n increasing numbers, Hispanic immigrants are putting down roots in the Roanoke Valley. They're pouring concrete, opening hair salons and filling classrooms. Some employers, meanwhile, are attributing their success to this new labor pool. In this occasional series, The Roanoke Times explores the local impact of the national debate about immigration.
During a busy Friday night dinner waiter Jesus Malaga serves an armload of food to their Anglo customers. Malaga came to America four years ago from Mexico and, like many Mexican immigrants in Roanoke, first landed a job at El Rodeo.
A summer night
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Leonardo's bed is comfy. It's a small thing, but it reminds him of what he wants to feel like when he returns to Mexico. Comfortable. His Sunday night habit is to watch American movies in Spanish, usually, kids’ movies.
One Sunday night in early June, Leonardo is watching Disney’s “White Fang” in Spanish.
His roommate, Gustavo, is holding a Bud Light and sits next to him on a blue air mattress, recovering from a weekend of parties and beers.
Gustavo’s wearing a white tank top, his muscles showing, and hip-hugging black jean shorts. His head is shaved and his smile makes you think he’s up to no good. He keeps his wife’s love letters in a small backpack hanging on the wall in his bedroom. He doesn’t talk about her much.
Like their three other roommates, Gustavo and Leonardo have a common goal of working and sending money back to families in Mexico.
But they have different views of the United States – and Iraq.
“People are going to Iraq to fight for democracy, but here there’s prejudice,” Gustavo said last spring. “This place should not just be for Americans. It should be for everyone living in it.”
Leonardo doesn’t agree. Why couldn’t the U.S. treat immigrants like parolees, he says, where they can be monitored throughout the week to make sure they are working? Then those who don’t work could be sent home, and the workers could stay.
During a commercial, Leonardo discusses a dream he has with Gustavo.
“Imagine taking your family to Disneyland,” he says, his head propped up against a pillow on his bed.
“It’s a dream that only happens on television,” Gustavo says. “On the Disney Channel.”
Gustavo then brags about an afternoon fling he had in his gray Astro van with a woman, an American, he adds.
Leonardo lies down with his arms on his stomach, barely lifting his head. He looks at Gustavo but doesn’t listen. Gustavo’s now telling raunchy jokes.
Leonardo’s mind is elsewhere.
He’s thinking about a conversation he had earlier that day with his daughter.
She begged him again to come home.
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