Saturday
I practice imitating Ruben’s welcome speech, and, today, I am asked to give the talk to a new group. “Welcome. We are happy that you are here. We want you to know we feel honored to know each of you. Bienvenidos, todos! We will assist you on your journey from El Paso to the home of a friend or family member.” People clap and say Gracias! and Bueno! I realize that I am the first U.S. citizen to say anything nice. “Ahora esta es su casa.” Our house is your house. “For us, you are a gift. You bring your language, culture, ideas, dreams, and willingness to work. We want to serve you and your families. We will make sure you are safe. You will get a cot, cosmetics, clothes, a shower, and a wash basin. We will help you get to relatives’ homes. It is there that you should prepare immigration paperwork. Contact a lawyer or an agency to assist you. Questions?” I intake a Cuban woman and ask how she felt when she realized she was in the U.S. She says, Honestly, nothing. I was numb; it was so unexpected. I didn’t know what to think, so I didn’t think. Now I’m here and I still don’t know what to think.
Monday
I interview Yoli, a Guatemalan from San Marcos, the very town in which my Guatemalan-American son was born. Silently, I think that if I had not adopted my son, Marco might be sitting in front of me today. Yoli speaks Mam, a Mayan language, is 28 and has four children. She tells me that her drunk husband was incapable of taking care of the children, so she fled with two of her kids, leaving the others with her mother. She teaches me how to say hello by touching hands and tapping my face. I appreciate this tender gesture so much that I can barely murmur “gracias.” Marta, also a Guatemalan, is next. She left her home eight days ago and traveled by bus and train to Juarez. She tests positive with the Rapid Test, so she and her daughter have to move into quarantine. She bursts into tears and says that the delay is too much to bear. I assure her that she will not be deported during the next 10 days, but I feel helpless. I want to offer something but all I can do is sit and listen.
Tuesday
I meet a Honduran, Dia, and two of her friends. After getting their bedrolls, they grab yellow buckets and mop the vast floor.
“Thanks!” I say to Dia. “Want to take a break?” No, we got to get it done. “When you’re finished,” I tell her, “let’s get some shoes to replace your flip flops.” OK. Later, I take them to the clothing room, and they search through piles of shoes on dozens of shelves. A volunteer comes in and scolds me, Soon, everybody will come in here and take garbage bags full of stuff. “No discussion necessary,” I say. “They need shoes for the cold bus ride and we have hundreds.” It turns out that Dia is a teacher and much better educated than many. She opposes the president’s political party, so she cannot get work. She tells me that her mother had six siblings, four of whom died at birth. Only a brother survived, but he contracted polio. His arms are rigid, and her mother spoon-feeds and clothes him. Years ago, Dia’s brothers made their way to Virginia to raise money for their stricken uncle. Even though her life seems overwhelmingly difficult, Dia says, I’ve been watched over by angels. I crossed the border on my first attempt, but many others were deported. I am so impressed by Dia, her family story, and her mopping that I ask if there is anything else she needs. She says she lost her cell phone, so, against the AH rules, I go to Walmart and buy one and pay for the plan. By the time I get back to AH, Dia has found her phone and so I still have an extra. Later, I call her a few times in Virginia to see how she is doing. No one answers.
SEPT 22 – OCT 3
Wednesday
A group of detainees arrives from Laredo, but they can’t get off the bus because the COVID testers haven’t arrived. Kneeling on the bus’s stairs, I chat with Border Patrol drivers who have embroidered patches saying “Mr. Rodriguez” and “Mr. Ruiz.” They announce that they are ready to retire so they can explore new hobbies. Guess what I’m going to do?, Mr. Ruiz asks me. “Hmmm. I have no idea. Fishing? Sailing? Camping? RVing?” No. You’ll never get it in a million years. Give up? “Racing cars on a dirt track? Paragliding? I don’t know.” INDYweek.com
September 8, 2021
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