For the Want of a Glass of Water

For the Want of A Glass of Water
By

Robert W. Stanford

(originally published Stanislaus Peace/Life Connections September 2006)

My name is Robert Stanford and I am a Civil/Humanrights advocate and activist. I am also aCaucasian, with a family history of immigrationto the United States rescued from Naziconcentration camps of Poland.

I grew up on a goat farm in Delhi, surrounded by Mexican immigrants, most of which could not speak English, but this did not deter my Grandparents and myself from working and communing with thesepeople over several years, without being able to communicate in a conventional sense.

My best friend was named Pedro, who spoke only Spanish, while I spoke only English. But I remember many dinners and evenings our families spent together as well as countless hours and events of my childhood comprised of Pedro and me.

When I contemplate what it would take to elicit compassion and understanding for undocumented Mexican immigrants from a seemingly hostile,competitive and heartless general public, too easily do I forget my own life experiences that have made it so much easier for me to open my mind and heart to undocumented Mexican immigrants despite any language or cultural barriers that might exist.

In the summer of 2005, I organized a coalition comprised of the only people I could convince to flock to my banner – Latino Senior Citizens,who themselves in their youth had worked in the fields of the Central Valley, to seek out small farms throughout Stanislaus, San Joaquin and Merced counties, delivering bottled water, health and pesticide information to undocumented migrant Mexican farm workers.

On one of these excursions I encountered an elderly undocumented Mexican woman. It was all she could do to walk over to me, navigating the furrows of the dirt field with legs that were tired and weak from hours of squatting with noshade or relief. When she reached me, I held out a bottle of the iced water I had brought. She ignored this and instead wrapped her arms around me and held me so tight, that I could feel her heart beat through the fabric of my perspiration-soaked t-shirt.

It was right then and there that I had a moment of clarity. I knew exactly who these people were, that were dying in record numbers at our border as well as in our very own fields. They were our Mothers, our Fathers, our Brothers, our Sisters, and our children – our Family.

A few days later, I stood respectfully before the Stanislaus Board of Supervisors pleading for understanding of the fatalities being suffered by migrant farm workers in our very own communities here in the Central Valley.

With great passion, emotion and tears, I spoke without rehearsal,“They are dying in our fields today, to put food on your table tomorrow!” I said, banging myfist on the podium.

One look at their indifferent white faces showed me that clearly I had wasted my time. For the same reason my voice and actions are marginalized by the local media, my passion and feelings were dismissed by these people.

How could I possibly know anything about the plight of a Mexican farm worker? I was not a Mexican, and even if I were, what would be their excuse then? To not so easily prevent the loss of a precious human life.

All for the want of a glass of water.

Robert Stanford