Translated entry from the diary of an undocumented migrant worker who had migrated to the U.S. just a month prior (1909):

 My family desperately awaits a letter from me. I know that – believe me, I do – but I cannot give them the good news they so desperately need. It is true that I’m paid more than triple of my previous wage for doing the same grueling labor I had known all my life. It is also true that there is less violence and political turmoil here in America; it’s been a month since I last saw Díaz’s beady eyes watching me from street portraits. But I have no brethren with which to share the joys of biting into a perfect tortillas, no friends with which to reminisce over the grandeur of Mexico before Porfiriato. My broken English continues to receive hateful profanity from the white men and women who inhabit this land. My labor, however efficient, continues to be met with nothing but wrathful criticism and scrutinization from my employer. Oh, forgive me, but my spirit is not here in this alien nation. The boisterous family dinner, however meager, that rewarded a day of hard labor no longer awaits me here. Memories of mi hija [my daughter] Amelia’s laughter are growing faint and the familiarity of mi esposa [my wife] Maria’s affection slowly fades away. Americanness infests my mind. I am not welcome here when I do not try to act, talk, and walk like one of them. But when I do, my heart bleeds, for I am betraying mi tierra [my land]. Tell me, my beloved esposa y hija [my wife and daughter] – what am I supposed to do?

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