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Steve Liebowitz, The Examiner
Jun 21, 2006 7:00 AM (1 hr 39 mins ago)

BALTIMORE - I am a proud illegal immigrant that has been living in the United States for years, basking in the fruits and vegetables of my labor. I say this not an attempt to rile those who feel I should go through the motions to obtain legitimacy, but because I feel that this is a moot issue.


But before your face turns red with anger and your veins start to pop out of your neck in a grotesque fashion, let me explain my sordid tale.

I was born into a family of wealthy peasants in the small South American country of San Beleaga. Not many people have heard of this country or of the concept of wealthy peasants. This was accomplished by many years of secrecy and deception. You see, San Beleaga was ruled by a ruthless and dishonest government under President Elmoldo Biacaniversitavia. You can look it up.

Biacaniversitavia (say that five times) ordered the death of all citizens who had accumulated a certain level of wealth. It was well known that only those who were privileged to serve in the government were allowed any type of freedom or wealth.

My cousin, a soybean counter by the name of Jeffero Sha, was discovered to have hidden thousands of San Beleaga dollars in his shack. The authorities arrested him and tortured him in confinement. They had his screams recorded and later sampled them into a rhythm mix that was a big hit in the country’s dance clubs.

But I digress. The police were tipped off that my family had hidden much money in our small hut. My father owned a meager farm that produced tomatoes and cacti and we would work 13 hours a day just to cultivate the crops.

Because there was little time for leisure, a social life for me consisted of watching Readers Digest condensed versions of movies. I actually saw “Gone With The Wind” nine times one night, and I thought Rhett Butler was the butler.

My mother would work all hours of the night and sew the tomatoes and cacti together by hand to create a popular souvenir that was sold to visiting tourists in San Beleaga. From our bloated prices, we made a small fortune from stupid well-to-do people who would pick up the cacti with their bare hands and bleed all over our display table.

Before the police could descend on us that night, my father had bought an old ice cream truck and my mother, four sisters, three brothers and I piled into the former freezer and hid. It was psychologically a terrible nightmare.

Imagine being stuck in cramped quarters with your family, no light, sparse oxygen and melted fudge-sicles and popsicles sticking to your clothing. I will never look at an Italian ice the same way.

When we finally reached the United States border, I smelled like a bad smorgasbord, but as Mother bribed a minuteman with a badly copied printout of the U. S. Constitution, we sneaked across and got jobs as tollbooth collectors.

Yes, I am a proud illegal immigrant, but not for long. Because of the pressures these days, I will join the ranks of those generations of proud ethnic groups that came before me to this great country. I will become a legal full-blooded All-American.

And I will join all of you who have more than 10 items in the express lane, who push and shove without caring for others, who won’t say “thank you” when a door is held open for you, who sneer at the homeless, who own pit bulls and Rottweilers and walk them through a crowd thinking you’re the coolest thing on the planet, who kill because you’re bored and who vote for the same candidates year in and year out just because they have the name you’re used to seeing on a ballot.

I can hardly wait.

Steve Liebowitz is a prolific writer of books and articles including “A Consumer’s Guide to Restaurant Bathrooms.” His new book about Atlantic City’s Steel Pier will be released later this year. He can be reached at leebow@verizon.net.
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