Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Peopling America
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
Aboard the Staten Island ferry, a fierce wind slaps my face, pulling at my hair. The harbor waters are a shag carpet the color of dark tea. The whitecaps are the color of cheesecake.
A man in his late forties, about my age, with black hair, olive skin and a strong, broad nose steadies himself on the starboard railing. Turning to me, in a heavily accented voice he introduces himself, “I’m Santiago.” He’s lonely for conversation.
I learn he’s Guatemalan. For eighteen years, he’s worked as a drywall installer. Last June his daughter graduated with honors from NYU in bioengineering. His father’s pride goes unstated.
Instead, his face flushes crimson. His eyes flashing, he spits out, “I want to tear down that Statue. It means nothing. Nothing!”
His fingers grip the railing. He starts to talk, but his voice chokes. I wait.
“My wife and son are in Guatemala,” he moans. “Five months ago, masked men in black vans arrested the nannies outside my son’s school. My wife was there to meet my son to go shopping. He screamed that his mom was born in America, but then they grabbed him too. I have a lawyer, but no one in the government will listen.”
I say nothing. He could be a man overboard, drowning. I would be as helpless.
Like a 1930s German citizen watching Jews hauled away, I’m a collateral victim—horrified by the face of fascism but paralyzed by my lack of power. For a moment, I have a tinge of seasickness. I want to vomit.
Santiago’s eyes are wet. He blows his nose.
“Every week we talk by phone.”
I ask if they Skype.
“No, never. If we Skype, I can’t hide my tears.”
His boy’s name is Marco. He’s the same age as my high school history class students.
2.5 million Latinos live in New York—thirty percent of the city. Back at my hotel, staffing the reception desk is a Japanese woman and two African American men. Everyone else—from concierge to kitchen crew to maids—is Hispanic.
As the Dorothy Day churns past the Statue of Liberty, a dozen languages from nations near and far fuse into a momentary community of murmuring, pointing, beaming shipmates. Faces frame themselves inside selfies as if to say, “Lady Liberty and me, in solidarity.”
Ellis Island lights me up. Twelve million future Americans—the largest migration in human history—started new lives. Italians. Jews. Greeks. Russians. Slavs.
The Irish. And Germans like Trump’s grandparents.
People migrating—the human face of globalization—is why my high school students do yoga poses in gym class, eat pizza and listen to reggae. In their bedrooms, schoolbooks sit on Swedish IKEA shelves assembled with Polish and Chinese parts. Their computers are made in South Korea, their underwear stitched in Bangladesh.
About half my classroom hails from a Spanish-speaking country. My best pupil is Peruvian.
If ICE kidnappers invade my classroom, I don’t know what I’ll do. There’s no active shooter drill to prepare me. No way to know if I am brave enough to protect my students
Next school year, I’ll be teaching constitutional rights.
In English and Spanish.
