Last Friday was Cinco de Mayo and I found myself in a migrant worker camp in Cobden, Ill.

After knocking on the door of a concrete bungalow, a squat, sharp-featured woman answered with two children peering from behind.

"Hi, we're from the newspaper. Can we speak with you?" I asked.

Her husband came forward to take charge of the situation puffing out his chest beneath a T-shirt emblazoned with an American flag.

"How can I help you?" he said, introducing himself as Pedro.

I wanted to know their legal status and promised not to turn them in.

In a rapid-fire voice Pedro rushed through the story of how he and his wife crossed the border illegally nine years ago.

Then he got to the good part. The only part of the story he really wanted to share.

"These children," he said, relishing the words, "were born here. ... They are Americans."

His eyes gleamed. I could see this fact was his life's achievement. Probably what drove him on his itinerant course through the fields, kitchens and factories of Southern Illinois and Chicago.

"They are citizens," he said, smiling.

And that's when it hit me. This was something I had not heard in the recent immigration debate.

What do you do when half of a family is legal and the other half is not?

I imagined millions of potential Elian Gonzalez-like scenarios where parents could be expelled from the country and children would have the legal right to stay. According to a recent study by the Pew Hispanic Center, there are 3.1 million children who fit this description.

But where are they? Are they in school? Are they vaccinated? Are they well treated? Tough to say.

I bent down and tried to talk to the boy aged 6 or 7. He gave me a quizzical look and ran under clothes flapping on the laundry line. I asked his father if the son understood English. He shook his head.

This is a new development in American history.

The United States has always been a place where immigrant families complain of their children losing their identity. Cultural hegemony trumps family ties.

My own grandmother was born in a home where both parents spoke Italian. She barely ever learned a word of their language.

America's pull was too strong.

That's what differentiates the United States from places like France where second- and third-generation citizens of Arab descent vent their frustration by lighting cars on fire. These people have French citizenship, but they never really became French.

I always thought it was different over here.

So how had these Mexican-American children avoided the Mickey Mouses and Britney Spearses that have successfully put the American stamp on so many other newcomers?

"We move around from season to season. ... I go where there is work," said the father.

And I understood this also meant they go where identification is not required.

That probably means these kids haven't seen a doctor's office or a classroom. They probably haven't even spent much time on the playground. At least not a playground where they'd be likely to stick out.

A new meaning of life in the shadows.

Pedro tried to explain what he hoped for from his children's future.

"Students É university, it's better to be working as a student. Like you, my friend," he said, gesturing to the notebook I was scribbling in. "To work with your mind. It's easier. Better. They will stay in school."

A familiar dream.

TJ Greaney is a reporter for the Southeast Missourian.