Rueben Torres, birthright American citizen and owner of Portland Metro’s Season Master Landscaping, grabbed six affordable fast-food meals and headed back to the jobsite. The job, in affluent Sunset Hills, entailed transforming a neglected side-yard into the approximation of a natural culvert, with a carved downslope, extensive weed-control matting, river rocks and a few indigenous scrubs. Bid price: just south of $11,000.
Season Master’s four-man-one-woman crew looked up as Rueben’s Ford F-250 rounded the corner on Primrose Lane. His foreman, Richard Hernandez, who ran the show in his absence, was also a birthright American, but the rest of his team wasn’t. Enrigue, an Ecuadorian, was granted Temporary Protected Status under Biden, but the Trump Administration rescinded it. Manuel and his wife Belinda, from Mexico, entered the U.S. illegally in 2021. Tomas, a landscape rookie who claimed to have been an auto mechanic in Caracas, Venezuela, was “just off the boat,” having made it onto a San Deigo beach on a rented jet-ski in the period between Trump’s election and inauguration. Since Trump’s election to a second term, Rueben has faced serious difficulties finding dependable workers to service the projects his successful company won bids on. His hopes of becoming a supervisorial rainmaker are dashed; he routinely needs to pick up a hedge-trimmer or mattock to stay on schedule.
As Rueben handed over the fast food, they sat on the weed matting, their backs leaning on the sun-warmed side of the house. The weather forecast was for 95 degrees by three p.m. Enrigue opened a conversation—all in Spanish--about the ongoing ICE protests near downtown Portland.
“With the heat, there’s not so many.”
“Is the Guard coming?” asked Belinda.
“Nobody knows,” he answered, “not even the journalists.”
“I watch last week,” said Manuel. “Why they dress as frogs and rabbits?”
“I know,” said Richard, American-born but sympathetic. “When I see that I think that Trump is laughing at them.”
Belinda reflected while chewing on her franchise taco. “Trump is not laughing,” she said.
“Stupido,” spit Tomas, whose American existence has been hunted since he crossed over. “In my country, they can shoot you in that frog suit.”
“Mine too,” said Enrigue. “With the fuel subsidies cut off by Noboa, there are many protests, and much danger. A frog or rabbit would make a nice target.”
“I read yesterday in the paper about some dancers,” said Richard. “Las chicas doing Spanish dances across the street from ICE.”
Tomas laughed into his burrito, choked on it, and reached for his large Mountain Dew. “Estupida.” he said. “Maduro would be very comfortable with that protest.”
Belinda spoke up, “Some of the protestors are muy violent, very serious. They are trying to help us, no?”
Rueben Torres listened to his employees, saying nothing. Sitting down for lunch with them was something he tried to do once or twice a week. The topic under discussion came up often.
“Yes,” he said, “these people are trying to help you. I don’t understand the animal costumes, the dancing either, and I grew up here. I don’t know what helps you more, the peaceful protest or the violent protest.”
Tomas laughed again. “Nothing they do will help.”
“Maybe,” agreed Rueben. “But they’re the people who don’t think Enrigue, Manuel, Belinda, and you Tomas, should be deported.”
Lunch was ending, they were rounding up their wrappers and stuffing them in bags. Rueben took all the bags and headed for his big Ford, saying, “The people who want you out don’t protest, they vote, and many of them are in these houses all around us.”
At the truck he looked up with concern. The crew followed his gaze. A white sedan, very official-looking, slowly cruised up the street.