We are just outside Willmar when Mark begins to explain how he and his family eat and sleep for free at Indian casinos. “Hey, we look like Indians. I tell the manager we’re Sioux, and if he doesn’t ask questions, we’ll probably get suites and buffet coupons.” Mark’s skin is the color of a very well-tanned Caucasian, and his hair is ink black. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine that he is, in fact, a Native American.
But Mark is an American Roma. Better known around the world as a Gypsy—a term which offends many Roma, but not Mark. He is one of nearly a million American Gypsies descended from Eastern European and Turkish clans. Though assimilation has become common, many Gypsies still live in a highly secretive, mobile world where false identities are standard, cash is preferred, and photographs are strictly taboo. Mark’s real name—in particular, his clan name—is a well-guarded secret.
Today I am riding in Mark’s white Chevy Suburban. In the back seat is his American Gypsy wife, and surrounding her are three of their seven children, ages 6, 9, and 11. The mood is warm and welcoming. Though allowing outsiders (much less writers) into this world is considered a serious cultural breach, Mark is proud to show off a small part of his unique lifestyle. Mark says he married his wife when he was 14 and she was 16—about average for an arranged Gypsy marriage. The negotiated dowry was $20,000—paid by the bride’s father. “I’m hoping my kids work out a little cheaper,” Mark says. He has three daughters.
We are on our way to a machine shop where Mark will buy nearly a ton of scrap aluminum. Once the metal is loaded into the Suburban’s trailer, Mark drives it to a Minneapolis scrap yard. For nearly half the year—two to three months of which are spent in Minnesota—this is how Mark supports his family. He’s not alone. According to Mark, there are probably 5,000 “scrap Gypsies” roaming America during the summer months.
Countless machine shops across Minnesota deal with these nomads on a regular basis, though often they don’t know it. “They wouldn’t look at us if they knew we were Gypsies. So around here we tell them we’re Indians. Down south we’re Mexicans.” Mark spends his winters outside Wichita, Kansas, where he owns a house. Nevertheless, the road is Mark’s workplace, and even during the winter months he spends weeks driving through Texas and Oklahoma in search of scrap metal. More often than not, his children accompany him, learning the intricacies of the scrap business along the way. It’s important to Mark because like most Gypsy children they won’t complete more than a few years of school. And like most American Gypsies—including Mark and his wife—they cannot read or write. It’s a serious problem in the Gypsy community, but one that is rarely addressed for fear that further assimilation will devastate the private Gypsy culture. Nevertheless what’s lacking in literacy is often balanced by an uncanny ability with numbers—particularly when those numbers are attached to dollars.
We arrive at the machine shop and Mark asks me to stay in the truck. He and one of his kids approach the loading dock where an official-looking man in a blue denim jumpsuit leads them into the building. After 10 minutes a forklift arrives with several pallets of aluminum. A moment later Mark reemerges, and he’s in a hurry to leave. “We got too good a price.”
Mark tells me that Minnesota and the Dakotas are good territory for Gypsies. “People don’t give us too much trouble. If it weren’t for the winters, we might even move up here.” He also assures me that Minneapolis scrap yards understand the peculiar needs of a mobile, anonymous businessman with no forwarding address.
When he drops me at my car, Nick gives me a bolo tie with a turquoise clip. He tells me that it’s the same tie he gives to machine-shop foremen who need convincing that he’s an Indian. “Just make sure you write how we’re all good Indians.” He hands me the address of the long-term residence motel he and his family are using as a base while they work Minnesota. I’m invited for dinner. It’s in the outer ring suburbs. “That’s where all the nice Minnesota families live, right?”
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