Life of an Immigrant

Migration is the failure of the roots. Displaced men are ecological
victims. Between them and the sustaining earth a wedge has
been driven. Eviction by droughts or dispossession by landlords,
the impoverishment of the soil or conquest by arms –
nature and man, separately or together, lay down the choice:
move or die. Those who are able to break away do so, leaving a
hostile world behind to face an uncertain one ahead.
MI CASA, AQUI NO ES MI CASA
Living in a crowded apartment, sleeping on the floor and dreaming,
I have become a prisoner guarded by my hovering soul. My
dreams are heading back home. Down there in the south, somebody
is expecting them, to embrace them, to make them hers
and keep them until midnight because they have to get back to
me before dawn. On their way back, my dreams will catch the
early refreshing winds of the failing night and gently wake me
up.
This is my house but I do not call it mine yet. It is too cold and
dark. It smells like rotten rugs and the walls are peeling. It has
two bedrooms. In each one there are four men asleep. My soul
and I are sharing a corner in the living room. Tomorrow, another
brother will arrive and he will be my living room mate.
Among us, the immigrants, it is like that. We help each other. We
make space for the newcomers until they get another place.
This is my house, and only God knows how long I am going to
be here.
The bathroom faucet is leaking and nobody here cares a damn
about it, because nobody seems to be emotionally attached to
this place. There are cockroaches parading around being our
companions. We are survivors, but they have been here longer
than us. This is their house. We humans are the intruders. How
many people have lived here before? Where are they now?
The kitchen’s shelves are empty. There are a few old plates that
somebody bought at a flea market. There is a big pot to cook
beans in. It used to be shiny. Now it is dull outside and dark
inside. There are a few...