Review of Devil's Highway

Devil's Highway by Luis Alberto Urrea
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

So many in the US complain about illegal immigrants, while forgetting that their ancestors once came to this country uninvited. And most of those who come, now, really don't want to; they have family back home and many of them can't find jobs, because the American corporations have pulled out and left few jobs and those that are available are worse than minimum wage here. Sadly, many of those who try to come to the US die in their search for a better life for them and their families.

This exposes the selfishness that often comes with abundance that many US citizens enjoy. All of us can gain perspective by thinking about the ordeals our ancestors went through so that we could enjoy freedom of religion and the abundance available in this country. And, in truth, there are people in this country who are so far from that abundance that they can't even afford to see it on TV. It's not helping them to keep the immigrants out. They don't have access to the jobs the immigrants are out for. The world is screwed up enough without our complaining about people trying for a better life. Many who complain, however, try to lump all illegal aliens into one group: drug and human traffickers.

I'm reminded of the way German-Americans, Japanese-Americans were treated during WWII, and the way many people of Middle Eastern descent were treated (are still?) after 9/11. It's fear--xenophobia! And it is sad and disgusting. Especially when it is those who are simply trying to pursue happiness or a little less sadness, or even a little more to feed, clothe and house their family.

These immigrants often die in a horrible way, crossing Hell trying to reach the Promised Land which despises them for no other reason than they aren't from here.

Yes, the drugs and crime are often part of it--but, NEWS FLASH! drugs and crime have been part of the culture of the US for a loooong time and it does NOT depend on illegal immigration to keep going.

This book gives names to a few of the hundreds that try to find a better life, it gives the outsider a view into the lives of the kinds of people they are, how they live, how they want what everyone wants: happiness and the chance to take care of their families. I can't imagine anything closer to Hell on Earth than what all these desperate men endured and what lead to many of them to their deaths. Luis Alberto Urrea also shows how our jobs are not really in danger of being all taken away by illegal immigrants; he gives the whole thing context in which to come to our own ideas about border crossing and immigration.

If you are interested in what goes on on the Mexican-American border; in what often happens to the people who try to cross into a better life; or in ways all this is handled by our respective governments, and what that means for citizens of both countries; this is a good read to has a few answers, while at the same time putting a face on the brave and desperate people.

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The Devil's Highway: A True Story

Evolution of the Wastebasket

  “A ratio of failures is built into the process of writing. The wastebasket has evolved for a reason.”

~ Margaret Atwood

The wastebasket evolved into the delete key, which sometimes, unfortunately, sometimes, not unfortunately, is final. I have hit the delete key too many times, in the course of my writing in general. Once, I highlighted a folder, yes, an entire folder, held down the shift key and punched delete—sending that disgusting shit I had written and was allowing to ferment in that precious space on my hard-drive into the dark recesses of wherever shit goes when you delete it from your hard-drive. I should hit the delete key on that sentence.

Writing is difficult and it doesn’t—does NOT—get easier the longer you do it. Certain aspects of writing may become nearly effortless, or nearly automatic with persistent practice, such as grammar, spelling, organizing thoughts. You know, the mechanical shit. The great thoughts, the great syntactical fireworks that you know will blow the roof off your readers’ heads—that shit does not get easier, so stop waiting for it to attain simplicity and just keep writing. OK? OK.

Now, back to that delete key. The writers who refuse to use computers to write have an advantage: it is a great deal more difficult to throw away an actual piece of paper with words written in sweat, tears and blood, than it is to delete some magic dots on the screen. I know. I have tried this. Also, if you wake up and realize that not everything you have written is fly-covered dung, you can simply reach into the wastebasket and retrieve the virtuosity of your pen or typewriter. Or, maybe frantically begin throwing all the balled up pieces of paper (some with sunflower seed shells and gum and … what is that? covering them, causing the blood or sweat or tears to run into illegibility) and flattening them madly, in your attempt reclaim the brilliance you so blithely tossed aside. The finality of the delete key scares hell out of me, because I have many times remembered something somewhat dazzling that I had written, and when I went to hunt it down, realized with great horror that it was in that folder which was sent to digital hell by the swift unmerciful action of the delete key and my impetuous judgment of the shitty-ness of my writing contained therein.

Well, I hope that cheered all your little souls to bursting. Have a great day and use care in the presence of the devil… I mean, delete key.