Mexicans: What They Are Really Like - Not a Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

My own life has reflected the ups and downs of a wanderer, questioning all that he sees. When I was growing up, I was never exposed to the seamy side of life and truly did not know real evil because it had not touched me except in the mildest of ways-until I met a Mexican.

In retrospect, I feel as if a time portal had opened, allowing me entrance into a world I had long heard about but had never seen, a world where passions collide with morality, where goodness refuses to go and badness seeks with the salivating chops of a wolf on the prowl, hunting its prey under cover of moonlight, stealthily creeping along an icy ridge, the scent of fresh blood too tempting to resist. Too hungry to notice his surroundings, too starved to care if he is seen or not, the wolf can hunt alone or in a pack, isolating its prey by surrounding it, sealing off all avenues of escape, gradually closing the circle with only one objective-to satisfy its craving.

Mexicans, like wolves, have endured years of hardship before arriving in the United States, so desperate are they for a life without a constant struggle to survive, a life that will provide freedom from restraint, entering the country in any manner possible with only one goal in mind-to seek a better life and help his family. Like the wolf, Mexican men have been forced to build stamina, possessing musculature ideal for long distance travel due to having been forced to leave school at the age of nine or younger in order to find work to support his family. The Mexican man has often worked in a trade for ten or more years, sporting a variety of scars from work-related accidents with no one to take care of him, effectively arriving at a stage of maturity far beyond the imagination of the average same-aged American male, who has rarely missed more than a week of school throughout childhood and teenage years.

Like wolves, Mexican men seem to have "scent markers" in their feet, helping him to forge rocky terrain while amazingly keeping his family informed of his whereabouts. They also possess two distinct "coats," like a wolf, one outer coat of rough "guard" hairs to repel all attempts women make to help him "clean up his act." In addition, he possesses an undercoat of dense insulation to guard him against further attempts to change his mode of living, designed to be shed in the spring. The Mexican man is always on his guard, alone or within the pack. Tough and wiry, he is made for challenge, seeking it eternally in American bars across the nation-on the prowl. He has made himself recognizable by his sudden appearance the moment the south wind blows the scent of dimly remembered good times to mind, as well as the horror of bloodshed he has witnessed, too wise in the ways of men to pretend ignorance, yearning to rid himself of the unwelcome intrusion of memory.

To do so, he seeks the company of the pack, rubbing himself against any object that would help shed the unwanted memories too dense to endure, swilling beer in the midst of many, too eager to forget to realize its dangers and too damaged to care about its consequences. Congregating in groups of six or more, the men seek watering holes for pleasure, an oasis filled with music, laughter, beer and women.

With the unwary female, the male of the species is inclined to be monogamous, eagerly and expectantly desirous of attentiveness to his needs without regard for her needs. If need be, he will drop her off in the ditch, lock the door and leave for work, unmindful of any heartrending cry for mercy. Since he was shown no mercy in his childhood, why show concern when he feels nothing? He is simply a machine, designed to work, to travel, to endure, day after day, month after month, in a never ending drudgery of labor in order to afford his next binge, caring little about establishing relationships or permanence in a country he cannot understand.

Nothing in his background has prepared him for the lavish furnishings of his bosses' home, the number of objects of adornment too numerous to count, the chairs, the tables, the lamps. All he sees is money he could have used to buy medicine for the three year old brother who died in his sleep for lack of paternal care or obligation, remembering the arguments about his father being too intent on pleasuring himself to consider the needs of his own children. He covers over his shock with laughter, remembering to share every detail with his mother on the phone later in the day.

Even his earliest memories are bleak. Dirt floors and concrete block walls, no electricity and scanty water, an outhouse, and a yard filled with low growing brush. Kerosene lanterns hung on hooks in the wall, his food cooked over an open flame, his mother was forced to chill food in the well. Sleeping on a bed of ragged cloth stuffed with grass, he fought the nightly invasion of insect visits, concerned only that no scorpions make its way into his retreat. With nightly chill and daylight shimmer of heat, he passed his youth in a one room house that had no glass in the windows and no screen in the doorway, forever open to let in the breeze.

The only piece of furniture was a small wooden table his father had built from the pinons that grew nearby, rough wood chopped and lashed side by side, grouted with mud. There was no chair for his mother to sit while she rolled dough for tortillas, shelled corn or picked bugs from the beans they had grown. Their only stove was a tiny, ancient iron contraption that fed on wood and dung. His aunts and uncles lived no better. His cousins shared three and four to a mattress, bought with precious pesos as a surprise with a promise to build a wooden bedstead. But with jobs scarce and having to travel, his father absent for weeks at a time, the boy often went to bed hungry when the beans ran out.

Seeing the abundance of possessions in the home of his boss, the man gazed hungrily at the carpentry detailing, eager to copy the designs he saw for the family he left behind. The vast variety of silverware, cookware, china sets and whatnot's in the kitchen made him drop his jaw in amazement, wishing his mother owned even one set, one stove, one chair, one bed, and one window that closed securely. Feeling increasingly uncomfortable in the midst of such riches, he departs, determined to provide the necessities of life for his mother that his father could not, making a mental list of items to buy the next time he got paid.

When the weather unexpectedly changes, a cold northerly gale with gusts of fierce rain that freezes solid overnight keeps the man out of work for days. Unable to maneuver his truck in the frozen terrain, he forlornly sits at his window, waiting for the sun to melt the ice, having little to do except bemoan his lack of foresight for not having bought food at the grocery store before the snow came. After many weeks of little work, little food and little to do for entertainment, the Mexican man dreams of the blue skies of Mexico, the gentle breezes and the orchards heavy with a harvest waiting to be picked.

Gone are the dreams of a better life for his family. He now craves warmth and laughter, food and comfort of the familiar surroundings of his homeland. Discarding his job on whim, where he earned five times the amount of money for the same job in Mexico, he eagerly departs. Forgotten melodies beckon, awaking the beast within for the comfort of the pack. Next year, he promises himself, next year I will make more money. Next year, next year, next year---the refrain becoming a faint memory of a favorite song long forgotten.

Until Spring. The wolf moves at his own leisure, seeking his own path through life without thought or need of permanence, the stamp of the American. After all, he consoles himself, I can go anywhere with the clothes on my back. I belong to my country. My country lives inside of me. What need have I of more?