HOW MANY IN YOUR PARTY?

A HONDURAN FAMILY′S U.S. JOURNEY

The Beginning

The beginning of our family lineage starts in Magdalena, a small municipality in the Honduran department of Intibucá. The region of Intibucá is vastly mountainous and located geographically in the southwest area of Honduras. Magdalena is situated near the El Salvador–Honduras border, only three-hours distance between the two countries. My grandparents both came from wealthy parents, who arranged for the couple to get married at a young age. They both settled in Magdalena in the late 1960s, where they would begin raising a large family. My grandmother was only 16-years-old when she gave birth to her eldest daughter, Sonia, in 1969. There were six more children born in the following decade, two boys and four girls. The group of seven was a real handful to take care of for two parents. My grandfather took it upon himself to bear the financial responsibilities of the household. He used his parent’s inheritance to buy a farm on the outskirts of Magdalena.

Farm Life

The family farm produced milk and cheese that was sold around the Intibucá region. Each of the children was involved at a young age with the responsibilities of running a farm and selling the products locally. Despite all the hard labor, it also became an essential fixture in the children’s happiness. The vastness of a wideopen farm lent itself well for nine lively children. The children would chase roosters, milk cows, and ride around on horses. This was the Zelaya family’s brand of fun. The children didn’t have the luxury of owning toys, let alone shoes, yet they managed well without them. The public perception of children in third-world countries is that their indigent environment prevents them from experiencing day-to-day pleasures. My uncles and aunts didn’t view it that way. Instead, they considered that period as the best moments of their life.

The farm in Magdalena wasn’t making enough money entering the 1980s. The wars in El Salvador and Nicaragua had adverse effects on unemployment rates and destabilized rural regions.¹⁷ Urbanization took center stage, and small municipalities like Magdalena became primarily impoverished. The family’s livelihood depended on the farm’s success, but it quickly became a lost cause. My grandfather sold his farm and moved his family to La Esperanza, the capital city of the Intibucá region.

Growing Up

Times were tough after the family moved to La Esperanza. The family was far removed from the comfort of farm life and now lived in the void of a larger city. My grandfather turned to a variety of odd jobs selling old clothes and shoes. Even the children would take time after school to help him on such endeavors. Unfortunately, the money wasn’t cutting it for a family of nine.

My grandfather began to receive letters from some of his old friends living in the United States around this time. Each of the letters was filled with anecdotes that spoke towards the wealth of opportunity and money available in America. It’s important to consider that there weren’t many Hondurans migrating to the United States during the 1980s. The lack of a Honduran presence in the U.S. intimidated many from even considering entering a foreign land.¹⁸ That was all about to change.

Don Julian was a farmer from the Magdalena area who inevitably became close acquaintances with my grandfather. The farming community was a tight-knit second family of sorts. Each man understood the hardships of maintaining a farm and raising a family. The bond between these men was vital to how they saw their communities prospering. Furthermore, in moments of distress, each farmer always came to their ally’s rescue. Don Julian had since moved to the United States in the years that followed our family’s transition to La Esperanza. He worked as an undocumented worker for a dine-in restaurant and lived in an immigrant share house sponsored by the restaurant. The sheer jubilation in Don Julian’s letters caught the attention of my grandfather. Money in the United States was on a completely different level than what farmers were accustomed to making. Don Julian’s tales were our family’s first exposure to what the United States was and what it could do for our future.

Crossing the Border

At this moment, my grandfather set his sights on working in the United States. The only problem was he didn’t have any money to his name. Voyaging from Honduras to the United States wasn’t a free expense. There were specific methods put in place for immigrant transportation, and they required large sums of money. It all began by getting hold of a “coyote,” a person who orchestrates a safe passage across the Mexico–U.S. border. The coyote requires half of the money paid upfront before transportation begins. The cost of a coyote’s services was around $2,000 in the late 1980s. Not only did my grandfather lack pertinent coyote contacts, but he also couldn’t cover the upfront cost. Don Julian took it upon himself to do all the leg work in coordinating and covering the cost of a coyote. It didn’t take much convincing for my grandfather to accept the offer; there was no alternative. Don Julian’s kind gesture played a decisive role in our family’s migration towards the United States. My grandfather told the children that this would only be a brief trip to make money for the family’s sake, but much was still uncertain.

The year was 1990, and my grandfather braved a 23-day expedition that led him to Arizona.

It all began by arriving at the meetup spot in El Salvador, where a pair of the coyotes were waiting in a large transport truck. Commonly, a transport truck is filled with upwards of 100 immigrants. The smoothest stretch of the route spans from El Salvador to Guatemala, where there weren’t immigration checkpoints.

Once in Mexico, the longest part of the journey, everyone in the transport was on high alert for unexpected interruptions. People from Central America viewed Mexico as a frightening place, where anything could happen. Coyotes were wellconnected people who had contacts in a multitude of countries. By the time they were deep into Mexico, there usually would be a switch of personnel. A Mexican coyote would overtake the original coyote’s transport duties. The changeover of coyotes was a regular occurrence, based on an individual’s expertise with the area.

A tremendous amount of patience and trust is required to not lose your cool during all the inner workings of reaching beyond Mexico, and consequently, the United States. The final pitstop was just outside the Sonoran Desert, where each immigrant got off the transport truck and was led into an undisclosed building for nightfall. The United States was only one vast and isolated desert away from actuality. The Sonoran Desert was the proverbial crack in the armor of the Mexico–U.S. border.¹⁹ Coyotes viewed it as a promising path due to its sheer size, making it harder for border control to spot immigrants. However, the enormity of the desert pitted each immigrant in a battle of absolute will. Trekking across the Sonoran Desert is a life and death event that each immigrant must come to terms with from the very beginning. Everything up until that point rides on the success of surviving the climate and wildlife of the unforgiving terrain. My grandfather described the experience as the most challenging thing of his life. The collective ache turned into profuse joy as the group of immigrants finally passed the border into Arizona. It wasn't an easy task, but it was necessary.

Upon arrival in Arizona, the coyotes had already arranged a domestic flight headed towards Virginia, where Don Julian resided. The coyote smuggling scheme took advantage of the lack of measures to identify immigrants on domestic flights. All they required was a plane ticket, and they were off without questions.

Working Illegally

The first three months in the United States were a period of inactivity and endurance for my grandfather. He was situated with a spot on the immigrant share house floor, where Don Julian also took his stay. My grandfather didn’t have a formal job offer yet despite the fact he was residing within the restaurant’s illegal ring of workers. There would be many instances where the restaurant was filled to capacity, and the owners came in calling for all the hidden undocumented workers to come in and help. The scene was chaotic. After three months, the restaurant offered my grandfather a dishwashing job. Back in Honduras, each of the children was still finishing up their studies. There was a noticeable age gap between the siblings, with the eldest child, Sonia, entering adulthood and beginning a career as a teacher in Honduras. For the remaining children, their parents expected a similar lifestyle trajectory in Honduras for them. My grandfather would send remittance payments from the United States, and the family would use the money to live and continue studying. The arrangement continued for a few years until my grandmother decided otherwise. My grandmother took over many of the parental duties, and it became increasingly difficult for her to watch over each child. Difficult decisions needed to be made in the best interest of the family. The oldest son, Franklin, had gotten himself into trouble, and on a whim, she decided that it would be best if he joined his father. After arriving in the United States, Franklin began working in the same restaurant as his father. The pair made enough money to upgrade from the overcrowded immigrant share house to a rented room in an apartment.

The party of one had quickly become a group of six immigrants and one child.

Party of Seven

Franklin’s situation ultimately opened the door for the rest of the children to eventually reach the United States. My mother came next. Her arrival took my grandfather by surprise. Honduran men viewed women as either housewives or educated individuals working in classrooms and hospitals. Immigrant women in the United States were in store for laborious work, a reality that my grandfather didn’t wish for his daughters.

Despite this, the allure of the U.S. dollar began to garner the interest of each of the remaining children in Honduras. Nobody wanted to be left out. My mother’s arrival in 1993 also coincided with an unexpected pregnancy within the first few months of living in the United States.

By the time I was born in 1994, the subsequent three children, Gloria, Marleny, and Celeo, had arrived individually across the border. One room was no longer enough to house us all, so we upgraded to renting an entire two-bedroom apartment. My grandfather’s vision for the family was taking shape in a completely different direction. The majority of his children arrived in the United States, and now a grandchild was born on U.S. soil. The party of one had quickly become a group of six immigrants and one child.