Onesimo Beneath The Truck, A Border Song - For Valentin Poem by Warren Falcon

This poem is based upon a true story as told to me by a young immigrant from Mexico whom met on a Greyhound Bus in NYC bound for Boston. 'Victor' was on the last leg of his journey across the U.S border bound for Boston where some of his family were waiting for him. To cross the border he literally was confined in a small concealed coffin-like metal box wedged beneath an 18 wheeler truck. Two other young men accompanied him where they together underwent an ordeal of heat and cold, of thirst, hunger, and struggles to breathe. Fumes from the truck, fumes from the highway choked them into unconsciousness. Victor said that he knew then that he was probably a dead man as were his 2 companions. So they prayed the Rosary outloud, sang songs to Jesus and Mary and the Father. They told jokes. They shared their dreams of what could be done with the money they would earn in the U.S. and how they would change their families' loves for the better.

Finally across the border they arrived to a U.S. border town where Victor caught a bus to New York City where he was met at the station as prearranged by the coyotes (men and women who guide others over the border into the US for a lot of money) by a man he did not know who sheltered him for a night. A meal, a shower, fresh clothes (nothing else...not a backpack or paper sack) , a brief sleep and then the early bus to Boston. I sat beside Victor who looked terrified when he saw me sit beside him. I greeted him softly in Spanish and smiled. He turned away, snuggled the edge of the window, and slept.

At some point during the trip I felt something warm and wet on my thigh beside Victor and soon realized it was urine. He had pissed himself. The air conditioning on the bus was very cold and I noticed that he was shivering. I pulled a fleece blanket from my backpack, gently tapped him on the arm and offered it to him in Spanish. He warily looked at me, took it, thanked me and napped some more. I went to the rest room at the rear of the coach to wash my jeans with the bottle of water I had with me, then returned to my seat and noticed that Victor was awake and looking out the window at the American landscape. He smiled at me. We began a conversation in Spanish and I shared with him tales of my many trips to Mexico and my hope to live there some day. My Spanish is 'of the street' having learned it conversationally from Mexican friends in the city and from my travels in Mexico. At some point I told Victor that there was a restroom at the rear of the bus but suddenly a look of fear momentarily ended our free and easy conversation. He was afraid to even leave his seat for fear of being found out as an illegal immigrant. I assured him he was safe but he didn't leave the seat until we had arrived in Boston. There was a brief rest stop between cities so I got off to get some food and drink. Victor did not. I brought him a Coke, some fried chicken and fries which he ate ravenously.

After the meal he seemed much more relaxed so we laughed and joked about many things. He revealed that he was in America to earn precisely $7000 dollars to send back home to his mother so that she could pay for his younger sister's eye surgery for a serious eye condition which would end in blindness for her if she did not have the operation. He wept while telling this story as did I. And then Boston. I gave him my contact information, his uncle arrived late (I was ready to delay my connecting bus to Maine if the uncle had not arrived in order to assist Victor in finding his uncle if it was necessary) . But uncle arrived. Victor was relieved and excited and I caught my connection.

I did hear from him off and on via phone for about a year. And then nothing. I assume he is now home in Mexico. And I pray that he, his mom and sister are well.

I wrote this poem after reading Eduardo C. Corral's stunning book of poems, Slow Lightning. In homage to that great collection of poems of the Mexican and Mexican American experience I began the above poem for Victor. His tale of the 3 day ordeal at the bottom of a mack truck still deeply moves me. He risked his life for his beloved sister. Corral's poems have some Spanish words and phrases as colloquially spoken in his community and culture. I have used similar Spanish as I have learned it in Mexico and here in NY with Mexican friends and tutors.