Weblog Sin Pies

By Charley Daniels

It’s a tough time to be a racist farmer or business owner in America.

“The Bush administration’s crackdown on illegal immigrants creates what many companies call a dilemma: Demand proof that workers are legal and risk bias suits or skip that scrutiny and run afoul of government prosecutors.”

The real dilemma is “Alright! Send all them illegals back to Mexico!” versus “Wait a minute, I have to start paying people some sort of minimum wage?”

Indeed. I’ve had the opportunity to see this ongoing debacle from the frontlines. I live in L.A., which boasts quite a large population of immigrants — both documented and otherwise — from all over the world. And I know how it feels to come here from somewhere else, as I moved from Oregon about a year and a half ago. Don’t raise those eyebrows, it’s quite similar. I didn’t register my car here for a year, so in a sense I was “undocumented” in a very public way. There’s just so much bureaucratic red tape to getting a car registered here. There are inspections and fees. It’s not easy. But, in the end, it’s better than the alternative.

Having Oregon plates in L.A. was like wearing the scarlet letter. Whenever I drove slower than two times the speed limit or waited for pedestrians to cross the street, people would roll their eyes or honk at me more often than they do now that I have California plates. With California plates people just assume I’m drunk or old. Or both. But with Oregon plates, I was a pariah. I remember one guy actually yelled at me — told me to go back where I came from. Well, that’s what his interpreter told me he said.

Assimilation is a necessary evil, I suppose, but I don’t have to like it. Now that I and my car are “legal” it’s only a matter of time before I start rolling my eyes at out-of-state plates like an asshole. But true to my roots, I will still brake for pedestrians, who deserve not to be run down. No piece of paper controls my destiny. I am an Oregon driver, goddammit! I came to this state, paid my $50 at the smog inspection, shook hands with the greasy mechanic, waited all morning at the DMV, filled out the forms, forked over an outrageous yearly registration fee, scratched my hand on the sharp metal plate as I loosened the screws of my former identity, got worried for a second when I had only one set of stickers for my new plates, went outside to inspect neighbors’ cars, came back relieved that only rear license plates have stickers in California, and drove away my now-anonymous Mazda. I’m happy to live in a state where assimilation is difficult, but not insurmountable.

As for undocumented workers? They’re almost certainly screwed.