Coming to America

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    Crossing the border took six days. The Chinese had little water and less food. At night, when the temperature dropped below freezing, they could do nothing but hold each other for warmth. Their Mexican guides would not allow them to light fires, and Chen still had only the two thin shirts and one pair of trousers he had been wearing since he left Fujian. On the sixth night they reached a chainlink fence. The Mexicans sliced it open, and Chen pushed his way through. After 10,500 miles and 135 days, he had finally made it to the U.S.

    But there was no time to savor the moment. If ever the immigrants were in danger of being captured, this was the time, with the U.S. Border Patrol on the prowl. The Chinese were lucky that night. A minivan with darkened windows was waiting for them, with a Chinese driver. The snakeheads' far-flung networks had delivered. The driver drove them through the night to a large city, which Chen discovered was Houston, though he had only the vaguest idea of U.S. geography. All he had was the telephone number of a distant cousin in someplace called Flushing, N.Y.

    The snakeheads were not finished with Chen anyway. After a day in Houston, he was driven to Los Angeles, locked in a room and told to phone his family in Fujian for the passage money. The price had suddenly increased because of the Chinese who died or were arrested en route. The snakeheads now demanded $50,000 for delivering Chen to the U.S. That represented a fortune, more than 30 years' earnings for Chen back in Fujian. The amount was not negotiable.

    Chen called home on the night of Jan. 18. It was already the next morning in Fujian when his mother answered the phone and burst into tears. For more than four months, the family had had no idea whether he was alive or dead. The only thing they knew was that he had not been among those reported arrested.

    That day Chen's father began the onerous search to collect the money, borrowing from friends and relatives, and moneylenders--who demanded an interest rate of 2% a month. As he brought each portion home, he hid it underneath his wooden bed. "We were very nervous. We had never had so much money before. I told Eldest Son to stay at home all the time to watch the money," says the father. After two weeks he had acquired the full amount. On the night of Feb. 1, two local snakeheads went to the house to pick it up. The next day the L.A. snakeheads put Chen on a plane for New York City.

    "New York was great, like playtime," says Chen. His cousin in Flushing gave him a bed, and for a week he wandered around Manhattan, gaping at the skyscrapers and the aircraft carrier Intrepid, which made him realize how small his own ship had been. "That was the most amazing thing. I had never seen a ship that big."

    But Chen's cousin, who had U.S. residency, did not want him to stay indefinitely, and after a week she kicked him out. Chen now learned the meaning of being alone. He didn't know a single other person in the country. The only place he felt comfortable was Manhattan's Chinatown, once he knew how to get there by subway. Wandering the streets, he came across a window sign in Chinese advertising a job agency. For a $40 introduction fee and a $12 bus fare--almost the last of the small amount of savings Chen had brought with him from home--Chen was soon on his way down the New Jersey Turnpike, bound for the Dragon King Chinese Buffet Restaurant--an "all-you-can-eat crab legs, sweet-and-sour pork and 'plenty more' for $12.95 plus fortune cookies with your check" kind of place. The food bore little resemblance to anything he had eaten at home, but he knew how to chop vegetables, wash dishes and mop the floor. Today, for a 13-hour workday six days a week, Chen makes $1,400 a month, and as an illegal he pays no taxes. He sends most of the money back to his family to repay the snakehead debt.

    Chen has been working at the Dragon King for more than two months. He is happy to be in the U.S. and seems to identify naturally with the American can-do mentality. "The best thing about America? You can work without ID," says Chen, smiling broadly. He likes Americans: "When you bump into someone on the street, they will smile and apologize, not like China, where people snap at you all the time." But it bugs him that he can't buy cigarettes or beer, because "they need ID, and I don't have any."

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