My young friend Raul (not his real name) came to the USA departing the Dominican Republic five or six years ago, leaving some relatives behind and knowing little English. As with many boys like him, Raul emigrated for "better opportunities" here. And as with many other immigrant youngsters, he faced a great array of language and social obstacles, including a step-brother who accosted him and accused him of being an intruder in this country. He didn't turn around and go back.
Raul set his sights on going to college and, unlike other American and foreign kids, did not pull away from suggestions on how to improve his college application essay in the months when he was a high school senior and we met. Though it was tempting to relapse into Spanish, he struggled to write in English and continued writing long enough to turn out a good essay.
Now 19, Raul is a tall, handsome, likable college sophomore who undertakes a long commute to a school on Staten Island. His English has improved, and he excels in subjects like acting and accounting. Although he likes his college, he rails at the school's continuing to raise its tuition, nearly closing out a student (like him) whose family is too poor to pay the full price but too well-off to be eligible for certain loans. Many of his peers at school are able to come up with the full price of tuition, while he balances classes and the need to hold down a couple of part-time jobs. He feels sometimes as if he's all alone.
Raul and I meet still as mentor and student, but with an added dinner and a sneaked-in glass of wine. The difference in our statuses gradually shrinks.
Raul knows that a college degree does not guarantee a good job, but the chances of getting one are drastically reduced without the degree. He plows on and will surely get that piece of paper in another couple of years. Then he will face the question of whether to continue living in the U.S. or go back to his native land.
"Are you happy here now?" I asked him recently.
"Yes, but I miss my country."
"What do you miss most?"
"My family, especially my mother," he said, wistfully. "I tell her everything. I'd like to bring her here one day."
Then he added, "I miss that you don't have to be rich to have a full life there. Take Christmas, for instance."
"What happens then?"
"People stroll through the streets, ringing doorbells, visiting different houses." His face lit up. "Doors open and people say, 'Come in, come in for something to eat, and drink.' You go in, even if you don't know the people -- that doesn't matter. You make friends right away, you laugh and those new people become your family. It's amazing!"
"Is that generally true?" I asked.
"No. Not with the rich; they don't open their doors that way. Only the poor, or the middle class. Not anyone rich."
"At Christmas at least, it sounds as if it might be better not to be rich."
"Oh yes." He laughed.
"Will you be there at Christmas?"
"Not this year. Can't afford it. Next year, I'd like to be there."
"I hope you can."
Stanley Ely writes about holidays in his book, Life Up Close in paperback and ebook.