Sanctuary Cities Should Not be Punished
As a child, I was raised in a sleepy, agricultural community nestled at the foot of the Sierra Mountains in Northern California. My father and mother settled in Placerville in 1996, buying a large plot of land once owned by a German immigrant who had been a blacksmith along the Mormon Emigrant Trail. This area is rich in history, and it has long been a place for the disenchanted to seek a better life—El Dorado County was once host to hundreds of thousands of gold-crazed miners in the late 1800s. It was a sanctuary of sorts for the many who left behind their “old lives” and set forth to California in search of prosperity and renewed hope. In that same spirit, my parents took this fallow land and nurtured it into a fertile vineyard and winery.
During harvest season in late autumn, I would press my hands against the windows of my bedroom, eager to watch the vineyard workers frantically slashing at clusters of grapes and loading their buckets into the large harvesting equipment. In the winter, I would lean over the large crates at the winery, watching eagerly as the grapes simmered into a fermented broth. And every day on my twenty-minute car ride to school, I would pass miles and miles of farm workers bending over grape vines, climbing ladders to grasp for the ripe apples and pears. They diligently worked on the agricultural ranches of Northern California, doing back-breaking jobs that many Americans would never even consider.
I grew up speaking a strange Spanglish dialect with these people. I learned their names and I spoke to them every day. They always flashed a joyful smile, despite the difficulties they faced in their lives, the worries, the uncertainties. I played with their kids; we’d run up and down the fields, chasing each other with stray grape vines. Occasionally one of the workers would throw a birthday party for their children, and I’d be invited. I would stuff myself with fresh tamales and horchata. I’d take pride in being able to smash the piñata open, so I could grab the nearest package of Duvalín, or crushed churritos.
When I was about eight years old, one of the farm workers was ticketed for speeding. He’d been coming home along Highway 50 after a weekend of skiing in Lake Tahoe, and a policeman pulled him to the side of the road. After asking for his papers, the cop soon realized that the worker was not a legal immigrant.
I remember the dark fear in his eyes as my father explained to him that he could possibly be deported. This was the worst situation conceivable for someone who’d been so dedicated to the United States—to feel rejected and alone in a country you’d grown to love. He had escaped a life of poverty in his homeland of Mexico and had risked his safety just to find a better life in America. He filed his income taxes, paid local school board fees and sales taxes on everything he purchased locally. He awoke before dawn and went to bed late at night. He sweat under the sun, wiped rain off his face, laced up his boots and trudged through snow. He gave up the ability to live with his family, within his culture and his customs and his people, just to start afresh in the land that promised him new opportunities.
I also remember the joy that washed over his face when he was told the county authorities had decided not to report him to immigration enforcement. He could return to what he knew best: working hard, living as an independent and strong-willed individual and saving as much money as he could to aid his family back in Mexico. He truly felt love for America; it was something I could sense in the way he would talk for hours on end, eyes glistening, about the glory of freedom and prosperity for all. This worker, along with all the other farm workers scattered throughout California, help to generate revenue, and therefore are contributing citizens of our nation. They are the only labor available to do many of the unskilled jobs in the agricultural industry. What would happen if they were eliminated: who would harvest our crops that feed the nation? What economical impact would that have upon our nation if these jobs were lost if Trump expels these undocumented workers from America?
The poem on the Statue of Liberty, known as the “New Colossus,” states, “Give me your tired, your poor / Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, / The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. / Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, / I lift my lamp beside the golden door.” America has always been a harbor for those trying to start a better life. Granted, you must be willing to work hard to enjoy the fruit of your labors, but I have never known an immigrant who shied away from hard work, long hours and difficult living circumstances. Our nation was built upon the labor of immigrants and continues to thrive because of their dedication and resilience. In order for Americans to enjoy the benefits of these diligent, strong, capable and patriotic workers, there needs to be sanctuary cities. We should not aid in the deportation of our neighbors whose only offense is being undocumented, nor should we attack their dignity given all they contribute to this nation as they seek freedom, liberty and a better life.