BROKEN ENGLISH

          

Sign on the border of California and Arizona. Picture taken on our last trip to visit my cousins.

  Arguably, the beauty of the human character could be found in our brokenness and the patches that hold the broken pieces together. Sitting around the table, many of us were broken. Sleep deprived, college students had arrived at the barn ready to teach English to migrant workers. After 9 hours of farming potatoes, the Mexican men faced exhaustion as well. The air was frigid and numbing as it wrapped around our throats and stunned our stuttered speaking. Even the door that was forcibly kicked open was a symbol of the fragility of the human character. The door was unsure of whether it wanted to open for us allowing a haven, until we jabbed and shoved our way through the archway waking the rusted hinges. Once opened, the door creaked with a shallow welcome.

            Twice a week, I drive with a small group to Hillsborough, Oregon to teach migrant farm workers how to speak English. Each week, I feel a greater sense of closeness to these men. Their stories, I have adapted as part of my worldview. During the past two weeks we have been working on sharing our stories. Last night, we talked about how complex the issue of illegal immigration is. The men explained that without the work in the United States, they would not be able to provide for their families. One man said, “Work in States es dificil pero there is money for my familia. My familia no eat with no money from me.”  In Spanglish, my friend teaches me the importance of the individual despite the politics.

            No matter what our stance is regarding the politics of illegal immigration, the fact of the matter is, the system is flawed and has left a broken community behind. Many of the men have not seen their families for ten years. If there is one thing I have learned while working with the men, it is that no one willingly wants to leave their home and loved ones if their needs are provided for. Which means, their needs in Mexico have not been met.

            I believe my mission in Costa Rica will be similar to my work at the Campo with the migrant farm workers. My job will be to make their homes a place they want to stay. I will be working with children living near the river that connects the entitled, the religious, prostitutes, drug lords, and the helpless. I will be teaching children the importance of their own lives and fixing the broken aspects of their lives. In fixing the broken, my own broken pieces will be patched.

             Leaving Campo last night, while walking out of the barn, my attention was focused to the stars. Mira I said happily, las estrellas son bonitas. The men, the students, and I faced our eyes to the night sky. Our eyes watched the same stars that I also knew were shinning over the children by the river in Costa Rica. The stars were the first patch to mending the broken, they were something we could share—and together we claimed them as our own.