The Sound of San Francisco

Going to San Francisco for my Fall Break was definitely the right course of action.

After Atul picked me up at the airport – a seemingly simple thing that was, in fact, a hilarious ordeal involving multiple “What terminal are you in?”, “Wait, there’s more than one terminal?”-type conversations - we headed straight for dinner with his climbing buddies. And thank the lord that what could have been a very daunting, awkward situation was, in reality, delightful. I’ve only rarely been randomly thrown into such vibrant, sincere conversation and, well… Izzy’s Steakhouse, the place was called, and oh my goodness did that shrimp cocktail and the strawberries with custard set the stage for a weekend of culinary bliss.

Between hostel provisions and a trip to Trader Joe’s, our daily fare included peanut butter/strawberry jam/cream cheese bagels, bananas, raspberries, yoghurt, gouda, spiced turkey meat, foccacia bread, carrots, hummus, and breakfast tea – tepid, of course, and with an insane amount of cream and sugar. Breakfast was generally eaten in the hostel’s quirky dining hall, where the music selection varied from the Beatles to Bhangra. On Sunday, however, we went the Yank Sing for Dim Sum, which, I honestly have to say, is fast becoming one of my favourite new cuisines. Whoever decided to put dozens of different types of food in little steamers and then whisk them around a restaurant on a cart so that clients could comfortably try 5+ items was a genius. Particular thanks to the inventor of the egg-custard bun. Mandy introduced me to these little gems in New York and I actually went to Yank Sing specifically in search of the subtly sweet puffballs. After some trial and error, the egg-custard buns were found and - most-happily - consumed. So happily, in fact, that I brought two orders of the things back to Mexico with me and have now had an amazing breakfast three days in a row.

Suppers, too, though, were particularly good this past weekend, and sushi and Indonesian food were among the highlights. Dinner at the Indonesian restaurant was especially satisfactory not just because of the food itself - which, between the coconut rice, spicy shrimp, and lamb curry, was great – but also because the restaurant was literally just across the street from our hotel. Which, originally, it wasn’t supposed to be.

It’s a long story, but Atul and I would have had to change rooms in the hostel on our last night anyway so, instead, we decided to pay a little extra to stay someplace a bit nicer. When we got to the hotel, though, we were greeted with “I know it’s been a long day, but…” Enter horrified visions of lost reservations and sleeping in the lobby.

Or not. Because our hotel has a nicer, sister hotel which, at no extra cost, is going to house us for the evening. Enter, instead of a two-bed single room with a shower, a two-room suite with three beds, a kitchen, and a Jacuzzi. And, to top it all off, the new hotel keeps Werther’s Originals in their candy bowl. Clearly, we’ve hit the jackpot.

Which, considering all the other accidents we had on the trip, was quite the relief. Nothing extraordinary happened, it’s just that in the course of our 18-mile bike ride along the Bay, across the Golden Gate Bridge, and through the island, I most-embarrassingly single-handedly succeeded in forever dispelling the myth that dancers are inherently graceful or coordinated. How so? Let’s just say that I somehow managed not only to headbutt both Atul (moving) and a tree (not moving), but also to run into a parked car and street sign. Even with all the mishaps, though, it was really a lovely ride. Eating a picnic lunch by a brook in the hollowed-out remains of redwood tree was definitely a highlight, and it was simply reviving to finally get some exercise. Which we had a little extra of since we ended up more or less winging the last half our journey route-wise and, thus, biking across one highway and up and down one hill with a slope of about 65 degrees. In the midst of all this adventure I found out that, despite not being able to remember the last time I rode a bike, I can still ride hands-free. All in all, it was an amazingly hard, fun ride and, after nearly two months of living in a desert, even just seeing so much green and so much water as we rode by was more refreshing than a paleta on the Puente Santa Fe.


Our visit to Alcatraz, meanwhile, was not quite so physically intense. The ferry rides, of course, were fun, and I enjoyed seeing a new side of American history during the tour. I have to say, in general, that I’m a big fan of the radio/self-guided: 1) you can hear everything clearly and 2) you can switch the tour on or off at-will and thus control your own pace. Anyways, it was just generally a good day for conversation, and it was also nice to stay near the piers afterwards and picnic on one of the lawns affording a clear view of the Blue Angels air show (which we couldn’t have missed if we’d tried and, thus, saw certain parts of thrice during our stay). We also ended up watching a few movies throughout our stay since we were usually rather tired in the evenings from having walked the city’s hills during the day (Mission Impossible, it turns out, is not the most engaging of films. You’ve Got Mail, however, was quite nice, and the four episodes of the British series Coupling we watched had us in stitches).

On a side note, the Border comes with me everywhere now, and I couldn’t help but notice at times how very Mexican California was – from its colourful, hillside-covering residences, right down to its ice-cream carts. Which, we found out, are actually just Michoacana paleta carts - Made in Juarez - with the side-labels covered.

All in all, though, the great scenery, activities, food, and company made for a wonderful trip and, now that I’ve returned to the border, it’s been lovely seeing and catching-up with my host-family and friends again – everyone has that “I got exactly the break I needed” afterglow.

“And it goes on, and on, and on, and…” - AZ Trip Part III

The Mariposa Aid Station in Nogales, Arizona is a small, tented lot behind the Mexican aduana. One to four times an hour, the US Government – which now apparently contracts its transports out to Wackenhut (a private security company with a less than sterling record in regard to its respect for human rights) – drops a bus-load of migrants about 200 metres away from the Border. They then, more or less in single-file, walk back into Mexico.

Once across la Frontera, migrants are greeted by humanitarian aid workers. “Bienvenidos! Pasenles!” It’s an odd thing, welcoming someone back into a country they just tried to leave.

Anyways, once greeted, those who are hungry (about half), thirsty (100%), or injured (about 25%) are ushered into the shade of the tents. Which is where we came in. Some of the students helped document cases of abuse by Border Patrol (not a rare thing, since federally there are no rules they have to follow for detentions of less than 72 hours and most migrants are pushed through the system in under 24). Others helped to distribute water in little styrofoam cups and food in the form a piece of bread with frijoles. Which is where much of the strength of my reaction to the experience kicks in. Because after an hour of tending wounds and sore spots, we were given a nice lunch that included soup, enchiladas, burritos, tostadas, and cola. To say the least, the hypocrisy of it all got to me. Thus the poem in AZ Trip Part II. On the whole, though, our trip to Arizona, I think, is what I will think of as the catalyst to my developing my own sense of politics – of having, for the first, time black and white definitions of what is right and wrong, and what needs to be changed and how.

The intensity of our experience in Arizona was not all political or moral, though. The beauty of the geography itself was stunning, and I would be remiss if I failed to include some of the more joyful and often hilarious highlights of the trip.

Such as when, on Friday night, Hannah had to be taught how to pee in the bushes and disperse her spit after brushing her teeth. Or when, upon returning from a trip into the bushes, Hannah asked Julie, “How’d it go?” and the pert reply was, “It went well. I marked my territory”.

Or when we went dancing under the lights of the Milky Way until we saw headlights coming towards us. Then Nicolina made a mock run for the Border, heading “back home to Mexico”.

Yes, my sense of humour has gotten darker here.

Anyways… Saturday morning was fantastic. We were woken up at 6AM to the sweet sound of Journey’s “Don’t stop believin’ ” being blasted from a truck’s stereo system (thank you, Explo, for teaching me the lyrics). Needless to say, I joined in the early morning dance beneath the palest, most beautiful, full desert moon I’ve ever seen. In just my socks, of course, since I’d hidden my sneakers from the bugs in the tent and I’d put the socks in a nearby mesquite bush in the name of easy-access. Speaking of the tent, though, Jules, Hannah and I definitely made the right choice by sleeping under the stars. Not only because the view was stunning – which the couple of shooting stars we glimpsed definitely helped – but also because Laura hadn’t anchored all of the corners evenly and so woke up with the thing collapsed on top of her. Julie, meanwhile, upon waking up, queried, “I wonder how many ants I ate last night”.

Even being the great proponent of inquiry that I am… Really, Jules, there are some things – unlike one’s politics – that are really best left unquestioned.

Mariposa – AZ Trip Part II

Today’s Word of the Day is mariposa, or butterfly. The image of the monarch butterfly – which every year journeys from North America to Southern American wintering grounds – is recurrent motif in migrant activism and, thus, the Mariposa Aid Station we visited on Saturday is aptly named.

My thoughts on the experience we had there still aren’t very concise, but hopefully the prose-poem reflection I wrote for my Writing in Society class will help you to at least understand what I was feeling at the time.

The White Flag

“There is no reason for us to feel worse today than any other day of our lives”, she tells me. We hold each other and cry beneath the bridge.

We do not -
Can not -
Do not want to -
Understand “Why?”

Today it smacked us in the face. But today is every day. We created the system.

White women tend the wounded. White men do the wounding.

_______________________

We bandaged blisters, massaged muscles, put a dislocated knee back in place.

He had – he was told – a daughter, a little girl, in Los Angeles. He spent one day in the desert. And then was deported.

Another had crossed at Tijuana. He spent four days in the desert. He was processed in Phoenix. He was deported at Mariposa.

And this one… he still hasn’t crossed yet. He’s jittery, and chugging water. Cup after cup, he slakes and prepares for thirst. He hasn’t eaten in three days. And he won’t accept the sandwich being offered to him.
________________________

They give them no food, no water, no medical attention whatsoever. It’s available. But only if you request it.

They call it deterrence.

If they make the crossing hard enough, if we can make it not worth it, we can keep them out of our land.

But this is their land.

___________________

We stare at the wall, a rusted metal thing that looks like a scab someone won’t stop scratching.

It’s ugly. Heinous. Inhuman and inhumane. And, in the end, it’s paper. Words. One person, one people, telling another that they do not belong.

That we will hunt you down with our cameras and helicopters, and when you see us you will be so beaten by this alien land that you will be happy to be sent back.

You will tell the white women who are washing your feet, “No más”. Never more.

______________________

Mejor, “Never more muros”.

Never more the walls that tear us down.

This land of chain-link and barbed wire is a prison.

________________________

“Patrol this”, someone says. We laugh. We want to put it on a T-shirt.

_________________________

Back at camp, I kneel before the broken man.

“Put your feet in the water. It’s warm, it will help”.

We wash his feet, dab them dry, and put iodine on open sores. We cut clean strips of white gauze to size, and then wrap and tape them in place.

He thanks us. We wish him good luck.

And I want to die.

To be the dirt beneath his feet. To give him my tears and my blood and my chapstick. Anything I can.
Anything except the land, which he more than earned, but is not mine to give.

_________________________

“Knowing all this is not enough”, she says.

“There’s got to be something we can do”, says another.

___________________________

I surrender.

The Border Patrol Hosts Border Studies – AZ Trip Part I

Thursday before last we crammed 26 people and their sleeping bags, backpacks, and breakfast for the next 3 days into 2 vans and 1 car. Then we drove four and a half hours to Nogales, Arizona and set up camp on the floor of a mission house run by the most meticulous caretaker imaginable. We literally scrubbed that place on our hands and knees before leaving the next morning and STILL were almost not allowed to return on Saturday night. Apparently we forgot to vacuum the girls’ bathroom rug. May he never find out that we “borrowed” a bread knife for two days so that we could slice bagels.

From there, though, our group split up for all of Saturday morning, with half of us first going to meet with the Border Patrol and the other half first going to the Mariposa Aid Station run by No More Deaths. My group went the Border Patrol offices first.

There I found out that the Tucson division is responsible for the highest number of apprehensions nationwide in terms of both people and narcotics. The patrolmen work one 8-hour shift per day, as well as any overtime necessary to cover the lapse between shifts (for which they receive 25% extra pay). There are about 65-85 agents per shift. Many of these agents are assigned to “still/line watch” positions. Many others work with ATVs, horses, the K9 unit, the Special Response Team, the Tactical Unit, etc. Whatever they’re doing, it is up to the discretion of each individual agent to sign out whatever gear or weaponry they wish to carry with them in the field. When asked if he enjoyed his job, our guide - a plain-spoken, diplomatic agent with over 9 years in the field – said that he likes that, at the end of the day, he can honestly say, “I have a lot of fun… I did my part”. Service in the BP is, according to our guide, a stressful job, but there is also a “generally good morale”.

Before beginning to work, agents must take a series of grueling exams. Over 60% of applicants fail. After this, they then must complete 19 weeks of training in an Academy, which includes the equivalent of 2 years of college Spanish instruction. Additional or supplemental training sessions are also made available after graduation from the Academy. All agents, once trained, are placed on a two-year probationary period.

…I have about 7 pages of notes from the Border Patrol visit, but I’ll spare you the rest of the details and let it suffice to say what stood out the most during our tour was the language and imagery – the hyper-masculinity - of the place. The best example: The “Con el coyote nada seguro, ni siquiera tu vida. No más cruces en la Frontera” poster in the main hallway upstairs. This one is actually a stroke of genious of sorts.

The English translation would say, “Nothing is certain/secure/safe with the coyote, not even your life.” A coyote, for those wondering, is a paid guide that smuggles people over the border. The going rate right now is 1800+ USD. That’s more than what many members of the lower middle class here make in a year. Thus, immigrants are often forced to enter into a form of indentured servitude once States-side in order to pay off their debt, which is itself compounded per annum by a 15% interest rate. If you don’t pay, the gang your coyote is affiliated with will harass, assault, and potentially kill your family members back home. Of course, all this is only if you make it. Which, since over one person a day dies trying to cross in the US, is by no means guaranteed.

Anyways… This poster in particular stands out because the phrase “No más cruces en la Frontera” could be translated into English as either “No more crosses on the Border” or “Stop crossing the Border”. The image accompanying this message was a photo of four immigrants following a guide, with the immigrants’ shadows doctored to take the form of crosses and the guide’s shadow to that of a coyote.

The visit to the Border Patrol facilities as whole definitely shocked us at moments. Mostly because it 1) Reminded us that Migra workers are, in fact, fellow human beings and 2) Provided us with a basis for comparison with what we saw in the Mariposa Aid Station on the Mexican side of the Nogales, AZ border.

For a detailed and well-rounded, multi-perspective account of illegal crossings, read Luis Urrea’s The Devil’s Highway. It can be a bit overly dramatic or embellished at moments, but on the whole it’s fairly appropriate and definitely the most comprehensive work I’ve seen to date. In any event, I’ll try to share my own fragmented experience with such crossings in my next post.

On Falling into a Routine and Shaking Things Up

There are, it seems, a few tricks to living here without losing one’s mind.

1) Sometimes there really is only so much of being treated like an animal that a person can take. Reasserting your dignity – your right to exist as you are – is just fine. Don’t be afraid to be a smart-ass. Border Patrol wants to know what you think about the “immigration problem”? Tell them your father’s an immigrant.
2) Let yourself become bored with the Border. Yeah, it’s a pain in the ass, but it’s the same, lame sort of power-tripping-America-induced pain every day. Bonus points if you can laugh at the phallic statues strategically placed on the US side.
3) Don’t forget that… Oh, yeah, we’re actually here to work! Pour yourself into that creative writing class you’ve always wanted to take.
4) Luxuriate in the 15-minute aquatic wonder that is one’s daily shower. And wash your feet and calves before you go to bed.
5) Take notes on everything. And then ramble about it all over again in your blog. The weekly mental detoxing and the solitude that it entails will do you good.
6) Read a book in your native tongue. ...Or at least pretend to be doing so until you realize that you are, in fact, reading a translation of an originally French, Hindi, or Japanese work.
7) Think of giving out your phone number as an investment in meeting people outside of the program, even if they never call again when they realize you just want to be friends. If they are okay with this, then not only are they an investment in becoming mobile independent of your family, but real keepers, too.
8) Suck it up and learn to enjoy the food. …But still jump on every chance you get to eat fruits and vegetables.
9) Realize that, since nighttime transportation is an issue, sleeping arrangements are flexible. For example, the three-nights-at-home-as-normal, two-nights-elsewhere, and two-nights-with-other-people-at-your-home formula you tried last week actually worked wonders.
10) Keep your eyes, ears, mind and heart open. You can learn something from anywhere, anything or anyone. And be irrevocably changed in the process.

The events of this weekend starkly underlined that last one for me.


I went to my first protest ever on Saturday. The fact that it was my first is kind of funny since I actually helped organize it (I did some of the translation and all of the editing for the press release announcing the event... and then got randomly interviewed by Channel 4 News). Anyways, the problem was that for the past few weeks members of the Chaparral, NM community have been subject to various violations of their civil and human rights alike . The county sheriff and his deputies had, often under false pretences and on the basis of racial profiling, been entering homes without search warrants. They then proceeded to question community members about their identification and, in many cases, went on to demand to see social security cards. In so doing, local law enforcement was taking on the role of the Migra. They either called the Migra in or arrested people themselves and drove them to Immigration detention centres. They pulled children out of school. They deported parents and left the children. They beat people. They spread threatening rumours to dissuade participation in the protest. And then they had the unmitigated gall to drive by the protest in unmarked cars but still in full uniform. The sense of intimidation and insecurity that all of this has created in Chaparral is intolerable. In one week alone, over 142 students were absent from school because families feared raids. And in some cases entire families have not left their homes in over nine days. Imagine, then, seeing over 200 people take the street anyway.

Imagine, too, Friday night, when we danced so hard that we literally shook the ground beneath our feet. Now, admittedly, there were thousands of us (and why not, since it was a free concert by two classic Mexican ska sensations). And, admittedly, it turns out that the plaza we were dancing on was perhaps not so brilliantly constructed over an underground parking lot, thus, by night’s end, leaving all of the cars below covered in a thin film of dust that had been shaken from the roof. But still… There was something rather beautiful in the notion of a rather battered people banding together to become earth shattering. Particularly since this rocking of the foundations was to be metaphorical as well. For while it’s true that a chorus of “hijo de Bush” – “son of a Bush” – got everyone particularly riled up, we danced our hardest to the more forward-looking social songs, the songs calling loudly to the stars with demands for solidaridad, libertad y justicia para todos los seres humanos, for all human beings, para todos nuestros hermanos, for all our brothers.

In short, this place is making me more generally aware and, in the process, politicizing me in ways I never anticipated. The unexpected, however, seems to be a theme here. Example:

After the protest on Saturday we crossed back into Juarez to see a pair of documentaries on Ska and Hip-hop culture in Mexico. It turns out that they were made by Roco, the lead vocalist of Maldita Vecindad which (together with Panteon Rococo) was one of the bands I'd seen on Friday. The craziness of the coincidences continues, however, when we find out that Roco is the friend of a friend of our program director. Thus, we are invited to Roco's friend's mansion for an after-party and the story ends with 7 Border Studies students having a 2-5 AM poolside discussion with Roco and a few DJs from the Distrito Federal about the socio-political art scene in Mexico. Go figure.

PS The Phrase of the Week is "Ando acapella", which literally translates to "I walk acapella", but which, figuratively, has got to be the single most clever and beautiful way of saying "I go commando" imaginable. The phrase applies to a good 6 or so out of the 20 of us so we've become rather fond of it for both its practical and intellectual value.