It’s Monday, the 11th of December. I step out of the hotel where we stayed the night.
I know this place. The thick, overcast sky is a wall of drizzling moisture. The scent of diesel is in the air.
When I was 8 years old, I crossed the border illegally with my mother and family. In America, we picked grapes for 18 cents a tray, following my brothers and sisters along the long rows of tierra négra, black earth.
Now, I am returning to the border as a journalist with my colleagues on a two-week trip from south Texas to San Diego. As a graphic artist at The Denver Post, my assignment is to capture images and details about America’s obsession with the border. But this also is a personal trek, a journey to my past.
…
The smell of diesel reminds me of when my family lived in Rio Bravo, Tamulipas, Mexico. Early each morning, we usually woke up to the biggest rooster on the block and the smell of fuel from the trucks being prepared for the day. My cousin, Ernesto, friend Juan and I would get up at dawn and begin our job, selling water to families in the ranchos.
One of us would begin to fill with water two 50-gallon drums on a makeshift cart my Uncle Gil made. He was among a handful of people in the area who had access to fresh water. Another one of us would go around back and feed, fetch and hitch Uncle Gil’s horse. My uncle saddled him with a Spanish curse for a name, because after a few drinks, he couldn’t remember the horse’s real one.
Once we harnessed the horse, our work began. We moved as quickly as possible, wanting to finish our deliveries so we could play, and so we spilled a lot of the water. My uncle never really yelled at us; he knew the delivery job kept us out of trouble.
On one of these days, Ernesto said, “If one of us makes it to the other side, he has to help the others.” I agreed, never thinking that I would ever leave Mexico. Why would I want to leave? Life was good. Sometimes we would treat ourselves to the occasional afternoon movie at the local theater, El Azteca, but most of the money we made would go to tortillas and eggs for the next morning’s breakfast.
Throughout our day, we would talk about who would win a contest between Mexican wrestling stars: Would El Santo beat El Blue Demon? And sometimes we talked about how life would be better if we lived in el otro lado, the other side. We would go on and on about having a large house for our families, buying a big truck and learning to speak English.
Our days were filled with wish after wish after wish.
…
My family comes from San Luis Potisi, in the state of San Luis, in north-central Mexico. My mother’s name was Matilde Castillo. I am the youngest of seven children, and have four sisters and two brothers. The first-born was Mario, the apple of my mother’s eye; he could do no wrong. Next was my sister Esther. She died as an infant from complications of pneumonia. Alicia and Ofelia followed. Ofelia was the one who tested my mother’s patience. José and Maria came after (there always seems to be a Joseph and Mary in a Mexican family) and then I arrived.
Many said I was the spitting image of my father, who abandoned us before I was born. Soon after my birth, my father caught wind of my arrival and came to the hospital to name me after him before leaving us again. It was another stab at my mother’s dignity. My grandmother, Dominga “Mama Minga” Castillo, always said that I was the blessed one because I was spared being exposed to life with this man. And my mother knew this.
My mother would later discover that we were not the only family my father had. There was another wife and children somewhere in the state of Washington. This was something I would come to find out later: Many men we would work with had abandoned their families, starting over with each move. Little did I know that this part of my family history would be my blessing; I never had to meet my father.
After crossing the border, we settled and were raised in the sun of the San Joaquin Valley in California, where I lived for more than 30 years. That part of the state was filled with an endless supply of fruits and vegetables, especially grapes. I was never a fan of grapes. They may be tasty and nutritious, but to pick them … that’s an entirely different matter.
…
As I drive along the southwest Texas countryside with my colleagues, I see a group of people working a field. It hurtled me back in memory to a time when life was difficult and yet rewarding. We would start working around late May somewhere in the Northwest, like Washington or Oregon, picking apples for two to three weeks. From there, we made our way south through the San Joaquin Valley, picking peaches and nectarines and planting tomatoes. Continuing south, we went to the Imperial Valley to harvest figs, carrots and onions. Then, we headed east through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas and finally to Jacksonville, Fla., where we finished up with oranges around the end of August.
The life of a farm worker is one of oppressive conditions and back-breaking labor, in the heat and cold, along with exposure to dangerous pesticides.
During those years in the field, my mother became involved in La Causa, the United Farm Workers union. We spent more and more time on the side of the fields than in them. My oldest brother, a very good artist in his own right, began organizing support for farm workers in high school. My mother and sisters would make hundreds of flags and distribute them during rallies when politicians came to deliver their canned speeches.
I remember one rally in particular, when I was around 13. Ronald Reagan, then governor of California, intended to visit Kingsburg to sign a bill that would help protect farm workers from hazardous chemicals while harvesting. However, he changed his mind and decided to side with the ranchers. Reagan said the costs would be too much for ranchers to bear.
For a young boy, the governor’s decision was deeply disheartening.
…
In the summer of my eighth year, my mother and brothers and sisters returned from several months in Idaho, where they had been picking green beans and beets. My sister Maria and I had stayed with Mama Minga in Rio Bravo. Days after arriving, she told us that we would be taking a trip, to try to catch up with some family friends at Our Lady of San Juan del Valle church in San Juan, Texas.
I remember my brothers and sisters working feverishly, putting box after box of our belongings into the back of our station wagon. One of my responsibilities was to make sure I took my shoes. I had a tendency to always lose one of them. In fact, I think I slept in them that night.
Early that day, around 5 a.m., we piled into the car and headed to a small border station called El Progreso, near Pharr, Texas. Back then, it was just a two-man station on either side. One guard would check identification and the other would check the vehicle. The border guard on the U.S. side asked how long we would be staying in Texas.
My mother replied, “Just for the day; we’re attending early mass at Our Lady of San Juan.” The guard asked each of us where we were going.
My siblings repeated the same words. But not me. I told him that I was getting a scoop of banana ice cream. That seemed to seal the deal for allowing us in – or at least I always thought it did, because the guard even asked for a scoop for himself!
We stopped at the church and attended Mass. Afterward, my mother knelt in front of the Virgen and pulled out about 20 candles – and not those little ones, but the big, $5 candles – that she had purchased just for this moment. She lit them, and prayed for our safe passage. We met up with the other families that were to be in the caravan and began our trek. As we drove to our destination, the world became a lot bigger. It never occurred to me then that we were essentially beginning a new life for ourselves.
And we never did stop for ice cream.
…
Back in the present, my colleagues and I continue to the Eagle Pass Border station in southwest Texas, across the Rio Grande River from Piedras Negras, Coahuila, Mexico. We are on a press tour to see first-hand how a U.S. Border Patrol project called Operation Streamline II works. Watch commander Randy Clark takes us on a ride-along though town.
As we drive around, we come to a flea market, pretty good in size. I can see shoppers crossing the bridge at the border for goods and Christmas gifts. We continue our tour to a local golf course where in 2005 some 700 migrants had crossed, fully expecting to be arrested, jailed and processed in the U.S. – but instead fled. That had been the catalyst to Operation Streamline.
Later that evening, we cross into Piedras Negras, looking for Casa de Migrates, a place that houses and helps South Americans on the way in and out of the U.S. This facility is run by a local church and it survives through local donations. We introduce ourselves to the secretary. She gives a description of how the shelter operates. While my colleagues continue with their interviews, I look at several children gazing at the flickering Christmas lights.
That’s when I meet Daniel and his wife, Leticia.
They are in transition, and hopefully going to Chicago. He had worked there for several years until he was picked up and sent back to Honduras. His wife is four months pregnant and he wants his child to be born in the U.S. They are planning to try later that week to cross. I ask him if he is worried about getting caught, but he says he is still willing to take the chance for his unborn baby.
If he can’t be a U.S. citizen, well, at least his child could be.
I notice two young men who come into the courtyard and sit on an open bench. Both shiver and have their hands in their pockets. Their pants are wet up to their waists. I ask if they are from around here. They shake their heads. They are from Guanajuato, in central Mexico, and were unsuccessful in crossing the Rio Grande. There was another man with them when they began, but he was apprehended.
Now they had run out of money and were hungry. They just want to return home. As I listen to their story, my only thought is: Why are they risking so much?
We leave the shelter, and head for a bridge known to be a lay-over for those crossing later that evening. We walk under the bridge and come upon several people who stand by an open fire, near the bank of the Rio Grande. As we approach, I call out, in Spanish, ¿”Con permiso, puedo hablar con ustedes?” (“Excuse me, can I speak with you?”) Most of them seem to be in good spirits, but a few don’t want to have anything to do with journalists. I explain who we are, and that we pose no threat to them. Those who do talk to us are very friendly.
I notice several of them are in wet clothes. “What happened to your clothes?” I ask. “We tried crossing earlier but the water was too cold,” said one young man. Many of them seemed to have been drinking alcohol so the icy water didn’t seem a shock to their system.
Another man appoints himself group spokesman. Frederico Hernández is about 15 or 16 years old. He gives us permission to talk to the rest of the group. He is hospitable and offers us a drink and a share of their dinner, fresh fish. It occurs to me that when I was his age, I was picking tomatoes – and didn’t always do a good job at it. My mother would sometimes leave me and my brothers in one field – where we would find a way to enjoy ourselves, practicing our pitching with unripe fruit – while she and my sisters would go pick in another. We never did get the tomatoes to break on the curve balls.
As we finish up the interviews, I thank everyone for their time. Frederico turns to me and says, “Don’t be surprised if I see you in Colorado soon, huh?” I nodded my head.
“Be careful, they may be waiting for you on the other side,” I tell him.
“Don’t worry about me,” he says. “I’ll go up several miles north, and cross there.”
As we start walking back up to the road, I wish him luck.
Bueno suérte, mano.
…
The next afternoon, we walk across the border back into Mexico and head to Nuevo Laredo, to one of the many town plazas. As we roam the area, we come upon a Nativity display made from papier maché. The area appeared to be a waiting station for those who are coming home from work or just finishing their shopping.
I make my way to the steps of a gazebo and look at the people resting. A father and son get a bucket of water from the fountain for their horse. On the other side of the gazebo is a man feeding pigeons, which move as a horde in unison. At one point, at least 100 birds crowd about him for dried-out Mexican sweet bread. Some birds are aggressively trying to take up residence in the man’s bag of food.
As we make our way back to the border and through the line, I feel a little guilty knowing I won’t be hassled about my credentials. I hear others practicing what they will say. A woman behind me instructs her daughters on what to say to the Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers.
…
Once back in San Diego, on our last leg of the assignment, we go to the Chula Vista station to tour one of the heavily guarded sectors, the Otay Mesa. As we drive through the sector, we hear the “company line” from an ICE officer, about how we as a nation are combating illegal migration. We see the 9-mile fence that is supposed to deter people, the super-high towers armed with cameras, the infared and seismic sensors.
I’m not sure this approach will work. The need for a better life rests deep within everyone – on both sides of the border. That’s why people cross over from Mexico; they want a slice of the American dream. And while we tour Otay Mesa, what do we see? A couple trying to cross.
We spot a few Mexican boys playing between the primary fence and the new fence being constructed near the Chula Vista station. One of the boys, Luis, introduces himself and asks what we are doing there. Other children near the Mexican side immediately run to us to see what all the fuss is about.
Luis is not shy, and manages his buddies like Tony Soprano takes care of his capos. Luis tells his friends not to ask stupid questions. One of the kids is Luis’ sister, Maresela. He tells her repeatedly: “Stay on the other side of the fences,” but she refuses.
She is curious about my colleague’s cameras.
I ask one of the children why they’re playing in the middle of the fence. The child says he likes playing in “en la terra de nadien,” no-man’s land, because it is quiet and nobody can sneak up on you.
By this time, at least six children are talking to us. I gaze over the fence into Mexico, where more children gather and shout out questions.
We finish the tour. I say a prayer for the children and tell them to be careful and never stop dreaming. And I silently give thanks for my mother, who sacrificed so much for her family. I guess that’s what parents do for their children; they try to give them the world.
To date, there are 39 million Latinos in the U.S., living their dreams.
