The United Nations moved us.
The internet was hooked up by a guy from Mongolia. The appliances were installed by several Zimbabweans, and the haulers were Mexicans.
There was a white guy among them, but when I talked to him, he turned out to be recently arrived from Portugal, and didn’t speak English.
My Portuguese is limited to “Eu tenho que fazer xixi,” which, if I remember correctly, means “Pleased to meet you” or possibly “Good morning, my fine friend.” Whatever. It’s been a long time since I was in Brazil.
I communicated just fine with the Mexicans, who I knew were Mexicans rather than Costa Ricans or Guatemalans because I bothered to ask.
I speak some Spanish. Mainly, though, it’s because their English was better than my Spanish. When they were bringing in my desk, which weighs more than a bank vault, I gave them directions.
Me • “Por favor, ponga ese pedazo de mier--.”
Them • “It’s OK, sir. We got it. Really. Just stand back, please.”
The internet guy from Mongolia spoke excellent English, but since most of it was in tech, I understood only about every other word.
The Zimbabweans might as well have been speaking Martian to one another. They spoke enough English to tell me they were conversing in Shona. It is the most widely spoken of the Bantu languages.
Since the only word in Shona I knew was, in fact, “Shona,” and I had learned it a mere 30 seconds ago, we stuck to English.
The point I want to make is that everyone who had a hand in physically moving us into our new place was an immigrant.
I assume they were all legally permitted to be in the United States. And even though a few of them did double takes of my framed police badges, I didn’t care.
In the few minutes I got to know them, I already liked them better than a third of the people in my new neighborhood, half those in my new Mormon ward, and 90 percent of everyone at The Salt Lake Tribune.
Why? Well, because they’re interesting. Their stories actually serve as lessons for someone who has grown too accustomed to fitting in. I’m American, white, Mormon and living in Utah. How much more invisible could I be around here?
Unless someone recognizes me from that handsome mug shot in The Tribune, I don’t have to worry about being accosted, called names or regarded with sneering suspicion just because of my appearance.
The same is not true for them. They could be — and probably are — U.S. citizens. If they look Mexican, African or Middle Eastern, in some people’s minds they’re already potential culprits.
I wonder if my ancestors suffered the same deep suspicions when they landed in New York more than 150 years ago.
Dock Worker 1 • “Great. Just what we need. More #%*@! Micks and Limeys.”
Dock Worker 2 • “This country is going to hell for certain.”
America was already hell then. My paternal line set foot in the U.S. on July 10, 1863, exactly a week after Gettysburg.
How ironic that the dead of that decisive battle were still rotting in Pennsylvania fields and gullies, killed in a war over the status of people who were dragged here against their will.
Whatever problems this nation has — and some are substantial — the biggest ones always seem to be caused by the people already here rather than those who are coming.