Last week, Donald Trump signed an executive order to crack down on truck drivers who don’t speak English, I needed to call me an industry expert: my dad.

Lorenzo Arellano drove a large rig in Southern California for 30 years before retiring in 2019. His six-day work week fed us full of clothes and allowed him to afford the three-bedroom Anaheim home in the pool where he and my little brother still live.

"Why did that lunatic want to do this?" he asked me in Spanish before answering his own question. "It's because (Trump) has always lacked respect for immigration. We truck drivers shouldn't get that. He just wants to hurt people. He wants to humiliate the whole world."

The limited English penalty for immigrant truck drivers dates back to the 1930s. Trump's order requires existing requirements to be proficient in English by truck drivers, overturning a 2016 policy that inspectors should not cite or suspend Truqueros As long as they can communicate enough through interpretation or smartphone apps.

Conservatives have long believed that Obama-era action and the rise of immigration truck drivers – who now account for 18% of the industry, according to census figures – have seen a significant increase in fatal accidents over the past decade, when Trump hinted when he insisted that “the U.S. roads become less safe.”

Trump's move is the latest dog whistle to those who don't like America, not as white as before. It follows similar xenophobic actions, such as declaring English as the official language, severely weakening citizenship for birthrights and renaming the Gulf of Mexico’s “Gulf of the United States.”

The British trailer promoters were particularly angering me, though. Assuming that more diverse trucking industry is the main culprit of the increase in fatal truck crashes, it ignores the fact that there are more trucks on the road than ever before. According to the Federal Automobile Airline Safety Administration, fatal crashes were tripled as they did in the late 1970s, when cultural touch stones such as “Smokey and The Bandit” and “Covy” burned the image of the excellent OL’White Boy Trucker into the American Psychology.

This is also an insult to people like my 73-year-old father.

When I was in junior high school, Papi took me with him on weekends to teach me the value of hard work. He would wake me up at 2 a.m. so I could tie the goods to the slab on a cold morning or drag the pallet jack around the warehouse at lunchtime. I don't remember the language he heard him speak other than Spanish, the language we've been conveying. But he succeeded, all of his four children were college-educated and had full-time jobs.

His dream was to let the two of us eventually start our own father-son truck company. That never happened because I was a nerd, but I was always proud of my father’s career. Even though he entered the Chevrolet's trunk with a fourth-grade education, he realized his American dream, but I have always put the basic understanding of what I said about English.

The day after the call, I visited Papi to see the only two souvenirs he dug out from his trucking career.

From the early 1990s, his first rig was a curved, blurry photo, his first rig was a faded red GMC Cabover, who parked behind my Tía Licha's store so he didn't have to pay a private fee. Papi, younger than today, stands Alternatives At Placenia Home Depot, wait for workers to uninstall it. He didn't smile because the old-fashioned Mexican never smiled for the camera. But you can tell him that he is proud through his posture.

Another souvenir, Papi, showed me a 1991 plaque from the Trucking Trade Group. It congratulates him on being “credit for your profession” and “the best profession your profession can offer.”

“They will just hand it over to the safest driver,” he explained as I held it. We sat in his living room, and photos of my late mom and our children adorned the bookshelf. He smiled. “I made a lot.”

I asked him how he learned the English he knew. Papi replied in Spanish that his first class was his first job in the United States, a carpet tailoring factory in Los Angeles. Owners Bishop Latino workers run the machines, but there are enough phrases so that immigration authorities will leave them alone when they attack.

Otherwise, my father lives in a world Españolmy native language. When he married my mom and moved to Anaheim, she convinced him that he should take English classes at night to improve their prospects. He only lasted for two years, "because I worked a lot."

When he trained to become a truck driver in the mid-1980s, the lecturer spoke Spanish, but told everyone that they needed to learn enough English to understand traffic signals and pass the DMV test.

"It makes sense because it's America," Papi told me. "But this is also Southern California. Everyone knows some English, but a lot of people know some Spanish, too."

I asked him how much English he used at work.

"Maybe 50%," he replied. "When that's not true, why would I say 'many'?"

He recited the sentences sent by dispatchers and security officers to him in English at each site:

what would you like?

Which company do you work for?

Who is the agent?

What is an address?

Do you have a driver's license?

He repeated each question - and its corresponding answers - slowly, as if thinking about his youthful and happy time, he finally found his professional groove.

“Even if I speak, they listened to my understanding chueco And Mojo,” He said- bent and broken. Said loudly, my father became extremely self-conscious.

I asked if anyone made fun of his English.

"No," he said, suddenly happy. “Because of truck drivers, we are a fraternity.”

All the immigrants Papi worked with him during his trucking days were shocked. Russian. Armenian. Arab. Italian. "They don't know Spanish. I don't know their language. So we have to speak English to be friends. Everyone knows a little bit."

In fact, he remembered the appearance of an immigration truck driver down About the Perfect English speaker.

"The English-speaking people work harder. He won't escape work. Those who speak good English have less work because they think knowing English makes them so powerful. When the boss says, 'Who wants more change?' The English-speaking people will say, "Why should I work late?" ” and fled to their home.”

I asked Papi if he regretted not knowing more English.

"No. It's done."

Then he took a little time to think. "Look, learning is for people who like it, but not me. But I'm not. Maybe I can live a better life."

He gestures in our family home. "But we live a good life. I did what I had to do."

My dad wasn't the most responsible person in his personal life, but trucking took him root. I thought about how he and many other truckers sacrificed their self-improvement in the name of success at work (e.g. English lessons). I remember all the inspections my dad had to do with his rig - he never failed - how he still condemned me if I leaned on my rearview mirror, not my sideview mirror. Almost every time he saw each other, he would remind me to check the oil and air pressure in the tires.

Truck drivers are some of the most cautious people you will meet because they know how dangerous their career is. So, for Shipping Secretary Sean P. or the real meaning of this country.

My dad and I waited for the Times video editing to record the days we talked about his truck. Finally, I came up with an idea: He speaks to Trump on behalf of the immigration truck driver…in English?

Wearing a stylish black stetson, leather vest and his best boots, Papi can't get through. He looked directly at the camera.

"Mr. Trump," he said. "This is 100% Lorenzo Arellano, a Mexican. Please respect the truck drivers. We always work hard. … They can't speak English or not. They have to be good workers. I promise!"

Although he hates the president, his stress does not hinder his confidence, unapologetically - even polite.

"They speak some English," Papi said of his truck. compete. "No need for much English. I hope you listen to this conversation. Thanks Trump. Do something for us."

I joked that this is my father, and I said I speak any English.

“All Moore. All chueco” he said again.

In other words, perfect.