Some people call them illegal immigrants.

Others use the words undocumented.

Aliens.

Americans have all sorts of names, nice and not,

for the 11 million or so people in the United States who are not legal residents.

I have a different name for them.

Friends, family, people I grew up with, the people I interview for stories that I write for the Los Angeles Times, and my dad.

That's him, Lorenzo Arellano.

He's telling me about the first time he crossed the border in 1968 to come to the U.S., jammed in the trunk of a Chevy.

And how much did you pay?

$125.

He was then 18 from a poor rural village in Mexico.

Dad settled first at East Los Angeles, then ended up in Orange County.

So being a so-called illegal immigrant was never a big deal to me. In fact, I didn't even know

people hated them until I was a sophomore in high school, when something happened that I'll

never forget. It's October, one of those damn Southern California autums where the weather is hot and windy.

I'm 15 years old, outside Anaheim High School, go colonists, and the school day's done.

So I'm walking home when out of nowhere, some white boys yell at me from a truck.

At first, I don't know what they're saying.

Then I make it out.

They're shouting, 187, 187.

And I looked at them and I'm like, huh?

...