salience
June 17, 2003
1. Wow, man. Blogger has changed its user interface, finally. I like it, the design is very clean. Maybe I'll take a screen shot of it later, to show all you lucky folks... :)
2. So I was reading the headlines this morning, and I saw an article about a woman accused of smuggling.
And here's my four cents:
What sensational reporting. Like smuggling immigrants is anything new, much less a threat to the United States. The reality is, if it weren't for these ring leaders, my Dad's paternal family would never have made it to Texas. For all of the industrialization in Mexico City, once outside, there is absolutely nothing. No running water, electricity, health care, food: only corruption and a huge imbalance of wealth. These people want a better life. Maybe if all of us rich Americans took the time to go down to the border, walk that bridge over the Rio Grande, and take in the lifestyle for a few minutes, we would collectively understand why latinos risk everything to get into this country.
Ah Mexico. I was nine, and my entire family was on a mission trip before New Years. Mexicanos are very Catholic, and my abuela (grandma) was determined to visit the five missions she had used as landmarks in getting away from her mother's ranch to San Antonio. My abuelo (grandpa) had just died, two days before Christmas, which made the trip all the more important. The day after Christmas, the day after the funeral, my entire family set out for Mexico. We went to three masses that day, and even got to hear the nuns singing. The prettiest one (in my mind) was that of La Virgen de Guadalupe, closest to where my abuela grew up. There is a natural portrait on the side of the building: the limestone used for that wall had corroded in a million different colors, and if one took in the entire wall, she could see Mary.
At each mission I was appalled at the first thing I saw: old women, on their hands and knees, dragging themselves over the gravel paths to the churches. I turned to my abuela and tried not to cry. She told me that they needed to suffer to feel worthy of God, and the gravel path was a sort of self-induced confession, if one believes in that sort of thing. Even after the explanation, it was still hard to walk past these women, into the church.
It took us seven hours to get to the border: seven hours, three masses, two benedictions, and one long hello from my abuela's favorite brother at her first church. I remember him telling us a joke (why is everyone afraid of the number 7? Because 7 8 9) and then blessing us in Spanish.
My dad and uncles parked our cars, neatly, on the side of the road, and then went inside a huge booth to get clearance. It was about 3pm, and everywhere we looked there were armed guards. The Customs booth was situated facing a long row of vehicle inspection points, each armed with three guards. The cars were lined up for what seemed miles, all trying to get to our side of the inspection point. My nine year old eyes recognized generic, white vans and rusted, black Oldsmobiles. I remember telling my brother that each Oldsmobile reminded me of the hearse we had seen a few days ago, carrying the man he still looked for in abuela's house, his namesake. Lorenzo didn't understand what "dead" meant, really, he was only six. But I wasn't going to be the one to explain it to him.
Only the men had to be "cleared." The officials, my dad later told me, had assumed the women and children would not cause trouble, especially since my mother, and one uncle, were anglo. I remember all of the cousins clutching each other, trying to play it cool. I was in between Cynthia (who was 8 at the time), Teresa (then 11), and Lori (then 26), who was carrying Michael. The twins and my brother were right behind me, forcing me to check everything out first. My dad and aunts were in front. My mom and uncles in the back. We processed over a long concrete bridge, over the Rio Grande, watching people flee down the Mexican bank and through the water, as we passed. The guards just watched, only firing warning rounds until the would-be escapees tried to run up the American Bank. By the time they would reach the huge barbed wire fence, they were already dead.
I remember the twins wanting me to carry them as soon as the rounds were shot. I looked back at my mom, who was so scared she looked like she was going to collapse at my uncles' feet at any minute. The twins were three at this time, and insanely heavy... not exactly toddlers anymore. I nudged Cynthia, and she picked up Melinda and I took Carmen, who each nudged their faces into our necks, trying to block out the noise. I pushed Lorenzo, who had his ears covered with his hands, in between Cynthia and I, so he wouldn't have to see anything. And we walked, and walked, and walked. It's not like the Rio Grande is a huge river, or anything. The guards who were escorting us made us walk slowly, so they could watch the river.
We finally reached Mexican soil, and the guards turned back. We were to call the booth from a pay phone at the edge of the bridge for an escort back when we were through.
My family only stayed in town for about an hour. We went through the shops, and tried to forget what we had just seen. I remember a little girl asking my dad for a dollar, saying she was hungry. He quickly gave her a five dollar bill and off she ran, straight to a man in an alley, who took the money from her. She turned right around and asked a man who was behind us the same question. We assumed the guy in the alley was her father.
The town was a pretty happy place, just like any other tourist attraction. I remember buying three wool sarapes (for the twins and Lorenzo) with my Christmas money. All three only cost $7. Cynthia, Teresa and I all bought velvet sombreros for $15. Here in the States they cost triple that. My abuela bought us all peach snocones from a lady she had gone to high school with--which were wonderful, even in the cold.
As the twins and Michael (then 4) started to get tired, we turned back to the bridge. My dad called the booth and the same guards came back. We processed out the way we had come in, Cynthia and I carrying the twins from the start this time, balancing the girls and our bulky, plastic bags. The walk didn't seem so long, and I stared at Cynthia's hair to avoid seeing what I heard. The guards walked us all the way to our cars, opened our doors, and asked us to come back. "Almost like a restaraunt or something," Cynthia would later say. By midnight, we were back in San Antonio.
That was in 1992. Things are more modernized now. The guards do not use their guns much, thanks to the the electrical fences. Travellers can walk unattended over the bridge once cleared, but it is recommended to take a guard if one of the party is anglo.
But see, I still picture the border as it was when I first went. And really, what threat are hard workers? After all they've been through? These people do everything we wash our hands of, and not only that:
They are happy to do it.
2. So I was reading the headlines this morning, and I saw an article about a woman accused of smuggling.
And here's my four cents:
What sensational reporting. Like smuggling immigrants is anything new, much less a threat to the United States. The reality is, if it weren't for these ring leaders, my Dad's paternal family would never have made it to Texas. For all of the industrialization in Mexico City, once outside, there is absolutely nothing. No running water, electricity, health care, food: only corruption and a huge imbalance of wealth. These people want a better life. Maybe if all of us rich Americans took the time to go down to the border, walk that bridge over the Rio Grande, and take in the lifestyle for a few minutes, we would collectively understand why latinos risk everything to get into this country.
Ah Mexico. I was nine, and my entire family was on a mission trip before New Years. Mexicanos are very Catholic, and my abuela (grandma) was determined to visit the five missions she had used as landmarks in getting away from her mother's ranch to San Antonio. My abuelo (grandpa) had just died, two days before Christmas, which made the trip all the more important. The day after Christmas, the day after the funeral, my entire family set out for Mexico. We went to three masses that day, and even got to hear the nuns singing. The prettiest one (in my mind) was that of La Virgen de Guadalupe, closest to where my abuela grew up. There is a natural portrait on the side of the building: the limestone used for that wall had corroded in a million different colors, and if one took in the entire wall, she could see Mary.
At each mission I was appalled at the first thing I saw: old women, on their hands and knees, dragging themselves over the gravel paths to the churches. I turned to my abuela and tried not to cry. She told me that they needed to suffer to feel worthy of God, and the gravel path was a sort of self-induced confession, if one believes in that sort of thing. Even after the explanation, it was still hard to walk past these women, into the church.
It took us seven hours to get to the border: seven hours, three masses, two benedictions, and one long hello from my abuela's favorite brother at her first church. I remember him telling us a joke (why is everyone afraid of the number 7? Because 7 8 9) and then blessing us in Spanish.
My dad and uncles parked our cars, neatly, on the side of the road, and then went inside a huge booth to get clearance. It was about 3pm, and everywhere we looked there were armed guards. The Customs booth was situated facing a long row of vehicle inspection points, each armed with three guards. The cars were lined up for what seemed miles, all trying to get to our side of the inspection point. My nine year old eyes recognized generic, white vans and rusted, black Oldsmobiles. I remember telling my brother that each Oldsmobile reminded me of the hearse we had seen a few days ago, carrying the man he still looked for in abuela's house, his namesake. Lorenzo didn't understand what "dead" meant, really, he was only six. But I wasn't going to be the one to explain it to him.
Only the men had to be "cleared." The officials, my dad later told me, had assumed the women and children would not cause trouble, especially since my mother, and one uncle, were anglo. I remember all of the cousins clutching each other, trying to play it cool. I was in between Cynthia (who was 8 at the time), Teresa (then 11), and Lori (then 26), who was carrying Michael. The twins and my brother were right behind me, forcing me to check everything out first. My dad and aunts were in front. My mom and uncles in the back. We processed over a long concrete bridge, over the Rio Grande, watching people flee down the Mexican bank and through the water, as we passed. The guards just watched, only firing warning rounds until the would-be escapees tried to run up the American Bank. By the time they would reach the huge barbed wire fence, they were already dead.
I remember the twins wanting me to carry them as soon as the rounds were shot. I looked back at my mom, who was so scared she looked like she was going to collapse at my uncles' feet at any minute. The twins were three at this time, and insanely heavy... not exactly toddlers anymore. I nudged Cynthia, and she picked up Melinda and I took Carmen, who each nudged their faces into our necks, trying to block out the noise. I pushed Lorenzo, who had his ears covered with his hands, in between Cynthia and I, so he wouldn't have to see anything. And we walked, and walked, and walked. It's not like the Rio Grande is a huge river, or anything. The guards who were escorting us made us walk slowly, so they could watch the river.
We finally reached Mexican soil, and the guards turned back. We were to call the booth from a pay phone at the edge of the bridge for an escort back when we were through.
My family only stayed in town for about an hour. We went through the shops, and tried to forget what we had just seen. I remember a little girl asking my dad for a dollar, saying she was hungry. He quickly gave her a five dollar bill and off she ran, straight to a man in an alley, who took the money from her. She turned right around and asked a man who was behind us the same question. We assumed the guy in the alley was her father.
The town was a pretty happy place, just like any other tourist attraction. I remember buying three wool sarapes (for the twins and Lorenzo) with my Christmas money. All three only cost $7. Cynthia, Teresa and I all bought velvet sombreros for $15. Here in the States they cost triple that. My abuela bought us all peach snocones from a lady she had gone to high school with--which were wonderful, even in the cold.
As the twins and Michael (then 4) started to get tired, we turned back to the bridge. My dad called the booth and the same guards came back. We processed out the way we had come in, Cynthia and I carrying the twins from the start this time, balancing the girls and our bulky, plastic bags. The walk didn't seem so long, and I stared at Cynthia's hair to avoid seeing what I heard. The guards walked us all the way to our cars, opened our doors, and asked us to come back. "Almost like a restaraunt or something," Cynthia would later say. By midnight, we were back in San Antonio.
That was in 1992. Things are more modernized now. The guards do not use their guns much, thanks to the the electrical fences. Travellers can walk unattended over the bridge once cleared, but it is recommended to take a guard if one of the party is anglo.
But see, I still picture the border as it was when I first went. And really, what threat are hard workers? After all they've been through? These people do everything we wash our hands of, and not only that:
They are happy to do it.
lasaliente, 10:27
