Mercy for Migrants
Following a long day of travel delays, I arrived home to the McAllen airport after working a trade show in Tucson. Another plane load of passengers was still waiting for their luggage when I reached the carousel.
Walking the periphery of some 400+ deplaned people with enough disposable income to visit Las Vegas, were migrants from Central America. One young mother held a barefoot toddler by each hand. The young children wore nothing but t-shirts and diapers. The older toddler clutched the letter-sized envelope they were issued with the documents needed to board some future flight.
While my husband collected my bags, I walked toward another young mother with two little girls, and one with an infant. In Spanish I asked if they were scheduled to depart tonight. They said, “No, our flight was cancelled.”
I asked whether they would be picked up by Catholic Charities, the organization that tested them for Covid-19 and delivered them to the airport, and they said, “No, we have to wait here.”
Did they have food? Money? Blankets to warm the half-naked children? Would Catholic Charities provide breakfast? Were they hungry now?
The answers broke my heart.
Meanwhile, the Vegas passengers pushed through us as if we were invisible; walked by as though there was nothing to see. Nada que ver.
I asked how many were stranded at the airport with them and they said eleven or twelve.
My husband caught my eye and knew his night was far from over. My friend who traveled with me asked, “How can I help?”
It was late, so I called in a to-go order, including two hot tacos for my hungry husband, from a Mexican food restaurant that is open 24 hours; then, we drove to the nearest H-E-B to buy diapers, wipes and other baby items.
When we returned to the airport it was empty, except for McAllen PD and the airport maintenance staff. The migrants were literally corralled into the lobby area with yellow caution tape, while a woman ran the rotating floor buffer around them. I commented to my husband that it looked like a lot more than 11–12 people and I hoped we had enough food.
H-E-B didn’t have blankets or socks, so we bought the beach towels that were on clearance and passed those out. The children immediately wrapped themselves in them. A small child lay on the floor with his head resting on my neck pillow, which I had given him earlier.
The parents and children gathered around us, where they helped unpack the bags, distribute utensils and open the well-wrapped salsa, charro beans and more. We tore the lids off the styrofoam clamshell containers to double the number of “plates.” Someone found the warm tortillas wrapped in foil and squealed with delight.
As everyone settled down to dine, I walked to each family unit to ask if they needed anything else. A father, who had not approached us, sat with his wife and two girls. When he turned to face me, I gasped. He looked like the starving men I’d only seen in photos of prisoners at Auschwitz. His long, thin arm and bony fingers reached for my fleshy hand. His hollow, sunken eyes sought mine. He and his wife were crying.
“God bless you,” he repeated softly, over and over, again. He and his wife smiled at each other and at me. They said they were happy, not sad, and so, so grateful.
I imagine he had given nearly every morsel they encountered for the last month or more to his wife and daughters, sacrificing his own body for their survival.
My husband and I said good night and buen provecho to everyone as we withdrew.
I didn’t sleep that night, but resolved to return the next night to see if this was a regular thing.
Night after night, this week, I have returned to the McAllen airport to find variations of this scene.
Each night the people are different in terms of what they have, where they’re headed, and what they share, but their experiences are similar. They are all refugees.
I don’t ask questions, except to find out what they need that I may offer.
One night, the two most adorable toddlers — a girl about 4 and her little brother, approaching 3 — were hopping on and off the low window ledge, repeatedly, as she taught him to count, “Uno, dos, tres…” When he goofed up, they both erupted in laughter.
As I passed out the utensil packs, she unwrapped hers and named the fork and knife. Her little mimic named them, too. Then she turned on me and pointed the plastic knife at my throat. Her eyes turned flinty and in a low growl she said, “Un cuchillo pa’ matarte!” A knife to kill you with!
I was bent over to serve the rice and beans off the bench. The plastic knife was touching my lower jawline. The child’s mother screamed, “NO!”
I made eye contact with mom, then with the little girl. I said, “It’s ok. You are safe now. No one is going to kill you.”
She dropped the knife and picked up her bowl with a big smile on her face.
I have reared four children and know one thing about toddlers: They repeat what they know, and almost always at the worst time; like my own daughter who chose to scream, “FAAAHHHH-UUUUUCCKK!” as we cruised down every other aisle of Target, more than twenty years ago.
Maybe this child watched a memorable TV show or movie that taught her this; maybe someone did this to her or she saw them threatened her mother. Regardless, I pray she forgets.
Another night, the migrants were waiting outside the airport. I could tell they were wary of me as I approached them. There were two women (one visibly pregnant) with children, and one man who was obviously protective of them all.
Were they spending the night at the airport? No, their flight had been cancelled and Catholic Charities was coming back for them…but it had been about an hour already; so, they were not really sure anyone was actually coming.
Did they need anything? Water, and medicine for the baby.
Were they hungry? Yes, but they didn’t have any money to pay me.
Don’t worry, I don’t need to be paid.
Why was I doing this? Didn’t I fear and disdain migrants? No, not at all. Why would I?
The little boy on this night was about 5 years old and anxious to practice his English. He kept saying, “Thank you.” He rolled the words around in his mouth. “Thank. Yu-hoooo.” “Th-HANK you.” “Thhhhhh-ank YOOOu.” I smiled. He smiled. Then he said the words, seriously, nodding at me.
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”
Thank you for coming to the United States. I know you will make this a better place and us a better people.
Bienvenidos.
You are welcome.