April
13, 2012
To
whom it may concern:
As
I look for further clarification on House Bill 116, it seems to me
that the Bill is a thrust at looking through a window to solve a
serious challenge and not an end within itself.
I
have been thinking. Yes, thinking that I should bring another face to
the immigration picture.
To
begin with, I am an American; not a German American, English
American, or Scottish American. When my grandparents came to this
land of freedom, we became a small piece of the melting pot of
cultures seeking to find our dream in the land of opportunity. And I
will say, “God Bless America” because she took the poor, downtrodden, and hardworking souls whom I call grandparents and gave
them a chance for success. She took the successfully wealthy, hardworking grandparents and gave them an opportunity to make more
wealth. I am grateful to be called an American; an American who does
not set the stage to divide because of the color of skin, religious
beliefs, or social status. My family has many faces. We are all
Americans.
As
a small child and during my elementary school years, I grew up in a
mining camp in New Mexico. There was Booth Hill, Iron Hill, Downtown,
where the boss man lived with pretty paper on the walls, Ball Park,
where we lived, and Mexican town where the Mexicans lived. When
Daddy earned more job status, we moved from Booth Hill to Ball Park
where the homes were nicer and it was not as difficult to persuade
the company to give us an allotment for wall paint. At recess, the
white kids played with the white kids and the Mexican
kids played with the Mexican kids. Now that is just the way it
was in Santa Rita, New Mexico.
Something
inside of me said that I really liked to play with my Mexican
friends, as well as my white friends. For me, it worked out just
fine. Years later, Ricardo and I talked about how nice it was to
live in Santa Rita. He had a bunch of degrees from Universities. With
tender emotion, Ricardo told me that he didn't know he was poor
because no one told him he was poor. He didn't know he was
disadvantaged because no one told him he was a poor Mexican. He had
a mother who told him it was all right to take his dog up into the
hills but return for the beans in a pot that was always there. We
grew up without the newspaper, TV, and “do-gooders” telling us
how bad things were for us. The sound of the alarm, from the mine,
signaling that there had been an accident, was what we feared. And
that was the bad “stuff”.
In
1951, our family moved from Santa Rita to southern New Mexico just 30
miles from the Mexican border. The border was not a challenge to
cross and often the “wet backs” came to the ranch to enjoy a hand
out from mother's cooking; some to later break in, steal out of the
deep freeze, leave it open and run. Now, this bothered Daddy
and Mother. I was more compassionate, so to speak, because I had a
“crush” on a blue-eyed, handsome Mexican boy, shod with old tire
treads. Always hoping that he would circle back around for another
breakfast, as he ate with dirty hands that showed signs of hard work
and eyes showing sadness, but hope. Those were days before drug
smuggling, but not before, regular break-ins at the ranches. There
was a problem, however, El Imigrante tried their best.
My
admiration for the brave and determined “wet backs” grew as they
fried in the hot sun and sometimes drenched by tremendous
thunderstorms triggering flash floods as they made their way through
the arid-grassland with crawling creatures: rattlesnakes, horned
toads, lizards, and all kinds of poisonous spiders.
The
Mexicans would also hide along the dirt road leading to Animas and
jump on the hood of the car to get a free ride from the kids going to
Animas for whatever reason. One may call it a playful game. We kids
were oblivious to the larger social issues. Humanity looking for a
job to better their lives. This is the way life was on the ranch in
the southern part of New Mexico.
After
leaving Animas, New Mexico A&M found me with new friends. Little
Joe Kelly an African American, many Mexican kids, white kids,
and a lot of cowboy ranchers created a rich environment for me. I
found that I was a people lover.
Flashback:
When
I was twelve years of age, my parents took my brother and me on our
yearly road tour. Every year we went on an interesting trip somewhere
in the United States. This was the year that we journeyed to Utah.
Daddy enjoyed museums along the way and Mother enjoyed crocheting as
my brother and I created games in the back seat. Like Brother
throwing his shoe out the window to hide it from Sister.
One
of the museums was on Temple Square in Salt Lake City. We were not
Mormon, however, we visited every museum that our car could find. I
was given a card which had much interest to me. In reading the card,
I found many things I felt were true. One of the Articles of Faith
which the LDS or Mormons believed; “We
believe in being
subject to kings, presidents, rulers, and magistrates, in obeying,
honoring, and sustaining the law.” That
made sense to me because Daddy and Mother believed the same and had
practiced sustaining the law all my life. Obedience came first then
the reward.
After
leaving New Mexico and flying as a stewardess, I wondered why there
was only one Mexican stewardess. As we flew together, I learned to
appreciate her and we had much in common because she was from El
Paso, Texas, which was not far from Animas and our cultures were
similar. Why only one?
On
one flight, I had a passenger asking for another seat because she did
not want to sit by a person of “color”. So as not to make a
scene, I took the seat and gave the asking passenger, my seat. My
eyes were opened and my heart broken. Not everyone had my heart. In
today's world, how does one balance justice and mercy? We
all need to keep the laws of the land which show us how to live our
lives. On the other hand, “go after your heart.”
I learned that we are living a journey with different moccasins. And
how do we justify the differences? Wow.
Later
and married, I was living on the border between Mexico and Arizona in
a town of eight hundred people. Patagonia is 18 mountainous miles
southeast of Nogales, Arizona and Nogales, Mexico. Twenty-two miles
south of Patagonia is a port of entry called Lochiel, Arizona. At
that time Lochiel, Arizona had one occupied home, a Catholic Church,
a border port entry station and the rest was a ghost town.
Lochiel'e
post office was established August 23, 1880 and was discontinued
September 30,
 |
In
the year of 1971, every month, my friend Beth and I would drive the
22 miles on the rutted, gravel and dirt Harshaw Road to Lochiel to
visit a member of our church to give her a Relief Society lesson. We
had this adventure with our two young sons. I add that these sons are
now, a UX Designer for Ancestry.com and one a BYU professor. This was
one of our many trips to teach lessons to our sons as well as to give
the Relief Society lesson.
Port
of Entry station at Lochiel
Arriving at our destination, the lady with whom we were going to visit was not
home. She, being the border person to lock and unlock the border gate
on a certain daily schedule, was gone. Well, Beth and I took the
opportunity to sit and chat because it turned out to be a rather cool
day from the usual warm days in Southern Arizona.
A
fancy car, large, black and shiny approached the border gate from the
Mexico side. Out jumped a Mexican man, not the driver, carrying an
automatic weapon defiantly held high in the air, ran to the gate, and
unlocked it. We were afraid to look, however, curiously observed what was
happening right under our eyes. As the car drove through,
he, with the gun carried high, re-locked the gate, jumped in the car,
and without looking at us, the driver speeded off, leaving dust in
our face. And the passenger, looking at us with a stern face and
still holding the gun so that we could see it, seemed to dare us to
make a move. Now, to add to the picture, we were the only ones in
the ghost town and Beth and I were left wondering and questioning,
“How come they were dressed up for the occasion and in the big
fancy car? Were they important or just thought they were? Where did
they get the key to unlock the gate? And why the gun? Where were they
going? How did these men fit in the drug scene or did they?
And
how did they know that the border guard lady who let people through
the gate at appointed times was not home?” This being the same lady
who we came to visit. Later we found out that planes with drugs would
land in remote areas not far from us to deliver drugs.
This
was before cell phones and we were 22 miles from home and we had seen
no one on the way down to Lochiel, nor on our way back to Patagonia.
As a side note: Around this same time, a member of our Church in Nogales was shot down in Mexico while taking off in his plane. Finding out that he was a “gun runner” and taking guns into Mexico was a surprise, however his wife and family I knew well, but the man; I had never seen.
When
we got home, I called my friend Jennie. Her husband worked on the
border in Nogales. The report from them was that there was a massive
problem in the area with drug runners. This was in 1971. And now for
the rest of the story.
A
while later, a border patrolman was shot and killed on the same road
between Patagonia and Lochiel. His family lived down the road from us
in Patagonia. When I left some food at their home, it was reported
that it was a drug deal that the Border patrol tried to stop. This
area of Arizona has been the scene for drug traffic for years. A
fence will not stop them.
During
the same period of time, as poor “wet backs” looking for a job
would come through Patagonia, knock on our door for food and
blankets, asking for work; I was suspicious. As I opened the door, I
was leery that I was placing our family in harm's way. My husband
spoke Spanish. “Go home and come back legally.” My question was,
“Who can I trust?” And I would remember “We
believe in
being subject to kings, presidents, rulers, and magistrates, in
obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law.”
I would say to them, “You are illegal. I will give you food, but go
home and do what you must to be legal.”
In
the year 1971, when my husband started to work in Nogales, Mexico, I
decided that I wanted an adventure for my four sons. An adventure
that would teach lessons in cultural differences, tolerance,- and
appreciation for the same. I was willing to do legally whatever was
necessary to punch through the process. I looked for housing in
Nogales, Mexico. In visiting the school system there, I was informed
that my children could not
enter school there because they did not speak Spanish. So, we did
not move to Nogales, Mexico because there seemed to be no advantage
for us. I continued to cross the line to buy produce, even though, I
was told that the “honey bucket” fertilizer was a health risk.
Later
on down the road, I became a certified teacher. At one point, I found
myself testing for the lowest 1st-grade students so I could provide individualized
instruction.
As the years went by many of the students were replaced by students
who didn't speak English.
One
cold, snowy day when the students were told to stay outside, one
student from Mexico insisted upon coming into my classroom. I said,
“No.” He said, “Yes.” Feeling that it was time to problem
solve, I invited him into my classroom. I said that I felt like he
was telling me that he deserved to come in when others were staying
out.
“Are
you sick, cold or hungry?”
“No.
I just want to stay in.”
“You
speak excellent English, but you are in the ESL program here at
school.”
“I
am from Mexico. I was in a private school in Mexico.”
“Why
did you come to America?”
“This
is our land. You took it from us.”
“It
is time for the bell to ring. Better go to class.”
The
attitude of entitlement is not rare.
On
another occasion, a student told me something that I am sure that her
parents would not have approved of her telling. “We pay a thousand
dollars to come here and we have a driver's licenses.” My aide
said that she lived next door to people who were in the business of
transporting illegals to the state, making a driver's licenses and
Social Security card for them. She was afraid to go to the police.
This is Utah!
I
called my dear Mexican friend Aurora who helped me as a first-year
teacher in Arizona. “Aurora, tell me how you feel about the
illegals?”
“Argie,
when we came across the line, we accepted nothing, just the
opportunity to work. We were afraid that we were going to be caught.
We made ourselves needed and were so glad to be in the United States.
We would do anything to stay. We loved America.”
Aurora
did what she needed to do to become a citizen. She continued to
share with me that it upsets her with the illegals demanding this
and that
and taking advantage over the citizens. We should all
be grateful for the opportunity to be here in America. The attitude
that this
is mine and I am taking it,
abhors her.
During
the last years of teaching, I observed that some schools have free
breakfast, lunch, and free meals at school in the summer. These are
not steps to independence but programs that foster feelings of
entitlement.
At
the same time, I was experiencing the dance around who to teach in
our schools, I was having another alarming experience. Two of my
stepsons were using drugs which meant: sharing and selling. Of one
son you could say, “You name it, he had taken it.” The DARE
program did not help. I wouldn't let my four sons associate with
these two sons at the time. Later, they all became real friends.
When
one son was buying drugs from the Sinaloa Cartel, he was shot in the
hand. Our home was cased. I became afraid to leave and especially
feared that the individual casing our home may confuse one of the
other five sons for the one he was looking for to settle the deal.
Because of drugs, we lived in Hell for several years. The son of
interest died of a drug overdose: blood test showed all the feared
concerns. Our life changed from fear to relief and sadness. No, I do
not like to have illegals in Utah selling drugs. And who are they?
How at one time did I know the inside of the Utah drug world? This
particular son told me. And he left somewhat of a diary. I
desperately shared all I knew with our local detectives and police
officers. My husband talked to judges. These are stories yet to be
written!
And
again, I am reminded: “We
believe in
being subject to kings, presidents, rulers, and magistrates, in
obeying, and sustaining the law.” My
question was often, “Where is the law and how as a society are we
sustaining the law?” Where and how! Yes, when a son was driving
away from the house and higher
than a
kite,
I would call the police and describe the car. They did not
pick him up. He was a nark
for
them; that is an informer.
He was brilliantly engaged in the local crime scene. I am writing a
book about this tragic chapter of life. It was more than drugs!
Moving
on, after being encouraged by an old friend to visit their Animas
ranch, two summers ago, my husband and I went back to Animas Valley
in southern New Mexico for a visit. We were invited and took the
opportunity to ride with a person who had volunteered to help the
Border Patrol. She was always in touch with the Border Patrol by
radio, carried a couple guns and drove the valley roads and non-roads
to report sightings of illegal activity. She would help with the
rounding up of drug dealers. Now, this is how it works. Over the
border come the illegals with backpacks of drugs. They leave the
drugs at a given location and back over the border they go to later
return with another backpack full of drugs. This is in a desolate,
remote area with inhospitable
terrain which adds to the difficulty of seeing the crossing and the
transaction.
An American citizen or mule,
as they are called, picks up the drugs and away they go to the next
station of transfer.
When
my stepson was dealing in drugs, I knew of one of the mules in the
neighborhood. Yes, she was a supposedly “good” neighbor by
definition. Now, if I knew these things, the truth is that drug
traffic can be stopped, but there are those that do not want it
stopped. I am saddened. What used to be “wet backs” looking for a
job in southern New Mexico are now illegals who have a job.
The job of carrying drugs and lots of it across the border. It has
now become dangerous to live where my friend has a ranch. As my
friend and I visited last evening, she shared that perhaps the “wet
backs” who used to come for work are also frightened by the ones
who are totting the drugs across the border, because the ranchers see
fewer of the ones who come to work. Only an assumption.
My
husband and I remained at the ranch when our hosts had to leave. I
could not sleep. Every noise was just more than I could experience.
When I was in high school, my family lived on a ranch which was much
closer to the border than my friend's ranch. I was not afraid in
1951, when I lived about 15 miles from the border, however in 2010,
I was very uneasy when we visited.
We
have a challenge with the illegals. They must be accountable. A
structure needs to be in place to force citizenship or go back to
their country of origin. We need tougher drug laws and deportation of
the criminal. A free ride to the benefits of our social institutions
is not the answer, which includes a free ride to our prisons. Believe
you me, our prisons have better conditions than the possible living
conditions from which many have come. So why not commit a crime to
stay.
When
House Bill 116 was introduced as a solution, it was a shot in the
dark but not the answer. I do not know the answer. This is my
biggest concern. At this point, I support Representative Jason
Chaffetz' position on immigration.
Jason Chaffetz on Immigration |
Reject amnesty & secure the border We can’t reward illegal behavior. We must hold people accountable when they break our laws. But we must also be accountable for the poor policy decisions that got us where we are. My priorities are to fix legal immigration, reject amnesty, secure the border, and enforce our current laws. We must remove incentives to come here illegally and give businesses the tools to stay in compliance with the law.
Here's the link. http://www.ontheissues.org/House/Jason_Chaffetz_Immigration.htm
I
am grateful for the time you have to read this observation.
If
there is anything I can do to help with this challenge, please feel
free to call on me.
Sincerely
and thank you,
Argie
Hoskins Shumway
“We
believe in being subject to kings, presidents, rulers, and
magistrates, in obeying, and sustaining the law.”
God Bless the righteous people who desire citizenship in the United States of America and joy to their hearts as it becomes a reality.
God Bless the righteous people who desire citizenship in the United States of America and joy to their hearts as it becomes a reality.
Please share comments. We can have some dialogue on the subject.
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