Green

I walked into a room full of laughter. Not even two steps into the house and you knew tonight was gonna be a celebration. But not a birthday, or a graduation. Not a promotion or even a new house. Two steps further and I shook my friend's hand heartily, "Congratulations on your Green Card."

"Thank you. Thank you very much," Roberto said. His face beaming and grinning from ear to ear. He's such a humble man.

Just saying the words green card evoked so much in me. Where I grew up in Los Angeles, there were so many people who were undocumented immigrants. My friend's, their dad's, mom's, uncles, aunts. Entire families. In elementary school I remember my classmates would cringe at the mention of a social security number, or citizenship status. We were all too young to really know what the ramifications were -- the limitations it would bring towards the kind of jobs you could get, the inability to gain medical coverage, to buy a home, or form a credit history -- but they knew their parents were afraid to talk about it and so they were too. Informally learned not to talk about where they came from, or how they got here.

It makes me wonder what happened to all of them. Are they still hiding? Are they somewhere, still afraid? Are they working in a restaurant or cleaning up some one else's house, getting paid in cash because there's no other way? Because otherwise they'd have to leave this wonderful country where they can work hard and support their families back home. Wherever home is.

I remember one friend's father was a doctor back in his country for over 15 years. He had a thriving practice. Was well respected in his community. He saved lives. There was a picture in his house of him 20 years younger, diploma in hand, the day he graduated from medical school number one in his class. His family fled after political unrest in his country left his wife and her sister dead. Here in the US he cleaned people's weeds. Scrubbed their toilets. He never once seemed sad, or complained about it in all the times my friend and I hung out at his house. And when he talked about where he came from, he whispered, as though some one dangerous might hear him somehow.

A doctor's hands, pulling weeds ... another friend's father an architect, washing beef and brocolli off of dirty dish after dirty dish ... getting paid less than minimum wage.

We spent the rest of the evening eating garlic chicken pizza and listening to his sister tell us stories of Roberto as a child. I'm glad that my friend had the virtue of a good lawyer and that everything was done legally and that he has no reason to be afraid. I wish that everyone had the same benefit, that no one had to hide or live afraid.