La Frontera: The Border

He’s lived in the USA for 30 years or more and has been a citizen for more than 20 years. He graduated from high school in LA. Recently unemployed, he does day jobs for people in his community—-helps with landscaping, assists in moving furniture, storage boxes, simple construction. And he volunteers with the Samaritans. They love him at the comedor in Nogales because he is a compadre, a friend, and of course speaks Spanish fluently. He spent his childhood in Jalisco and often goes back for celebrations and family events. He is a Mexican-American man and looks Latino. I live in a county in Arizona that is 80% Latino. Nothing unusual here.

All persons have the same rights...

So this week he was walking to the store from his home in the desert—a small RV which he is fixing up. He is stopped by the sheriff along the road who asks for his “ID”. My friend obligingly pulled out his Driver’s License to show the sheriff.

He asks, “Why are you stopping me? Have I done something wrong?”

The sheriff does not answer his question, but asks, “Do you have any outstanding warrants?”

My friend shrugs and says, “No—but why are you asking me these questions?”

The sheriff asks, “Where are you going?”

My friend responds, “I don’t understand why you are stopping me and asking me all of this.”

Mr. Sheriff replies, “Well, this is an educational stop. You are walking on the wrong side of the road. You should be facing traffic when you walk.”

Give me a frigging break.

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I admit it. I’m excited. Finally there appears to be some action on the horizon. “Occupy Wall Street” spirit has spread to Tucson, and on October 15 there will be a gathering in a park. “Occupy Tucson”. At last. Friends tell me that cities all throughout the USA will be taking to the streets to protest, discuss, give a shout about corporate greed, banks, the environmental meltdown, and justice for all.

I want to be there.

I have the right to work

I don’t have answers to the heavy-weight questions of our faltering economy, the jobs crisis, the immigration injustices. But to see so many people coming out of the woodwork and taking a stand gives me hope. These issues are solvable. We are a smart, generous, innovative country. It’s time to get off our butts, turn off the TV and cell phone, and DO SOMETHING!!

Vote. Run for political office. Consider offering micro-loans to energetic visionary young people who have some great ideas. Get on a School Board. Stop being so afraid. Lend a hand.

It’s a new day. And I am so glad to be a part of it.

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"I grow squash and tomatoes....I am a farmer."

There was an excellent article in the NYTimes, Oct. 2, 2011 about the complexity of immigration—the laws, the families pulled apart, the good hard-working people, and the dark side of immigration with its thugs, drug smugglers and thieves. And then I read the “comments” online, mostly East Coast folks. Chilling. Most comments were not supportive of the plight of the migrants. Most comments were lost in the verbiage of the law, as if we are a country that pays strict attention to laws. Don’t get me started on the Bush years, the wars, Wall Street, banks….

So I am a caretaker, a nurse. People have blisters, I apply band-aids. People are hungry, I smile when the good sisters at the comedor feed them nourishing food. Friends clean out their closets and I take piles of jackets and jeans for the migrants that need warmth and comfort. I’m not spouting off statistics and numbers—my brain is too old for that.

But I do have a bit of the body politic to share:
1) Rethink NAFTA. Many migrants are farmers that have been driven off their farms. The subsidized crops of NAFTA and huge agri-business farms undersell their crops of squash, beans, and tomatoes. We have created a class of poor farmers, many of whom survived quite nicely for hundreds of years. They are desperate for work. I have met them.
2) Legalize drugs. It is a public health issue, not a criminal one. As a nurse, I know this is blasphemous. But you know what?? The Drug War is a joke. It is easier and cheaper to get drugs on the street now than 10 years ago. Prohibition didn’t work, and neither is criminalizing the sale and use of narcotics and other “illegal” drugs. Start with marijuana.
3) Expand the guest worker permit system. I have never met a migrant from Mexico or Central America that didn’t want to work—at anything.
4) Allow a fast-track for immigrants who have been here in the US since they were children. Get a grip. There are 11 million undocumented people in this country. We’re not going to deport them. They have been here for most of there life. Except for a paper proving citizenship, they are “American.”

Doesn’t seem like rocket science to me.

Trust me—-it’s more fun having Latinos as neighbors than….well, almost anybody.

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He looked different than so many of the migrants.  He was tall, well nourished, and was looking for a pair of jeans that fit and some clean sox.  He did not have the small stature of the indigenous indios from Central America. And he spoke perfect English—barely an accent.  I’d guess his age to be late 20’s.  It turns out he is married, has several children, and has lived in Oxnard since he was 2 years old.  He was picked up in California by Border Patrol, deported to Nogales, and now is determined to get back to his family.

He has no police record of offenses—until now.  If he attempts to cross the US/Mexico border again, it is a felony. It means jail time. Our group tries to dissuade him from crossing.  He doesn’t know our desert, and he intends to cross alone.  Desperate to get home and back to work in Oxnard, he is emotional and tearful talking to our group.

So what gives here??  I keep reading about Homeland Security and its attempt to remedy situations like this.  We should be pursuing the dangerous criminals, the drug smugglers, the “terrorists”, right?  Why aren’t we going after the bad guys?  This man is not guilty of any serious crime in the US.  He is a working man, has a family and home, and now finds himself in a country and culture he finds foreign.   He is one of the good guys that should not be swept up by our Border Patrol agents.  And he is afraid to pursue citizenship in the US because—you guessed it—he’ll be deported.  Again.  Talk about a Catch-22.

Welcome to Nogales

He carries “court papers” in a white envelope—documentation about his deportation and “guilt”, as he stands here in Nogales, Sonora, a country that is foreign to him.  We tell him, if you cross and are picked up by Homeland Security, call this attorney.  She can help you.  You are not a criminal.  You came here when you were a baby.  The law is wrong.  A few Samaritans give him phone numbers to call if he runs into trouble.

I light a candle tonight for this man.  Part of me does not want him to try and cross our desert tonight—so dangerous.  Part of me wants him to make it home to Oxnard.  I envision him sleeping in the bushes by the Santa Cruz River.  I say a prayer for his safety.

He is one of the good guys.

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When migrants are dropped across the border into Mexico after a pickup by the Border Patrol, they have no shoelaces.

Shoelaces are the first thing that is confiscated from migrants “so they won’t run away”.  They arrive at the small clinica with no medications, no cell phone (and most start out with cell phones), and no little slips of paper with telephone numbers of family or prospective employers in Washington, Oregon, Chicago, New York, Alabama.  All have been taken away by US authorities.   Usually they have no money and no ID.  It is impossible for the migrant to contact his hope for the future—his job in el norte or a family member—because the Border Patrol has emptied their pockets and taken precious scraps of paper with the phone numbers.  Many have no idea where Nogales is.  They’ve never heard of the place.

They show up at the clinica with blood sugars sky high.  Their medications for diabetes were taken away, and they need immediate help.  I do not know why important medicatons are not returned, but they aren’t.  All have a vacant, empty look on their face. They have nothing but the shirt on their back and shoes that are literally rotting on their feet.  One fellow this week eagerly took a toothbrush in a “hygiene packet” we had prepared and marched over to a sink and began scrubbing his teeth.  No water, no toothpaste—just vigorously scrubbing his teeth.  He had just arrived after days in the desert.

If the shoe fits....

A college student with a Georgetown University t-shirt sits down with this young man.  This is her “semester abroad”, and she is amazing.  She lives with the nuns in their quarters in this very poor section of Nogales.   Her face is luminous.  She speaks excellent Spanish and helps me as I try and figure out what to do.  He needs a plan.  He decides to go back to his village.  Our group pools resources and buys him a bus ticket and money for food.  The journey will be long—back to Oaxaca.

And we find a good pair of shoes and brand new shoelaces.

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I am overwhelmed with the number of people that wish to donate to the Samaritan’s mission—preventing deaths in the desert.  Please read the note below from the minister of the Good Shepherd United Church of Christ.  This is the little church where our group meets.

“….If you would like to send a donation to support the lifesaving work of the Samaritans, please send the check to The Good Shepherd UCC, 17750 S. La Canada, Sahuarita, AZ 85629. Write the check to the Good Shepherd UCC and put Samaritans in the MEMO line. 100% of your donation will go directly to the lifesaving work of the Samaritans.”

A clean shirt....such a little thing

The Samaritans have a few expenses—namely keeping our aging van going as we do “water drops” and desert searches looking for migrants who need help;  and medical supplies, food, bottled water, and clothing at the “comedor” in Nogales, Sonora, Mexico.  We are an all-volunteer group—no paid members.  Most are retired people who live in Green Valley, AZ.  A large percentage of Samaritans are in their 70’s, some in their 80’s.  Never underestimate the power of the children of the 1960’s.  These folks are on fire.

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You can smell it across the street.  Something bubbling with chilies, chocolate, cinnamon, something else…cloves??  Omigod.  The nuns are making mole and chicken for tonight’s dinner for the migrants.  I know I’m supposed to be over at the clinica saving lives, but I simply must step into the kitchen and take in these aromas.  One of the sisters is wiping away tears from the garlic and onions crackling in the cooking oil.  She shows me the menu for dinner which is at 4 PM.  Chicken with mole, rice, a soup of vegetables and rice, and fruit.  Tortillas, of course, to mop up the juice.

Chicken fixin's

I see “burn man” sitting on the curb.  This fellow was in dire straights a few short weeks ago, with 2^nd and 3^rd degree burns over most of his back.  He shows our group his wounds, and waits for the clinic to open for a dressing change.  He looks fleshed out a bit—he has been eating regularly at the comedor.  His burns are healing.  Trying to hit us up for money, he wants cigarettes and a Coke.  We tell him, just eat the food here—this is what you need to get back on your feet.

Lorena, a volunteer cook, invites me to help pull chicken off the bones for the mole dish.  Her hands glisten with chicken grease.  I sit with 3 other women and try to keep up with their rapid banter as they joke in Spanish.  I laugh with them, not knowing quite what the joke is, but I’m happy to be here up to my elbows in grease.

After a few hours of talking with migrants, Lorena presents me and others with bowls of steaming chicken, mole, and rice.  It is the best I have ever had.  The sisters could be stars on the Food Network.  The world is a better place with a bowl of chicken and mole in front of you.

Virgin with potatoes

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I met a little boy today, probably 7 years old.   He was running around at the comedor in shorts and a polo shirt, back and forth among the migrants and an older woman sitting in the corner.  Occasionally he buries his head in the old woman’s lap.  It turns out that this is his grandma.  There is a little girl with a vacant look on her face—his sister, age 12. Transported from Florida to Nogales over the past few days, the children were separated from their mother during a pick-up by the Border Patrol in Florida.

Florida??!!

Their father is “somewhere in Mexico.”

So what are they doing here?

The children were deported to Nogales, Mexico, and sent to DEF, the Mexican equivalent of Child Protective Services.  Their mother was sent to a detention center somewhere—maybe Texas, New Mexico, Arizona.  No one seems to know.  Upon questioning, the authorities learned that the children had a grandmother in Nogales, Sonora, and so the kids were transported to this shelter.  Today, no one knows where their mother is—she is somewhere in the “system” between here and Florida.

Who thinks up these maneuvers?  Some malevolent troll under a bridge?

I’ve seen the separation of families many times at the comedor.  Women weeping because they do not know where their brother or husband or lover has been transported.  This bit of human transport is supposed to discourage migrants from trying to cross the border another time.  Ship them to Texas or California, separate the families, and make life even more unbearable than it already is.

So someone in our group whips out a cell phone and we begin calling various detention centers in Texas hoping to find at least one of their parents.  A nun in a brightly colored apron comes out of the make-shift kitchen with a bowl of beans and fresh tortillas for the little boy and his grandma.  She holds him close as he eats the refritos.  I search through the clothes we have brought this week looking for little boy things.  Nada.  I find a flowery hair barrette for the little girl, who has the look of an old old soul.  She smiles and whispers, “Gracias.”

The system of “repatriation” is complicated, I’m told.

I don’t care.  This is just plain wrong, and it makes my blood boil.

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Several readers have asked about the burn victim that I spoke of in my first posting.  Here is the story:

This fellow is not a migrant.  He is a local homeless man, mentally ill, who lives hand to mouth.  He sleeps in the cemetery.  This man is vulnerable to attack, and was assaulted by local thugs who poured tequila and lighter fluid on him.  Some say battery acid.  The stories are always confusing and blurred at the clinica.  He was hospitalized and survived this horrific attack.  I have not seen him since that day in the clinic when the nurse was doing her best to treat his extensive burns.

There is evil in the world.  There is good in the world.  And there is a LOT of work to be done on the planet.

"I have the right to live a life free of violence"

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It was a slow day in the clinic.  We’re making little packets of a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, and a disposable razor for the migrants to use when they land here after days of grime and sweat in the desert.  There is plenty of sweat right here in this little cell-block of a clinic.  100 degrees, 70% humidity, huge cumulus clouds developing in the South, and the clickety click of a fan trying its best.  I dream of rain and relief.

our taxes at work

Two guys walk in , each holding the other up.  They have been shot.  One fellow shows us his thigh.  The bullet has passed through his leg.  The fact that it didn’t hit his femoral artery is grace from above.  The other guy still has a bullet in his butt—and he seems the stronger of the two!  The leg-wound guy is septic;  he is glassy-eyed, delirious, feverish, and a bit out of his head with pain.  He was shot “eight days ago on a train in Sinaloa.”  Bandits attempted to steal their stuff (what stuff??).  The men are from Honduras, and are trying to get to Oregon.  Apples, pears, peaches are the lure.

You have seen the old Western movies where the guy bites down on a stick and the cranky surgeon operates, after taking a swig of whiskey?  Well, the Mexican nurse and myself were thrust in this scenario with no pain meds, and no way to adequately clean this man’s infected wound.  He had been without care for 8 days.  He was seen in Sinaloa by a doctor, we’re told, but our patient was allergic to the antibiotic.  So he went untreated for 8 days.  His leg was red, and swollen to twice the size.  My nurse colleague pours hydrogen peroxide in the wound, and we try and squeeze the infection out of the open puncture from the bullet.  Our man screams with pain—my colleagues try and control him and hold him while we do our best to cleanse this wound.  It is a horror show.  We give him a t-shirt to bite on.

I say—“He must get to a hospital or he won’t make it. ”  My Mexican nurse colleague shrugs and sez, “He’ll be OK.  And if not, ….”  She has seen so much more than I have.  Plus—we cannot get him into the Nogales hospital because he is from Honduras, and is not a Mexican national.  Yikes.  Sounds like some US hospitals.

So my Samaritan friend, a retired pilot, suggests walking to a pharmacy and seeing if we can get an antibiotic and some strong pain meds.  After all, it’s Mexico—don’t need a script for everything, right?  So we walk in the blazing sun about a mile, find a pharmacy where the owner speaks a little English.   We pool our resources ($14), and he gives us a potent antibiotic and a strong narcotic for pain.  Thankyougod.  There are angels everywhere.  We hurry back to the clinic, and the leg-wound guy is sitting on the curb waiting for us.  He looks bad—yellow, in fact.  A film is over his eyes.  We explain how to take the pills—he smiles weakly, crosses himself, thanks us.  His friend, the guy with the bullet in the butt, assures us he’ll take care of him.  (and I wonder, what about you?? What about your butt?? )  First things first.

So all week I stew about the leg-wound man.  I dream about his screams.  I light candles in my house.  Everytime I pass a candle I think about leg-wound man.  Next week I find out that the guy is “doing better”—much better.  Omigod.  The miracle of drugs.  And youth.  We pitch in and buy these guys a bus ticket home.  The butt-wound guy still has the bullet in his rear end, but seems OK.  He’ll have it taken care of eventually.

Remind me to stay off of trains in Sinaloa.

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