By L. Carlos Lara
I was six years old when my parents moved our family from Monterrey, Mexico to the United States. Becoming a naturalized United States citizen took the better part of three years. The monetary cost was high, and it involved an extensive amount of paperwork. Even then, as it is today, many Mexicans in search of better economic opportunities simply opted to cross the border illegally. My parents chose to do it the right way. After a considerable time and expense, they successfully became legal U.S. residents in 1953 and settled in a small town in Texas called Dallas. Within seven days of our arrival, my father established a small retail establishment and opened its doors to the public. This little business, which was little more than a small general store, supported the family for the next four years. To this day, I still marvel at this accomplishment. My father went on to become a licensed insurance agent in 1958 and retired from the insurance business 40 years later. Although it was not done perfectly, my parents managed to raise their family in a foreign land while battling cultural differences and language barriers. In my view, my parents had no serious regrets about having moved here. In the end, America proved to be exactly what they dreamed it would be and they said so many times over. They both passed away in 2006, but until their final days, America remained the land of freedom and opportunity.
Even so, I often reflect on the difficulty of the decision my parents made. At the time, they were in their early thirties with three small children, of which I was the oldest. Neither of them spoke English and they only had letters of recommendation for employment in the United States, but no firm commitments. Years later, I recall asking my parents what precipitated such a risky adventure; why were they willing to uproot their young family with a move to a country they knew so little about? They gave me two reasons. The first was quite obvious—it was the hope of an improved economic future. But the second most important reason for the move was to escape Mexico’s corrupt government. My mother and father emphasized this to me several times during my growing-up years. I have come to appreciate what a major factor that really was in their decision-making. Much later, I realized that I had misjudged my parents on what they actually knew about America and of their keen interest in it. They knew what the rest of the world of that time knew about the United States: America was the land of opportunity. They, like so many others outside its borders, wanted the “American Dream.”
The Land of Oz
I remember the day of our departure vividly. It was a day filled with mixed feelings and emotions, not only for me, but for all members of my family. I recall that the house I was born in had been completely emptied. All the furniture and accessories were gone. I amused myself with the echoes of my voice resonating against the empty walls as my parents packed up the last of our belongings. They had either given away or sold everything they owned. The clothes we were all wearing, plus a few suitcases, were all we were taking with us. There is also the memory of all the tears of sadness as our relatives and grandparents came to say goodbye at the bus station. When the bus pulled out of the terminal, I remember seeing my mother and father embrace each other in what could only have been a sign of their own sadness, fear and excitement about what lay ahead. The drive from Monterrey to the Texas border was only three hours long, but my impatience as a six-year-old made it seem much longer. I remember our reaching the border crossing at lunchtime. Suddenly, the world changed right before my eyes! We stepped off the one bus we had been traveling in and boarded what I thought was a spaceship. Never had I seen such luxury and comfort. This may sound crazy, but when you have just left a country that had very few automobiles, and the bus we had been traveling in for three hours was akin to a sweltering school bus, a 1950s Greyhound Bus seemed like a futuristic spacecraft! Not only was it air-conditioned, but it also had oversized windows that allowed me to see the landscape as it cruised down the road. I absolutely loved it and was as completely mesmerized as a child could possibly be. Everyone around me had my complete bewildered attention because they were all speaking a language I could not understand. Any fears I may have had were quickly dismissed by the smiles on people’s faces. Americans, it seemed, were happy, friendly people and I took to them immediately.
There was another great surprise that I experienced after crossing the border that I don’t want to forget mentioning. I saw my first African American! This really got my attention and I cannot emphasize enough what an amazing experience this was for me. Sitting on a bench at the bus station, a young African American mother and her toddler were eating their lunch. I was so taken by what I saw that I could not resist touching that child’s hair and playing with it until my mother finally pulled me away for fear I would annoy them. Never before had I seen, or touched such hair texture, or looked upon features that were so uniquely different. To my young eyes, America was a strange but wonderful land.
As the bus rolled on, I wondered what new surprises were in store. Since we were seated near the front of the bus, the driver and I struck up a conversation using sign language. He did not fail to point out sights of interest as we passed them on the road. Whether it was catching a glimpse of a Texas longhorn along the countryside or pointing out the buzzards surrounding a road kill, I remained enthralled throughout the entire trip. As the sun began to set, all of these exciting moments eventually took their toll and I fell asleep exhausted in the comfort of the reclining seats. When I awoke, it was three o’clock in the morning. The bus was dark and everyone was asleep. Looking through the front windshield of the bus, I began staring at the horizon. In the far distance, I saw the most dazzling sight. I can only compare it to a child’s first view of Disney World. The excitement took my breath away and I woke up my parents so they could see my discovery. Atop the tallest building of the Dallas skyline was Pegasus, the winged horse, which was then the logo image of the Mobil Oil Company. It was shiny, lit bright red, a sort of pinnacle amidst the glitter of the city lights. I remember whispering to myself, “Wow, America is beautiful!”
Innocence Lost
This was the United States through the eyes of a six year old Mexican child. Looking back on it now, I can see that I arrived in the United States at a unique time in history, only a few short years after World War II. The country was still flush with pride over having won the war. Society’s energy had been diverted from fighting overseas and directed towards raising families. Millions of new babies were born during this time and I joined the ranks of the baby boom generation. History tells us that our nation was wealthy during this period. It had a huge stockpile of gold reserves in its possession and the U.S. dollar had become the international benchmark for all other foreign currencies. Plus, America had become a superpower. Optimism carried over into the very fabric of society. Building and expansion was going on everywhere. The economy was booming.
The veneer began to crack and peel first, then it came off.
I can’t remember exactly when I first noticed that the public water fountains, public restrooms and public transportation systems all had segregation signs. Obviously, there were racial tensions that had been brewing in this country for a long time. It wasn’t long before these pressures erupted in a blaze of racial conflict that killed and injured many. For the next ten years, life in the United States took on a strange combination of increasing unrest combined with great social and economic achievements. Communism and the intensification of the Cold War in the 60s generated new fears of the possibility of another World War. At school, we practiced safety drills at least once a week in case of a nuclear war attack from the Soviet Union. Then, in 1963, we all received a harsh dose of reality; the President of the United States was assassinated.
By 1965, the year I graduated from high school, my view of America had already changed dramatically from the day of that bus ride back in 1953. But it was not just my perspective that had changed; the face of America had actually been altered. The mood of the public was changing rapidly, evidenced in the way people interacted with one another. Yes, we had Presley, Rock n Roll, and the Beatles, which represented the lighter side of life, but there was a growing undercurrent of apprehension that ran throughout all of society. That year, the Vietnam conflict escalated and plunged the country back into a serious war. At age 18, every U.S. male had to register for the draft. If you were not in school, you were sent off to war whether you wanted to go or not. These government demands and the mounting war casualties ignited tensions on college campuses. Disturbances broke out regularly and civil unrest became more commonplace. In 1968, Martin Luther King, the leader of the civil rights movement, was murdered. Two months later, presidential hopeful Bobby Kennedy was also shot and killed. The following year, for the first time in human history, a man walked on the moon.
Perception vs. Reality
This kaleidoscope of personal events, as seen through the lenses of hindsight, helps remind me of an unforgettable truth. Nothing is as it appears. There is perception and then there is reality. These statements mean that there are hidden activities going on in the world that only through maturity, knowledge and experience will become visible and clear. Exactly how this happens is somewhat of a mystery because many of us are never able to see them. The truth is that we do not all experience the same things at the same time, nor is our response to these experiences the same. What is certain is that through no choice of our own, we are all born into a particular family and into a world that has been marching forward along the track of time for centuries. Its path is certain. The path may turn this way or that way, as it is steered by individual human actions, but its natural course is always advancing in time. In our adolescent years, we are simply carried along this path, not really comprehending how all the human events that we experience fit together. These events come and go; some are mundane, while others are horrific and tragic, but all of them count in molding our maturity.
The sixty year olds of today were mere babes when any of the events that I have written about occurred, but these events are no greater or lesser in comparison to the events that occurred in their own adolescent years. Who, for instance, can seriously contest that the surrealistic 9/11 catastrophes were more or less traumatic on a child than the assassination of a President? The same holds true for a ninety year old comparing the Great Depression in his adolescent years to a fifteen year old experiencing our current financial crisis. The only thing that is relevant in the case we are making here is that there is a lag in understanding of how the world works as one moves from the adolescent years into maturity. The hope is that we are maturing not only in age, but also in wisdom so that our future actions will change the world for the better.
It rarely occurs to many grown individuals that there are certain institutions that have been on this planet long before their own births. Some of these have been around since the dawn of mankind. These institutions are also marching along the very same track of time as we are and have done so for centuries. Government is one such institution. There are also Money and Banking. But there are countless others. Many times, these institutions, guided by men, are responsible for the very tragedies we experience in life, but that connection can remain hidden from society for generations. Not until the individual has matured with the understanding we speak of is he able to see the covert operations beneath the surface. These institutions have a nature of their own and it behooves us to understand them as soon as possible for until then we remain ignorant of how they can either dominate and destroy us, or help set us free.
America the beautiful, home of the free…was this ever true?
