What Follows Me Around

by McCabe Coolidge

One night at the beginning of February 2007, while having dinner with friends on Coral Bay our hostess said, "Well, last night we heard a boatload of illegals come ashore, this time there was a baby crying. When we walked downhill this morning, we found discarded wet and dirty tennis shoes and clothes. Usually they swim in, with one hand held high with a plastic bag of dry clothes."

I was taken aback. "Illegals?" I said. "What do you mean?"

"Well,” she continued, "they come over from Dominica, either by sailboat or motorboat in the middle of the night. Someone meets them down near that flat piece of land called Haulover Bay and drives them into town. There's plenty of work for anyone who wants to work. We don't ask to see their papers. "

Last spring, my wife and I drove to Wilmington, N.C. to visit one of her friends, Liz, whom I had not met. She lived on a lake, the waves bristling with a strong north wind, the violet, red and white azaleas in full bloom on this mid-April afternoon. As we sat on our porch, after introductions, Liz asked me, “Do you have any children, McCabe?” I paused and, as usual, decided not to tell the truth.

“Two,” I responded, “one living in Chapel Hill, the other in Raleigh.” My wife, Karen, turned her head toward me, her eyes softening, acknowledging the hurt and fear that I still carry with me.

In late spring of 1960, my girlfriend left our small southwestern Michigan town and went to a Florence Crittenton Home in Arizona where she gave birth to our baby. Soon the baby was taken from her and given away in adoption. I never saw our baby, and she didn't have a name when she left the hospital.

The word got out. Julie was sent away! I was thrown against my locker, cursed, told I was a bastard. Our baby was branded illegitimate. My dad told me that I better not talk about this to any of my friends because if his boss found out, he surely would be fired. So I didn't speak to the priest or the coach or any of my friends. I quit the basketball team. I went straight home from school to an empty house. I was afraid to go downtown. I quit going to church and couldn't wait for school to end so I could begin my summer job, out of town. I just wanted to disappear.

Four decades later, I feel the heat of shame, the sharp prick of guilt when someone tells me, "We've got to get rid of those illegals.” In Webster's dictionary, illegal means “not according to the law,” and illegitimate means “not recognized as lawful offspring.” Both have to do with breaking the law. No matter what my rational mind says, I am one of them.

In the mid-1980s, while living in the Piedmont area of North Carolina, a group of us gathered together to form an "overground railroad." Ours was a southern branch of a secret passageway for men and women in El Salvador who were trying to escape the brutality of a regime that tortured political opponents. These Salvadorans would make their way to the Mexican border where an overground group in Texas would pick them up and slowly, covertly transport them north and east.

Jaime came to us exhausted, dehydrated and skinny. It had taken him three months to make the passage from EI Salvador to the Mexican-United States border. He left behind a sister, a mother in prison and a father who had mysteriously disappeared. Jaime moved into a small trailer in our county. We introduced him to other Spanish-speaking folks, many of whom worked at the grocery chain, Food Lion. Jaime took classes in speaking English as a second language. We hired a lawyer who would drive Jaime to Charlotte where they would meet with officials from the Department of Immigration. Jaime needed a green card to stay in the United States legally. Our government denied his petition, stating that the rulers of EI Salvador were not engaged in political persecution.

As I moved around St. John last February, I discovered that not everyone is pleased that the island has become a demarcation point for illegal immigrants. The local newspapers reported that some 400 illegal migrants had landed in the U.S. Virgin Islands in just six months. The Coast Guard authorities reported that, "seventy five percent are from Cuba, twelve percent are from Haiti and ten percent are from China." They added that last spring, "two Haitians were convicted of smuggling three migrants in an SUV onto the car barge." Often these immigrants will board the ferry to St. Thomas, a heavily populated island where they quickly blend in and disappear.

As we boarded the ferry to leave St. John near the end of February, I noticed two little children huddled with their mother to the left of the gate. Their shoes were muddy, their clothes dirty, their faces drawn, anxious. They followed us out along the dock, going slowly but steadily, the mother speaking softly in Spanish to her kids. They were bound for St. Thomas, where there are many jobs for housekeeping and childcare – a quick way for “illegals” to disappear. I have no idea where this family came from. I kept walking down the dock toward the ferry, secretly hoping that they would not be caught, not sent back, not punished. For them, being ignored is a good thing.

Writing this essay is a small step for me to stop from disappearing. A small step on an incredibly long struggle back, wringing some dignity out of a time in my life when I just wanted to go escape, to hide, to go away and start a new life but couldn't. I didn't know how. There was no one to show me the way.

October 9th, 2008