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Retiree: Everyone should obey the law
John Driver thinks immigrants, even his in-laws, should learn English
By KRISTIN HARTY, The News Journal
Posted Sunday, August 20, 2006
John Driver grew up on a cotton farm in North Carolina -- a world of black and white, right and wrong.

He was 8 when he watched his drunken father shoot his brother in the face, blinding him for life. Oscar Hugh Driver died after serving 7 1/2 years in prison. The family never forgave him.

Today, Driver, who lives near Elsmere, has the same black and white views about immigration.

He thinks all immigrants ought to come to America legally. He thinks every U.S. resident ought to speak English. He thinks immigration laws should be strict, and the government should enforce them.

It's as simple as that.

Somehow, Driver's own life has gotten far more complicated.

It all started one day at work in the late 1970s. He was driving the No. 5 bus for DART public transit, when a petite, olive-skinned woman caught his eye.

He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She tisked and turned her head. He glanced again. She tisked.

They married in 1979 -- Driver, then 31, and Arnolia Toro, 22. A native of Colombia, she'd come to the United States a decade before when her parents immigrated legally.

The union challenged everyone involved -- with husband, wife and extended family forced to find a middle ground through love.

Almost 30 years later, Driver doesn't seem to have changed much. Retired from DART, he has never traveled outside the United States. He has no interest in visiting his wife's hometown of Medellin.

"What is it he says?" teased Michele Driver, 26, the couple's only child. "He says, 'They'll shoot me. They'll shoot the gringo.' "

He speaks no Spanish. "Como sta, y'all," is his trademark greeting for his in-laws, naturalized U.S. residents who speak no English. He gets angry any time he sees signs in Spanish or hears Spanish spoken in public.

"If you're going to live here, learn English," he said. "Why? Because this is an English-speaking country. Everybody else in America speaks English, why not them?"

With his wife and daughter, he sits on the front porch most pleasant afternoons, watching the world go by. From padded wicker chairs, the family looks out on a middle-class neighborhood of 1950s-era Cape Cods. Most are well kept. A few have cars parked partially on lawns.

'Mexicans, Mexicans, Mexicans'

"See the kids?" said Arnolia, 50, watching children walk home from nearby Baltz Elementary School. "They're all Spanish. You see only Spanish.

"At first it seems like we're prejudiced. I said to my husband the other day, 'Honey, look. Mexicans, Mexicans, Mexicans, Mexicans, Mexicans.' It's getting to be too much. What is it with this? Almost every house has Mexicans in it!"

When John Driver first moved into the Willow Run subdivision in 1973, he doesn't remember any Mexican neighbors.

Census figures show Delaware's Hispanic population -- from American-born to legally documented -- doubled from 1990 to 2000 to about 37,000, or 5 percent of the state's 850,000 people.

No one knows how many undocumented immigrants live in Delaware. Estimates range from 13,500 to 35,000.

In recent years, the Drivers say they have watched as groups of Hispanics -- mostly Mexicans -- have rented homes and then left, over and over again. They suspect the renters are undocumented.

Longtime Willow Run residents say at least 100 of the subdivision's 500 homes are owned or rented by Hispanics.

Though most neighbors get along, cultural differences -- and the language barrier -- have created undercurrents of distrust.

"There are different behaviors that we don't like," said Phyllis Berggrun, president of the Willow Run Civic Association. "Moving in little bunches ... leaving their doors open. This is not how we live."

At a March 2003 civic association meeting, residents complained about homes with too many occupants. Others were frustrated that cars -- some unregistered -- were being parked on lawns.

Those stereotypes don't convey the complexity of the truth.

"We have more problems with the smart-ass white kids," said Carol Shumate, who is surrounded by Hispanic neighbors.

"I'd rather have nice Spanish than white trash any day," Shumate said.

'It's not racist'

The Drivers don't go to civic association meetings. They didn't hear Councilman John Jaremchuk when he addressed the group last year. But they would support an ordinance like the one he proposed in 2005. It would have allowed police to ticket anyone who couldn't prove their citizenship. It also would have charged landlords and employers $1,000 for each undocumented person they housed or employed.

Defeated, the ordinance was considered racial or ethnic profiling by many residents.

Arnolia Driver wouldn't care if police asked for her documents -- because she has them.

"It's not racist," she said. "I'm Spanish. I don't have anything against them. ... But my father had to work very hard to get us here. I don't think it's fair. They should go by the law."

'They are taking away our work'

Arnolia's father spoke rapidly in Spanish, his face turning red.

"Look, this is Mexico, and this is the United States," Gelberto Toro said, drawing an imaginary map on the coffee table in his Elsmere home. "Why, if I were Mexican, would I cross the border without permission? It's illegal!"

He pounded the table with his fist.

"I need to have permission! I need to have papers! I need to do it correctly!"

He did it legally more than 40 years ago. Arnolia Driver's father was 34 when he left Colombia for the United States. Trained as a telex operator, he couldn't find a job in his field because of the language barrier. He provided for his family -- wife Gabriela and four daughters -- by washing dishes at restaurants and hotels.

He provided well. The Toros live in a split-level, three-bedroom home that they bought in 1977. But they struggle to pay the bills.

Now 76, Gelberto is unemployed. He applies for dishwashing jobs regularly at hospitals and hotels. No one calls him back, he said. He suspects that age discrimination and competition from undocumented workers keep him out of the work force.

Undocumented residents will work for less, he said.

"The immigrants who are here illegally shouldn't be accepted here," he said. He waved his hands wildly -- thick, calloused hands, his fingernails hardened into clumps.

"Why? Because many of these immigrants are taking our jobs, those of American citizens. We are citizens. They are taking away our work, and we are citizens of this country."

After 14 years as a seamstress at Hamilton Ltd. in Claymont, his wife lost her job last spring. She suspects a group of Asian women took her place.

"This is very humiliating to me," said Gabriela, 74.

Kerry Schimelfenig, who bought Hamilton Ltd. two years ago, uses a temp agency in Philadelphia to find workers, who make $8 to $15, depending upon their skills.

On a recent morning, nine women -- immigrants from Korea, Russia and the Philippines -- worked at sewing machines inside the factory.

"That's the first thing my attorney said to me is, 'You've got to make sure they're documented,' " he said. "We ask for a Social Security card, a green card, two forms of ID. But how does an employer that's small like me have the resources to really check?"

The Toros have no proof that they've lost jobs due to illegal immigration. They just feel shut out.

Both know their job options are limited. Though they are naturalized citizens, residents for more than 40 years, neither speaks English.

A whole new language

When John Driver visits his in-laws, who live about a mile away, the scene is almost always the same. They embrace him, then bombard him with the little English they know.

"When my (grandpa) sees my dad, he says, 'John, John, come here, John,' " Michele Driver said, using a thick Spanish accent. She and her parents, sitting on the porch, hooted.

"[Grandma] giggles like a little girl -- it's so cute," Michele said. "She'll say to me or my mom, 'What he say?' "

"She always tries to feed him," Arnolia said. "She say, 'Coff-ee, John? Coff-ee?' "

"You hungry?" Michele said, mimicking her grandmother. "You eat?"

In the beginning, it wasn't like this.

"Mita and Pita didn't really like him at first, right?" Michele asked her mother. "They couldn't stand him because he was white."

"It took a year or two for them to soften up," John Driver said. He laughed.

Still, he believes the Toros should have learned English -- especially after they became American citizens.

"Apparently, they don't want to," he said in a slow drawl.

Early in their marriage, Driver watched his wife struggle with the language. Michele remembers watching her mother cry in frustration. Her father would hold Arnolia until the tears subsided.

"He was very patient with me," Arnolia said.

She learned slowly, getting help from her husband and his family, including John's older brother, Bill. Blind since his father shot him on Oct. 5, 1956, Bill Driver also had struggled to learn a new language: Braille.

"It's like you're starting first grade again," said Bill Driver, of Wilmington. "You're reading the same stories -- 'Run, Dick, Run.' It was tough."

'Learn to speak and write English'

Now 65, with two artificial eyes, Bill Driver has adapted. Retired from jobs as a masseur at the YMCA and an assembly worker at General Motors, he bowls, uses a computer and plays darts using a talking dart board.

He doesn't understand why the Toros don't speak English. He believes that should be against the law.

"I think if they're gonna come over here, they should become a citizen. They should learn to speak and write English," he said.

Tow-headed and lanky like his brother, Bill Driver speaks with the same slow drawl. He remembers being teased about his own accent after moving to Delaware in the 1960s.

Now it's Bill Driver's turn to tease.

"I called Arnolia one day to talk to her," he said, repeating a story the family chuckles over often. "I says, 'What are you doing?' She says, 'I'm tree-ming.' I said, 'You're doing what?

" 'I'm tree-ming.'

"I said, 'I don't know what the heck you're talking about.'

" 'I'm painting the woodwork.'

"I said, 'Ooooh, you're trimming.' "

" 'Yes, that's what I said.' "

Arnolia doesn't hesitate to tease him back. Sitting on the front porch, she and John repeated their version of the 'tree-ming' story.

"He'll say, 'I saw Lucy the other day,' " Arnolia said. "I say, 'You see Lucy?' "

She paused to let it sink in: The blind man sees Lucy.

John and Arnolia Driver laughed. The teasing is all in good fun.

Prejudice or promise

Michele Driver doesn't like the jokes she hears in the kitchens of the restaurants where she has worked over the years. The workers, mostly Mexicans, "don't talk nice," she said.

"It's like they act like they're on the street or something," said Driver, who is light-skinned and speaks English without an accent. Her most recent job is as a hostess at Delaware Park.

"I talk to them in Spanish," she said. "They're always shocked. ... It's one thing that ticks me off with the police if I get a speeding ticket or something. Without asking, they always check off 'white.' I know I'm half-white, but just ask me, you know?"

When she fills out forms she always marks herself as "Hispanic" -- to honor her mother's heritage. But Michele, who lives with her parents, won't date Hispanic men.

"In the Hispanic tradition, the man kind of rules the house," she said. "I'm too independent for that."

Her mother, now a naturalized U.S. citizen, takes pride in her Colombian roots. When she was in a car accident June 25, a police officer writing a report asked her if she was Puerto Rican or Mexican. She became incensed.

"I said, 'I am not Mexican, and I am not Puerto Rican,' " she said, raising her chin.

"I said, 'Don't compare me to them.' He apologized to me. We don't like to be compared with Mexicans and Puerto Ricans. Why? We were told we were related more to the Spaniard countries. My grandfather was from Spain. Puerto Ricans, way they talk -- blah, blah, blah -- we can't even understand what they are saying. We have to tell them to slow down. They use a lot of slang words. And the Mexicans, too."

The Mexican family across the street, though, is practically family.

Ulises Guzman calls Arnolia "Aunt," Tia in Spanish. He's the 6-year-old son of Monica and Benito Guzman. The family bought a house across the street from the Drivers about a year ago.

"She is so sweet," Arnolia said of Monica, who doesn't speak English. Arnolia has translated for the young mother on occasion, including several trips to the hospital.

"She hugs me and everything," Arnolia said. "She's so young. When she needs something like that, she calls me. ... You think about it, when you need something, it doesn't matter the religion or anything, you help."

Until a car accident, which hurt her neck and back, Arnolia watched the Guzman's baby, Alan, 1, for several hours every afternoon.

Ulises, bright-eyed and mischievous, is a fixture at the Driver home, where he plays with the couple's nephew, Cristian, 7. Cristian is the son of Arnolia's sister, Maria, and her ex-husband, who is black.

"They stand there and say, 'We're hungry,' " Arnolia said. " 'We want french fries.' So I make them a big bowl of french fries with ketchup and they're happy."

The boys, who speak Spanish as well as English, don't call John Driver Tio, the Spanish word for uncle. They call him simply "John."

Ice cream moment

Riding their bikes on a recent afternoon, they pulled up to the porch to park, pouncing playfully on John Driver, who sat in a wicker chair and smoked.

Then they heard a familiar sound -- a tinny melody rang out from down the street.

"Ice cream truck!" Ulises shouted, taking off to ask his mother's permission for a treat.

"Hey!" Driver shouted, as the boys headed toward the street. "Come here!"

"Yeah?" Cristian said, breathing heavily.

"Get you and Ulises some ice cream," Driver said, handing his nephew a $10 bill.

A few minutes later, they sat, Cristian on his uncle's knee, Ulises standing, all sharing a cup of lemon ice cream.

In the yard, a faded American flag flapped from a 20-foot pole -- a gift from John Driver's best friend of more than 20 years.

Juan Perez, also a retired bus driver, is Puerto Rican by birth.

Contact Kristin Harty at 324-2792 or kharty@delawareonline.com.