I met Roberto on a Saturday morning at the Berryessa Flea Market in San Jose, somewhere between the smell of elotes and the sound of cumbia drifting from a nearby booth. He was arranging a row of old electronics with the kind of patience and care that tells you a lot about a person before they even say a word. He came from Oaxaca in 1998 with $200 and a phone number written on a torn piece of paper. That number never worked. He slept in a park his first week in San Jose, not knowing a single soul, teaching himself English by reading newspapers people left behind on the bus. Over the years he built a life the same way he runs his booth — piece by piece, nothing wasted. He raised three kids here. His youngest just finished her first year at San Jose State, studying nursing. He told me he still has moments where he feels invisible in the city he helped build with his own hands. But then a regular customer stops by to chat, or a little kid waves at him from across the aisle, and something in him settles. He got quiet for a second, looking down at the table covered in old radios and tangled cables, and then he looked back up and smiled. "This table right here," he said, "this is how my daughter goes to college." He has been at this same booth for eleven years. Rain or shine, every single weekend. Not because he has to anymore, but because this flea market was the first place in America that ever made him feel like he was home.

Marcos showed up at my door on a Tuesday evening with my order and a smile that made it feel like he had nowhere else he would rather be. He came to San Jose from São Paulo, Brazil three years ago with almost nothing, chasing a version of America he had only ever seen in movies. Back home he had been studying to be an engineer at one of the most prestigious schools in São Paulo, but after the sudden death of his father, his family ran out of money to keep him in school, forcing him to make the hardest decision of his life. He had to leave everything behind. He did not know anyone here. He did not speak much English. He just knew he had to keep going, because people back home were counting on him in a way that did not leave room for giving up. Now he drives these streets every night, learning English through conversations with strangers as well as through songs by his favorite artist, Drake. He is sending money back home every two weeks without fail, and slowly saving up to go back to school here and finish what he started. We stood in my doorway talking for almost twenty minutes and I almost forgot he had more deliveries to get to. What stood out to me is that he told me he does not see DoorDash as a setback, not even a little bit. "This car," he said, patting his Prius like it was something sacred, "this is my everything and my only thing," he laughed, and continued, "this is my classroom, my office, and my way back to university." He cheesed after he said it, but he meant every word. He got back in the car, pulled up his next order, and drove off into the evening like a man with something to prove.