Good Writing

Via BZ, an essay that appeared in the Forest Grove paper. I'm just going to reprint the whole thing - I think it's that good. There is a second essay to read if you click the link, but for me, this one takes it.

Is there such a thing as the American Dream?

Searching for a dream that has yet to come true at times seems foolish. In the eyes of a hard-working man, there is no such thing as a dream.

How do you expect to dream when your body’s too exhausted to dream? We don’t live for a dream, but a reality. Dreams don’t pay bills but hard work does. At least that’s how it’s sometimes seen through my father’s eyes. Sixteen years in this land of opportunity and yet he hasn’t witnessed a so-called “American Dream.” There’s not a day that goes by where he doesn’t worry about not having to pay the bills. Day after day of working is endless when you’re supporting a family of six.

Coming to the United States as an immigrant, you’re faced with many difficult decisions. You choose whether coming here will create a safe environment for your family to grow up in. Will I be able to make it here? Is this really a decision I can handle? Is America really what its all made up to be? Is it worth it? These are a flurry of questions you ask yourself while attempting to cross the border.

Crossing the border is just one of the many struggles we face in this country. From other peoples eyes it’s seen as our most difficult struggle. What about finding a home? Getting a job? Getting around? Do you really think these things are handed to us? Not to mention the fact that in every society you’ll find racism.

Growing up in Mexico was hard on my father. He dropped out of second grade because his parents couldn’t afford to keep him in school. Do you know how bad that makes him feel having dropped out of school because of poverty, something that wasn’t uncommon in the part of Mexico where he grew up? Quitting school and working wasn’t his choice.

He was seven years old, taking care of cows from six in the morning to eight at night. Then when he turned thirteen he began working in construction. Moving heavy bricks and mixing cement, doesn’t seem hard but moving the bricks by hand was hard. Scrapes all over his back, fingers bleeding, body aching, working his fingers to the bone. Working from six in the morning to eight. All for some measly 60 pesos a day. Sometimes there would be no work and all they would have to eat was tortillas with salt, or with pumpkin seeds. One shirt and one pair of jeans is what they had to live with. No underwear or socks.

When he made the decision to cross the border at 17, it took him three attempts to get here. He didn’t come here for a dream he came here for the reality, which was to make the money to support his family. It was harder than he imagined. There was a huge difference between working here and working in Mexico. Here he had to be at work at a certain time, and was kept on a tight leash. Having a man breathing over your shoulder, rushing you to work, cussing at you in a foreign language being fired at times for no reason and having no one to communicate with — where’s the dream in that? He had blisters upon blisters, bruises as dark as black paint. The abuse he faced was fierce. How can you dream when the pain of a hard days work puts you to sleep? The scars he has are proof of what he’s been through.

A dream to him is to win the lottery, and for the world to be at peace. That’s a dream. The success of his children is just something he’s grateful to see. Having my brothers and I leave our footsteps in history is something he would want to see. He just wants to show everyone that we are the same and have the same abilities.

There’s no sweeter joy than to see the success of an immigrant race making it in a foreign country, from being no one to being someone important. A dream he wants to see is equality, but to him there is no so-called “American Dream.”

The way I see things are: you have to pave your own path, climb your own ladder to be someone in life. My father and I believe you can’t build a foundation off a dream, but a willingness to strive and to be someone.

The “American Dream” to us means nothing.

— Fermin Lopez, a student at Forest Grove High School, lives in Cornelius.

UPDATE: The oddly ironic thing is that part of me thinks Fermin is describing the classic American dream in that last paragraph, right before he disses it. Look at this sentence:

The way I see things are: you have to pave your own path, climb your own ladder to be someone in life.

Compared to the American Dream:

The American Dream is the idea held by many in the United States that through hard work, courage and determination one could achieve prosperity.

What's the difference? This raises the question of what Fermin thinks the dream is, or is not. I wonder if he thinks there is a racial component or racial filter?