Arrival

Journal Entry November 1918 of a migrant farmer in inland California:

I have finally arrived in Los Angeles. It’s been tough to get here and unwanted. At the end of the Summer months it became harder and harder to find work as all the harvests were ending. Last Winter I returned to my family’s home in Mexico, which worked out quite well. I was able to bring a decent amount of savings home because the farms I worked on provided me with a place to sleep and food to eat as part of my compensation. It was an amazing relief to return home to a more stable and familiar environment.

I came to find work in the US because the financial opportunity seemed appealing. My family at home has strong roots, but our nation struggles to provide us with stability. There is a rising sense of nationalism, but really I don’t trust those people—I think it’s a sentiment to cover up our country’s present disorganization.

But I did not intend to forsake my home altogether. I thought surely I would come and go from the US for a number of years to save money for my family. But I’ve been hearing stories of new border policies, and “the unintended result of the new immigration laws and the tensions they produced [made me], already living in the US, think twice about returning to Mexico” (59). It seems like too much of a risk to go back home for the Winter. So I decided to head for Los Angeles, where I’ve heard year labor work can be found. It feels very different than home. At home, I distrust my country but I have strong roots in my family and my town. Here, I don’t know where I fit. I don’t know who will accept and support me and who is out to get me. But here in LA, there are a surprising number of Mexicans. I think it will be easier to get to know them.

I don’t know how long I will be here. I don’t know how much to invest myself in this new place. As a farmer it was easier to maintain my Mexican identity because I knew that’s where my roots were and continued to be. My roots are still there now, but I think I will be fashioning a new identity in this new place if I stay here for any length of time. I never thought it, but maybe I will become an “American.” I have heard many stories of immigrants in the East part of the country blending in quite well.

But why would I want to blend in so well? My home is still close, and even if I become an “American” for all practical purposes, I still feel deeply connected to my Mexican culture. At a certain point it feels out of my control. It will depend on who I meet and make friends, whether my family has a chance to join me here, what communities I find. What is surprising is already I can tell how much tension there is around my being Mexican in this city. It doesn’t seem like such a big deal to me, but all of the whites in the city seem so preoccupied trying to decide whether I will become American or whether I am a forsaken and alien Mexican.

I am curious to see what comes next.

This photo from the book of Americanization efforts in the 20s is a preview of the many forces that this immigrant will encounter in trying to navigate his own identity. I chose this picture to capture how the competing cultural forces at the larger level might result in quite confusing personal understandings of identity in being told many different interpretations of your own identity.