The Old White Truck

‘Forgive me father for I have sinned.’1

‘Tell child, all are welcome in the eyes of the merciful and beneficent one.’2

‘Life’s hard, you know? All the crap they tell you when you’re a kid, all the lies, all the empty aspirations they fill you with. Tales of the American Dream, tales in which all can make it. Become something, be someone. Coming from the ghetto ain’t easy, being black does you no favours in this country, and when you realise that the American Dream is a lie, you will do anything to get by, to survive, because to be honest man, it’s cold outside and no one’s got your back to give you a little warmth…’3

‘I started off small, doing what you’d expect, stealing, drugs – you know, the usual dirty work to survive. By this time all the lies were gone, a man can’t eat on delusions, so I got my self an old white truck in the hope of doin’ some odd jobs. A couple of friends had told me about these guys, goin’ around hiring down and outs like us, and that a lot of money was involved. I thought, hell what else I got? A couple bucks to drive some Mexicans over the border. Sure it’s risky, but at that time I would put my freedom on the line for a couple helping hands, if you get me. It wasn’t hard getting in contact with these employers, as expected they were a couple of white guys looking to exploit blacks to do their dirty work. Sure enough, I got the job and was promised two hundred at the end of the job. I had a bad feeling about these two, faces empty of any kind of positive emotion, real mean lookin’ bastards, you know? I was always taught to go with my gut, but I was desperate.’4

‘It couldn’t be hard, I thought, just fill the old white truck I bought and take it across to new beginnings. The government always teach us against illegal immigrants, but the poor spics, they are just like us. Lured to our country with promises of money and success, to start anew and live the American Dream. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for em'.’5

‘It was a simple job, two of us take money off a handful of immigrants, young and old, then take ‘em across the border for a new life…well that’s what I thought. Directed by the other man –obviously a veteran in this business- we arrived at a small village full to the brim with Mexicans eager to buy into the American dream. I felt like pure crap as they gave the veteran all they had and got in the old white truck.’6

‘The old truck droned through the cold desert, it’s engine whirring away in the still air. Bright light from the headlights alone in the cold of the dark, the odd sign of life as a moth would hit the windscreen of my old white truck. As we neared the border the veteran riding shotgun told me to take a left, down some dirt track that lead to desert and nothing but. About a mile on sat a truck and some more obvious veterans, carrying long rifles. What the hell was going on? What the hell father…’7

‘The hardest part, father, was the kids. Carting their limp bodies, their lifeless eyes, empty and cold. Hell, they didn’t deserve this, to be treated like pieces of meat ripe for the picking. I couldn’t bring myself to watch what had happened earlier. Every time I picked up a child in my arms, it sent a shiver through me. Every time I lay them down in the empty desert, I felt the cold father, the cold of the desert. I didn’t do nothing. I didn’t say nothing. I just picked up the shovel and sat back in the old white truck.’