(Fiction. Sort of)
by H. Millard (c) 2002

Wispy tendrils of oily, brown, foul smelling smoke wafted past the barred windows of my now decrepit house as the so-called light-rail train went rumbling by carrying non-English speaking illegal alien workers to the job center that had been built next door. The government could arrest these illegals and deport them, if it wanted to. After all, it is the law. Unfortunately, the chicken-ass government has started taking a cafeteria approach to laws that it wants to enforce. Sneaking into the country? That's one of the laws that the government ignores. On the other hand, forcing school districts to teach the kids of illegal aliens is one of the laws that the government enforces. You see how that works, right? If the law will hurt illegal aliens because they are illegal aliens, it is ignored. If, however, the law will help illegal aliens, then it is enforced. Bend over citizens.

Welcome to the third worldThe job center had come in over the protests of many homeowners. It was rumored that the guy who owned the property where the job center was built got approval from the City Council by greasing a few palms. It kind of made sense for that to have happened. It was, after all, a Third World job center, so why not have a little Third World corruption to go along with it? Hey, it's a cultural thing. Right? The idea behind the job center, mumbled the City Council, was that it would keep loitering day workers from loitering. "How about just arresting them for loitering and because they're illegal aliens?" asked the citizens. "Oh, no. We can't ask for ID cards and we can't assume they're illegal, and besides we can't arrest people for loitering."

Anyway, the job center didn't keep the illegals from loitering. It just acted as a welcome mat for even more illegal aliens to come to the city, and that drove things down even lower. Soon, the demographics of the city were falling so fast that it was difficult for upscale stores to pack up and move before they went broke. Things were going to hell.

"day laborers"Once the illegal aliens settled in the city, it became clear that they couldn't afford to make ends meet on the occasional day labor jobs they got. Even the drug deals, burglaries and car thefts left them short. That's when the charity moguls moved in and opened charities. Of course, once the charities were helping the illegals to make ends meet, the illegals called back to Mexico on their charity donated cell phones and had the rest of their villages come to the city. This caused the charities to expand to meet the increased need.

Naturally, the kids of all these illegals had to go to school. It was the law that the schools had to educate all children. The government decided to enforce that law. Soon, the schools were full of students who didn't speak English. Also, the parents of these students didn't have medical insurance, so the charities worked out collaboratives with the schools to provide free, full service, medical clinics on the school campuses. That was in addition to all the free meals that were given to the illegal alien students.

It wasn't long before my neighbors started moving away one by one. "Oh, we love the diversity," they said, as they quickly packed all their belongings into moving vans. "We just need a bigger house, that's all. Yes, that's it." I reminded one neighbor that she was moving from a five bedroom home to a two bedroom one, and she said, "Oh, did I say I needed a bigger house? Silly me. I meant I wanted to have a different floor plan. Yes, that's it. I love diversity."

I stayed. I figured that eventually things would get better, and that the influx would be Norman Rockwell's Americahandled by the authorities. After all, I reasoned, the U.S. is a nation of laws and these people were breaking our laws by even being here. Stupid me. In my mind I was apparently still living in the past. I was caught in a Norman Rockwell pre-post-American America; not the new post-American America that was becoming a bizarre caricature of itself. The country was still recognizable, but it was like looking at yourself in one of those distorted mirrors at a carnival fun house. Only, this wasn't fun.

Just then, I felt my house start to shake. As usual, I couldn’t tell if this was because of an earthquake, the train on the ground, or from its airborne equivalent-–the hundreds of jumbo jets that were landing at a nearby airport to bring even more Third Worlders to my city. The jets were so close together that one could easily imagine they were a sky train...clickety clack, clickety clack... rumbling through the clouds. I would have turned on my TV to see if there was any news of an earthquake, but the illegal aliens had stolen it last week. Probably for the kids.

My house used to be in a good neighborhood, in a good state, in a good country. That's Mexican push cartall changed now. Today, my neighborhood is squeezed between the train tracks on one side and the airport on the other. Roosters wake me up in the morning now. Human powered push carts full of tamales go up and down my sidewalk while their sombrero wearing operators, also full of tamales, ring hand bells to attract customers. Large produce trucks with signs written in Spanish prowl the neighborhood at all hours while playing La Cucaracha on their horns. English isn't spoken much in my state anymore. That's okay, though, because English isn't spoken much in my country either. After all, I live in the United States of America--a nation with a death wish.

Oh, what the hell. Why worry about my little neighborhood and its fall into Third World status. My whole state is swamped with illegal aliens and looks like the Star spanic slum kidsNorman Rockwell's kidsWars bar made large. But, it's for the kids. My state? Geez. I'm still thinking too small. My whole country is sinking. But it's for the kids. "What kids?" I wanted to scream out. "These aren't my kids. They don't look like me. They don't speak my language. They're not my kids at all! These are the kids of a foreign nation that is invading my country. These kids are the shock troops of the invasion force. These aren't kids. They're storm troopers with lollipops."

Maybe a glance outdoors would brighten my day for me. I looked out through my recently installed black security bars. I was pleased that I could almost see the sun through
the smoke and the yellow smog that now passed itself off as clouds. I looked over to see if any rays from the sun were getting to my flowers which had been dying as fast as I could plant them.

Standing by the flowers near where the abandoned shopping carts were lying and where my cat used to like to play before it was run over by a drunken illegal alien, I could see graffitigang members urinating on my flower bed, as if they were wild animals spraying to mark their territory. Other members of the gang were busy putting graffiti on the side of my house just in case someone couldn’t smell the urine message. I decided to call the police on these gang members, even though I knew it would be a wasted call.

“Hola. Policia,” said the voice in accented Spanish.

“I’d like to report some gang members urinating on my lawn,” I said politely.

“How do you know they’re gang members?”asked the voice on the other end of the phone after suddenly switching to English.

“They look like gang members.”

“Do you mean they’re Hispanic?” she asked, with that smarmy PTA tone of voice that should have tipped me off about what was to come.

“Yes, they’re Hispanic.”

“Not every Hispanic is a gang member,” she replied, closing her PC trap on me. “It’s racist and xenophobic to suggest that.”

“Well, they’re wearing gang clothes,” I said, as I blithely stepped into her other PC trap.

“Not everyone who wears gang clothes is in a gang. Sometimes it’s a fashion statement,” she said in a self-righteous and scolding tone of voice. “As a city, we exist to serve all
stakeholders. Besides, immigrants are hard workers. They do jobs that no one else will do. And, they have strong family values.”

Suddenly, I realized that the voice on the other end of the phone sounded familiar.

“Madam Mayor?” I asked tentatively.

“What’s it to you?”

“I thought you moved out of the city after you left office.”

“I did, but since many of my friends own charity-businesses here to help the immigrants, I come to help out sometimes.”

“Immigrants? They're friggin' illegal aliens," I said. "Look, isn’t it against the law for these people to be urinating on my lawn?” I asked.

“ What do you mean by ‘THESE PEOPLE’? Not all Hispanics will urinate on your lawn, and besides you don't know that they're here illegally. Are they still urinating?”

I looked out the window and saw that they had stopped. I could see why, too. The beer bottles they had discarded on my lawn were the regular 12 ounce kind and not the quarts that they usually drank. They had run out of urine for now. Now they were smoking crack cocaine. “They’ve stopped urinating.”

“Well there’s nothing we can do about it then. You should stop calling the police for these cultural differences and you should bask in our wonderful diversity. You sound like a racist. You should learn their customs and language.”

I had to go to a neighborhood watch meeting, so I hung up the telephone. I got in my day laborerscar, revved up the engine, hit the garage door opener button, and roared out of the garage before the gang members could demand money from me. I drove through my tract past the growing slums, the graffiti, the expanding charities, and the hundreds of loitering day workers. As I drove, I could almost smell the ocean breezes coming over the Great Wall that now separated my city from nearby beach communities.

“Where did we go wrong?” I wondered. “My city was once so nice.”

I passed a white cop handing out free food to some people who looked like, dare I be so un-PC as to think it? I do. Illegal aliens. The cop had one of those exaggerated smiles on his face that aracial whites sometimes put on to show the illegals that he was their pal. "You cretinous phony sack of cow manure," I said to myself.

A report came over my car radio about the local local schools being taken over by the state because they were under performing. A school district employee then said that the schools just needed more money.

tax slavesI'm a manager at Taco Bell“Hey, no problem,” I said to myself. "Just raise taxes on citizens to pay for the schools for illegal aliens. Make it the law. It's for the kids. American citizens' only purpose in life is to serve illegal aliens. To hell with our enlightened self-interest. We owe the Third World, by damn, and we have enough screw loose politicians in this country who will make us pay."

#  #  #


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