On a recent bus trip to Denver, I found myself at the center of a conversation that left me baffled.
I boarded the bus at an RTD park- n-Ride. Toward the back, I found a seat next to a man in his mid-30s, who was engaged in a deep conversation with several other passengers.
The topic was immigration. I cringed. I did not want to get caught in the middle of yet another immigration debate. I had been to a forum or two and knew how quickly conversations became heated, so I did what any other passenger in my situation would do: I took out my book and tried to concentrate on reading.
Naturally, I couldn’t help but eavesdrop. There was no way to avoid it. I heard talk about deportation, possible worker shortages in low-level jobs and division of families, but no rude remarks or racial slurs. It was a racially diversified group and yet they were having a civil conversation on immigration. I decided to let my guard down a bit and slowly lowered my book, which was completely covering my face.
The gentleman sitting next to me smiled and I smiled back. I received random smiles from the others. It was their way of inviting me into the conversation. (I have been riding RTD for more than 15 years; I know the protocol.)
What could I do? I didn’t want to be rude. Yet, I had always avoided political conversations – and I particularly didn’t want to get caught in the middle of an immigration debate.
As I was mulling things over, my fellow passenger asked where I was from. I told him that I was born in Puerto Rico and raised here in the states. “Puerto Rico?” he said. All eyes turned toward me. “You must be really nervous.” He seemed genuinely concerned.
I looked at him somewhat baffled, not sure what he meant by that. He picked up on my puzzlement, and said that surely I must be worried about being deported.
For a split second, I imagined myself back on the island, lounging on a white sandy beach, strolling through Old San Juan in the afternoon, and cooling off under a waterfall in the rainforest. I could use a forced vacation, I thought.
Then I realized that my fellow passengers had no clue as to Puerto Rico’s relationship with the United States. As I was about to explain, another rider asked a question that rendered me speechless. “So, which border did you walk across?”
I took a deep breath and thought, “Here I go again.” It reminded me of the time I applied for a U.S. passport to travel to Paris with my daughter; a postal worker refused my application because he insisted I was not a U.S. citizen.
On the bus, the other passengers seemed concerned about my welfare. I gave them a quick rundown on Puerto Rico’s commonwealth relationship with the United States, much like I did for the government employee at the post office.
I explained how President Woodrow Wilson gave the island citizenship in 1917 by signing the Jones Act. I explained that I couldn’t possibly walk across any of the borders because the island was located in the Caribbean. They were happy to hear I would not be deported. One man said he thought Puerto Rico was somewhere near Mexico.
That comment wasn’t really all that hard for me to believe. After all, if a U.S. postal worker didn’t know, how could many others be expected to know? He told me he had lived in Colorado all his life and would like to someday venture out into the world.
Amen! If most of us did that, perhaps we wouldn’t be so afraid of what we don’t understand.
Emilia Fernández Valerio (emilia01@ earthlink.net) is an educator and graduate student at the University of Denver who currently works at a small library in Boulder County.
