice nature. You could tell by just looking at him that he was the kind of guy that played many sports.

He happened to be playing a pickup game of soccer with his friends at the park the same day me and my brothers were there. I watched him as he gracefully ran with quick, agile bursts of speed. It appeared as if he wasn’t even trying, the game was way too easy for him. He spotted me watching and approached me with his elegant stride. I was nervous and my palms became sweaty when he got closer. What if he asked me questions about my family? What would he think about me? I shook away these thoughts just as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Hey. Don’t you go to Stockton High?”

“Yeah, aren’t you Josh?” I replied anxiously. He smiled at my response.

“What’s your name?” he then said.

“My name is Ricardo,” I answered softly. He then looked at me for a while, studying my legs and upper body.

“You look pretty athletic. You should try out for the soccer team. We could always use more players,” he declared enthusiastically.

I pondered for a moment. Me? Athletic? Not really. I didn’t have the strongest legs or the best physique, but playing soccer would be good for me. It would give me a chance to make friends and be a normal kid for the first time. I told Josh I would be at the tryouts. He nodded and said I had a good shot at making it. My confidence rose as I heard I had a chance of being on the team. He returned to his friends and I called my brothers over to tell them the good news. When Carlos, Cesar and I walked home from the park, I couldn’t help but think of how I was going to manage playing soccer and maintaining good grades. Dad said that grades come first and that they would help me get to a good university and support my family. I would try my best and have to study extra hard to keep up those A’s.

During the week of tryouts, I tried to impress the coach by hustling and trying my very best. Josh was clearly the best on the field. He was the fastest, strongest, and most talented player. He already had a spot on the team. After tryouts, I went to check the final cuts. I had made the team! I got to play in a few games before my father announced to the family at dinner that we had to leave the United States. My heart stopped. All my hard work was never going to pay off. My dreams of living a normal life, playing soccer, and enjoying high school would never materialize. My father had tried to apply for citizenship and even paid a lot of money to a lawyer. It turned out that the lawyer wasn’t very honest and didn’t do anything for us but take our money while pretending to be working hard on our case. All my dad got was an order to deport. I felt cheated, not only of money, but cheated of the chance to live in California. This is why my parents left their village in Mexico- for a better life.

I couldn’t believe that the government would not accept my parents as citizens. My brothers and I were citizens, but we couldn’t stay in Stockton without our parents. We couldn’t split up our family. Here I am, on this long road towards my parents’ home in Michoacan and I’m thinking back on my life in California. I should be thinking ahead of what to expect in Mexico and how to help my family. The van went over a bump as my train of thought ended. I needed to figure out how to get back to Stockton, my team, friends, and the life I used to have.

I asked my father, “When are we coming back to Stockton?”

My father replied with a depressed voice, “I’m not sure yet. We first have to get all the papers cleared. It’s very hard to claim a hardship and get citizenship. We were always so careful. How could this happen?”

My father didn’t have a plan but I had one. As soon as I turn 18, I will drive back on these dusty, dirty roads to Stockton, I will get a job and send money back to my family and support them. I will try my very best to get my parents’ citizenship. Then we can be back together in California. Then I can finally experience the life I’ve always wanted. Then I can graduate high school and help my family. I felt weary and closed my eyes to sleep and dream.

When I awoke from my restless sleep, we were in Mexico. I sighed as I rubbed my eyes and looked around the crammed car. My brothers were huddled together napping and my mother was reading a book comfortably in the front seat. My father had his eyes fixed on the road as we drove slowly to the nearest town. He had this defeated look on his face, like he was going to give up. I knew he was upset about having to leave Stockton and I was too. I tried to think of something else as I looked out the window. The area was dry and dusty, and we drove by small huts which held families of four or more. My stomach felt uneasy as we arrived and parked in front of an old church. This church had broken windows and some of its salmon colored paint was chipping and peeling. We all got out of the van and stood staring at the ancient church. My father led the way as we all filed behind him, nervous of what’s going to happen next.

Inside the church was a soup kitchen, called a comedor. They served two meals a day to people like us who were newly arrived and didn’t have a place to go or much money. We would often spend time at the comedor and share stories with people just like us. They were people who lost their opportunity to live in the United States. The comedor was in the center of the village, a tiny, poor town with only about one thousand people. In many of the homes there was no gas for cooking or boiling water and the water we drank was stagnant. My brothers and I got sick often because the water was not fresh and the conditions we lived in were poor.

We still didn’t have a plan. We stayed at the church but the conditions were so bad sometimes I would accompany my mom and sleep in the van. The beds in the church were rock hard and the blankets hardly covered your legs. I hated it there. We didn’t belong there. I didn’t belong there. I belonged in Stockton with my classmates and my soccer team. In America, I was a middle class citizen. My dad had a steady job, my brothers and I went to school, and everything was somewhat normal. In Mexico, we didn’t go to school yet, we didn’t live in the middle class, and we didn’t have the life we desired. Staying here in Mexico made me want to go back to Stockton, go back to my home.

During this time I had thoughts of leaving Mexico and my family. I was stuck between two worlds and cultures. I was an American citizen. Should I go back? I thought to myself. I heard that many people who were deported eventually crossed the border back to the United States illegally. There was talk in the comedor about coyotes or guides who could help you cross the border through underground tunnels or other ways. I asked somebody if they could help me find a coyote. Late that night, I snuck out of the shelter to meet a coyote.

“How much to cross the border?” I asked him in Spanish.

The coyote told me it would cost $800. That’s $500 more than the usual smuggling fee ever since the border patrol put in more fences, lights, cameras, and extra immigration agents. I didn’t have that kind of money. But there was a bigger obstacle than the Rio Grande in my mind. Although I wanted to get out of this miserable situation, I knew I could never leave my parents and brothers. My heart was pounding as I raced back to the shelter before my family discovered I was gone. I slipped into the bed unnoticed. I made a promise to myself to adjust to my new situation for the good of the family. We would have to find a home, a new school, and, hopefully, another soccer team. At least, I could learn to become a better soccer player in Mexico. I bet Josh would love to play soccer in Mexico.

The next morning, I overheard this conversation between my brother and father and I knew I made the right decision to stay.

“Dad, can I ask you a question?” Carlos said quietly.

“Por su puesto.” Dad responded.

“Will we ever go back to Stockton?” Carlos asked gently. My father’s expression changed sharply as he heard the question. I knew he didn’t want to talk about this subject but it was inevitable.

“Son, I cannot answer this question. Maybe one day we will return as a whole family, but for now we must pray. Pray that someone will help us and that we will be safe during our time here in Mexico.” My brother seemed puzzled but nodded as he understood this was a depressing topic. I looked over at my father and noticed a tear running slowly down his cheek.

Some teachers and friends back in California sent us some money they collected when people in the community heard about our story. We learned that the lousy lawyer had even been disbarred. I asked my father if we could reopen our legal case, but he said we didn’t have the money to do that. We have to move on, so that is what we will do at least until I am eighteen years old.