For Want of a Job

A man died not far from me. A man with brown skin and not enough warm cloths. I in my world of comfort and self satisfaction, he in his world of hypothermia and exhaustion. He must have watched me cook my evening meal, warmed by my camp fire after and comforted by the companionship of my two quail hunting dogs after a long days hunt. He was devoid of warm companionship; he had only the cold, greedy Sonoran desert night that shop lifted his precious body heat. The man died of hypothermia that night ending his desperate quest to fulfill his chosen role of husband, father and son. I did not know him and was totally unaware of his presence. The only clue I had was that sometime during the early morning a half dozen U.S. Border Patrol SUVs converge onto the camp ground where I was staying. The SUVs arrived with their head lights on full beam bursting with green clad agents, wielding mammoth flashlights whose beams frantically slashed through the desert night like searchlights over Baghdad.

It did not take long for the searchlights to find their query: the man, a father, a son, an illegal immigrant, who tried to honor his commitment. That’s right, the man, this man tried and died from the trying. The trying to find and do a job most Americans will not do. The word “try” seems so weak and flimsy for what this man attempted. I wish I could think of another word. Perhaps the real meaning of the word can only be taken from context – this man, his struggle and his death.

The man’s focus and priorities were set and were unalterable. He must provide for those to whom he made a commitment to. Scratching a living from the poverty stricken soil of Latin America was slowly strangling his family. The conspiracy of corrupt politics and greed forced this man to the road, the road that ultimately robbed him of his life. It is ironic that the man died for want of warmth in the land of plenty.

Why didn’t the man come and sit by my fire? I am clueless. Maybe he thought I was a vigilante, one of Douglas Arizona’s Minutemen, or worse yet a coyote, a trafficker of illegal immigrants; or maybe he simply closed his eyes and was seduced by hypothermia’s lullaby, and chased dreams of home and hearth that that drifted away like the smoke from my campfire. How many others were caught in the same struggle that night? I have often wondered. Perhaps the dark of night and the brilliance of my campfire is an iconic metaphor. We who live in the light of plenty simply cannot see into the darkness of poverty.

What would I have done if this shivering man approached me out of the darkness? In my heart of hearts I am afraid to answer. Would my sense of humanity prevailed, allowing me to invite the man into the warmth or would my fear of the unknown spurred me to push the man back into the darkness? I honestly do not know.

Earlier that evening I found where a different bone-chilled someone had burnt a roll of toilet paper in one of the camp ground outhouses. At the time I was incensed. I thought it was the work of some vandal. Reflecting back, I now realize the outhouse and the roll of burning toilet paper provide shelter and warmth, albeit choking warmth with the door closed for concealment. Picture it, a person huddled in a blackened outhouse, below freezing temperatures outside, with hands and body shaking from the cold, snuggled up to a roll of burning toilet paper to elude both the U.S. Border Patrol and Death’s messenger, hypothermia. The person dared not open the door for fear of detection by either pursuer. The person’s eyes burned and lungs revolted from the caustic smoke, but there was just enough darkness and warmth to evade his pursuers. Before the morning sun arrived this person was on his feet heading North in pursuit of a job, a job that Americans will not do. It is this job that will allow this person to keep the wolves of poverty from devouring his family.

During the next day’s quail hunt I repeatedly stumbled across stashes of empty gallon water bottles, cold fire rings, and sometimes small back packs. Always the water bottles were empty. Always the fire rings contained the remains of the previous meager meal; a burnt out soup can, melted plastic bread bags, and once in a while a Coke can. Still the contents of the abandoned back packs haunt me still. The backpacks usually contained just a single change of street clothes, including underwear and socks. The street clothes, the underwear are intimate reminders of another living breathing human’s presence. Why were the backpacks abandoned? Were these people being chased by the U. S. Border Patrol? Had physical exhaustion burdened these people so heavily that they had to dump all excess baggage just to place one foot in front of the other? Was the coyote’s vehicle so packed with humanity that there was no room for frivolous items such as these? I can only speculate. The discarded backpacks seem to speak to me of desperate hope and flight. I have never known such desperation, not ever.

On the drive home, I was funneled through a U.S. Border Patrol checkpoint just outside of Patagonia, Arizona. Two agents approached, one on either side of my Jeep. Seeing that I and my dogs were the sole occupants and fit the right profile they waved us through the checkpoint with a smile and a nod. It is this smile and nod that confirms my citizenship in the land of plenty. It is this smile and nod that the illegal immigrant yearns for; the smile and nod that would confirm the legitimacy of their presence and allow them to lift their families from dirt scratch poverty. It is this smile and nod that the illegal immigrant cannot have.

Copyright Stephan Fowler 2008. All rights reserved.