We cross the border (back into the U.S.) every day with no less difficulty than walking around a puddle, past gates of jello and toothpicks. Today I passed by the border patrol officer with out a single word – he swiped my passport card, nodded, and I passed through the gate. It feels so off, so surreal, to walk through with such ease when we spend all day working with people whose entire lives are shadowed by, pinned by, blockaded by the border wall. It’s nearly impossible for them to obtain a visa.
Today, at Transportes, I was joking with a few friends and they asked my age. “Diecinueve, dice? No, no puede ser. Tienes vienteseis, vientesiete años. No estás tán joven. [19? No, can’t be. You must be 26 27, you’re not that young]” They wouldn’t believe my age, so I showed them my ID for my birthdate – driver’s liscence and passport card. We joked, them checking my papers – “but, you’re not wearing these glasses now – how do we know it’s really you?” (Once they accept I’m 19, I become la niña, bebé del grupo, tan chica. I’m Magdalena, la niña y un mango [slang for a pretty woman]). When they were holding my passport card, I felt so sad and so frustrated. That card, that U.S. identification, is like gold. Unattainable, unbelievably valuable. Many would do almost anything for US citizenship.
Tonight, after work, we (volunteers) sat down to reflect and decompress from the past few days. We talked for a while about choice. We all have come here by choice. I’ve chosen to be here. I can choose my education. I can choose where I want to live. I can choose my occupation. I can opt to turn down a job opportunity. I can choose not to work. I can choose to live with my family or apart from them. On a daily-life level, I can walk into the kitchen or out to a restaurant and eat what I feel like eating.
I would not choose to give up any of these privileges; I list them to note that many people do not have these choices. They eat when they can find food or whatever is cheapest. They grab the first job they can, even if it’s only for $60 a week at a maquilador. Since I can choose pretty much my entire life-path and lifestyle, I need to understand what a privilege this is and how to use these many privileges and options to provide options for those who don’t, and may never have, the same range of opportunities.
Tonight one of our friends from Transportes may be trying to cross to el norte. It’s jarring, unsettling – I’m starting to make friends with the migrants/travellers at the shelter and the comedor. It’s easy to forget when chatting with them that they’re all looking/waiting for an opportunity to cross the border to get back to their families or to make it back home in southern Mexico or Central America. I can’t understand what it must be like for him; in dark, on desert ground through agaves and cacti, past shadows of border patrol (whether actual or imagined), the potent fear and tension. From my position in the world, I will never be able to understand that desperation, that drive, and that fear.
After reflection tonight we sat and played ukulele and guitar a while, made nettle tea, sang. A bit of R&R was comforting and called-for. And for now, sleep, an early morning at the comedor tomorrow.
Hopefully soon, I’ll post a general timeline of border history.
Un abrazo y hasta pronto,
madelyn
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