Last month, a friend invited us to her parents’ house for dinner. “What can we bring,” I asked. “Something they’d really like?”
“You’re gonna laugh, but my dad loves an $8 bottle of Ménage a Trois red wine. Like, the cheapest version.”
Hell yes. My kinda dude. Two healthy pours later and her dad chuckled while recounting his stories from three decades of life in the US of A. “If I knew life would be so hard in this country,” he laughed, “I would have never left Vietnam!” But he didn’t mean it. Next to the dining room table was a credenza/altar that celebrated their children’s many accomplishments — which were also, inextricably, their parents’ accomplishments. The fruits of sacrifice.
Her dad arrived from Vietnam in 1992 with $450 in his pocket. On his first day, he looked for work. He wanted nothing more than a pack of cigarettes to soothe his nerves but was astonished by the cost. On his second day, he found work, earning $200 a month sewing denim. His wife joined him and they have been working full-time ever since.
When Iris and I shared that we were starting a year-long sabbatical, he gave me the fatherly side-eye. Just stop working? For an entire year? Were we sure?
Dinner was lovely: the kind of home-cooked immigrant food that comes with history and instructions. Later that night, I got curious and punched their address into Zillow.
In 1992, they arrived with $450. Thirty years later, the estimated value of their house: $1.4 million.
At least one million Vietnamese died in the war between 1955 and 1975.1 Over the next twenty years, another million refugees fled South Vietnam. An estimated 200,000 perished at sea. Some of the survivors found their way to “Little Saigon” in Southern California. That night, we heard the story of two of them.
To arrive to Guadalajara from Tucson, we drove through Sinaloa, the site of shootouts, kidnappings, and narco-blockades ever since the Mexican Army captured the leader of the Sinaloa Cartel a year ago.2
In every way, Iris is my perfect compliment — though sometimes your perfect compliment can feel like an antagonist. Generally, we benefit from my optimism that everything will work out. And while I struggle to admit it, we often benefit from Iris’ pessimistic preparation for a potential disaster.3
I was 99% sure that we would arrive to Guadalajara safely and without incident. But 1% is still 1%. We were prepared with extra food and water so that we wouldn’t have to stop along the highway. We downloaded maps and directions, shared our location with friends, and checked in with Iris’ family every couple of hours.4
Each morning, I aimed to get away with as much coffee as possible to prepare for six hours of driving … but without needing to use the bathroom. Under-caffeinated and cranky, I followed Iris’ instructions to not exceed the speed limit as we crept along Mexico’s vast northern desert.
When I first saw three dark-skinned apparitions walking alongside the highway in the middle of the desert with nothing more than bottles of water, I blinked my eyes with disbelief. A few miles later we saw more. And more. Dozens of Africans walking in the middle of the sun-drenched desert like ashen survivors from Cormac McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic novel, The Road. Where did they sleep? What did they eat? How much money did they have on them, and how did they keep safe from the cartels?
That same morning, I read an article in the New York Times about “migrant influencers” who share tips on TikTok to survive the treacherous trek through Central America, Mexico, and across the US border. I got curious and sure enough, I found an infinite scroll of TikTok stories.
I felt ashamed that we were so concerned about our safety from the air-conditioned comfort of our car while they walked along the side of the highway at least 100 kilometers from the nearest town with hardly any belongings. I wanted to pull over to offer them a ride, or some money, or at least some food.5
I understand that supporting immigrants is not a winning electoral strategy. A few days after we arrived, US and Mexican officials struck a deal to reduce immigration ahead of Biden’s re-election campaign.
Migration to wealthy countries is at an all-time high. In Europe, anti-immigration parties are winning elections and surging in polls (prompting more African immigrants to try their luck crossing the Atlantic Ocean). Trump has pledged to redirect military funding to launch the largest deportation effort in U.S. history if he wins in November. And the only hope of passing immigration reform before then depends largely on Kyrsten Sinema, who might not win her own re-election bid in Arizona.
Of the roughly 340 million people living in the United States, about 50 million of them were born in another country. I am happy for them and I wish there could be more.
I loved hearing the immigration story — of struggle, sacrifice, and pride — of my friend’s parents. I wish that I knew more about the immigration stories of my relatives. I know that John Carl Rickli immigrated from Switzerland in 1871 and moved to Texas, where he worked on the telegraph. I know that Frederick Horne immigrated from Kent, England sometime around 1775 and made his way to Kentucky. I wish I could hear their stories, and watch their TikTok videos.
Iris and I finally arrived to Oaxaca last night. She has returned to her birth country. I am now the immigrant. So far, everyone has treated me with immense kindness. I wish the same were true for all migrants.
And I hope the same is true for you this weekend,
David
60,000 American soldiers also died, seeding Boomer's distrust of the US government.
Just weeks before our trip, the police arrested another cartel leader, prompting warnings of more narco-blockades and reprisal attacks.
I reminded myself of the times my optimism got us in trouble while we waited in line behind a crazy person at Office Depot in Tucson to make extra copies of documents that I was 99% sure we wouldn’t need. Indeed, we didn’t need them. But I’ve been wrong enough in the past that I wasn’t going to argue.
In 2011, we were pulled over at gunpoint and nearly kidnapped after I foolishly entered a small town in an area known for its cartel violence. (A story for another newsletter.) Iris was right to distrust my overly optimistic outlook that everything would work out.
I was delighted to see on TikTok that many Mexicans (surely with relatives working in the US) were doing just that.
Buena suerte en Mexico!
If you want more immigrant stories from Vietnam, my dad worked as a translator for the American government, and when they lost the war, my dad was to be executed and he fled Vietnam in 1977. He was the only English speaking person on the boat of 100 or so Vietnamese people and the Danish boat that picked them up was only willing to take my dad and his family bc he could speak English and negotiate with them. He ended up negotiating for all of the other non-English speaking Vietnamese to be rescued as well. This is the Cliffs Notes abridged version. The whole story had many more plot twists. One day, I will share it. The man is an absolute BOSS. I owe everything to him.