Inside the Life of the Migrants Next Door

There are some signs of change, but they're planted in rocky soil. Like Mario Coria, a Tuxpeño named Pancho found wealthy patrons who valued his hard work in the Hamptons. He worked as a gardener at one family's East Hampton estate for more than a decade while his wife Ruth worked as their housekeeper. When the matriarch of the family died, she left Pancho, his wife and three daughters a fair sum of money. Pancho won't say exactly how much, but it was enough to seed his American Dream for Tuxpan: state-of-the-art greenhouses for growing roses, orchids and gladiolus to be sold around Mexico. He hoped to supplement his inheritance with low-interest loans that the state of Michoacán earmarked for returning emigrants. He says the loans would allow him to employ up to 40 people. "When this greenhouse gets going," says Pancho, "I hope to be able to save many people from having to go to the Hamptons, myself included." Right now, however, the several plots of land he bought in the hills outside Tuxpan lie fallow. Applying for the loans proved more complicated than Pancho anticipated, and he has no backup plan. He ended up spending much of a recent visit to Tuxpan driving his beat-up Dodge Caravan around town, drinking with old friends, trying to figure out how to raise more money.

THE PRICE OF PROGRESS

DESPITE THE FLOOD OF AMERICAN MONEY streaming into towns like Tuxpan, there is a palpable lack of vitality on the streets. In the summer working season, Tuxpan feels as if there's some great war on: all the fighting-age men have gone to battle the hedgerows up north. Only women, children and the elderly remain. That emptiness is felt acutely by Lucila, 75, mother of 13, eight of whom live in the U.S. She proudly gives a tour of her renovated house on one of the town's main streets. The back of the building is neat and thoroughly modern, with tile floors in the living room, modern appliances in the kitchen. Still standing in the front part are the three tiny adobe-walled rooms that used to be the entire house. Lucila and her husband slept in one room. The five girls slept in another. The eight boys slept in the third. Out back, just past where the refrigerator now stands, was a large pen that held up to 70 pigs. Besides tending the pigs, Lucila's husband grew corn and beans and did odd jobs as a tailor. Lucila taught knitting classes at her house to help the family scrape by.

Nowadays Lucila doesn't have to worry about money--her children paid for the renovations in cash, a 50th wedding anniversary present in 1995 for her and her late husband--but she is lonely. Four of her daughters live in the U.S. permanently; three are citizens by marriage. Five sons work in the Hamptons; the other three are scattered across Mexico. Visits outside of Christmas are rare. Lucila occasionally talks on the phone with her children, but she spends most of her time walking through the enclosed town market and waiting for visits from the local priest. She keeps a bowl of salsa on the table at all times, just in case he stops by unexpectedly. "The padre loves spicy things," she says. But most days, not even the padre shows up. "There are times when I really miss my children," she says.