Friday, September 20, 2013

Border Crossings

Thirty years ago.  You are headed North.   After teaching English in your home town for a while, you decide to head go North for the summer to make some money.  (You can make more money washing dishes in the states than teaching in the public schools in Mexico.) So, you walk to the edge of town and wait for the bus.

Your parents drive you to the airport.  You are headed South.   First time out of the country.   First trip away from your family for any considerable length of time.  You cry on the airplane.  The man sitting next to you says something like "You are 18 and are crying because you'll miss your family?"  He is not sympathetic.  You are too old to be crying on the plane.

You are waiting for the bus.  Trucks speed by blowing dust in your face.  A few Huicholes wait with you.  Suddenly, a man driving a white van stops and asks if you'd like a ride.  You hop in the back with the Huicholes, but he tells you to sit up front with him.  You can't believe he doesn't recognize you.  Surprised and somewhat frightened, you get in.

First you go to Miami for orientation.  One of the group leaders says that the great thing about going away is that you can start over again.  Nobody knows who you were.  Now, you can be whoever you want.  You think that sounds exciting.  A new you.

You think: Doesn't he recognize me?  Your features are just like your grandmothers.  (She called him "cara de nalgas" right to his face. My goodness, that woman had nerve.)  Maybe it's your clothes.  You're dressed like a nice middle-class boy.  Nike sneakers, jeans and a Polo shirt.  He asks you if you are "de afuera."  "Yes." you lie.  "I'm from Guadalajara."  He nods and you chat for a while about the city you've never seen.

Next stop is Tegulcipgulpa.   You will be staying with a host family for a few days.  You will have to use your Spanish now.  In high school Spanish class Mrs. Tafgar made the class conjugate the verbs by copying down what she wrote on the blackboard.  All around the room: yo quiero, tu quieres, Ud. quiere, nosotros queremos, vosotros queres, uds. quieren....I want, you want, we want, they want...

He drives to the terminal in Guadalajara.  He tells the indios "30 pesos" but as you reach for your wallet, he waves his hand.  No charge, he tells you.  He enjoyed your company.  You wonder.  How could that son of a bitch behave like such a gentleman?

In the nightclub dancing with the locals...one man tells you "please tell your country to stop supporting the war.  To stop supplying arms to the Contras. We don't want war."  Later somebody tells you "You know they are all married?  It's awful the way they were all dancing with you girls." You feel ashamed.  No.  Confused.

The years of abuse.   The cows his family stole, the men murdered, the women they raped. Your father thrown in jail for daring to speak up.  You, then. Selling paletas in the streets.  Twelve years old and the man of the house.   Now, you cannot think about that. You have to cross the Border.  Now.

"Me gusta mucho el pollo."  (Maybe you say gallina?  You will make mistakes like that all of the time and people will not understand what you are talking about. Why don't we distinguish between a live chicken and a dead one in English?  We don't  serve "cow" for dinner.) Mucho, mucho. You cannot emphasize this enough to your host family in La Ceiba.  They serve you chicken and it's the first thing that has tasted like home since you arrived.  Chicken is a staple in your Jewish home, but of course you can't say "Jewish" because everybody here is Catholic and  the Jews killed Christ.  It was actually the Roman soldiers, your grandmother told you.  But, nobody will believe that.  So you smile and tell them you will happily eat gallina anytime.  You are so excited to be here because you can practice your Spanish and this country is beautiful and everybody is so NICE.  They give you your own room with a private bathroom.   Later you realize that you took that all for granted, that you didn't think twice when the other three teenage daughters share one room.

The tailor says you can stay with him until it's time to cross.  For two weeks you wait until things are arranged.  The driver's licenses claiming your American citizenship take some time.  Meanwhile you go to your AA meetings, read the local papers, catch a movie, try and stay out of trouble.  It's not easy in Nuevo Laredo where the tension is thick, the gangs and the drug trafficking flourish.  You've read Louise Fisher's "Gandhi" so you check out the movie.  It's at least three hours long.  You will watch it more than a dozen times over the next 30 years.


It's July but the schools in Honduras are open.  It's a private Catholic school so they get you and the other Americans uniforms.  The girls wear white dresses.  Your favorite class is literature.  The kind, elderly teacher talks about poetry and even though you cannot understand much, you understand that it is beautiful and more interesting than the other subjects.  During recreo, the girls talk, hold hands and ask to borrow your round, plastic hairbrush.  Later you will think you should have bought a dozen of those brushes for gifts at McCrory's.  Who knew they wouldn't have things like that in La Ceiba?  You gave them cheap "I Love NY" t-shirts which your host sisters never wear.  Things are going pretty well.  You even meet a boy.  He likes you.  You like his green eyes and curly hair.

You are reading the paper in the park.  Every days there is news about the Border.  When to cross, when not to cross.  Suddenly a young man approaches you.  He tells you to give him 100 pesos.  You don't have it.  50 then.  10.  You are broke.  He takes a switchblade out of his pocket and begins to trim his nails.  "I always get what I am after" he tells you.  You look around.  A metal tube is lying on the ground near the bench.  You pick it up and standing there in front of him you say, "Me too."  The young man walks away.

You begin to notice things you hadn't before.  Some families, your host family and your new boyfriend's family have land.  A lot of land.  They take you there.  Miles and miles of land with streams and fields of pineapples and mango trees.  Your host father owns a store in town and he also seems to have many people working for him on this land.  Later, you will learn that these are haciendas.  Sometimes you are walking down the street and you notice things.  The man with no legs who moves around on a square scooter.  He is close to the ground and pushes himself around with his hands.  You can't believe that nobody can afford a wheelchair for him.  You begin to question things.  Why does that nice, elderly literature teacher hate the Communists?

At the border they tell you the id is okay.  Then suddenly it is not.  You are your companions are told to stand aside.  You are separated.  You'll never see them again.  You walk down a corridor and into a room that seems like a prison.  On the way, the immigration official says:  You have a choice.  Admit that this license is fake, or I will throw you into the river.  You look down into the river. As you wait in the holding room, you decide to tell the truth.

The director of the school is warning you not to spend time alone with him.  It is your first boyfriend.  You are 18 and you are so happy.  Why is this nun director acting like this?  She scolds you after discovering that you were sitting together.  Your host mother also tells you that only bad girls spend time at boy's houses.  But, you are so happy there.  His lovely 8 brothers and sisters...you feel so loved, a warmth you've never felt before.  Nobody will stop you.  You are American.  You are used to getting your way.

You can't go back home.  You are broke and couldn't cross the border.  On your way to Aguascalientes the bus driver tells you how much he misses his family.  He'd like to spend more time with them, he tells you, but he has to work so much.  You give him the box of chocolates that you bought in Nuevo Laredo.  For you and your family, you tell him.  The box of chocolates was not coincidental.  In the self-help section of the bookstore the engineer recommends "Success With a Positive Mental Attitude." He takes you out to lunch. The bus driver doesn't charge you the bus fare. That book will change your life.

You are walking through the streets under the scorching hot sun.  Somehow, as if in a dream, you know the way to his house. You arrive and they tell you( or you tell them) that you feel ill.  You have a high fever.  In a daze, you explain to his sisters that you are bleeding.  You don't know the word for "period" but they understand and give you sanitary napkins.  You'll remember.  The cool breeze. The warm small hands.  His mother in the hammock with the smallest child...blond, brown toddler. The hot tears.  The father never home.  You will remember this and never see any of them again.

You are searching.  For God?  For a purpose.  One thing is for sure.  You cannot go back home with empty pockets.  So, you go with "Plan B."  The members of the church find you housing.  You can't believe your luck.  And even though you refuse it, they insist  and you accept the money they have collected for you.  You don't have to go home with empty pockets.

Coming home.  The world feels so cold.  "She fell in love," the family friend says.  You're wrong, you want to tell her.  I don't love him.  That's not it at all. (Because he doesn't understand you.  You say, your first argument, that you have things to say, feelings muy hondas.  You should have said profundas, because hondas means deep too but in a different way so it probably made no sense at all to him and he tells you that you are very difficult, but even so, he should have understood you. Or pretended to.  You know then that you don't love him.  Just the warm kissing is enough.  It's exactly what you want.)  But, something has changed.   Your are crying dry tears.  The air is cold and dry in the States.

You go back.  Money in your wallet so all is well.  You didn't make it to the States this time, but that was as it should have been.  You teach another year.  Save money to cross again.  And you'll cross this time.  She'll be waiting for you.  You don't know that.  Neither does she.  That you are coming for her.  That you are searching for him.  That your paths will cross.  That the Border will move.




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