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We settle back and I look at my clock, it’s getting late. I know Lucía’s got an early start in the morning, but I’m driving back to Malibu with her tonight and I don’t plan on leaving until it’s time for work.
I’m just about to say something to that effect when Omar speaks.
His sunglasses are still on but it’s clear he’s looking at Lucía when he speaks. “I read your book,” he says it quietly, but loud enough that we can all hear a note of displeasure in his voice.
Lucía looks at him, a little warily. “Thanks . . . what did you think?” she asks a bit hesitantly.
“Well, I think it glorifies a bunch of law breaking people who have convinced themselves they have a right to be here.”
The mood at the table goes from jovial to hair trigger tense.
“Well, that’s rude.” This is from Jessica who has started to put a protective arm around her friend’s shoulder.
I look at Lucía and she looks relaxed, so I let myself relax, too. He’s entitled to his opinion. I know he has strong ones. We’ve argued about this issue for years.
Lucía moves slightly so she’s not under Jessica’s arm and says to her, “It’s not rude. I know that he and a lot of people feel that way. Tell me why you think it’s glorifying anything.”
Omar puts his beer down on the table and takes his sunglasses off. His right eye is red, and swollen with skin that ranges from dark purple, to mottled green all around the outer edge of it.
“Because everyone in that book is made out to be some sort of hero. All of them are criminals.” This is a tone I’ve never heard him use before.
“Hey, man. Careful,” I warn him.
Dave groans and pulls his baseball cap down even farther on his forehead and slumps in his seat. He can tell that this is going to get messy, quick.
Omar glances at me. “Careful with what? My parents are immigrants to this country, too. They waited until they could enter legally and I did things the right way. But people like the ones she writes about, they give us all a bad name. Why couldn’t that family just go back to Mexico and use the skills they learned here, there?”
Lucía tips her head at him, her eyes narrowing and I see all my plans for tonight go up in ball of flames. I’m going to fucking kill Omar.
“Go back Mexico? Don’t you think that people would LOVE to be able to go back to the country of their birth? You think they all want to have to leave just to feed their kids? Good for you that you had the luxury of choosing when you immigrated. My characters came here as children. What choice did they have?” she demands.
“Why is that now the entire country’s burden?” Omar throws back at her.
“What burden? They work, virtually every single social service excludes them from access even though they pay taxes. They can’t access health insurance; they can’t get proper identification. They do work you couldn’t even imagine. They fucking contribute.” Her voice raises at that last sentence and people at the adjacent table turn to look at us.
She lowers her voice a little. “They’re your neighbors. Not all undocumented people are criminals and drug mules. I bet your soccer team has someone on staff who is undocumented and who lives in fear of exposure every day.”
“If they’re so afraid, they should find a way to go back home.” Omar’s keeps his voice down.
“I’m undocumented.”
All of us stop and turn to look at Jessica. She looks completely sober and more serious than I’ve ever seen her.
“I am. I came here to study. When my visa was running out, I got married. To the love of my life, but he died before he could file for me. My husband left me all his money when he died and it’s made it easy for me to blend in. But, I’m basically stuck here. If I leave, I wouldn’t be able to come back.”
I had no idea about Jessica and apparently Lucía didn’t either. She looks dumbstruck. But she just moves closer to her friend and puts an arm around her.
She looks at me. “Reece, last year there was a man whose legal fees your foundation paid. He was born in South Korea, but he’d lived here since he was three. He was married, had children, owned a restaurant. At the age of forty-two he committed a petty crime. He went to trial, was found not guilty of the crime, but because he was undocumented, they deported him anyway. He had to leave his wife and kids and go.”
Her eyes blaze at Omar.
“They drop you off with a hundred and fifty dollars and tell you good luck. He didn’t speak Korean; he couldn’t find a job or a place to live. The South Korean government, like most nations, doesn’t have any resources available for people like him. He was homeless for months before he killed himself. I know it’s against the law to enter or remain in this country without paper. But, for those of us who didn’t actively break that law, it’s unfair to treat us as if we did.” She takes a sip of her drink and continues. “It’s easy to say, go back home. Or tell me that now that I’m old enough I should go to Mexico and petition to enter legally. What would happen to my work, my bills, my friends, my life if I did that? I would have to wait three years to apply for re-entry. What would I do in Mexico for three years? My Spanish is barely conversant.
“Thank God for DACA or I’d probably be gone by now. God knows I wouldn’t have had time to write a book without it. When I couldn’t get documented jobs, I worked in restaurants, valet stands, grocery stock rooms. I had to have three jobs to survive. When I got my work permit and could get a real job, I was able to cut down to one job and that gave me time to write this book . . .”
She trails off as she notices that all of us are staring at her. Omar in surprise, Jessica and me, in alarm.
“What?!” she exclaims. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”
