being friends with an illegal immigrant

Cayote, that’s what she calls herself. At age 18, she and her husband decided to leave Mexico. They had no social security number, no passport, and barely even spoke a word in English. All they carried with them was a loaded gun and enough money to pay the fixer who will help them cross the border during the middle of the night.

It was a tough life, she said, chasing the American dream while running away from the law. It was even harder when you’re with a man who enjoy strong liquors but hate strong women.

I remember the first time I saw her in Laverne. She dropped off my mom from work in her old, beaten green Sedan. Maybe it was her smile or maybe it was her eyes. There was something about her, something elusive. She is, I guess, one of those old souls that my grandpa used to tell me about.

On her 50th birthday, she invited a few people over for lunch. We were at the front porch of her trailer house. She gathered her skirt and sat beside me. Oklahoma breeze was softly caressing our sun kissed faces as we silently watched cars passed by the country road. I can faintly hear Jake Owen’s voice singing “Barefoot Blue Jean Night” from the neighbor's house. Somebody was grilling pork belly in the backyard. The smell was divine.

She handed me a can of Bud Light. With her thick Mexican accent, she asked: “So, do you like living here?”

“It’s not like what I expected.” I told her.

She laughed.

Then, embraced me: “Welcome to America, amiga.”