The daily worker. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1924-1958, 1934-04-03
just SignYour
Your Name,'
He Was Told
By MALvINA GOODMAN

Simon Alvarado, father of five
American-born children and two
Mexican-born, signed a paper in
the immigration Office at San
Pedro, Calf. They told him it was
of no Importance, that in order to
get a report from Washington on
whether he was to deported to
Mexico or not, he should sign the
paper.
The people we're friendly, off,
hand, positive. They sat behind
big desks in big Offices, and they
seemed to know what they we're
doing. Simon didn't. He read the
paper they handed him, called a
Certificate of Residence. It seemed
to say mainly that he had been
here more than certain time and
was entitled to certain privileges. In
this country over six months. Ger
| tainly. AS a matter of fact, over
eight years, first in Arizona pick
ing cotton, then in California where
he works alternately as cotton
picker, railroad worker, ditch dig
ger, concrete worker-when and at
any job he can get.
His son was working under the
CWA. There would be an end of
that, he knew. but surely the new
president would take care of a fine
American-born boy who wanted to
work if he could only find a job.
In Mexico, Simon knew no one. He
had nothing with which to get
started there. He knew workers
who were "repatFiated, we're dump
ed at the end of a railroad spur
and left, with their roped bundles
and their families, to die.
But the conslar official, who sat
with the immigration board and
told him he was there to protect
the rights of Mexicans in the
United States, told him It was
nothing. He was merely to testify
that he was entitled to ''the right
of repatriation" under such and
such law, number so and so. Then
when word came from Washington
that he was allowed to stay here,
he would stay.
So, in a beautiful, sharp hand
writing, Simon signed his name
Simon Alvarado
Four years ago, when he was sick
and could not work, he had gone
to the county for help. His chill
dren were too small to work then
even in the cotton fields, and there
was nothing he could do but 90 to
the county. They gave him food,
clothes and rent money, and put
him in hospital. They said it was
worth $50.
Now, the immigration authori-
ties give him bill for $125. If
he could pay he could stay in the
United States. If he could not land
of course, he can't he must be re-
patriated. He had signed a paper.
Alvarado will leave, with his wife
and children, the broad fields he
has titled and made to bear crop
after crop, which was sent out over
the rails he has laid. He will leave
the wide, concrete roads he has
made, and over which he drove his
car once, before the finance COM
pany took it away when he owed
only SIS more. He will leave the
shelves of cotton cloth, and the
gas and sewer lines he has laid to
make comfort and cleanliness for a
section of the town where he and his
family were never allowed to live
He will ride in a cattle car over
the rails he set, and he and his
wife and seven beautiful children
will be set down somewhere in
Mexico to die.
Simon Alvardo signed the death
sentence of himself and his family
with his own hand. He did not
know it was a death sentence. He
trusted the Mexican consul and the
immigration authorities.