Salvadoran Shopkeeper Sacrifices to Achieve

Hope for New Laws Has Awakened His Political Interest

On any other Monday afternoon, Gerardo Sanchez would have been at his Columbia Heights photo studio snapping family portraits, selling Mexican DVDs, maybe ordering supplies by phone.

Yesterday, the shop's door was locked and the sign that normally blinks O-P-E-N in its window was dark. Sanchez was in Hyattsville, kneeling on his wet driveway, hosing off a hubcap of his minivan.

"See you there?" Sanchez, 32, called in Spanish to a neighbor. The neighbor nodded; there was no need to explain where. Like Sanchez, he would head to a rally in the District and add his voice to a call for immigration reform. To show his support, Sanchez had not only shuttered his store. He planned a day without spending a dime.

Until the Good Humor truck rolled up the street, that is, drawing Sanchez's 3-year-old daughter, Tirza, like a magnet. A few minutes later, Sanchez had purchased ice cream for Tirza, two neighbor children and his wife.

"It is for the children! I forgot because of the children," he said in an eruption of laughter. Then, reconsidering, he put up his hands in a who-me ? gesture. "I did not buy anything. I gave a gift."

Like many immigrants who participated in yesterday's boycott and strike, Sanchez did it with a few calculated risks. His three school-age daughters went to class because he had not told school officials they would stay home, and he knows there are rules. Much of his work is arranged over his cellphone, and because he is the boss, he would not imperil his job -- something he was not sure he was willing to do.

Still, Sanchez, a Salvadoran with a temporary work permit, said he did not think twice about closing his shop, though he knew he would lose money. He predicted he would lose $400 to $500 from walk-ins -- people like the girl who arrived Sunday afternoon, celebrating her sweet-15 in a sparkling tiara and taffeta hoop skirt that she squeezed through the shop's front door.

"I think people have to sacrifice something to achieve something," he said. The something Sanchez wants: legal status for illegal immigrants and residency for those with work permits like the one he has, which does not permit him to leave the country. Hope for a law that could grant that wish has inspired in Sanchez a previously dormant political interest. He also closed his store April 10 to attend a rally on the Mall.

Sanchez said he knew many activists discouraged the boycott, but he was unconcerned. Part of him suspected a "political game" in which members of Congress unsympathetic to immigrants influenced the organizers. Mostly he thought that the immigrant community wanted the boycott. Besides, he figured, why wait when you do not know what tomorrow will bring?

"When a human being has decided, he has decided," Sanchez said.

For Sanchez, the morning passed much as it would on a typical day off: He slept late and watched the news. After washing the van, he took a shower, spritzed on cologne and picked up his girls at school a few blocks away.

Back home, Sanchez and his daughters -- ages 5, 7 and 9 -- paged through a book club pamphlet. He boasts that his daughters know the U.S. national anthem but not its Salvadoran counterpart.

In 1999, Sanchez flew to the United States with a professional visa in his passport to cover the Cherry Blossom Festival for a television station in El Salvador, where he worked as a photographer, journalist and cameraman. He says he did not intend to stay. But he did, picking up freelance photo jobs here and there. In 2000, he started doing weddings and other events.

Last year, he bought a brick duplex for $272,000. Four months ago, he opened his shop in a low-ceilinged basement with orange walls. He put speakers on the sidewalk and blasted Latin music to draw in clients. Sanchez is demure about his store's profits, preferring to say it "maintains itself."

Even with that dream realized, Sanchez knows his situation is tenuous. His work permit does not allow him to apply for a green card, and his wife and children are here illegally. Yesterday, he leaned back on his plaid sofa and looked at his daughters, who raced wildly around the living room.

"My dream is that they study" in a university, he said. And that they learn three languages, and maybe study overseas.

That last point is at the heart of Sanchez's feelings about legalization: He believes it is only fair that people should be able to come and go from a country, especially if they are hardworking and responsible.

Sanchez speaks these thoughts like a preacher. He peppers intense monologues with sudden whispers for emphasis and is given to parables and metaphors. A dove lives in a beautiful tree surrounded by bars, he recounted. "What is it? It is still a jail," Sanchez said, hissing the second sentence. Set the dove free, he continued, and it will return to nurture the tree.

In mid-afternoon, he got into his Toyota and headed for the rally alone. Taking his daughters somewhere police are present would make him nervous, he said. But Sanchez was eager. The anticipation had been mounting all day.

As he crossed a street toward Malcolm X Park, Sanchez gripped a stack of fliers given to him that morning by day-labor organizers in Langley Park. The fliers tell day laborers how to avoid getting stiffed, but Sanchez handed them out indiscriminately, offering a " Como esta ?" to each taker.

"I would like to be like a leader of the community -- no matter your race, no matter your color," he said, entering the park. Making his way to the stage, Sanchez shook hands with photographer friends and paused to sign a petition supporting voting rights for legal immigrants in the District. The rally was lovely, he decided.

And he decided something else: He would risk his job for this after all, if it came to that.

"I would do it," he said, squinting under the sun. "To help others. I know tomorrow I can find another job."

A few minutes later, Sanchez squeezed under the scaffolding near the front of the stage, next to a man holding a giant U.S. flag and a small Salvadoran one. He raised his hands above his head and clapped.