The Right Way

by Henry Schulte

There is a Right Way of Doing Things

And there’s a wrong way.

What Biden and company did was the wrong way.

I’m an immigrant. Before my father left Germany, he had a sponsor, a job, and some startup money. He followed all the rules and did it the right way. Never took a single handout and was very proud. He loved being an American and I’m forever grateful he made me an American too.

As I have revealed in previous columns, I began working with illegal Mexicans as a young teenager. Over a couple of summers my brother and I during the week lived on my father’s avocado ranch in a shanty house with mice running around. We had no TV, no cell phones, no neighbors, and no way to leave the property. We got up before the sun, hopped in a truck with a bunch of strangers who couldn’t speak English and started our day planting avocado trees.

We hated it.

Those were the days before drip irrigation; we had to lug garden hoses up steep hillsides hundreds of feet, and water each tree by hand.

It sucked.

It wasn’t long before we knew every dirty Mexican word, the limitation of our Spanish. The field hands treated us nice and teased the heck out of us skinny gueros. At that time, I didn’t even know the term “illegal” as it applied to field workers.

I’m forever grateful my father made us do that work. As I grew older and began to understand the reason why so many wanted to come to America, I also garnered an understanding of how hard the work on farms and ranches could be.

Carmelo: My Mentor, My Friend

Little did I know at the time that farming was going to become my career.

One day I asked my father if he would consider hiring me to work for him. I wanted to be outdoors. Not having a clue what I was doing I relied on Carmelo, the ranch foreman at the time, to guide me. Carmelo spoke perfect English and helped me navigate with the employees. He was my mentor and became one of my best and most trusted friends. He also had my back.

Carmelo lived on the ranch with his wife in a classic small farmhouse. Louisa became my Mexican momma. She made the best Mexican food on the planet: homemade tortillas, fresh refried beans, homemade salsa. My mouth is watering thinking about it. On occasion she would treat me, my wife, and two daughters to her fantastic meals on the front porch of the farmhouse. After Carmelo passed, I started having lunch with Louisa nearly every day as we watched “All My Children.”

As my father expanded his holdings, he also expanded the labor force. Everyone who worked with me was illegal. One summer of heavy planting I managed 200 field hands.

I had some employees who worked for me for over forty years. We worked side by side. I knew their families, their lives back in Mexico. I tried to help whenever I could to acquire a green card for them. Some managed to get one while others got ripped off by corrupt lawyers who preyed upon these people.

On hot summer days I would tell the crew to knock off early. I would buy beer and soft drinks and we would chat in the shade. I still paid them for a full day. Between Christmas and New Year, I would shut the ranch down and still pay them their full salary. Some went to Mexico during that time while others were afraid to visit. Saying how dangerous it had become.

Then something changed.

It used to be on any given Monday morning dozens of men would be outside the ranch office looking for work.

Then all help completely dried up. We made a run to the Wall in Santa Barbara and asked if anyone wanted a job. The handful that were there wanted – no, demanded – $30 an hour, lunch, and a ride back and forth.

They wanted jobs in restaurants and construction, not on a ranch.

Taxpayer-Funded Illegal Migration

Carmelo, his brother Luis, Louisa, Tomas, Pedro and so many others were descendants of either grandparents or parents who came over from Mexico many years earlier while others made the journey alone.

I was embraced by Carmelo, Louisa, and their families. I attended weddings, birthday parties and even funerals. My Mexican momma would demand my wife and I sit at the head of the table with her at family celebrations. My wife and I being the only non-Mexicans. I never once felt out of place. We were accepted by all and a part of their lives.

Santa Barbara has always had a strong and proud Mexican culture. Hispanics have played integral roles in the city’s make up and history and will continue to do so.

After all, it was Mexico at one time.

I completely understand why people cross our border into America looking for the dream. Only this has gone way beyond a Mexican thing looking for that dream. The Open Border turned into a global assault.

Trump is upsetting the government apple cart and pulling back the curtain, revealing what really happened under the Biden regime. We all wondered how so many of the migrants made the long journey (besides using the cartels), how they were fed, clothed, had cell phones, debit cards, cash, and aid stations along the way.

You and I paid for it! To the tune of $6 billion over the last four years. We Americans funded our own mass illegal migration. That’s just the beginning of this story. As we are bearing witness, more colossal fraud is unfolding every day.

The moral of my story is America needs migrants. There are fantastic human beings from all corners of the world who want to come here who can contribute to American society. And they’ve always been welcomed. Only there’s a huge difference between illegal migrants who cut in line and are showered with freebies, and others who wait patiently in line and who pay their own way.

When you see the homeless – many of them veterans – under bridges and in tents, think of illegals staying in five-star hotels complaining about the food.