Terri Kirby Erickson
Immigration Raid, 1978
In the Polynesian restaurant where I briefly worked,
I was one of two non-Asian servers and as such, of
great potential value should the immigration paddy
wagon roll around to collect all the Chinese, Korean,
and Vietnamese employees they could round up, none
of whom were supposed to be working anyplace in the
U.S.A., and deport them, toot suite. It only happened
once when I was there, but Diane and I were left with
every table in a restaurant full of hungry patrons, so we
divided the room in half while the rest of the waitstaff,
all male, scrambled to reach the basement before agents
swarmed the building looking for people they referred
to as illegals. Panic was palpable, even worse than the
time Duong, who lost a few of his fingers to some sort
of explosive device during the Viet Nam War (when he
was just a kid) set one of the fake palm trees (scattered
around the dining room) on fire while making bananas
flambé at a customer’s table. It was pandemonium for
about two minutes after all the Asian waiters vanished,
but Diane and I managed to settle everybody down by
acting like it was no big deal, thankful for mai tais and
volcanos that had already been delivered. But as tough
as it was up top, it must have been terrifying downstairs
with all those hardworking men huddled together in the
dark, wondering what would happen to them and their
families if they were found, although by some miracle
they were not and none of our customers gave them
away, either. After all, it was the only eatery in town
where they could order flaming desserts and cocktails
the size of birdbaths. And sometimes mercy isn’t just
what we beg for, but something we actually receive.