Strangers in the Night

    A  couple of years ago at 3 a.m., I was startled awake by the sound of loud reggaeton.  Even if the cat had hit the remote, the T.V. was not set to “Univision”.  Investigating this eerie musical event, I went outside and saw an old Mitsubishi stopped between the pine trees in our front yard, missing our porch by a few inches.

     Three young Salvadorans were tossing beer cans out of the car and yelling “ vamanos, vamanos”. Two girls tottered off in their high heels and short skirts, clearly not dressed for the 24-degree  weather.  With the battered car stranded there, my husband, Don, called the police.  By the time the officer arrived, the girls, at a loss over what to do and probably freezing, had come back and I invited them in.  Don lit a fire in our wood burning stove and we tried to calm them down.  One girl’s English, if ever present, had deserted her completely,  as  she just sat on the couch crying quietly. The other girl was very hyper, laughing and accusing our cat of “looking at me funny."

     My Spanish is passable in the present tense and I was able to determine that they did not want medical attention, or hot chocolate, for that matter.  The officer had a bemused reaction to this event, his demeanor saying “ What have these crazy people gotten themselves into now?”  The laughing girl asked him if he spoke Spanish and he shockingly replied: “No, you speakee English?”

     The male of this trio had attempted to escape, but was easily spotted as his brightly lit cell phone bobbed through the bushes. All three denied being the driver. Apparently the car had hit a phone pole, bounced off and then crashed  into my son’s meticulously souped up VW Golf.  They had no insurance and my son got next to nothing for the car.

     Later, I wondered if this event somehow reflected how immigration has affected our town. Completely unprepared, in the 90’s our careful racial balance in “The Station” was suddenly crashed into by the unexpected arrival of hundreds, then thousands of Central Americans.

     I had studied the history of U.S. involvement in Central America and found we often were in support of the military dictatorships that were noted for killing anyone attempting to improve conditions or work towards democracy.  Coming here was not about getting rich, but survival.  In principle, I supported the immigrants but have not been so blinded by idealism that I can’t see problems as well.

    Two summers ago a knife fight occurred in the dead of night in front of my house.  Many times I have prayed for rain, but never for the express purpose of washing away blood on my street.  These guys were suspected  MS 13, probably children of the original wave of immigrants.

    During the aftermath of Sandy, our 18th Street neighbor , Pedro, ran an extension cord to supply electricity to my son’s house two doors down from mine, as our street was still in the dark.  Hector, in the tree business, brought us plenty of logs for our stove. For two decades my friend Edgar, a handyman and oil burner specialist  from El Salvador has almost magically appeared whenever a fuse blew, pipe burst or some other situation happened .  I don’t want to leave out my favorite Colombiana, Lucy the insurance agent.  She never fails to enquire about each of my family members during our annual renewal.

     I love Spanish food, music, and especially zumba.  Mostly I love the spirit of neighborliness that the Central Americans have brought with them.

     No rose colored glasses, eyes wide open, I still say:”Welcome."