My Life as an Immigrant

Whenever I meet someone new here in Nicaragua, they normally ask me if I'm a volunteer or a missionary. I say no to both. I certainly have never offered to volunteer for free as a farmhand on a local farm, and the term missionary brings to mind images of brown robed friars treating Indians as slave labor or overzealous Christians forcing their views on uninterested locals. However, nor would I consider myself a tourist, as I live here permanently, and don't lug around a big REI backpack everywhere I go. Some might consider me an ex-pat, which probably is at least a little more accurate, however, I think I'm more likely to be considered a young idealist with too much of an imagination. Regardless of whatever label seems to fit best, some days I just feel like an immigrant. An outsider. A white man in a Latino world. I receive some strange looks from people I don't know when they see me walking in the typical black rubber boots of a campesino, with a machete in one hand and a bunch of plantains slung over my opposite shoulder. Or when riding my bike through the nearby pueblos, there's no shortage of stares, or the occasional shout of, "Hey gringo!" I mean, fair enough. I'm an odd sight in rural Central America. Certainly not one they see too often, if ever. I speak Spanish, but I definitely don't sound like a Nicaraguan. And if my accent doesn't give it away, my third grade level grammar probably does. Sometimes, walking by a group of teenagers standing on the side of the road, I'll hear one of them shout out, "Gringooooooo," as if calling me that makes their other friends think they're a badass. I'm a white American, raised in the middle class, college educated, and globally speaking, someone with privilege and power. Feeling like an immigrant is not something I've dealt with much in my life.

The problem of slapping the label of gringo or immigrant on someone, is that along with the label goes a string of unfounded ideas about that person. When someone sees me only as a gringo, they see me only as loud, rich, and pretentious. When the label of immigrant is put on a Latino in the U.S., they are seen as lazy, drunk, and uneducated, while simultaneously stealing the jobs of hardworking, honest Americans. In this case, even the stereotype itself is contradicting.

Every person has the desire to be known. The desire to genuinely connect with other human beings. Not just superficially, but at the depths one's self. That's the problem with labels. There is no connection. When I get those stares on the street, I want to say to those people, "Hey! I'm more than just a gringo! I'm not what you imagine me to be. I'm a real person with ideas and dreams too. Before you judge me, get to know me." When the Latino walking down the street in the U.S., or working their daily job, receives that all-too-recognizable stare, I'm sure they feel the same way. The gringo and the immigrant aren’t given the chance to express who they really are, because the person who labels them believes they already know all there is to know. Loud, rich, and pretentious. Lazy, uneducated, and drunk. And the person dolling out the labels also loses the opportunity to genuinely know and connect with the other person. It's a loss on all sides. It's the root of racism and discrimination. It's that subtle train of thought that at first seems insignificant, but when allowed to grow, leads to hate crimes, state-sanctioned racism, and war.

Sometimes I wonder what I would do if I were born and raised in an environment like Tepeyac, Nicaragua. If my mom spent her days slaving over a wood burning stove. If my dad (if I was lucky enough to have one) spent his days swinging a machete for $120 bucks a month. If both of my parents were barely literate, if that. If I was lucky enough to make it through middle school or high school, and then had three options of jobs for the rest of my life: farmhand, construction worker, or security guard. All with a salary just good enough to put rice and beans on the table and hope that no one in the family gets sick. Because after spending all your money putting food on the table, there’s not much leftover to spend on a medical emergency. I think I would probably immigrate to the United States too.

I know a guy who's an undocumented immigrant in the U.S. He works landscaping, and gets a meager wage, by U.S. standards. He normally feels like an outsider as well. Often criticized by white Americans or documented Latino Americans, he's viewed as a lesser. He's a brown man in a white, English speaking world. He's not given the chance to be known. But what does it matter? He's probably just a lazy, uneducated drunk anyways, right? As it turns out, this time the label's not accurate. Imagine that… With the money he makes, he helps support his elderly mother and helps put his sister through college in Central America. He's putting the food on his mother's table, and giving his sister an education she wouldn't otherwise have had access to.  He's a hard-working, self-sacrificing individual. He just happened be born south of the Rio Grande, so by law he's not allowed access to the decent paying jobs of the United States. God may have chosen where he was born, but his fellow man has doomed him to a life of economic disadvantage.

Several times during the last few years I've lived in Central America, Latinos have asked me why I'm allowed to be in there country, traveling wherever the hell I want, while they're not allowed to be in my country. It's a good question. The only answer is because I was born in the United States and they weren't. Because I have power and privilege and they don't. In the current system, decent work has become a privilege dependent upon place of birth. If you were born between the right two borders, you deserve to be the beneficiary of an incredibly unequal world economy. If you were born between the wrong two borders, sorry bud, you’re out of luck. You’ll be poor your whole life. Just accept it.

For the first time that I can remember I've felt a connection to the immigrant. Struggling with the language, in a foreign culture, labeled and judged, viewed as an outsider, all the while wanting to be known. Don't get me wrong, the majority of the people I've met here in Central America have been extremely warm and accepting of me. I’m sure I’ve been much more cared for and accepted far more than the average U.S. immigrant. As a whole, Central Americans have been extremely accepting and understanding of me. But still, there are definitely times I feel like an outsider. And, in certain ways, I think we all can relate. Everyone knows the feeling of being an outsider, an outcast, and just of wanting to be known. The first day at a new school. First day in a new job. Moving to a new town. Alone and out of place. We can all relate to the immigrant if we look at our lives and think about our past with humility. We've all had the desire to be known for who we are, and not for what other people think we are. We may not have had to live with the daily fear of being deported back to an extremely dangerous home-country, or even a country in war. We may not have had to struggle to learn a foreign language, and felt like a lesser every time we open our mouths to try to communicate. But in certain ways, we’ve all been an outsider. We’ve all longed to be understood and accepted. Hate and the elitism form when we put up new walls, disconnect ourselves from other human beings. Forget that we are all brothers, trying to live a meaningful and happy life. Mother Theresa once said, “If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.” Truer words have seldom been spoken. If there’s no compassion for the immigrant, it is because we haven’t opened our eyes enough to see that we too have felt a part of what the immigrant feels. We’ve all felt unloved. But instead of seeing that, we’ve put up a wall between them and us. We’ve disconnected ourselves from our brother.

So when you see someone struggling with directions, seemingly lost, remember that time you too were lost in a new city. When you talk with someone who struggles to speak English, imagine what it must be like to be in a foreign country where even communicating is a huge struggle. When you see the foreign homeless man who can't find a job, remember that Jesus too lived homeless, and often relied on the generosity of others to eat every day. When this year’s presidential race is filled with hate speech and racism, remember a time when you felt hated, unwanted, and unloved. When you go to the polls to vote for the future president, question why only those born north of the Rio Grande are allowed to work in the United States. Why you are allowed to travel and work wherever you please, but the Central American is forced to stay within his small borders and try to eke out a living with some of the lowest wages on the planet. We've all felt unloved. We've all felt like an outsider. Now let's learn from that experience, and treat those around us with unbiased love. Regardless of race, color, or birthplace. Let’s take down the walls we build around ourselves; let’s work together, let’s work as brothers.  

If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other...