This Is My Song

Whenever Freddi spoke of his ranch in Quelitán, Mexico, his face lit up and his aura brightened. The ranch had horses he loved to ride, the skies were golden after the rain, and life was beautiful.

Freddi believed in angels and taught me about Quelitán’s Catholic church and its rich holiday rituals and traditions. But what he was most passionate about was the vast and open family ranch he farmed as a boy up through adulthood until he migrated to the US.

As a knowledgeable gardener, he taught me how to care for my plants and trees, and warned me of conditions that could make them vulnerable to disease or infestation. But whenever we spoke, he made no secret of wanting to return to his ranch—if god was willing.

Freddi was full of surprises. Once, he sent a Mariachi band to my home on my birthday just to sing Las Mañanitas at my doorstep; and often, if he saw a nice plant to add to my garden, he would gift it as a sign of gratitude for the work I gave him.

On one special occasion, I was his guest of honor at his cousin’s home in the west side of Long Beach where many Mexican immigrants live. There, his brother-in-law, a newly ordained priest, was going to do a special blessing for the ranch they had all left behind.

When I arrived, I was treated like royalty. I was introduced as “Doña Elisa,” and the large community of brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, children and grandchildren seemed happy to greet me. Straight out of a bygone era, the men tipped their vaquero hats to me and looked even sharper in their pressed cowboy shirts and spiffed-up alligator boots. The women overflowed with generosity, offering large plates of homemade food, eager for me to indulge in everything they had prepared.

After the meal, the young priest stood and offered his bold vision of a community center he planned to build on the now idle, old family ranch. By raising money, his dream would manifest through the grace of God—if god was willing. Once donations were collected, he pulled us into a wide prayer circle and raised his hands to God, asking that the families gathered could return to the ranch one day, thrive, and give their youngest children the lifestyle they had all once enjoyed. At the end of the prayer, he initiated a chant where everyone joined in: “Quelitán! Quelitán! Quelitán!

When I asked Freddi why he left his home in Mexico, his eyes teared up. He explained that up until 1980, Mexican families earned a decent living growing and selling crops, mainly corn, on their parcels of land. But when the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) took effect, the sales dried up quickly as highly subsidized corn from the US flooded the market at a bargain price.

At the same time, other small businesses such as groceries stores and hardware stores throughout Mexico shuttered as Walmarts and Home Depots arrived and took over, uprooting small business owners. In Mexico, there is no minimum wage law—a gift to the new American corporations now dominating Mexico’s job market. This economic shift made it impossible for people to feed their families. The outcome was an explosion of crime and the erosion of a safe and sustainable life. This was the beginning of a steady migration north.

And this is what I think about when I see news of endless migrants coming to our border today.

They aren’t coming to pan for gold. They aren’t coming to exploit our health care system. They aren’t coming to take jobs away from us. On the contrary, they are facing an existential crisis in their homeland and being forced out. America benefits from this crisis.

Being they are a boon for cheap labor, American businesses here at home eagerly await them, guaranteeing them one of the hardest and most dangerous jobs in the country. The pig farm, the dairy farm, the chicken farm, like the Statue of Liberty, welcome Mexico’s tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breath free, the wretched refuse of Mexico’s teeming shore, homeless, tempest-tossed: We put you out of business, but now we have a job for you that no one else is willing to do. Bienvenido amigo!

When they arrive they won’t be treated as kindly as I was at Freddi’s family event. No, they will be booed by the community at large, forced into horrid working conditions, and given inadequate shelter in garages or overcrowded one-room apartments infested with mice, cockroaches, mold, and lead paint peeling off cracked walls.

Over the years, Freddi has done well for himself as a gardener, his children have grown up, but he still longs to return to his homeland to reclaim the beautiful life he lost. I think about him whenever I see parents clinging to their children crossing the Rio Grande. They will not feel at home here. No migrant who must leave their homeland due to economic misfortune or war ever does. But it’s happening all over the world.

For them, I dedicate “This Is My Song” by Jean Sibelius with lyrics by Lloyd Stone and Georgia Harkness. I hope 2024 brings you and migrants around the world an abundance of peace, goodness, and safe landings wherever life leads. May God will it so.

This post concludes my pledge series “Listening for Peace.”