Mariana

I have this friend named Mariana who always has a new story to tell about the men she's fucking.
The 6 foot Argentinian beauty started working at my restaurant when she was 18, but she acted quite a bit older. Before I actually worked with her, I heard about her from the other waiters.
"Leah, have you worked with this new girl yet? Ohhhh, she is nice."
Yeah, she was nice. Super thick curly dark hair that hung all the way down her long back. Eyelashes like fringe on a chenille blanket...or something. Amazing anyway. Yes, I am a little taken with her too. But I wasn't at first.
The first time I met Mariana, she did all the talking...actually, she still does, but I was a little less receptive on that first conversation. She spoke English so well, and she was so mature, and she kept talking about all these jobs she'd had and all these men she'd had, and I thought she was a bitch.
My opinion changed. A few weeks of working with the girl showed me that what seemed like coldness was a cultural thing, and Mariana was just as warm and loving as anyone else I worked with once you got to know her. I got to know her pretty fast because of the nature of our job. Working in close quarters, smearing sweat on others, swearing over customers, running through the kitchen into each other, and venting during the lulls was how everyone in the restaurant got to know each other intimately, and Mariana and I kind of flocked to each other. Maybe it was because we were close in age, or maybe it was our shared raging hormones, but we usually found each other by the computers or the bar and de-stressed by unloading our most vulgar thoughts into each other's ears.
Mariana always wanted to tell a story.
"OH MY GOD Leah," was how it always began and how I knew I was about to vicariously relive her latest escapade. I had no complaints.
She started with our boss: assistant manager, Pelon, who gave the girls rides on his motorcycle after work and whose wife was a frequent customer at the restaurant. Mariana caught his eye, conjured some spell, and days later was squeezing the blood out of my hand and telling me about how he'd taken her to his house when his wife was out of town and what he'd done to her there.
Oh man.
Then for the next month, I got to listen to Pelon's store meetings with a smirk on my face imagining him in the position Mariana had just described to me from the night before. One day they spent their break at the hotel across the street, and later that week, they were at it in the manager's office while the shift was still going on. I got to hear about everything, and it did make the shift more interesting even if I couldn't look Pelon's wife in the eye when she greeted me.
Mariana worked through the restaurant staff like the plague--as soon as she finished off one body, she was on another, and very few employees escaped her mark. She went for both single and married men, customers and coworkers, men and women, fellow waiters and the president of the company, and her stories never left out a single detail.
Back then it was all in fun; she still gets around, but it's no longer just fun. I've kept talking to Mariana about once a week, and the stories are worse every time. First she was in a hit-and-run accident that totaled her car. Then she lost her restaurant job. She doesn't have a driver's license, and she's not a citizen. It's hard for her and her parents to find jobs, and her family of 6 lives in a tiny two bedroom apartment. Right now they are counting down the days until they will have to retreat back to Argentina and are trying to find any way out of it they can.
For months, all of Mariana's powers of seduction have been put toward one purpose: finding a husband with citizenship so she can stay in the US. Even her parents are pushing her to marriage. I know a lot of people who tried/are trying to do this and few who succeeded, but even the marriage route is a complicated and uncertain route to citizenship. Every time I talk to her now, there is still a story, but it always has a business motive. She found one guy 12 years her senior and 12 inches shorter whom she had not a hint of attraction to but seduced nonetheless. He fell for her, and she led him on and never told him a thing about her ulterior motive. He did propose, and she was sick at the thought of living with him but willing to do anything to stay here. Then about a month ago, he found out her secret and left her, and now she is getting desperate.
Last I heard, she and her family are trying to go to Canada. It's easier to get in there; you just have to lie about your reasons.

Everybody's Talking About It!

I'm still refining what I want to do with this blog. Here is what I'm thinking: It should not be just a memoir, though the last post was very memoir-esque. What I want to do is take the stories of what I saw happen and still see happening with the Hispanic immigrants I know and use those stories to explore the (perhaps) unknown aspects of immigration. For example, I want to tell about the guys whose kids grew up without a father present because he was working in a kitchen in the US. Then I want to use that story to explore the psychology, consequences, and risk involved with illegal immigrants. Basically I don't want to just talk; I want to make a point.
And then I want to also talk about the differences and adjustments involved with immigrating--both legally and illegally. So for example, why it is more complicated for my lesbian friend to come out to her Mexican family and friends than to her American friends? Culture differences.
OK now that I'm organized, next post!

Everybody's talking about it.
I know a songwriter/producer named Jayne who used to frequent my restaurant and wrote a song called "Crossing the Border" that tells the story of a guy who...well, the title gives it away. It's a beautiful song, and it shows, as she says, "a sympathetic look at the other side of America's internal conflict over immigration." The lyrics go like this:

...Four days in the desert, seven survived.
He carried a woman barely alive.
Coyotes would take your money...and your life.
Crossing the line so far from home,
looking behind me, I'm all alone
six more miles to Arizona, push on.

And et cetera. Jayne has gotten to know some of these people like I have, and for many of them, they have a choice between extreme poverty with no opportunity to move up, or...the US. I was born into this country where I can do whatever I want if I work hard enough--I didn't have to earn the right to be here. These people came from places where no matter how hard they worked, they would probably remain painfully poor their whole lives. If people had to earn their citizenship instead of being born with it, I'm sure I would fast be changing places with most of my illegal buddies.(Of course that could bring up the question: Are they as hard-working and dedicated as they are for the very reason that they lived in such hopeless poverty?)
So Jayne is thinking about this, I am thinking about it, and something changes when you get to really know the individuals behind the issue. When my 33-year-old friend Monica was counseling me on relationships using the wisdom of her far more difficult life, or when 20-year-old Carmen got on to me for letting worries keep me from doing things, I realized that aside from being poor and illegal, they were wiser, kinder, and stronger than most of the people who look down on them.
So music is talking about it.
Then when I went to see Juno, I saw two previews back-to-back that really caught my attention. Both were films about huge issues in the US--one about the war in Iraq(Stop Loss) and one about...illegal immigration, Under the Same Moon. Both movies are shown from the perspective opposite the government, and both are fairly bold.
Mira!
Under the Same Moon looks great. It also looks very familiar. A mother leaves her son with his grandmother in Mexico while she goes to do grunt work in a kitchen in the US. Then the grandma dies, and "Carlitos" crosses the border to find his mom. The thing that sounds best about it to me is the truth of the story. America offers so much that people often leave their families to come work temporarily and return moderately wealthy. The story is also about how this little boy finds community with strangers, and that too is very culturally accurate. At my restaurant, the strong bond of all the employees was amazing, and it was not in circles but encompassed all of the waiters and hosts. Now the cooks and bus boys are a different story and a different bond, but that will have to come up in another post.
So movies are talking about it.
Everybody is talking about it.
I'm tired.

Chaparro

By the way, all names in this blog are changed!
Chaparro was the first person my boss introduced me to on the day I started working at the restaurant. It went along the lines of: "Chaparro, this is Guerra. Teach her what to do." I looked down and shook the tiny hand of a man easily under 5 feet and followed his rapid footsteps to our station: the host area. My lessons started with learning how to most effectively wipe down the menus, when to wash the glass doors, and how to charm the customers. I noticed that Chaparro used his tiny frame to his full advantage by overdoing the cute poses, childlike smiles, and "But of course, Señorita"s to every female who demanded a table. He ended up having the effect of an adorable, less fortunate child on the stuffy, upper-class customers who frequented the restaurant partially just to be seated by the overly-animated little host. Even I was shocked when, washing the glass front doors after the lunch rush, I asked Chaparro how old he was, and he said 29.
I think customers loved Chaparro because he embodied the novelty of a simple, innocent, untainted-by-complicated-American-life foreigner. Our boss, Jefé, loved him because the customers loved him, but it didn't take long working next to him to notice that though he was very happy, there was nothing innocent about Chaparro.
He was born in Mexico City, a very big, very dangerous place where he lived with his mom and sister until he came to America. He never told me directly that he came illegally, but I figured it out. He did tell me that he learned English "on the streets," and apparently the streets were good teachers; after 3 years in America, his English was damn near perfect, and he could work entertaining restaurant guests 70+ hours a week. Even at a host's pay of $7.50/hour, he made enough to survive in America and send money back to his mom and sister in Mexico City. That's because money is worth 10x in Mexico what it is here, meaning the tattoos across Chaparro's fingers that he paid a guy 50 pesos to do cost about $5, but 50 pesos is a lot harder to come by than $5 is here.
Thus, my little host friend was obsessed with money, and he kissed ass as much as he needed to with a grin if it made him more money. That statement makes him sound a little miserly, but he wasn't. Chaparro was a very happy, energetic, and resourceful man(he always found a way, though everything was against him), and he was the best trainer and coworker I've ever had.
When he had been a host for about 8 months, Chaparro decided he wanted to try waiting(where the real money lies), but he needed a liquor license to wait tables at my restaurant, and liquor licences require social security numbers, so he went to a restaurant in an area where he didn't have to have one.
As far as I know, he's still working his way up and screwing the system, but he was a damn good man.

Te Quiero Puta (Introduction)

So that anyone who looks at this blog will know what the hell I'm writing about without going back to entry # 1, I am copying part of this introduction into the "About Me" section. This will also save me from the painful task of filling up that box with information about myself.

In the Spring before my Sophmore year in college, I applied for a job at the chain Mexican restaurant in my hometown in Georgia. This was the restaurant where my highschool friend Lori and I had spent most of our time after class and colorguard practice taking up the same booth for hours, eating cheesedip, and laughing at our cute favorite waiter, José, who just happened to be working every single time we were there. When I became the restaurant's newest recruit two years later, I found that out of about 30 employees, almost all were illegal immigrants, that José's name was made up, and that the reason he was always there was that he worked 60 - 70 hours a week...they all did, and I did too.

For a year and a half, I worked there alongside people whom many Americans hate with passion. Most of the time, I was the only token white employee(the gringa, the guera, etc.), and one of few legal employees. It was there that I first learned what real work is, what real community is. Some of the best people I've ever known are buying fake social security numbers, making up names, and screwing our system for all they can. This blog is about the people I knew, what happened to them, and what is still happening with immigrants in America.