Warrior Woman

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

One more day in Valparaiso only today we visited my aunt, the only sister my mother has left in Mexico. It’s been decades since 5 out of grandmas’ 6 kids left her to start lives in the U.S. A few years ago grandma became a U.S. citizen and since she has traveled back and forth from Valparaiso to California to Chicago. Stories tell that both my great grandfather and grandfather were “braceros” in the U.S. and had permits to travel back and forth to the U.S. to work on the farms and they did, until my grandfather was killed. It was a brutal murder and it left my grandmother pregnant, and a single mother of 6 children. My father came from a good family who had some money and my mother by contrast lived in extreme poverty. Mom never made it past the 6^th grade and neither did most of her siblings. They had to work if they wanted to eat and my grandmother spent her entire life sewing beautiful clothes for people who could afford it. Both of my mothers’ brothers took off in search of a life at very young ages. One was living and working in Chicago by the time he was 14, sending money when he could and trying to help the rest of his siblings survive. At one point I remember my grandmother leaving to the U.S. and working there for a season to bring home money to live on for the next season. I have so many wonderful memories of how my grandmother would tell us that in the U.S. people were so rich the streets were paved with gold. She would bring us back paper clips, pens and pencils and tell us how people were so rich there those were the things they threw away. She used to clean office buildings and my grandmother would sift through the garbage to find gifts to bring back to us.

One of the most cherished pictures I have from my youth are of my cousins and I one Christmas in front of our Christmas tree with our gifts in front of us, a basket filled with peanuts, oranges and a few candies. All the kids gathered around the basket looking at the camera anxious to be given their annual treat. Who would have thought many decades later I would be in that same spot, having these memories in the dark, missing my own family and wondering if my kids will ever get to hear these stories?

By foot we make our way to the town square and visit their first stop light. My cousin is all too eager to tell us how Valparaiso is moving forward because they now have an electric traffic signal. Which reminds me of the times I lived in Palm Desert and a friend invited me to the inauguration of the first traffic light in Mecca. Poverty only changes locations, here and in the U.S. poor people are the same. Valpa is a small town and we see everything within a few paces. It’s the walking that is taking a toll on us fat Americans. We walk to my aunt’s house which now seems to be further than I remember as a child. Being in her home takes me back to other childhood memories I had tucked away and forgotten. Her house is large and smells of cows. My aunt has always had a little farm with some cows, goats, chickens and a field full of alfalfa. Sometimes when the animals got sick they ended up at her house waiting to be nursed back to health. Today my aunt has guest and she is cooking up a feast, enchiladas, chicken wings, beans, rice, fresh torillas, salsa, alfafa water and for desert home made “arroz con leche” (sweet rice). We gorge on all the delicious food and watch as my aunt sifts the cultures in a large bin, today she is making cheese. You herd right; she is making her own cheese. Her fridge is filled with fresh cows’ milk straight from her own cows so why not make fresh cheese? The kitchen smells amazing and I want to take a nap right on the table. My thoughts were to come to Mexico and walk so much that I lost weight, but with meals like this if they let me back in the U.S. they’re going to have to wheel me back in a semi.

The rest of the afternoon is filled with nostalgic memories of the past between my father and my uncle. I listen to the past unfold before me. Afterwards, my uncle volunteers his youngest son to drive us back to grandmas’ house. My cousin takes the time to show us the entire downtown area by car and “Atotonilco”. Atotonilco is a small town (population less than 200) where there are natural hot springs and mineral pools. The entire town is centered around these hot springs and a new resort has opened up in town. He gets permission to drive us through the premises and the place is much nicer than what I remembered as a kid. Children and families play and BBQ in the park with out a care in the world. Just a few weeks before, 17 people were killed in a shoot out there between the cartel and local gangs. The violence got to be so bad that the Mexican military had to come in to protect the people. As we drive past Atotonilco and make our way back to Valpa we see the new military post set up and about 7 soldiers standing with machine guns behind a wall of sand bags. The building reads “home for the elderly” but it has clearly now become a home for war.

Back at grandmas house it is once again to battle the neighbors. No sleep again tonight, they have decided to smoke us out of room. The heat is unbearable and I feel us starting to bake, we have to open the window but the room quickly begins to fill with smoke. First, the neighbors conveniently stand next to the open window and begin to smoke cigarettes. I cough to make them aware there is someone inside and that I don’t like the smoke. Again, my mistake they took my cough as invitation to now burn trash right outside the window and the room again quickly fills with smoke from the burning trash. They say there’s no rest for the wicked but what if I hit them over the head with a shovel? They’re bound to be still then.

Valparaiso

Monday, July 18, 2011
Took the bus to Valparaiso to visit my mom’s mom and my other grandma but first made a stop in Fresnillo at a little town called Plateros to visit “El Santo Niño de Atocha”. Being on a bus is a way of living around here; no one goes anywhere unless it’s on a bus. Making the trip to Plateros is a little nostalgic because as a kid I remember how long the walk was to the church from the bus station. My mom would ask this baby Jesus to help her with my dad, with us, to get us out of poverty and in return we would all arrive at church walking from the bus station. I remember seeing people with their bloody knees on the street kneeling all the way to the church. People arrive any which way they can to ask this porcelain statue for miracles.

I often wonder how faith works. As a child I remember attending mass on a regular basis, every Sunday with out fault and for me sometimes it was daily when I attended catholic school. I am not sure I ever really believed but I did it because that’s what I was supposed to do, that’s what everyone did. Now that’s not the case, as I have grown, I feel myself growing more and more pessimistic about this god thing. I know people ask themselves the same questions I have every day but for me they have yet to be answered. How could a love and merciful god allow war? How can he allow families to be torn apart? How can he allow little kids to suffer? You know the questions. Maybe it’s my life experiences maybe like my mother says, the more education I get the less faith I have. Whatever it is, I am on this broken down bus looking out the window at the poverty around me and I cant help but wonder that if this miraculous figure is so giving why not give to these people who are obviously in need. Why do people need to come from all over the world to this one spot to ask him for miracles when the people right outside the church walls are suffering?

Arriving is as interesting as it gets, people pulling you every which way to buy their food, their candy, and their goods. We don’t know which way to look because a casual glance at an item can be mistaken as a sale. The smell of “carnitas” is intoxicating and our bellies force us to sit and partake in the local foods. Fresh tortillas, salsa and it’ officially the best food we’ve had on this trip so far. Enjoying the meal is an understatement; we eat until there’s not more room in our bellies for anything else. We make our way to the church and sit through mass, something I haven’t done in over a decade but it seems like the appropriate thing to do. E bought his mom a rosary and I suggest he have it blessed by the priest at the end of the mass. Today for some reason I listen to the priest and his words stay with me. “You can’t ask god to do something for you and if he doesn’t then you don’t believe in him, either you believe or don’t. There will never be enough miracles performed for those who choose to question the lord.” I understand what he says and I am surprised. For so long I have prayed and asked for my family’s situation to change. I never asked to win the lottery just for us to be able to live in the U.S. in peace and without fear, to be able to get a good job and pursue an education. I know we’re not in the same situation we were in before but it’s been 23 years and here I am asking for the same thing. As I walk through the outside of the church I read some of the piles of letters, pictures and thanks from people all over the world that were grateful for the miracles performed. Words from people who were glad to have a child after many years of trying, cancer that disappeared, and diseases that were cured and I can’t help but wonder if I asked for too much. I guess so, because my miracle would require that political systems be changes and laws be enacted. I guess next time I’ll just ask for a pony.

Valparaiso is different than Ojocaliente, it is a smaller town and immediately you can sense the poverty. We walk through what used to be a beautiful river. I remember as a kid the women in town washing their clothes in the river water while the kids played with out worries. I remember the river coming up to my grandmothers’ house and fearing a flood. Today, 23 years later there is no water in the river and only the stench of sewage and garbage remains. Chickens walk past us and E pulls out his camera. I laugh at the thought of going through the family album someday and E explaining to his grandchildren that the picture is of some chicken he saw when he was younger. “That’s where chicken nuggets come from kids.” My mom’s mom lives in a much smaller house than my other grandmother and her little house is tiny and quaint. I can hold up the ceiling in most of the rooms in the house and you better duck your head if you want to ender a door way. There is not much to do or see in Valpa so we stay and chat with grandma all night long. Anything left to do in town has been taken over by the gangs and the violence. Small towns, medium towns or large cities have all been infiltrated by the violence only here there is no 911 or helicopters that will come out to look for criminals. If there are local police left in towns they usually end up falling prey to the local cartel, otherwise the military steps in. There is no “protecting civilians” here if the local gang and the military get into a shoot out anything and anyone goes. It is common for there to be roadblocks on the main roads leading into town diverting drivers to pull over for a local cartel inspection, they like it, they take it, be it items, cars or people. Don’t want to comply? Then you are received with a complimentary shot to the head, body left on the side of the road for no one to claim.

It’s time to sleep but we won’t be getting much of that tonight. Grandma has a set of neighbors only Satan can envy. They have decided that tonight they want to play music at the highest level possible. It is a mini oven in grandmas’ room, we have to keep the window open, its 3 am and Vicente Fernandez won’t stop singing old songs. There is a pause in the music and I think they are finally done, I sigh with relief and when the music starts up again I yell for them to shut up. My mistake, they thought I said turn it up!

La Mina del Eden

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Woke up in the same clothes I had on yesterday.  We didn’t plan on staying the night in Zacatecas but the night took a hold of us and kept us there.  We had nothing on us but the clothes we were wearing and our jackets. Had to purchase toothbrushes and toothpaste from the hotel lobby and brush our hair with spit and back out we were into the city by morning.  Dad takes us to eat tacos this morning again but these aren’t just any tacos they are “tacos envenenados” otherwise known as poison tacos.  It is a large corn tortilla filled with some kind of bean mix and deep fried in oil.  The tacos are half the size of my head and they are delicious.  Off to the next adventure we go, up the city streets exploring the city, the streets and the food.  We are on the way to visit “La Mina del Eden” or Eden’s Mine, but on our way we pass by the hospital where I was born.  Dad walks and talks telling us about how there used to be a Chinese food restaurant in front of the hospital and how my mother went there to eat right before her water broke. 

I was 6 when my father decided there was no more life for him in Mexico and took a risk at going to the promise land (the United States) in search of that American Dream so many people spoke of.  I remember my family, friends and my school but walking through this city seems so foreign, perhaps because it is.  I am 30 years old and living in the U.S. is all I truly know.  I know the government says that because I was born here in Zacatecas and speak the language it would not be an “extreme hardship” for me to have to move back to Mexico.  Never mid that I don’t remember this place or have any real ties here, to the U.S. government I am just another illegal, another wetback to the Republican Party.  Dad’s stories are touching and I can’t help but feel some irony that he’s the reason we ended up in the U.S. and now he’s our tour guide around this city that for him holds so many memories. 

Up a hill a few miles from our journey we arrive at La Mina Del Eden.  It is an old mine that was harvested for its rich minerals, gold, copper, zinc but mainly silver.  The city has a rich culture built around this mine and its riches.  Stories tell that after Spanish settlers climbed the rich and fertile mountain they noticed an entry into the mine from the top of the mountain.  When they saw all the minerals inside they said the mountain was the entry into the forbidden place of Eden.  After we pay our entry fee we are greeted by tour guides that instruct us to put yellow helmets on our heads and find a spot on the train that will lead us into the heart of the mountain.  The clear doors to the train close and we ascend into the mountain.  There is a rock museum filled with beautiful rocks and rock formations from that mine and from other caves around the world.  After several miles of our journey by train and by foot we arrive at the highlight of the mine a night club like no other in the world.  Capacity is a few hundred and the nigh club is deep inside the mine, with a see through floor that highlights the water hundreds of feet below the night club.  The view is breath taking, but once again we are reminded by the ugliness that lives outside of the mine.  The nightclub remains close according to the tour guide due to “construction” but what was told to us off the record is that the nightclub is closed until the local police sees it fit to be re-opened.  Due to all the recent violence in and around the city unwanted individuals have made their way into some of the “fun” places in town, fights and shootings have erupted and innocent people have found themselves the victims of these criminals.  Such beauty made ugly by so much violence.  In the mine we are reminded that the world has so many wonders left to be seen by the human eye and that I have so much to see and experience either in this country or in another but it should be my choice, my decision of what I see and when. 

Zacatecas and its beauty.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

We rest for a little while and we’re back out on the road. Dad wants to show us Zacatecas, Zacatecas, the state capital and all it has to offer. Back on the bus for another hour ride, here everyone travels by bus to get anywhere. There are people with trucks and cars but it is most definitely a luxury. Most of what we have seen so far has been farm land and thank god for that because the food here is excellent. I don’t ever remember having food with so much flavor. E does not like papaya but here he can’t seem so get enough. The fruit is excellent, so sweet and ready to be eaten at any moment. After we arrive at the bus terminal dad decides he wants to visit his sister who has an electrical business right around the corner from the bus station. At my aunt’s business we are greeted by one of my cousins. I recognize that he’s a cousin because he say’s so but I can’t seem to think of his name. I haven’t seen some of my family in over 23 years and others in over 15, so some of my younger cousin’s I’ve never even met. I whisper to dad, “What’s his name?” and he is quick to remind me. The last time I saw him he was about 2 years old so I really don’t remember him. Now he is a 25 year old man on crutches from a soccer injury. We wait for aunt, uncle and older cousin to arrive. My older male cousin arrives and I almost don’t recognize him either, he looks just like his father and I almost introduce him to E as my uncle. My aunt arrives, everyone greets once again and she offers us one of her employees to take us to the next part of our journey. Dad wants us to see Zacatecas at night, it’s is early in the afternoon and we will be touring one of the city’s most cherished landmarks “La Bufa”.

Stories tell that La Bufa which is an old fort at the top of the tallest mountain in Zacatecas was the spot where General Pancho Villa defeated the Spanish or French army (can’t remember which just now) and prevented them from taking over the state of Zacatecas. The place is filled with beautiful architecture, a museum and lots of statutes in honor of the heroes of those days. You can see the entire city on top of that mountain and it takes our breath away at the splendor and the beauty of such a place. The history and the life can all be taken in from one majestic place. We can see every church right from where we are. Some large and some small but all built to honor a god and a church witch claimed to save their savage souls and ascend them to a better place than this one. Standing here in such majesty I am tempted to ask myself why I want to go back to living in San Bernaghetto and all its misery. We climb every part of the mountain and end up at the “Telesferico” or the tram. There is a tram here that cuts across through most of the city and takes you from the top of the highest mountain at La Bufa and drops you off at the highest part of the city near “La Mina del Eden” or the Mine of Eden. Dad, E and I wait for the sun to go down and we watch the city start turning it’s lights on, in the distance we hear music and wonder where it’s coming from. Even at the top of the mountain you can hear and feel the city come alive. As we wait for the night to come we decide to treat ourselves to a drink at the very fancy bar that is located at the top of the entrance to the tram on the mountain. The place is beautiful and looks expensive. We are all on a bit of a budget since this immigration process has taken a toll on all our wallets, but we talk ourselves into it asking each other when we might have the opportunity to do this again so we should take advantage of every opportunity. E and I decide to have what is native to the place “Zacatecas Mescal” it is a type of alcohol that comes from the same plant that they make tequila from only it’s not as refined and has a higher alcohol content. Dad has a virgin “michelada” all juice and no beer but even that tastes great. We all toast to a safe and speedy return home and enjoy the beauty of the city at the top of this historic mountain. Total for the price of two mescal’s, a virgin michelada less than $12 USD, or the price of one of those drinks back home.

Feeling better and a little happier with some booze in our belly it is now time to descend down the tram and into the city. I know they call Las Vegas the city of lights but right now this city takes the name with all its beauty and splendor. Dad starts to talk to the tram operator (like he does with every stranger we meet) and it turns out he knows my grandfather and our family. The man was originally from Mexico City and after traveling to Zacatecas looking for work he ended up in Ojocaliente working at my dad’s uncle’s farm (I hope you all are still with me). My dad’s uncle being the only man he knew and trusted in this new place soon became like family and when it was time to ask for his girl friends hand in marriage it was my dad’s uncle (whom he was named after) who he asked to go with him to speak to her family. The man is kind and says he owes a great deal to dad’s uncle and that he was very sad to hear of his passing last year. Dad and the man spend a moment in silence remembering his uncle while E and I are busy enjoying the city and the tram ride. The man is so genuinely happy to have come across my dad and he kindly tells my father in words only the older generation now uses “I am here at your service, and if you all ever need or want a place to stay in this great city I offer my humble home which is at your disposal any time”. My father offers the same and tells him any time either in Ojocaliente or the United States to give him a call and we will be at his disposal. They don’t exchange information it is simply understood that if you want to find someone, you do. Or perhaps it was just a formality you say to someone; either way it was a beautiful gesture. We ask him where all the music is coming from since we can still hear it above the tram and he tells us they are “Callejonadas”. People rent a band and they go up and down the street drinking all over town with a band in toe. We smile and laugh a little at the very thought of having your own band following you around as you get drunk all over town.

We arrive at the top of the city now and begin to travel down towards the heart of the city and attempt to find where the music is coming from. E is fascinated by every coble stone street and building. He wants to take pictures of everything but unfortunately we are almost out of battery and we left the charger in Ojo. We turn a corner and there it is … the party, right in front of a beautiful church. We stop to look at the procession thinking it’s a wedding or some important event and we begin to notice a dozen or two teenagers taking shots from a “jarro” (traditional cup made of clay) around their necks. The band starts to move and the people follow. We are most definitely intrigued and talk each other into following them for just a little while. As we follow I notice a donkey with two jugs on its back and a man pouring stuff into the small jarros around people’s necks. I see a woman with lots of the jarros hanging from her arm and I ask her how much the jarros are assuming that this party requires an entry fee. The woman starts a conversation with me and explains that it is not a “public” party per se and there was no fee for the jarro but rather it was her son’s 15^th birthday and he was celebrating with his friends. I explain my ignorance and tell her we are technically not from here and that’s why I ask so many questions. She asks me where we’re from and I reply California, she smiles and say “Bienvenidos a Zacatecas” and offer me three small jugs to put around our necks. I ask more questions and she explains, she doesn’t know the legal drinking age but she does know that these parties are common among 15 year olds, weddings and baptisms. The families of the person or persons being celebrated hires a band and either the guy with the donkey and the mescal or simply brings their own booze. They pick a path to follow and the band, the booze and the people stop at every church and street corner to dance, celebrate and drink. Honestly, it’s a beautiful tradition that you have to experience personally to really appreciate. The music is loud and people come outside their front doors to watch the procession go by. I explain the tradition to E and dad and they laugh, I hand them their jarros and let the drinking begin. E follows the burro/donkey like they are best friends. Cars go by and there is an understanding that if you get stuck in front or behind one of these things you simply wait. People, donkeys and musical instruments all exist in the middle of the street and cars which normally have the right away don’t now. We stop, drink mescal from the donkeys’ jugs (lol) and dance. In this moment I am reminded about all the good times I have yet to have with my husband. He is truly an amazing man and my best friend and the world’s best travel buddy. E is not scared to try things or be lost, he just enjoys every moment and takes life as it comes. I want to cry and tell him I love him but it’s such a joyous occasion I hold back on the tears and just tell him I love him.

We walked with the party for what seemed like forever, drinking and dancing but it was late and our stomachs began to remind us that we needed food. We veer away from the party and start walking through the coble stone streets once more. More people, more life, laughs chit chat all can be heard through the night in this magical city. Turning a corner here can be dangerous because as we turned one we ran across another party on the street, we can’t help but stop and stare at the men with giant jugs of booze and wonder what the celebration is here. A man notices us and watches us takes pictures he notices we don’t belong to the party and rather than ask us to leave or ignore us he asks us where we’re from. We repeat California and with a smile he replies “Bienvenidos a Zacatecas” another welcome from a stranger in to this great city. He tells us he’s the god father of the “quinceañera” and he offers us more jugs so we can join the celebration. I show him the jarros from the last party we were at and he insists we have a drink, calls his “compadre” over and the other man is very happy to announce that he is the father of the 15 year old girl whose party this is for and that we should join them. Again, it is repeated that we are from California and more welcomes erupt and mescal is poured into our jarros before we can even agree. Dad doesn’t drink so either E or I have to take the extra shot (poor us). We thank them for letting us celebrate with them and explain that we are hungry and in search of food. They insist once again that we join the party and there we go again, we follow the second party, drink, and dance and while the party turns a corner we duck and run out into a different street. We feel bad about bailing on such hospitable people but our bellies are starving and we can smell food in the distance. It’s close to 11 pm and you would think its plain daylight because there are people of all ages everywhere in the city all enjoying the night. Here we wonder where all the violence we heard about is but are thankful it’s not here, at least not tonight.

You can feel the energy in the air and it’s hard not to appreciate all the history that is visible on every statue, park and monument here. We finally arrive at a street with so much food we don’t know what to choose but we gravitate towards what we have been craving all day, tacos. We sit and watch the people and the hustle and bustle of the city. We have a great meal full of tacos and salsa, lots of salsa. You can get an order of 5 tacos for $15 pesos the equivalent of under $1.50 USD. Alpastor, Bisteq, Cesos, Macisa, Desebrada…all just a few of the ways they cook meat on this street corner and we gobble it all up. We almost feel like just roaming the streets and seeing what the night brings us but we are reminded by our bodies that we need sleep and we need rest. It’s too late to go back to Ojocaliente now, buses stop running to other smaller towns from the main city mainly because of the recent history o violence. Cars, trucks and buses have been stopped by gangs wanting to take whatever valuables they have. If people resist then it is common to kill them. The danger is out there but tonight we don’t want to think about it. We pull into the nearest hotel and call it a night.

Friday, July 15, 2011

After the longest bus ride on earth and two transfers later we arrive at my father’s childhood home in Ojocaliente, Zacatecas. There is plenty of family to great us; they offer us food and a bed. I am so tiered I can barely stay awake long enough to be polite. We put our bags down in what will be our rooms for a few nights and begin to look around my grandmother’s house. This is where E and I have started taking pictures of our journey. Up until now we waited until we left Juarez to take pictures of anything. Juarez is so nasty that there’s no way you want to remember it with pictures. Hell, even the people who live there don’t want to remember that place. E took great pics of mountain ranges and plenty of farm land. He is determined to photograph his entire journey.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Need I say more, I was denied legal entry back into the U.S., although I knew it would happen I have to say there was a little hope in me that they would suddenly realize what an asset I was to the U.S. and let me back immediately. Naïve, I know but it’s something I could cling to. My day started at 5 am, although I never really got to sleep, I got up, showered and got dressed in a nice pair of slacks, a gorgeous Calvin Klein silk blouse and a navy blue cardigan, the only thing missing were the pearls. Got in the hotel van to be dropped off at the consulate along with the other 45 people waiting that morning and began another line for my 7:15 am interview. Another line, another waiting room and finally we’re lead outside to a separate building. The building says it’s the “U.S. Consulate in Mexico” but the only workers inside are Mexican. The guards are all Mexican military and no one so far speaks English, on the contrary, they become irate if you try to speak to them in English. Another line and our paper work are checked three times before we are allowed to go through the metal detectors. We are not supposed to have anything with us except our paperwork and our wallets (lord forbid we forget the money they need). The day before yesterday the video inside the medical building instructed us to make sure we were prepared to spend a long day at the consulate. I figured we could at least take water inside while we waited but even that was prohibited. I get grouchy when I don’t eat, just ask Efrain and I was not sure when I would get a bite to eat that day. After going through the metal detector, one more person checks our paper work and hands us a paper with a number. I will never forget my number 5403, they instruct us to follow the path and take a seat where instructed. As I pass the metal detector room I am outside in what ominously looks like a prison, I can see the sky but the fence is as tall as my eyes can see. I am not sure how to describe it but the only thing that came to mind at that time was the holocaust and Shindler’s List. There are hundreds of people in outside make shift waiting rooms, there is a roof to protect people from the rain which was looming but no doors and certainly no air conditioning. There are giant fans on the ceiling (which are not on) but there is a horrible electric humming sound coming from who knows where. I imagine it’s the incinerator where immigrants go to die. They have us sit and watch a TV monitor where your number will flash when someone inside the building is ready to review your paperwork once again. We all sit and wait; we only look up so as to make sure we don’t miss the flashing of our numbers. People sit in silence and when they attempt to talk there is a military official (Mexican) there, ready to “shush” you. The guard comes back around to make an announcement, “some of you will be here for a very long time and for those of you who wish we have a snack bar ready to serve you”. No wonder they won’t let you bring anything in, if you bring your own food and water they can’t make more money off of us. I over hear a lady tell someone that the bottle of water is $4. Shit, is this Disneyland or a government office? At least at Disney when you get screwed for a $4 bottle of water they do it with a smile, here everyone looks angry and bitter.

I am sure there are people, like anywhere and with anything else, that abuse the system but must they treat us all criminals and animals? I sit and I stare, I have to go to the restroom but I don’t, for fear that my number will flash, I will miss it and my chance to go home to my family. I sit and I wait and I stare, I watch people see their numbers and get nervous and not know what to do next. I sit and I wait and I watch, my number flashes and my heart stops. Do I breathe? Do I walk? Where do I go? What do I do? I watch other people see their numbers and I walk inside the building, do I do the same? The electric humming sound gets louder and now I am sure that they’re firing up the oven for me. I walk up to the door and the guard explains that there is a two digit number next to the number I was assigned and that it tells me what window to walk up to. I walk back to the make shift waiting room to look up at the screen again and see what number it says. Window number 34 is where my fate will be decided. I walk up to the window and nice young man greats me. I feel better that he is not barking instructions at me or looking down at me for once. He asks me a series of simple questions asks for all the original documents my appointment letter requested and begins to organize them in a file with my name on it. He staples documents on one side and then the other. He asks me for my passport photos and my heart sinks. Passport photos? My letter specifically reads that I do not need any passport photos because I have already sent everything electronically. I looked panicked and he repeats, “you do have passport photos, right?” I swallow deeply and scramble through my paperwork, I want to tell him that my letter said I didn’t need photos but I am afraid if I say anything he might deny me on the spot. He reads my mind and tells me that if I don’t have passport photos I will have to leave the consulate and get pictures taken somewhere outside, get back in line and wait all over again. I’ve already been there over two hours I can’t go back out now. I scramble some more and notice a white Costco envelope buried in my paper work. Keeping my fingers crossed I open it, reach in and find my old pass port photos from a million years ago still in them. I am so glad dad convinced me to take all this paperwork inside with me. I hand him the photos and he continues to file my documents. He tells me I am done with him and to go back out to the hell-hole of a waiting room outside (hell-hole added by me) and wait for my number to flash once again with a new window number. I go back outside, wait for what seems like another eternity for my number to flash. I feel a little better about the situation since the young man was kind and not a drill sergeant. My number flashes and I am in window 67 now. A young blond woman about my age is at this window and begins to speak to me in broken Spanish. I let her know that if it’s more comfortable for her she can speak to me in English since I understand English better than I do Spanish. She seems relieved and tells me “that’s great”, I feel immediately better. The woman says that she will asking me a series of questions and that I have to answer them to the best of my ability and with the truth, she has me raise my right hand, swear to tell the truth and then she scans my finger prints again as a sign that I have agreed to tell the truth. With her I am not scared, a little nervous yes but no fear, she has a kind face and her voice is gently and genuine. She asks me similar questions to the ones the Boarder Patrol officer asked me a few days earlier, only without all the judgment and disdain.

Official: Where were you born?

Me: Zacatecas, Mexico

Official: Where did you cross through to get to the U.S.

Me: I am not sure

Official: You’re not sure? How old where you when you entered the U.S?

Me: I was 7 about to turn 8, we came in the spring and that summer was my 8th birthday

Official: Didn’t your parents ever tell you how you crossed?

Me: I remember we were walking with other kids and that we walked through a school with a play ground. Other than that it was an experience that my parents didn’t really want to talk to us about. (I was afraid to tell her that at one point people made my mom drug us so my brother and I would sleep while they piled debris on top of us and place us in a truck to cross us over)

Official: So you didn’t cross through one of the entry points?

Me: No, not that I can remember

Official: How long have you been married?

Me: A year in August

Official: Tell me, how did you meet your husband?

Me: Funny thing, I met him on a dating website called match.com we exchanged emails, eventually we spoke on the phone and a few months later we met in person and have been inseparable since.

Official: That’s great, when did you meet?

Me: February 7, 2009

Official: So how long have you been together?

Me: A little over two years

Official: Have you and your husband talked about having children?

Me: Yes ma’am

Official: How many children do you plan on having?

Me: If it were up to me none, if it were up to him a dozen but we have agreed to compromise at one or two, god willing. (I don’t know why I said god willing but I felt like I had to, like I needed her to know I wasn’t what I am, a non believer)

Officer: Did you know that once you turned 18 you had to leave the U.S.?

Me: No ma’am. I mean, how could I leave my family and my home?

Officer: Well unfortunately you do not qualify for a visa today because you have been in the U.S. illegally for longer than a year. However, the good news is that you qualify for a waiver or a pardon. I am not sure if your lawyer has told you what that is.

Me: I’ve heard of it but I my husband and I don’t have a lawyer, we’re going at this with the help of our family.

Officer: Then you’ll have to read the sheets I give you very carefully and follow all the instructions that are on the sheet. When you leave here, later today or tomorrow you will have to call the number on these sheets to schedule a second appointment for you to submit your pardon packet. The appointment can take several weeks or several months depending on how fast they are processing the paperwork. Do you understand?

Me: Yes ma’am I do.

Officer: Well, that will be all you have to do for today. Good luck.

Me: Thanks ma’am I am going to need it

Officer: If you follow all the instructions on the sheet you will be fine

Me: Thank you

For some reason, her words are reassuring to me as if some how through some secret code she is letting me know that if I do everything on that magical sheet I will get to go be with my husband, family and friends in the U.S. once again. I need to believe that, I need to believe that I am not just #5403 but a human being, a valuable asset to my community and to the United States. I have to believe that, otherwise everything I’ve learned and believed in was bull shit and I don’t want to believe that.

I leave the consulate building and go outside to find a sea of people waiting for others just like me to come out. I walk through the crowds and notice my dad. He asks me what happened and I let him know that everything went as we expected. I was denied and told I could appeal through a waiver or pardon packet. We walk some more to meet up with E waiting in another building, he asks me the same and I repeat myself. There is a slight look of disappointment; I know he hoped like me that through some miracle they would approve me on the spot, but they didn’t. We hustle back to our hotel room to try to make it to the complementary breakfast and check out of our room. It’s close to 11 am and we are all starving. I can’t eat, my stomach is still in knots but I know if I don’t eat now who knows when I will be able to. We gather our things and begin our 18 hour journey to our home state of Zacatecas.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Today is a day to try to relax; the only thing we had to do today was pick up my medical exams from yesterday. Another opportunity to stand in more lines and … wait, medical exams and x-rays in hand and we’re off to the super market to try to buy some food and again try to enjoy what is otherwise a horrible trip. There is absolutely nothing to see or do in Juarez but there are great super markets with delicious and amazing food all at super low prices. Dad and I bough a shrimp cocktail that at home (in the US) would normally run us about $12, in Juarez it was twice as big and 32 pesos or about $3 US dollars. We ate like kings in what otherwise is a very subservient situation. We drive back to the hotel and as we stop at a red light a man offers to sell us today’s news paper. The headline reads “12 dead Tuesday and counting”. It was the total from yesterday’s killings, while I was being poked, prodded and finger printed 12 people where dying right down the street and the article was clear to mention that those were only the bodies they found, leaving to imagine that there could be others who they just hadn’t found yet. Four of the deaths were to young people under 20 who were playing soccer when a gun man came up to one of the young men and shot him in the face, witnesses say the man looked at the boy and said he had shot the wrong guy. Rather than fleeing he began to shoot witnesses. The news paper is a reminder of what everyone already knows…NO ONE should have to live like this. They say Mexico is not a war zone, so why does it feel like it? We’re back to the hotel in no time, Juarez is a booming city between 8 am and 5 pm but after that nothing good happens and otherwise packed supermarkets are left empty. Back at the hotel room, sun still shining and barbed wire beaming we watch as the rain begins to fall. Rain, is supposed to wash all the ugly away but in Juarez it only makes things worst. No rest for us tonight, who can sleep knowing that tomorrow, is dooms day.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

E, Dad and I arrived in Juarez today. Sixteen long hours on the road through California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas all to arrive at what I am certain is hell. We get to Texas to cross the boarder over to Mexico only to be stopped by Border Patrol. Border Patrol takes all of our identifications and begins to ask me a series of questions,

BP: Where are you going?

Me: To the U.S. Consulate in Juarez Mexico to fix my papers

BP: Show me your paper work

Me: (I hand them the letter informing me that I have a July 14th appointment)

BP: How long have you been in the U.S.?

Me: A little over 23 years

BP: How old were you when you came to the U.S.?

Me: About 7 years old

BP: Where did you cross through?

Me: I don’t remember I was 7

BP: Is this your dad (looking at Dad’s identification and noticing that his last name matches my passport)

Me: Yes, and the guy next to him is my husband

BP: If that’s your dad how come you aren’t legal through him?

Me: Because he became a permanent resident in 2004 and by then I had aged out

BP: Why didn’t you apply sooner?

Me: I think if we could have we would have, it’s not like we waited by choice (BIG mistake, HUGE because now I just made the BP (female) officer irate)

BP: Calls over a male BP officer and he’s holding in his hands some computer that he is looking at and begins to whisper to the female officer. She starts to look inside the car and with an angry tone asks me “So what did you do in ’97?”

Me: What to do mean?

BP: You know what I mean, you committed a crime in ’97 what was it?

Me: I am sorry officer I have no idea what you’re talking about, on the contrary in ’97 I was 16/17 years old and I was a model high school student in Youth Court and Mock Trail.

BP: Doesn’t look like it from here, because our computer says you were arrested.

Me: Can you tell me what it says I did? I think I would have remembered if I was arrested

BP: Male officer looks down at computer and tell female officers “they’re clean” and they say we can go

Can I just add that at that moment time stopped and I thought for sure they would try to pin something on me and make an excuse to start a deportation process so they would never let me come back. I knew I was not a criminal and that I had nothing in “’97” but I figured they could do whatever they wanted with me at that point. I was illegal and in their eyes, I had no rights. Both my dad and Efrain were visibly shaken and I knew what was on their mind so I said what they were not afraid to ask. “I didn’t do anything and I have no idea what they’re talking about”. I think it was my dad who said to me in Spanish so Efrain wouldn’t understand “if you have something to tell me before we cross the border, now would be a good time”. “No dad, I think they just said that to scare us in case we did have something, because if I or any of us had anything there’s no way they would have let us go.”

After I wet myself from the fear it was then time to get lost in the ugliest city in the world. I think dad was still a little shaken because he took a wrong turn somewhere and off we go into the abyss. We were lost for nearly an hour and every street we turned into was uglier than the next. Juarez is one of those places where the ugliness is all around you. The divide between the haves and the have-nots is obvious and the place reeks of fear and desperation. The entire place is founded on the misery of others, be it their own citizens or those passing through on their way to what they hope will be a better life. After hours of being lost we were worried that I would not make it to the medical appointment.

Part of the process of immigrating legally involves a medical exam to insure that you are “super human”. My appointment letter said there were only two options of where I could have my medical exam done and part of that exam included having a list of over 13 vaccinations, and everything had a price tag. Cost of medical exam including x-rays and blood work $185 US dollars, 13 vaccinations ranging from $40 to $192 depending on which vaccinations you needed you would be charged the appropriate amount. I was lucky, I had all my vaccinations but they still ended up sticking me with 3 so that I didn’t leave with my money in my purse. I asked why I had to take them again considering I had them all already and I was given one excuse after another. They’re expired, here we require you to have this one more that once, etc. and after the hoopla with the vaccinations they sent me to the psychologist which of course was not something that was in the paperwork that was given to me…that was an added bonus for the low price of $45 US dollars. In the end, what should have been a $185 dollar tab ended up costing me almost $400. More than the money, I left part of my dignity at that clinic. The way the women who were suppose to be nurses and doctors treated us “patients” was deplorable. I saw how people were belittled and yelled at for no real reason. How people let their power rule over being human and empathetic to their fellow wo/man. We were treated like cattle, in and out of room after room without being instructed to do so; the only thing they were missing was a cattle prod or a stick to get us all to move from one place to another. I saw mothers being yelled at for having children and people being denied medical treatment and immigration appointments for not talking “the right way” to the medical staff or worst, for simply having tattoos and piercings. I was scared having to go to the shrink because I thought for sure they would ask me questions in hope of finding something wrong with me and denying me legal residency. I entered the room of a lovely tall, slender and young woman who asked me a series of three questions “what is your order of birth, have you committed any crimes, and how old were you when you crossed over to the United States”. First, no and 7, and for that I was asked to have a nice day and not to forget to pay my bill down stairs otherwise my results would not be ready for the consulate the following day. I left there with two sore arms and a lump on my butt the size of a golf ball. (I couldn’t sit or lift anything for nearly two weeks.)

After the lovely medical exploration I was off for pictures and finger prints. Another fee of $440, we waited outside another office in metal fencing (like animals once again) and waited for the little pieces for paper in the window to change indicating the appointment times they were receiving next. I spent 5 minutes being seen by actual doctors and nurses in the medical exam and over 3 hours in waiting rooms. Now here we were outside in the hot sun waiting to be finger printed, more angry people and more instructions. Don’t do this, don’t do that, have this out, don’t bring this in, and don’t bring that in. Eight hours later and less self respect than when I started the process I was excused to rest with E and my dad. During the entire time E and dad waited for me outside every building. Juarez is so nasty and vile that it’s too dangerous for any single woman to be there alone. We had to watch every person that walked by, every cab we got into and all while watching the Mexican Military ride around in trucks with machine guns pointed at people. I tell you, nothing says you’re safe like the military pointing machine guns at its own people. Cab drivers commented how sometimes you have to be more afraid of the cops there than the cartel or the gang members. We get back to our hotel room, finally check in only to find out that I made a mistake while reserving our rooms and we no longer had our reservation. Luckily for us the hotel managers remembers my father because he’s been there so often lately, first with my sister, then my mother and now me. He offers to find us another room but for a higher price. At that point we can’t argue, we need that room, La Quinta in Juarez seems to be the only safe hotel in Juarez. It has a ten foot steel fence with a guard who only lets in registered guest. There is barbwire surrounding the building and even then you don’t feel safe, but it’s safer than the alternative.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Left home today and all that I have ever known, had to say good bye today to my family and my friends. My friends threw me a “Bon Voyage” BBQ Saturday and I have to say it was very touching. I try to surround myself with good people but I was blessed with great ones. Although the mood was festive there was that lingering feeling of sorrow, of not knowing if I would ever see them again and vise versa. C money, Juju boo and I stayed in front of Steve´s fire until close to 2 am. I guess I just wanted that day to last as long as possible. Yesterday, I went back to Steve’s house to pick up letters of support from friends hopeful that their words would bring me back home sooner rather than later or not at all. It was kind of the price of admission to the party “bring a letter letting the government know how good Fatima is and get a free meal”. When Stevie boy handed me those letters and I hugged him good bye I could not help but cry. I asked him to pray even if he never had before. Hell, I’ve never prayed and I find myself on my knees hoping that there is something or someone else out there who can bring me home. Now I am asking others to do what I can’t do for myself. It hit me…I am leaving and there is a possibility that I will never be in this place again with these people. A lifetime of work and love and I have to say good bye to all of it. So today, I hit the road hopeful that my journey will lead me back to the place I have called home for over 23 years.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Spent the day with my hubby, moping around the house yelling, crying and being mean to him, as if I fight with him now it will help me miss him less. We agree to spend our last day at home going to the movies. Went to our favorite movie theater in Riverside and watched Bad Teacher and decide to sneak in to watch a second one. Horrible Bosses is just as funny and I am glad we spent the day laughing rather than crying. But the day is not over and heading back home seems to be the last place I want to be. I ask him to take me to my favorite Italian restaurant in San Bernardino as my “last meal”. We share a meal and I can’t help but cry over the chicken parmesan. I look up at him and wonder if we’ll ever have a meal like this again, in this spot. We head home and I try to be strong but the thought of not being with him again scares me. We could be separated; I know he loves me and would do anything for me. He says he would move to the end of the earth just to be with me, but am I selfish enough to take him away from his home and his family, from his mother, sisters and friends? It seems like a lot to ask someone to do. I never thought I would find him and when I did it was one of the happiest days of my life, now it could all be taken away from me again in an instant.

Saturday, July 09, 2011

Have I mentioned that I am the luckiest girl in the world? I don’t always remember that but today was one of those days when one wonders why people complain at all. My dearest friends organized a “Bon Voyage” BBQ for me and I couldn’t me happier and more scared. Having everyone come out with me by the pool, chat, joke and gossip was a hell of a way to spend one of my last days in the U.S. My friends and family keep telling me to quit calling it my last anything but it certainly feels like it. Good friends, good food and a heck of a warm summer day made today special. I am scared to think that I may never share a day like this with all my friends again but I have to keep reminding myself that things will work out for the best and that here, in Mexico or China my friends will still be my friends and love me no less based on my location. Things certainly do seem easier when you’re in the same zip code but they say love has no boundaries and I’d like to think that’s true.