Border Street: At last, some peace when Mexican grandma leaves

By Tina Griego, Rocky Mountain News (Contact)

Thursday, February 22, 2007

With the Mexican grandma and her sons gone, off to a small apartment complex a mile and a world away from Border Street, the Teacher's mother finds the block bearable again. No more nights disturbed by the Mexican grandma and her sons sitting outside past midnight, drinking beer, telling jokes while the kids ran around, crying.

"Be quiet," the Mexican grandma would yell at the children, and, next door, the Teacher's father would wince and say, oh, the language that woman uses, and the Teacher's mother would wonder how late they'd go this time.

The Mexican grandma struck people as someone who lived ferociously, seizing opportunity when it presented itself, a woman strong as flint. The children's mother, the Mexican grandma's daughter-in-law, appeared to defer to her completely. "Mujer," the Mexican grandma would sometimes call her. Woman. Woman, do this. Woman, take care of that.

The daughter-in-law, a tiny thing who seemed to grow smaller by the day, sometimes looked as if she were holding her breath, a woman in a disguise she herself did not recognize, a Mexican village girl living on the fringes of an American city life.

She was a teenager when she left her mother and father and their little brick and stone house deep in a canyon of agave and lime trees seven years ago. Sometimes, the daughter-in-law would take out pictures of her parents and wipe tears from her eyes, but she stayed silent in the face of this force of a mother-in-law, a woman who has no desire to return to Mexico, to the village of rutted roads and people she'd just as soon never see again.

Now that they are gone, the Teacher's mother cannot contain her delight. "It's so nice and quiet. I love it." And when the Fed Up Neighbor calls and mentions neighborhood meetings, the Teacher's mother says, "I don't need to go to meetings anymore. My problem is solved."

The Teacher's mother lived next to the Mexican grandma and her son for more than four years and she did not speak to them once. It was nothing personal. In a joking mood, the Teacher's mother will say, "Oh, you know me, a social butterfly." By which, she means the opposite. She married a man, however, who enjoys his neighborly conversations.

The Teacher's father has a disarming way about him, a gentle but direct curiosity. He will say to his Mexican neighbors, "My friend, how did you get your job?" Or, "My friend, can you support another child?" Or, "My friend, call the law if you see something that doesn't look right." These nudges angered some neighbors. But, others seemed to appreciate his earnest way of getting to the point, and on a recent Sunday, he could be seen talking to a young jeweler/landscaper over Longtime Eddie's trash can, which is still parked in the gutter, city codes be damned.

The Teacher's father has come to like this young man, whom he finds smart and engaging, and he has learned over time that he is here illegally and that he's probably working with a fake Social Security number and that besides his wife and son, he has two sisters who live on Border Street, too. The two men talk about many things now, and on Sunday, they touch on the war in Iraq and the Mexican economy. I wouldn't be here if I could make a living in Mexico, the young man tells the Teacher's father, if Mexico had a president who took care of his people. Then they get off on a tangent about the Teacher's father's work boots, which are steel-toed and cost $250, and the young man says, do you know how long I would have to work in Mexico for shoes like that?

My friend, the Teacher's father tells him as they talk in the street, we need to work together to keep the neighborhood clean. My friend, he says, if Mexicans are going to live here, you are going to have to do things our way.

The Teacher's father reports back to his wife: He told me, 'Yeah, you're right, we need to keep the neighborhood clean.' The Teacher's father says Mexican people do need to do things our way, but it takes time to learn new ways.

"He told me, 'I hope they don't catch me,' but I don't know, it seems like he doesn't care. He says, 'if they deport me, they deport me.' He told me that if he had come legally it would have taken him forever. 'It'll take 10 years and there was no way.' "

Later, the Teacher's father sits in his armchair in his undershirt, recounting the conversation, and he wonders: "Those people that have been here for 10 years or 16 years, if they get caught, will they send them back?"

The Teacher's mother listens from a chair next to the television. She embodies some of the contradictions of Border Street when she says she has nothing against Mexicans but would nonetheless be deeply insulted if someone were to call her one. "Because I'm not a Mexican. I wasn't born there. I consider myself Spanish-American.

"The thing I don't like is that they work for so cheap they lower the wages. If it's a job that pays $15 an hour, they'll work for $8. It messes with the wages. That's the only thing - if they want to work, work for what the pay is."

Her husband says, "I asked him, I said, 'What if they paid you $15 an hour?' He says, 'Ooh, I would do anything.' But, where they're coming from, $8 is a lot of money."

"Yeah, but just think if they made $15 an hour, they'd be better off," she says. "It's not right that here's this white guy making $20 an hour and this Mexican will take $10. If they knew they could get more money, they wouldn't work for less."

Replies her husband: "The thing is, the contractor knows, 'Why should I get a pipe layer for $15 when I can get one for $10?' It's not illegal to pay less. As long as they're paying minimum wage."

She frowns and says: "Think about it, a person from here can't live on $8 an hour."

"They know that," he says. "They tell me, 'Why do you think we live in a house like sardines?' They tell you, 'Here comes my cousin, here comes my uncle, here comes my nephew. We help each other.' "

"Well, " his wife says, "if I were in their shoes, I wouldn't settle."

'That's why I say to them I wouldn't work for $8 or $15 an hour," the Teacher's father says. "But to them, that's a lot. You pay him $8 an hour and he'll work for you forever. He'll work for you for life."

They talk a while longer, the TV news on low in the background. Outside, the sunset drapes the neighborhood in rosy light. When darkness falls, Border Street is quiet.

griegot@RockyMountainNews.com