Land of Opportunity

Photo gallery Leonardo (left) and his roommate and friend Gustavo take a break from working on attaching a new back door to Leonardo’s car. He wrecked the car and desperately needed to repair it to get back and forth to work.

Gustavo’s in the living room using a prepaid cellphone to call his family. Leonardo turns off the television and gets ready for bed.

“White Fang” is over. Leonardo wasn’t really paying attention to the movie after Gustavo showed up.

It’s just after 11 p.m. In the morning, the workweek begins.

For most of June, Leonardo was lucky. He spent four days working at the posh Homestead resort in Bath County with other Hispanic construction workers, staying overnight at a cabana.

He didn’t have to worry about rides to work. He could sleep well.

Leonardo turns off the light in his room and goes to bed. More than six hours pass.
The first to get up, Leonardo washes his face with warm water and walks into the living room and finishes packing his clothes and food for the week — chicken drumsticks and flour tortillas — in a pair of white trash bags.

The living room is bare and mostly dark. It’s illuminated by a small, white candle that has been burning all night.

Six unlit religious candles surround it. The one that is lit is printed with a prayer to a saint, Our Lady of San Juan de Los Lagos, whose shrine is said to be the second-most visited in Mexico.

Leonardo hasn’t been to the shrine, though he’d like to go someday. He was a regular churchgoer in Mexico. But not in Roanoke. He’s usually at work during Mass.

The candles are there to remind him, and his roommates, that there is a God who is watching over them. Perhaps, to protect them from the people who prey on them — people who say they can help Leonardo and his roommates with their services: store clerks, friends, their boss and other Hispanics.

Leonardo’s paid hundreds of dollars for documents other Hispanics told him he needed, such as fake Social Security numbers. He remembers being asked questions to fill out tax paperwork by his patron, his boss. He thinks he pays taxes but doesn’t know how.

Some days — usually when the rent is due — his boss doesn’t answer the phone where he lives in Southeast Roanoke to let Leonardo come over and pick up his paycheck. Leonardo has to ask Gustavo for a ride to visit his boss — who isn’t always there — to tell him how many hours he worked that week.

The boss writes down the hours and gives Leonardo a check he has to take to a Hispanic grocer to cash. The grocer usually takes a percentage away from the paycheck. Leonardo feels he’s being cheated, but who is he going to tell?

A week earlier, two days before rent was due, Leonardo and Gustavo had to hassle their boss for paychecks. They also lost a full day of work after a co-worker told them la migra — immigration officers — were patrolling Interstate 81. It wasn’t true. But Leonardo and Gustavo didn’t want to take the risk.

When they showed up at their boss’ home in the afternoon, Leonardo was called an “idiot” in Spanish so quick and so loud that Gustavo’s eyes turned red and wet. They want the money but they hate getting paid.

Leonardo looks at the candle as he’s tying his boot laces. He puts on his University of Virginia baseball cap and walks outside. A few minutes pass, and a friend arrives. He helps Leonardo load up his bags of clothes and tools.

“What did the guy say about the plates?” he asks Leonardo, referring to the man Leonardo paid $650 to get him license plates.

“Nothing,” Leonardo says. “He hasn’t come by.”

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