In 2010, The Great Melting Pot melts down! The nation’s ethnic stew boils over after a young, undocumented Latina maid is unfairly charged. Cultures collide, love interests are strained, and racially motivated, domestic insurgents raid Washington DC.

1

The blow knocked her attacker out the bedroom door. Nineteen year-old Rosita Parquez managed to push her foe back into the hallway of the spacious home. Next, the lovely, live-in housekeeper tried to scurry around him through the bedroom’s only exit. At the last second, he composed himself enough to lunge at her. He tackled her just as she cleared the door.
Pierre Trueblood, the wealthy employer of the frightened illegal immigrant, was delirious from booze and energized by his pain. His employee-turned-victim feared for her life as the pair fell to the floor. She struggled to get away but he landed a punch to her abdomen. It knocked the wind out of Rosita and she lay gasping in the corridor.
He climbed to his feet, struggling to maintain his balance. His eyes bore the look of a predator. Her head throbbed from the golf club blow he’d recently landed on her and the wound continued to bleed. Must get away!
She flashed back on all the hopes she had when she illegally entered the USA just three months prior. This brutal attack wasn’t part of her plan.

*
*
It was November of 2009 when Rosita survived her harrowing border crossing experience. Her plan was to go immediately to her older sister’s home in southern California. Guadalupe lived there with her grouchy husband Pablo and the couple’s three young children. For years, Guadalupe had wired money back to her sister in Mexico to finance the younger sibling’s coyote-assisted border crossing. Guadalupe and Pablo had worked multiple jobs to help fund Rosita’s passage. Pablo went along with this plan to keep his wife happy, but he disliked seeing his hard-earned money disappear. But, he was powerless against the bond which connected his wife and his sister-in-law.

“Where’s the Underground Railroad when you need it” mused Rosita to herself, recalling a story she’d once read about black slaves in the American south. She remembered how that group helped escaped slaves reach freedom in the United States’ Civil War era. The tense, long wait associated with her own smuggler-assisted border crossing gave Rosita too much time to think.
She fantasized about the nice people who had helped those escaping slaves. That would be a switch from these coyotes. There were seven other Mexicans and two Hondurans in her group which waited to slip out of Mexico. Everyone had already paid thousands of dollars to the ruthless coyote escorts.
The air was thick with tension and nobody dared to sleep on the moonless night. The group was “on alert” and had to be ready to sprint at a moment’s notice. Rosita was tenser than the others though. One coyote acted like he planned to extract an additional “bonus” from her. The fat, smelly man gawked at Rosita in a way which she knew meant trouble.
The crossers all sat on the dirt floor of a hot, dim hut. Its only decor was the putrid stench hanging from the walls. Previous crossers had relieved themselves in one corner of the shack. The only other furnishings were the two tattered lawn chairs occupied by the haggard coyotes, and a filthy mattress off in another corner.
The fatter of the coyotes spoke to his partner about “having some fun” with Rosita, as if she was a toy. Rosita silently vowed to not be a diversion for him–even if it meant not getting across the border. She calculated her chances of an escape via a full sprint toward the boundary. The massive electronic surveillance fence might pick up her movement, but it might not. The Electronic Wall was still under construction in many locations and was rumored to not yet be fully functional. I’m a fast runner—maybe I could make it…
The US Border Patrol agents would grant her temporary protection, but she thought the barrier was at least a half mile away. A sprint like that was a long-shot, especially since her escorts had guns with silencers like the ones in spy movies. If they shoot me, Guadalupe and Mother will never know what happened to me!
She also feared the attention garnered by an attempt to flee would deny her peers a successful crossing. Each had saved money for years to pay their escorts. There were no money-back-guarantees with these criminals. Undue attention might cause the extermination of her crossing companions. The coyotes would do anything to avoid their own capture. Running wasn’t an option. What else? What ELSE?
None of the men in Rosita’s traveling group offered to help protect her from the coyote’s advances. They were more concerned about the safety of their own wives. The fat man’s taunts and stares now came steadily. Sweat beads collected in the small of Rosita’s back while she coiled and prepared to strike like a snake. Everyone waited and held their collective breath. The crossers just wanted the journey to be over with, especially Rosita.
Her corrupt escort edged closer to acting on his fantasy, his bravery fueled by the last swallow of backwash in his tequila bottle. Glancing at his watch, he tossed the empty aside and mumbled something guttural to his friend. He struggled to his feet and headed toward Rosita.
“Be quiet about it,” the accomplice said.
“Get up!” the fat man mumbled through a rueful smile. She shook her head violently side to side.
“Get up you wench. It’s time to party!” From her sitting position on the floor, she extended her arms out fully. She slowly opened her hands which were filled with crumpled American ten and twenty dollar bills. It was her traveling cash, hard earned by Guadalupe and Pablo.
“Take it. Take it!” she whispered intently. She hoped her “peace offering” would satisfy him. The stinky coyote looked at her outstretched hands and the pleading look on her face. He looked back at his amigo. “Another bonus!” he slurred while grabbing most of the cash from her hands and stuffing it into his tight pocket.
Several crumpled bills fell to the dirt. The coyote ordered her to pick them up and she did so very, very slowly. The nervous crosser straightened out each bill to buy as much time as possible. The coyote considered this as foreplay and looked on with an anticipatory smile.
When the payoff was finally complete, the transaction only empowered the thug. He drew his gun and moved close to the beautiful but fearful Rosita. He stopped to look around the room, noticing all eyes on him. He almost seemed to expect applause for his ill-earned power over a helpless victim. The other crossers tightly clutched their own stashes of cash.
Her lack of options made Rosita feel caged. Her nemesis emptied the cheap smoke from his lungs into Rosita’s direction. He spit the smoldering butt to the ground and said “Get up! I MEAN it!” She remained seated on the ground, knees curled tightly to her chest. When he put his pistol to the top of her head, she slowly complied with his request. How far is that sprint to the border?
Rosita continued to scheme. If he didn’t have a gun, I’d bring this creep to his knees She knew how to take care of herself from growing up beautiful in a rural area that had no law enforcement. She had more experience defending herself against this kind of man than she wanted.
The man’s foul breath filled her breathing space. She stood tall now, her eyes burning daggers through the miscreant. Her body language challenged the armed man who was slightly shorter than her. He stroked her long black hair and pulled on the neckline of her tight shirt, ripping it slightly. Rosita’s fists clenched. Tension flooded the room.
The villain and everyone else jumped when a muffled electronic beep came through the other coyote’s radio. An external scout said two words through the device: “Go, now!”
The escorts looked at each other and moved rapidly to the door. The leader opened it a crack, cursing its squeaky hinge. He gestured emphatically to the group which stiffly rose and schlepped toward the door. The leader went out first and the fat desperado stayed inside. Rosita was last in the line of the crossers and was followed out the door by her perpetrator. He patted her shapely backside as she exited. “Later, Seňiorita. Later!”
The group was roughly herded about a hundred yards through pitch dark to a small, beat-up van parked under a lean-to shed. They were pushed abruptly into the creaky rig which was would have better fit a group of five. The tight fit made one crosser complain and he was promptly smacked on the head by the butt of the leader’s pistol.
“Any more complaints?”
They squeezed in like sardines and someone’s knee tried to push its way through Rosita’s back. The pain was severe but she was just glad to be moving. Her leg, sandwiched between two other people, quickly lost circulation. Painful moans emitted from the tangled, sweaty group. The fat coyote said in a loud whisper, “Shut the hell up or we’ll leave your dead carcasses right here!” A dark wool blanket which reeked of old sweat was pulled over the tangled group.
They made two stops and starts and the engine stayed running at all times. The crossers heard muffled English and Spanish conversations at each brief stop. The van then just waited in place for about ten minutes, still idling. The vehicle’s exhaust filtered into the cargo area and the occupants’ coughs were met with more coyote threats. The ensuing ten-minute ride seemed like a year. Rosita kept thinking of Lilly, her beloved mother back home. She couldn’t feel her leg.
The van finally stopped and everyone was rushed out into a lonely patch of desert. The lights of a small town glowed in the distance. Rosita’s adversary squeezed her breast as she got out of the van. She recoiled and prepared to strike him, stopping when she saw the glint of his drawn pistol near her stomach. He growled through his teeth, “Soon Seňiorita, soon.” He leaned in and licked her cheek. She nearly gagged and prepared to run despite his gun. The thug asked his leader “How long are we here for?”
The radio crackled again saying, “Get back, now!” The fat man cussed and slowly climbed into the van. The quiet vehicle had its headlights off, no dome light, and no brake lights or taillights. It was instantly swallowed by the darkness.
The van disappeared almost as fast as Rosita’s border-crossing peers. She stood in the desert with no money, no English language skills, no friends and no idea of where she was. It was the most afraid she’d ever been her life—until tonight’s attack by Pierre Trueblood.

2

Her lower lip bled and her cheek throbbed from his punch to her face. She knew this man’s attack was not about sex. It was about violence and control. She schemed on ways to get away and evade her 45 year-old boss. Just three days ago she thought this monster was handsome.
After Pablo kicked Rosita out of his family’s small apartment, Rosita had nowhere to live. He kicked Rosita out because he felt he’d honored his obligation to her by helping to pay her way to Los Angeles. Pierre Trueblood had saved the day by hiring her. She was immediately welcomed into his beautiful home.
Guadalupe’s two years in California helped her become well-connected in domestic worker circles. She showed Rosita two homes to interview for live-in maid work. Lupé attended the interviews with her non-English speaking sister, acting as an interpreter. Rosita had accepted Pierre’s job offer on the spot after the pony-tailed man upped his offer by $100 a week. He was an aggressive negotiator after hearing Rosita had a different interview that day at another home. A well-tanned Claire Trueblood shot her husband a questioning glance when he became so generous. He ignored her.
With Guadalupe’s help all the details were worked out. Rosita said later to her sister, “The mother here has sad eyes. Maybe I can bring joy to this house.” The local bus system transported Guadalupe, Rosita, and her suitcase to a road leading to the Trueblood mansion later that evening.
Emilia, the family’s precocious 14 year-old daughter, was an energetic, upbeat teen who was sharp as a tack. She’d learned Spanish at her upscale private school and was the interpreter between her family and their new employee. Rosita’s luxuriously appointed bedroom was unlike anything she’d ever seen. She knew she was destined to become special friends with young Emilia. She had no idea how right she was.
Emilia later explained how the family had gone through three live-in maids in the last two months. “Daddy doesn’t have good luck with them, but I can tell you’ll be different. You seem strong.” Emilia flashed her million dollar smile which included $7,000 worth of orthodontics. She was on a school holiday and gave Rosita a detailed tour of the family’s massive home the next morning. Her father was at work and her mother was off at a charity dinner somewhere. The teenagers bonded immediately.

After Rosita’s third full day on the job, a normally dashing Pierre came home at 11:30 pm with a different look. His drunken outburst woke everyone. His clothing was in disarray and he had lipstick on his collar. Emilia locked her bedroom door and turned up the heavy metal rock music. Earpieces would have worked for the teen to shut out her father’s ranting, but they wouldn’t have sent the same message of disapproval.
From her room, Rosita quickly recognized the pattern. Despite ethnic, cultural, geographic and financial differences, Pierre was the same kind of monster as her former step-father back in Mexico.

6

The “shot heard around the world” was fired in Lexington, Massachusetts on April 19, 1775. It opened the door to the bloody battles of the Revolutionary War, eventually freeing The Colonies from British rule. The local soldiers, called Minutemen, were so named for their ability to be ready for battle in a moment’s notice. They were the key part of creating a new world order. Two hundred five years later, a new future Minuteman came into the world.
Juan Hector Sanchez was born in Greeley, Colorado on April 19, 1980. Born in the USA, the baby was an immediate US citizen, unlike his parents. The baby’s birth certificate was mounted prominently on the wall of the family’s trailer home.
The baby was the firstborn of Hector and Hilda Sanchez, an undocumented married couple who’d worked in the country for many years. Hector was employed at the area’s large meatpacking plant.
Baby Juan was named after his Uncle Juan, his father’s big brother. Uncle Juan was a gentle and wise man who was adored by everyone. He was significantly older than Hector and had also lived illegally in the USA for many years. Uncle Juan had no children of his own, and was thrilled at the honor of having his nephew become his namesake.
When baby Juan arrived, his parents held low-paying jobs and no health insurance benefits. But they were happy to be working in the United States for more money than they could earn in their native Mexico. After her son was born, Hilda gave up her hotel maid job. She would often watch her son and children of other families in the trailer court.
“I’ve been working at the plant for years now, Hilda,” Hector said one day after a grueling shift. “The gringos at the plant get promotions but I’m still stuck on the same dangerous line. Hispanics at the plant just get chewed up and spit out.” When Hector had talked to his boss about a promotion, he always heard how lucky he was to have a job at all and how easy it was to replace him.
Hector had less and less energy for his son, especially after a new baby brother, Pedro, joined the family several years later. Two years after Pedro came baby Maria. Hector wanted to save cash for the children’s college educations, but felt like he could never get ahead.

In the early 1990’s, the news spread throughout Greeley’s Latino community that a meatpacking plant had recently opened in Lexington, Nebraska. That plant was growing fast and needed to hire lots of help. It reportedly paid better than the Greeley plant. Lexington was located in the central plains of the Cornhusker State of Nebraska.
Hector, sick of his grind in Greeley, made a decision. Even though this plant was about three hundred miles away from their friends and their church, he planned to quit his job to move his family to the greener pastures of Nebraska. Hilda was saddened, but knew her husband needed a change. She hated the idea of leaving her many friends and neighbors in the Greeley area
“Maybe that plant will appreciate my skills,” he proudly said. Hector tried to comfort her by telling her about the growing Hispanic community in Lexington
A change was overdue. Hector had been injured seriously once at work when a co-worker was working above him on the top part of a hanging carcass. That worker accidentally dropped a heavy boning knife which fell onto Hector’s wrist as he worked underneath the dead animal. The deep cut in Hector’s wrist never healed properly. Hector told many how his employer didn’t help him get the right kind of doctors and rehab.
The family packed all they could stash in their old Dodge van and a trailer made out of the back half of a Chevy pickup truck. Plywood boards on the trailer’s sides held things in place, but only because miles of twine secured the load.
Hector and Hilda’s family headed east across Colorado’s high grasslands. They saw where the North Platte River joined the South Platte River and followed the combined waters all the way into Lexington, Nebraska. On their way into town the Sanchez family saw a sign which read, “Lexington: Home of the Minutemen.”

Read more about Uncle Juan’s Cabin and Peter M. Hemming HERE.

Copyright 2008 Peter M. Hemming. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.