He looked up from the book in his lap as the Greyhound bus squeaked to a stop at the Greenville station. The old woman next to him fell asleep on the trip from Charleston and leaned her head on his shoulder. Her face was as wrinkled as the bark of an ancient magnolia tree, and was colored the same beautiful brown as it’s trunk and branches. As she breathed in, the air made a soft, whistling sound through her nose, and as she breathed out, it made a gentle, flapping sound through her lips. “Life is a symphony,” he chuckled to himself, “Of whistles and kazoos.”
“Ma’am,” he whispered. She didn’t move and kept right on sleeping and snoring. “Ma’am,” he said a little louder. Still only whistles and kazoos. “Ma’am,” he said a little louder still. This time he reached out and patted her weathered hand. She opened her tired, brown eyes and smiled a small smile at him. “Thanks for a lettin’ me use yo shoulda as my pilla,” she said with a gravelly voice. “First time I woked up beside a man in a long time. Hope my snorin’ didn’t bother you much,” she giggled. “No ma’am,” he said with a giggle of his own, “It was music to my ears.”
His knees and back snapped and popped as he stood up slowly and smoothed out the wrinkles in his pants and shirt.
“My goodness,” said the old woman, “You make music, too.”
He placed his hand gently on her bony shoulder. “We could start a band called The Human Experience,” he laughed. “People would come from all over to hear us whistle, flap, snap and pop. What do you think?”
“Yep, they’d pay a bundle of money to hear that.”
He pulled on his jacket and waved to her.
“Goodbye, my friend,” he said. “Thanks for the song.”
She waved back.
“Thank you,” she said. “And do me a favor. Lean down here and let me tell you somethin’.”
He leaned down and was surprised. She kissed his forehead with a light, tender kiss.
“That’s the kiss of a guardian angel,” she whispered. “Listen to life, learn from it, and do not be afraid.”
He stepped off the bus and onto the street. Small groups of people were standing around, waiting to welcome their travelers. No one was waiting for him.
“Oh well,” he thought, “I might not be welcomed with a kiss, but I was sent out with one. And by a guardian angel at that. So I’ve got that going for me.”
The early spring sun was bright in his eyes and made him squint to see the people and buildings around him. A hint of warmth was beginning to ease the chill of the upstate morning.
He put two quarters into the slot of a newspaper rack beside the bus station and took out a copy of the news. The headline of the day read “Governor Seeks To Keep Sanctuary Cities Out Of South Carolina.”
He walked a block toward Main Street and found a small diner that served breakfast from 5 A.M. until 10:30 A.M. and meat and three vegetable plates for the rest of the day. Little bells rang as he opened the glass door and stepped inside.
“Mornin’,” said a waitress. “Welcome to the Scrambled Egg. My name’s Gabby and today’s my tenth anniversary of workin’ here. I love it and I’ll be servin’ you today.”
“Hey Gabby,” he said.
He reached out to shake her hand and take a menu from her. “My name’s Scotty and it’s been ten years since I’ve been to Greenville. Happy Anniversary to us!”
“Thanks and ha ha! Where you comin’ from?”
“I came up from Charleston through the night on the Greyhound bus.”
“Charleston, huh? I love the low country. There’s nothin’ like wakin’ up early, just before sunrise, and walkin’ on the beach. Goodness, I bet you didn’t get much sleep on that bus. Come over and have a seat at this table by the window. It’s the best seat in the house.”
“Thanks.”
“What can I get for you?”
“Well, I could use a hot cup of coffee and some pancakes.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place. I’ll be right back with your coffee.”
He took out his notebook and pen. He wrote as he read the article in the newspaper.
WHO - Governor of SC
WHAT - Gave a speech endorsing a bill that a state legislator from Greenville intends to introduce that would cut off state funding for three years for any town or city that becomes a sanctuary city
*A sanctuary city (for example San Francisco) does not share the immigration status with federal, state and local officials of a person in custody charged with a crime
*Currently, there are no sanctuary cities in SC
Will McCorkle, a graduate student at Clemson University who is working on a thesis examining teachers’ attitudes and awareness about the rights of immigrant students, thinks the Governors comments are a “political ploy.” He thinks the state legislator’s bill would make immigrants less likely to report crimes or cooperate with law enforcement officials. He thinks the bill could increase the chance of “families being ripped apart” if an illegal immigrant is arrested for a minor offense and is deported
WHEN - October 23, 2017
WHERE - The Greenville County Courthouse
WHY - The President wants to build a wall between the US and Mexico to keep illegal immigrants out of the US.
The Governor’s speech took place on the opening day of arguments in a San Francisco courtroom where Jose Ines Garcia Zarate (an undocumented 45 year old immigrant) is accused of shooting and killing 32 year old Kate Steinle in July of 2015
The Governor endorsed the bill because he is afraid sanctuary cities will “take root in our state.” He doesn’t want any SC town or city to take part in “lawlessness”
The President attended a fundraiser for the Governor the week before the Governor’s speech
* Note: I do not call people “illegal” or “aliens.” I say “undocumented” and “immigrant”
Gabby walked up beside him as he wrote.
“I don’t mean to interrupt what you’re doing but your breakfast is here.”
There was a deep kindness and thoughtfulness in her brown eyes.
“Hmm,” she noted, “You’re writing with a pen in a notebook. Don’t see that much anymore.”
“I’m old fashioned, I guess. I still like to see the words I write on a page. Helps me see that I’m moving from point A to point B and getting somewhere.”
“If you don’t mind me askin’, what’re you writin’?”
“I don’t mind you asking. I’m working on a story for my newspaper. I’m a journalist.”
“What’s your story about?”
“It’s about a family I met in Charleston, a migrant family picking peaches and tomatoes on the farms around Berkeley County. When I met them, they were living in an old, gutted out school bus behind the lower 40 acres of a peach farm. I wrote a series of articles about them last summer to try to help people walk in their shoes.”
“Well, you’re my only customer right now. Mind if I sit down with you and hear their story?”
“Sure thing. Have a seat.”
“They’re the Flores family. There’s an old man, Gustavo. He’s sinewy thin, and his arms and legs look like the far branches on a tall, old tree. He has a head full of gray hair, and that makes him look wise in the ways of the old ones in Latin America. He has wrinkles on his face that look like ruts in a dirt road. He has a rich voice, a storyteller’s voice, and he’s a good storyteller. Most of all he has kind eyes that are full of life, even though he’s seen a lot of hard times.
There’s Maria, Gustavo’s daughter. Her arms and legs look like the branches of a tree, too, only they’re like the branches closer to the trunk, thick and strong and able to carry heavy things. She has a head full of black hair that looks like a night sky on a moonless, starless night. Her brown eyes carry the moon and the stars, though. You can see the soft light when you look deep into them. She has wrinkles around those eyes, but they aren’t the wrinkles of age and time. They’re the wrinkles of worry that shouldn’t be on the face of someone in the first parts of her life. She has a soft, quiet voice and doesn’t talk much but says important things when she says something. You should see her hands and her feet. They’re calloused and worn, yet gentle and warm against the life she’s lived so far.
And there’s Tomás, Maria’s son and Gustavo’s grandson. He’s small in size, even for an ten year old, but he has a big heart. He has tiny ears but he’s a good listener. He looks at the person who’s speaking as if he’s drinking their words on a hot, humid day of farm work. He’s very smart, even though he goes from school to school on the migratory trail and misses ‘lots of days during the school year. There’s one part of him that worries me. He doesn’t speak. I don’t think it’s because he can’t. I think it’s because he doesn’t want to. I’m sure from the stories his abuelo tells that he’s seen some hard things on the road. I’d like to find a way to help him say what’s inside of him, if I can. That’s one of the reasons I’m here.”
