Musings: Fond childhood memories of migrant workers remain

I grew up on a farm in eastern Long Island. Every year, men would come to help us pick berries, move irrigation pipes, plant, and hoe. Their days were long and hard, lacking in transportation, diversion or suitable housing.

But what I remember most is how kind these men were to us as children, buying treats for us in their weekly trip to the grocery store, repairing our rabbit hutches, and teaching us basic Spanish. It was clear, even to a small child, how desperately they missed their homes and their families and how difficult their lives were. They were here, not because they wanted to be but because they had to be.

I wonder if readers were in similar situations, what would they do? If they couldn’t find work to support their family? If their children’s choices were to join a gang or live in fear? If their husband had been murdered by a gang that had free rein in their community? Would they sit by and wait years to go through the complex process of applying for legal immigration?

I imagine any of us would do exactly what these hardworking people did — try to build a decent life for their family.

When I watch the news these days, I grieve for their pain and the loss of compassion in the United States.

— Cynthia Lovecchio, Remsenburg