Immigration

Dear Editor:

It’s 8:30. Every morning, there he is, that young man trudging down the block, knapsack strapped to his back. A heavy duffel bag hangs from his freezing hand. Then another and another marches on this frigid day. Soon they’re on the roof, navigating the steep slope, hammering, staple-gunning, measuring, building a beautiful house in the blustery wind.

Some months later, another crew arrives on a ninety-five-degree afternoon, leaf blowers, hedge cutters, lawnmowers in tow, manicuring hedges and lawns, planting flowers, making that garden magazine-worthy.

A ninety-one-year-old woman is wheeled gently off the curb, into the street, across the boulevard for her afternoon outing, adding color to her cheeks, a year or two to her life.

Later that evening, dishes and silverware are washed, tables cleared, napkins changed, water glasses filled, readying patrons for their fine evening dining.

Who’s gathering toxic waste? Shoveling manure in the fields? Picking oranges, grapes in the groves? Packing meat?

Where’d your family come from?

Robert Sarnoff