Saber más, lessons of ‘knowing more’
This story is a one of love, faith and perseverance that I witnessed first-hand. It is NOT meant as an editorial on immigration policy nor is it a judgement for anyone mentioned in this story. Drafted with love and appreciation, July 13, 2017 by Ellen Nieslanik
Ramon smiled, adjusted his hat, and nodded toward to our donkey’s grazing nearby, and said, “El burro sabe más que tú.”
I knew just enough Spanish to understand his muse; the donkey knows more than you. We looked at each other paused and burst out laughing. This became our standard greeting, and never without a laugh.
It was summer 2002, and Ramon had worked on the ranch for a little more than a year. We crossed paths often during his work days, as our little place was on the east end of the ranch. His broad smile and sense of humor were the foundation of our friendship, in spite of the language barrier.
Communicating was an issue, so we agreed that I would help Ramon with English, and he would in turn help me with Spanish. We both failed miserably as language teachers, and on this particularly hot summer day in 2002, Ramon stopped by on his four-wheeler.
“How’s your English coming along?” I asked Ramon with a smile.
“Humph ….. what about your Spanish?” he quickly replied, shaking his head.
There was a long pause as I searched for an impressive Spanish phrase. The longer I stalled the bigger the smile on his face. Then he made the comment about the burro knowing more than me (knowing more Spanish). He was right, you know. I knew almost no Spanish, but more-so I knew almost nothing of the plight of people like Ramon. This small town white middle class ranch-wife with three small children lived a life insulated from the struggles, prejudice and fears that Ramon’s family faced with courage and faith every day.
Ramon was the best “ranch hire” my parents had made in years; he was skilled irrigator, fence builder, and was as good with a tractor as he was with the cows. He was full of enthusiasm for even the most mundane ranch task, and I’m here to tell you there were many. My parents were pleased to have found a ranch hand like Ramon and they looked forward working with him on the ranch for years. Conversely, Ramon was building a good life and future with his beautiful wife, Isabel, and their two young sons; Esteban four years and Enrique two. Things were hopeful for everyone.
At that time in Meeker most of the Spanish speaking population lived in a trailer park along the White River and Water Street. It was safe, affordable and a comfortable area to live and raise your family with the influence of the Mexican/Spanish culture and surrounded by others with the similar stories that were chasing the same dream of a better life for their families. There was a language and cultural divide that kept the Spanish speaking people from fully integrating with white local families who often employed them in Meeker. Ramon and Isabel owned their trailer house in Space 2A in the Water Street Trailer Park and raised their family surrounded by relatives and friends; many of them from Mexico like Ramon & Isabel.
As in any small community, everyone knew everyone on Water Street, and if you weren’t related to them you had some association. To complicate the cultural divide there was another partition within the Spanish speaking community that was much more subtle. The split was simply those that were living here legally by naturalization or work visa and those that weren’t. This is not a judgement, but more-so a fact and the terror attacks of 911 the previous September had changed the game for so many that were legally pursuing citizenship. This partition of citizenship only rose to the surface if there was a rift or friction within the Spanish speaking community.
The series of unfortunate events started one evening in October when Ramon’s friend got into a scuffle with a guy named Jaime’ at a party. Jaime’ had a history of bullying and tormenting Ramon’s friend which was the start of the partition for Ramon and his family. Ramon wasn’t involved in the altercation and was merely a good Samaritan that took his friend to the emergency room for medical care. Vengefully, “someone” called the police that night and suggested they run Ramon’s license while he was at the hospital. I’m not entirely sure that’s legal, but local law enforcement did so, and found that Ramon had an outstanding community service sentence for a traffic infraction dating back to 1993 -- 9 years prior. Ramon was arrested, and in the days that followed we were able to schedule three full days of community service for Ramon at the Courthouse in Meeker to fulfill his obligation; November 25, 26 and 27, 2002. Three days he reluctantly took off work from the ranch.
In true fashion Ramon showed up on time to serve his first day of community service. The day was uneventful and Ramon gladly worked, raked and did whatever they needed at the Courthouse. The second day, November 26th, started in much the same way, but ended in such a way that changed Ramon’s family’s life forever. It’s curious to me that all of Water Street Trailer Park was vacant when Immigration did their raid in Meeker that day; everyone that is except Ramon, Isabel and their two boys. Ramon was picked up by immigration officials at the Courthouse, and Isabel was able to gather up her two young boys and flee to the ranch with a friend. I often wonder if the vengeance of the jilted immigration snitch bears any consequence today; or they if have any idea of the dire consequences their call had on Ramon and family, for no other reason than spite.
Oblivious to the events transpiring in town, I was home at the ranch the same afternoon, when there was a frantic pounding at my door. As I ushered the anxious visitors inside and the desperation on Isabel’s face told the story. For that moment in time no Spanish or English words were needed. We hugged for a very long time in the kitchen as I felt the fear in her tremoring body. Isabel spoke even less English than I spoke Spanish; and friend Lupe did her best to explain (with limited English) what had transpired. Isabel sat at my table, head in her hands, trying to muster the courage, strength and faith she would need to face the hours and days ahead.
Enrique, age 2, was un-phased by the situation, and gladly went with our youngest, Sam, to play with the litter of puppies that we were raising. Enrique loved the puppies, and kept Sam busy going from the piano, to the toy bin and back out to play with the puppies all afternoon. Sam knew we needed a diversion, and he was “all over” entertaining happy little Enrique.
Esteban, on the other hand, was visually upset and confused as he stood in our kitchen not knowing if he should cry or if he should be a big boy. Esteban was a pre-school classmate of Sam’s and in his short stint at school his English was quite good. He understood everything, and could respond verbally to most conversation(s). I’ll never forget the look in his little dark eyes, when I picked him up that afternoon and sat him on the kitchen counter, so we could talk eye to eye.
“I want Papa,” his voice cracked, while looking at me and then back at Isabel.
“I’m going to help you, Esteban, but you have to help me talk to your Mama,” I explained. I had his full undivided attention. At four years old this little man took the weight of the world and the gravity of the situation on his shoulders; he looked so intently at me, as though the answer to the day’s chaos was hidden deep in my eyes. He didn’t want to miss a thing; he was on task.
With Esteban’s help translating, we spent the afternoon at the kitchen table sorting out what we knew and what we didn’t. We confirmed that Ramon was detained at the INS holding facility in Craig. I drew up a quick Power of Attorney, for Ramon to sign his authority over to Isabel, as everything was in his name -- the vehicles, insurance, the trailer, the phone, the utilities etc. Lupe took Isabel and the boys home late that afternoon to pack a few belongings for Ramon. Not only did Isabel have the trauma of Ramon’s separation from the family, but “home” at the Water Street Trailer Park, was also a place where someone felt hostility toward anyone connected to Ramon - Isabel felt this too.
I arrived at Ramon and Isabel’s trailer with just minutes to spare to make it to Craig before visiting hours were over. The care and intent with which Isabel folded and placed the last few items in Ramon’s bag, zipped the pockets, and tucked in a note, was touching, Time was of the essence, and I felt like I was intruding on this private intimate moment of Isabel’s. She handled his clothing and belongings as though they were him, and as it might be the last time she would have contact. Heart breaking to watch. She hugged me as I departed and said, “Thank you, thank you, Ellen.” I knew how desperately grateful and sincere she was.
My request to speak with Ramon at the INS holding facility was denied, but I was able to sign in his belongings and $200 cash into his alien account. The idea was that if deported he would have something to wear and money upon arrival, (I was naive enough to believe his money and belongings would make it with him to Mexico.) The officer on duty returned from the holding cell with a signed Power of Attorney and handed it to me as I was quickly escorted out, with closing time upon us. I took the brisk escort as an opportunity to inform the officer that Ramon had a lawyer, named Roberta (Bert). I can’t remember if Bert knew about her new client at the time, but the days and weeks that followed she became completely vested in his case.
The first order of business for the next few days was to assemble our team and come up with a plan. First on the list was my dear friend Jannette who was fluent in Spanish and English. She was a friendly face for Isabel and children, and knew many of the families in the Water Street Trailer Park. Jannette translated multiple documents and conversations so that Isabel thoroughly understood and agreed to what we were doing on her behalf. Our legal team was Bert and her friend Sandra, an immigration lawyer. Additionally, we had Merce who was a family practitioner, and was also fluent in Spanish. Our lineup was solid.
Ramon was moved to four different INS holding facilities/jails in Western Colorado in his first four days in custody. He was moved at night, and it wasn’t until the 3rd day that Ramon was fed. Sandra predicted these frequent moves because Ramon had lawyers, and explained that this was an attempt to prevent alien/lawyer contact so that deportation could proceed unchallenged. Ramon called me collect almost daily to let me know where he was and so I could relay any information to Isabel, Bert and Sandra.
On November 30th, Ramon was transported to rural county jail in the San Luis Valley, and it took us three days to determine his location. Bert went to visit him and found 14 detained men in an 8-man cell. Several of the men were sick, all forced to relieve themselves in a coffee can and all needed a shower and nourishment. Bert was outraged at the treatment this rural county jail was levying on Ramon and others. She ordered (and received) meals, showers and toothbrushes for all men, and coached them on their rights. Later that evening Ramon called, and I could hear the desperation in his voice. All detainees were beaten after Bert’s departure and our attempts to help had only intensified the situation. Bert and Sandra agreed stop visits until Ramon arrived at the INS holding facility in Denver, where he would either get a hearing or be deported.
Finally, after nine days in custody, Ramon arrived at the INS facility in Denver on December 5th. INS Authorities told Ramon that he didn’t need a lawyer because he was going back to Mexico. Bert and Sandra stepped up their game, filed a stay of deportation in an attempt to get Ramon a hearing. Our hope and legal options were dwindling.
A few nights later Ramon called and was gravely concerned because his skin was red around his TB test area. He feared he might test positive for TB and that meant the possibility of isolation from other aliens, phones and no way to contact us/Isabel. That night Ramon was losing hope and reality of an expedited deportation was looming. Even in his darkest hour Ramon remained gracious and humble for our efforts. He thanked me several times, and then he humbly asked me to keep Isabel and the boys together. He wanted us to get his family to Mexico so they could be reunited. That night I vowed to do my best for Ramon and his family and pledged to fulfill his request. He trusted me, and needed our help which only strengthened my conviction to “make this happen.”
Now the plan had morphed into selling the family’s belongings, collecting earned wages, opening a joint bank account, and gathering medical records, TB tests and original Birth Certificates so the boys could legally and safely cross into Mexico. In just a few days we were ready to mobilize as soon we received Ramon’s deportation call. We were set to get Isabel and boys to relatives in El Paso, and they could safely reunite the family in Juarez with their belongings. Bert, Merce and Jannette were invaluable in this process, and the intensity of Isabel’s last few days in Meeker was exhausting, but Isabel was becoming more peaceful. Her demeanor was no longer despair and fear that consumed her that first day in my kitchen, but was conversely faith and determination to reunite her family. She greeted each day and every interaction with me/us with a smile and gratitude. She kept Esteban in school as long as possible and held the family together with familiar routine.
Ramon was deported and left Denver on December 12th; they must have taken the scenic route as he didn’t arrive in Juarez until the middle of the night on December 15th. He stepped off the bus with only the clothes on his back. No money or belongings that I’d secured for him only weeks earlier in Craig.
We packed the family’s belongings in their van, which Merce drove with Isabel and the kids, and the rest was packed into Bert’s truck. Just before they departed, Isabel came to me, tears streaming down her face, she handed me a bag containing a beautiful white tablecloth. This was the tablecloth that Isabel crocheted for her wedding; she was giving it to me as a token of her gratitude. I was overwhelmed.
“I can’t,” I started to say, but was cut short by Isabel raising her fingers to my lips.
“Shh….You must!” she insisted. There was no arguing, so I accepted this heart-felt gift, we shared our final teary hug, she buckled the boys into their car seats and they were off. The day was December 20, 2002, and our prayer was the family could be together by Christmas, and our prayers were answered.
The permanence of their departure and their future in Mexico was sinking in. How was it that I was to resume the normalcy of my relatively trouble-free days? This experience with had changed my life forever, and the realization that Ramon’s only real crime was trying to do better for his family, and was something I couldn’t put behind me.
The months and years that followed we stayed in fairly regular contact, as we got the family’s savings safely to them in Mexico, and got updates on Esteban and Enrique’s dual citizenship. There were birthday and holiday gifts and letters sent to via Ramon’s sister in El Paso who made deliveries to the family in Juarez. Of course every holiday, I was reminded of Isabel as I set our holiday table with her beautiful tablecloth. It was one of my most coveted possessions.
In September 2007 Isabel and Ramon greeted had a new baby girl to the family. Little Isabel was such a blessing to the family, but unlike her brothers, she wouldn’t be allowed to travel freely across the border to attend school and later work. Little Isabel was born in Mexico, but what more does a beautiful little girl need than her parent’s presence and love? She was safe and with her family in Juarez.
It was January 2010 and we got a call from Ramon’s niece. She was exhausting all options to raise money for Isabel’s cancer treatments. We learned that in November 2009 Isabel was diagnosed with cancer, and had surgery right away. Her treatments were expensive. So I made a few calls, and rallied the team from 2002, and together we raised and delivered money to help out with her treatments.
I reconnected with Esteban on Facebook in 2016 only to learn that Isabel’s cancer had returned, and she wasn’t tolerating the chemo and treatments, and they often made her so sick that she required hospitalization. Esteban was no longer going to school, but instead had taken a job in El Paso so he could help out with the family’s expenses. Enrique was continuing his high school education in Hobbs, New Mexico where he lives with a relative, and Little Isabel was now nine years old and in the 3rd grade, and attending school in Juarez.
In October I sent a care package to Esteban’s work in El Paso, and it coincidentally arrived on Isabel’s birthday. We resumed our dialog and exchanged letters and voice messages. With the help of Google Translator, I was reconnected with Ramon and Isabel and their family.
For Christmas last year I decided to return Isabel’s tablecloth, we had enjoyed it for years and felt like my role was to use it and keep it safe, but my intent was always to return it to Isabel. My hope was that she would receive it with the same gratitude that I had taken custody of it 14 years prior. The beautiful thank you letter I received from Isabel was the confirmation I needed to know that the tablecloth was finally “home.”
A few weeks ago, Isabel and Ramon consumed my thoughts, so I reached out to Esteban again on Facebook. He sadly reported that Isabel lost her fight with cancer on May 19, 2017. My heart sank, and thoughts immediately went to Ramon and little Isabel in Mexico. The family has rallied, and Enrique is spending his summer vacation in Juarez with his little sister and Dad, and Esteban continues his work in New Mexico, visiting the family every 2 weeks in Juarez. They are all in this together.
It was in the most desperate times, that Isabel turned to faith and trusted in God, and she has passed that gift on to her family. I just re-read her beautiful letter and listened to her voice message.
She wrote, “I have faith in God, and we cannot forget the good things our family grew here (in Mexico).” She further said, “I’m going to ask God to bless our families, and you Ellen… Always with love, Isabel.”
Last week I told Ramon that he was right! “El burro sabe más que tú.” The donkey really did know more Spanish than me, and my Spanish has not improved since that hot summer day we shared so many years ago. Ramon responded with a laugh as predicted, but I know that the donkey really did know more than I did about, Ramon and Isabel’s strength, their faith, and the incredible adversity that they managed to survive and thrive in spite of it.
From here on out my mantra is “Saber más.” We must “know more “and seek understanding for those with different languages, backgrounds and colors of skin. I’ve learned from Ramon and Isabel that those with the least, are the most generous, and they can enrich our lives and communities. Though I wish the outcome were different I am so grateful for Ramon and Isabel’s family and the impact they have had on so many.
“Saber más!”
