Do You See What I See?

Nicollet Mall on a late Saturday afternoon in November: twinkling lights woven into the branches of barren trees, men and women scurrying in dresses and ties to Orchestra Hall, children skipping on the sidewalk, busses blasting by, the sun and her shadows playing hide and seek between the skyscrapers… Most days, I wish this was all I could see. Instead, the neurons are on rapid fire in my brain, my awareness hypersensitive to the point of exhaustion and I SEE… the half a dozen homeless people holding misspelled signs and begging for change, an illegal immigrant speaking Spanish to a small child the busstop on the corner, trash littering the street, the bitter, angry drug-addicted teen in my classroom, and the look of defeat on an elderly man’s face as he glances at the cussing youngsters at the back of the bus, memories of simpler times flooding his heart. Because it is all so overwhelming most days, upon rising in the morning, I look for hints of love and sparkles of hope in the most unlikely of places.

Good deeds are being done daily but often behind closed doors and out of the way. My mom is one of the most humble and generous people I know. Consequently, I was raised to give – everything from extra buttons and half-used crayons to clothing and furniture -- either to Haiti or Jamaica. Perhaps that is why one particular moment in The Circuit by Francisco Jimenez caught my attention. At the beginning of the story, Francisco travels with his family across “la frontera” to California. After arriving in the labor camp where they would make their home, Francisco and his older brother, Roberto, discover the train tracks running behind the camp. Everyday the boys would watch their favorite train tremble down the tracks around noon speculating its departure point:

“’I wonder where the train comes from,’ I said. ‘Do you know, Roberto?’

‘I have been wondering too,” he answered slowly lifting his head. ‘I think

it comes from California.’

‘California!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is California!’

‘I am not so sure,’ he said. ‘Remember what—‘” (7).

California is a symbol of hope, happiness, and freedom for the boys. So far, all they’ve experienced in the United States is hunger, anger, and frustration. However, one day, the Conductor leans out the window and drops a paper bag down to the boys. Inside they find treasures – apples, oranges, and candy! They conclude that perhaps they’re in California, afterall. It’s moments like these that remind us that diamonds exist in the dirt and that good people aren’t so few and far.

Written from the perspective of a child, The Circuit is an honest and innocent account of the lives of a migrant family. Children are plentiful; resources are not. Work is backbreaking; leisure is foreign. This book is everything you already knew about hardships of farming and more. Rather than read as a chronological story from the start of their journey to the end, this memoir is a somewhat fragmented selection of memories. At first blush, I was confused, thinking that this little book was like any other, but then I sought the source of my mistake. In the “Acknowledgements,” Jimenez confirms that it is a collection of short stories.

Immigration is a topic of contention in the United States melting pot. Compared to so many third-world nations, America is a superpower (and a superhero) with resources enough to save the world. It’s no wonder that people seek safety here. The Circuit ends as I expected it might - sadly, with Jimenez and his family presumably being deported. Francisco is pulled out of school, in front of all of the children, by an immigration officer. Readers are left with the echo of “this is him” in their ears and the image of little Francisco in the front seat of a car labeled “Border Patrol,” staring out the window as his brother awaits the same fate. A carefully placed last memory serves as an abrupt ending to a story that begs you to continue reading and thinking about these issues as they exist today. Where are those sparkles of hope? What is left to be seen?