By David Magallanes /Guest contributor
I grew up next door to five cousins, all brothers, who may as well have been my brothers. In fact, genetically, we are brothers. That’s because we are not only cousins — we’re “double cousins.” Their father was my father’s brother, and their mother was my mother’s sister. In other words, some sixty-five years ago, two World War II veteran brothers married two artistic sisters. Their offspring, including my cousins and me, share the same four grandparents. It doesn’t get much closer than that. I also have a brother and two sisters, and all nine of us share a bond — besides the same DNA — that only death will tear asunder.
Throughout our lives, all of us had heard stories about the grandparents and their arrival to this country in the early 1920s. We had a sense that they all came here under duress, their lives threatened by the political realities of the time. Both families had been deeply immersed in the life of the Mexican Catholic Church, and that’s exactly what did not play well with certain groups who were hell-bent on suppressing the Church’s power in Mexico at the time. It’s a long story, but suffice it to say that both families had no choice but to flee the country lest they face the wrath of the enemies of the Church.
So we nine sibling-cousins went through life having some knowledge of that micro-Diaspora and the impact it had on our lives. But as we grew older and became aware of the challenges that Mexican immigration to the U.S. present, a few of us began to delve a bit more into the circumstances that allowed our grandparents to enter this country, apparently with no problems, relatively speaking. Had they sneaked through? They certainly didn’t have time to go through the process we now have for legal residency for professionals such as my grandfathers, which can take years of paperwork, especially when no other family members are already established here. We knew that they were well-connected with the Catholic hierarchy in Los Angeles, and through the magic of networking were able to find quick accommodations and a helping hand for their large families when they arrived with the few possessions they managed to bring on the train.
But the reality of what must have been a wrenching experience for them wasn’t driven home to us until one of my cousin-brothers e-mailed to the rest of us a fascinating document that he found as he casually perused genealogy web sites online. It was the manifests of both sets of grandparents as they entered the country at El Paso, Texas, after stepping off that train into a new country with which they had zero familiarity. We can see very clearly in this photocopy the signatures of both grandfathers, the names of their children and their occupations. I’ve wondered, with intense curiosity, “What was going on in their minds as they came across?” It’s not like they were coming over for vacation, or just to visit family. They had no family here! They must have felt terrified. They were the roots of the tree on which the Magallanes-Rivas families grew here in the U.S. And apparently all they did was declare themselves at the point of entry and voilà! — or I should say, “dicho y hecho” (literally, “said and done”) — they were in the country with the full blessing of the U.S. government.
Since becoming more aware of the circumstances of my grandparents’ entry to this at times alternately merciful and merciless land for immigrants, I look more deeply into the eyes of those who are obviously new to this country. On their brown faces I sometimes see the sheer terror, the confusion, the fear that must have crossed the visage of my grandparents. I’m being guided to do something, in honor of my grandparents, for these arrivals who are just as new to this culture as my grandparents once were. Exactly what that something is will become clear to me with time, I’m sure. Meanwhile, in my work as an educator, I prepare many of them for their place in our society. Maybe I already am doing something.
Many people come to our shores or cross our borders to pursue the American Dream on their own terms. My grandparents did not come with the intention of pursuing a dream. They had to get the hell out of Mexico with their lives. Once they arrived, it eventually dawned on them that no, they could not return to Mexico, where until those revolutionary times they had always intended to let their lives play out. It would be too dangerous. They decided to give their children a permanent chance to pursue their dreams in this country, and that blessing has since been bestowed upon their grandchildren and beyond. I am one of the many descendants that has since received this blessing. As I ponder my good fortune, there is a New Testament verse that keeps me from getting too comfortable: “To whom much is given, of him much will be required; and to whom much is entrusted, of him more will be asked” [Luke 12:48].
My grandparents did quite well here after all. My paternal grandfather, José Magallanes, sold typewriters to the Mexicans in Southern California. All his children, including my father and my tíos and tías, established careers and found their way in the world of work. With his connections, his determination, his work ethic and his grit, my maternal grandfather, Candelario Rivas, created artistic works, such as portraits and murals, for the Church (as he had done in Mexico), for private families, for theatres and hotels and Hollywood stars. His Mexican Dream was violently transformed into his American Dream: providing for his family with the use of his impressive array of talents and skills.
Family lore summarizes the sentiment that both sets of grandparents shared once they settled into the fabric of Los Angeles. They were all said to agree with heads nodding and a measure of resignation regarding their unforeseen fate: “We feel so safe here in the United States.” No more looking over their shoulders. No more fear of kidnapping, which actually had occurred (that’s a topic for another article). No more panic when the door was knocked upon. No more worry that one of their sons — my uncle — was about to be executed (yet another article). They were SAFE. They could live their lives with freedom and lack of terror. They now had something they could never have offered their children in Mexico, something for which people risk and lose their lives: a shot at the cherished American Dream, that Holy Grail that shines like no other, anywhere else in the world.
Merry Christmas and ¡Feliz Navidad!
— David Magallanes is about to embark on a speaking and writing career whose purpose is to promote and facilitate the attainment of the American Dream. As an optimistic American of Mexican descent and an educator in college mathematics, he brings a unique perspective to issues of our day. He may be contacted for speaking requests or for commentary at adelantos@msn.com