Students’ Border Stories
Border Stories
The following group of stories were written by Pam Porter’s Feature Writing class at the Journalism school at New Mexico State University (NMSU). The stories were written for the Border Blog as an exercise exploring feature writing and the New Media. We at the Border Blog think the stories tell truths, give insights and are useful for non fronterizos to gain an understanding of immigration and life on the border.
The assignments they worked on were:
1. A Day In The Life of: (take your pick): a. A Border Patrol Agent’s life, and, b. Illegal crossers trying to reach America.
2. Going to School over there: The daily trek across the international bridge. Stories about High School and College students from Juarez, Mexico who attend school in El Paso, Texas. Every day they are required to cross the bridge and then return at the end of the day. As some of the stories indicate, the journey can be rigorous.
Editor’s Note: Feature writing has been described as stories not about “news,†but about what’s behind the news. We think these stories do exactly that and that that is what has been missing from the debate of the recent year about immigration. Thank you students. We are honored to publish your writing.
November 13th, 2007
Crossing the Border at Twelve
By L.B. Rothwell
Ba-Boom¦Ba-BOOMBA-BOOM
My heart is beating out of my chest. Every step I take seems to tun up the volume. I swear everyone can hear it. I want to stop, to turn around and go back, but it’s so dark and I’m terrified. So I continue on, blind, hoping no one has heard such loud thumping and come to investigate.
So preoccupied with my own thought, I soon realize I can no longer hear my mothers footsteps in front of my. A lump of fear and uncertainty forms in my already parched throat. I begin to panic now, playing out every terrible scenario I can think of. Just before the solitude sets in, I plow into a wall of flesh. I recognize my mother’s scent, a mixture of flour and roses, and a wave of relief washes over my tired body. She pulls me down to the ground in one swift motion and relief is replaced with tension as she whispers a warning of danger. I can hear movement and voices just up ahead and I just know it was my heart that gave us away. Any moment we’ll be found and the God knows what else.
I stay crouched for what seems like hours, trying to silence my breathing and the metronome in my chest. Finally, my mother gives me the signal that all is clear. I can still hear the distant voices of men and my mother need not warn me. I know we have to move quickly. A few yards more and the low shrubbery and cactus give way to a narrow dirt road. Vulnerable and out in the open, we continue walking, stopping every few moments to listen for the sounds of the men on patrol. I see lights in the distance and my heart beats faster. The lights get brighter and brighter and soon, the image of a white van pulls away from the darkness like a ray of hope. As the driver pulls up, opening his doors, I can see our whole lives changing in this moment. I see a million opportunities, a million chances for success. We risked everything for a better life and now we’ve made it. Our new life has just begun and my heart beats louder than I ever thought possible.
An Hour and a Half
By Lacey Berdela
Class is in an hour and a half. Does my brother have his lunch money? Is that report due today or tomorrow? I am going to be late. While an hour and a half is when most college students set their alarms before class begins, a commuter from Juarez must leave their home, fully prepared to sit patiently in their car on the bridge stretching from Mexico to America
An hour and a half before class students open their laptops and finish their homework and click print, igniting the printer next to their laptop by their bed. They throw on a t-shirt from the floor of their dorm and begin a quick sprint because class has already begun, stopping to grab a coffee to keep them warm.
An hour and a half before class I sit in my car, waiting patiently for traffic to move, starring at the children on the side of the road begging for change to eat their next meal. Begging to wash my windows, it hurts to watch their eyes sad and lonely. I hope my gas tank will last me the way there and back, with miles ahead of me.
An hour and a half.
A New Life
By Melissa Hubbell
Luz-Elena helps her son, four-year-old Mateo, get ready for his first
day of preschool. It’s a clear, sunny morning in the South Valley of
Albuquerque, New Mexico. She watches as he attempts to tie his shoes.
“Vamanos, hijo, Es tiempo,†she says. Mateo grabs hold of his
Transformers lunch box with one hand and grabs his mom’s hand with the
other. They walk together to Adobe Acres Preschool, about a mile and a
half away from their home. Robert, Luz-Elena’s husband, works all day
as a maintenance man at a local movie theatre and he takes the car every
morning.
Luz-Elena had hoped that when she and her husband crossed illegally
over the border from Juarez to Albuquerque that there life would be
easier. They dreamed of a different life, especially for their son.
But their journey has been anything but easy.
All that matters to me is that my son was born in the US. So, no
matter what, he is a citizen. I don’t care about anything else as long
as he has American rights.
November 12th, 2007November 12th, 2007November 12th, 2007
A New Life
A Hope for Escape
By Danielle Carver
A small boy looks across the glowing houses across from him. It is an unknown world destined to be explored, which contrasts his home of Juarez, Mexico. From the early beginnings of his life, he has always heard the conversations between his familia about the Estados Unidos de America and the opportunity for work and better pay. To him, this supposed land of greatness reflects cruelty because each night, before he goes to bed, he peers outside his diminutive window to see vehivles speeding across the curving highway, the plethora of electrical signs written in Engles and large buildings much larger than his native homeland”all of which are separated by an enormous fence and river, completely beyond his grasp. It felt as if he was an inmate an Alcatraz island. It would be impossible to escape due to the icy waters, sharks and the miles of ocean to swim.
But the separation will not be much longer; his parents have come up with a plan. They cannot take being fronterizos anymore. He is scared because leaving his casa might mean abandoning everything he has always known, including his remaining abuelos, his time spent playing with other children outside the mercado and the rich smell of homemade sopapillas made by his madre. But yet, the thought of living in a nice casa and limitless food was exciting. He was also comforted by the fact that his hermanos and hermanas would make a way for him in America, since his madre and padre would be busy working for the family.
Their plan was brave, he thought. They would have to venture into the desert for several days to seek El Paso because the deep canal of dirty Rio Grande water and endless fences with barb-wire circling over the top would be impossible to trespass, especially with agents looking over the El Paso/ Juarez border like vultures standing over their canyon domain, searching for prey. But there is hope, he told himself.
November 12th, 2007
Lupe: Hated for No Reason
By William Alexander
Just twelve years ago she was one of the illegal immigrants all too many Americans are angry with. I don’t know how anyone could be angry with someone willing to work hard in order to feed her children? Lupe is one of the hardest working people on the planet and what everyone seems to forget is just that, Lupe is a person.
I first met Lupe because she was doing the job my parents, like many other Americans, were too busy to do: Lupe was cleaning our house (and about 14 others) on a weekly basis. Lupe was willing to do the job for “peanuts†– she wanted 30 dollars to clean our entire two-story house my parents paid her 100 dollars. She was grateful and has been cleaning our home ever since but that’s not all she’s been doing.
Lupe has three children: Steven, Yesenia and Laura all of whom were educated in the United States and are very proud of their mother. Lupe, now an official U.S. Citizen, works as a professional janitor at Sitel Corporation here in Las Cruces. She has two cars and her own home now. She only cleans one house these days and for some reason its ours. Instead of being angry of one of the illegals who are only trying to make better for their families my parents gave Lupe a chance. With the chance, Lupe made a change for the better. If only all American’s were willing to open their doors and hearts.
November 12th, 2007
Waiting
Story by: Kathryn Eyer
There is a parking lot in Santa Fe, just off Guadalupe and East Alameda, a block or so near the Plaza, where a group of men stand everyday—waiting.
These men are always there. Every so often a truck will stop and you will notice one or two of the men talking to a faceless driver and then you will see the men get into the back of the truck.
A friend explained that this parking lot was a meeting place for migrant workers—some illegal, some not who are waiting to be picked up for some job or other.
I was shocked. I couldn’t believe how blatant it all was. I knew that it happened, but to see it happen was something all together different.
I could never walk or drive past that parking lot with out thinking about how life is so different for people. On one side of the parking lot are wealthy tourists and on the other side are people who have left home to work for next to nothing, because next to nothing is still better than what they had.
November 12th, 2007
Agent Barrow-U.S Border Patrol
By Christa Barrow
Micheal Barrow puts on his Green uniform every evening at 10 and gets in his car to make the 45-minute drive to Santa Theresa to his station as a United States Border Patrol agent. Some nights its busy. Other nights, they don’t do much but watch the mini-T.V plugged into the cigarette lighter in their cars.
They take out the A.T.Vs and cruise the border, looking for suspicious individuals. This job can be dangerous; one female agent was attacked by Mexican men crossing the border at her station. She failed to draw her gun and was brutally injured by the illegal men going over the line from their country to our beloved United States.
What does the border patrol do? Most of it is just paper work,
Barrow said. If the border patrol agents can catch certain individuals and then file their information, those individuals are now part of the system. Translation: if they do something bad here in the U.S, we know who they are.
Border patrol agents catch dangerous individuals trying to escape punishment in their own country. The Border Patrol has brought drug traffic down, and created a data base of people who have “jumped the fence more then once. Border patrol, while still limited in numbers, is helping to secure the lines from Old Mexico into the United States.
November 12th, 2007
Second Time’s a Charm
Story by Theresa Quinn
As the pitch black sky filled with twinkling stars looked down on Mr. Garcia and his brother, they dove desperately down into a nearby bush to dodge searching border patrolmen. Luckily for them they remained unseen; however, they then discovered a rather decomposed body, who lay just beneath them. Not wanting to make a noise the two decided the person had died from exposure or natural causes. The Garcias said a short prayer for the departed, for the dead would never know what life is like in the United States. They continued on their journey back home.
The image of Mr. Garcia’s family gave him the hope that kept him going. They rested in the shrubbery while the smoldering sun beat down on them during the day. They traveled by night on foot. For Mr. Garcia, who was between the ages of 50 and 60 years old, and his brother, who was in the same age bracket, this was a day they had experienced over twenty years ago and never thought they would endure a day like it again. The picturesque sunsets, perfect warm weather, rare landscapes; make Southern New Mexico and parts of Texas beautiful. However, for two illegal crossers under harsh conditions, the appealing atmosphere in the area around the U.S. and Mexico border was anything but delightful. They lacked food, water and shelter.
For the onlooker these two men appeared to be just illegal crossers trying to make it across the border. However, these men have lived in New Mexico for much of their adult lives. The two brothers had no choice but to return to their native country because their mother became ill and passed while they visited. A third brother, who is a legal citizen of the United States, was able to drive them into Mexico with no difficulties. After visiting their family and mourning the loss of their mother the two brothers had to cross right back over the border into the U.S. It took them a couple days to get back to where they could contact family on U.S. soil.
The older men risked their lives by swimming across the flowing river, walking through the dry desert, and outsmarting the border patrol. By the end of the perilous trip Mr. Garcia’s feet were so severely blistered that they were raw. It took him weeks to recover. The gentlemen were severely malnourished in the couple days that it took them to get home. My sister told me this true story after hearing it from her nail technician, who is the niece of these two men.
November 12th, 2007
Cross at Your Own Risk
story by: Stacey Laird
Since I joined the Border Patrol out in Tombstone, Arizona in 1997, I have encountered almost 4,000 dead immigrants from Mexico, some only miles from the U.S. border. Some were pregnant women and children making the smell of their rotting flesh that much more repulsive. Most of the bodies we find in the unforgiving Sonoran and Arizona deserts are weeks or months old, when the process of decay has made their bodies bloated and hard to remove with out pulling off arms and legs. These people were lost or simply left by their coyote because they couldn’t keep up with the pace. Some simply die of heat stroke when water runs out. Most of these people don’t realize how far away the American dream is. Even when they reach the U.S. border and cross it safely, most want to go to Chicago or Los Angeles, and don’t have any concept of the difficulty and risk on that journey on foot.
When I see these so-called minute-men, gathering together once the sun goes down, I want to show them these dead women and children. The minute-men organizations have taken border control into their own hands, not trusting the U.S. and Mexican governments to fix the immigration problems. Maybe once they realize not all immigrants are here to destroy our sacred America, they will focus their vigilante efforts on helping these people who are just trying to give their families back home in Mexico a better life.
These minute-men are some of the reasons I joined the Border Patrol in my home-town of Tombstone, AZ. If I can remember correctly, around 1997, government policy changes made the border security tighten up and incidents of vandalism on ranches and to the border fences increased. I wanted to protect the livelihood of Americans, but at the same time, try to protect the innocent lives that are lost in these deserts.
November 12th, 2007
Crossing the border: a daily martyrdom
By Angela Simental
For twelve years I crossed the Bridge of the Americas every day to get to school from Juarez to El Paso. It usually took me, my brother and my mother 20 to 35 minutes to cross, and sometimes just a few minutes.
Crossing time changed dramatically after the terrorist attacks of 9/11. After the attacks, four hours became the standard waiting time. It became a martyrdom to cross the bridge by car or walking. Waking up at 6:30 a.m. was hard enough, but 4 a.m. was a crime; we had to get to school by 8:15 a.m. Our car turned into a mini bedroom, full of pillows and blankets.
My mother seriously thought about leaving our house and renting an apartment in El Paso, but waiting time was reduced to two hours and we decided to take on the challenge.
My mother and my brother still cross the bridge everyday. To get to school, they must leave the house with two hours of anticipation before their first class, although the waiting time has been reduced significantly, but other problems have blossom. Border patrol agents treat people like criminals; they act as psychologists and many times flirt with high school girls.
I have come to hate crossing the border; I can handle the waiting time, but being treated like a convicted felon and dealing with a border patrol abusing his power is the most enraging part.
November 12th, 2007
Immigrant children escape on “el tren de muertoâ€
Story By Leann Lopez
Enrique, a boy of about 14, waits for the train to come into his town. He grew up there, but is now leaving to join his mother who is working in some place called California in America. She sends money to his grandmother as often as she can, but it is not enough. He misses her and wants to be near her again.
At 3:05, the train arrives. There are a few others waiting for it – boys about his age. The train stops and they clamor aboard, scrambling up the sides to reach the roof before it takes off again. Although they and at least 400 others, will attempt to ride this train through 13 Mexican states, they are not official passengers. They are all hoping to reach the United States clinging to the tops and sides of “El tren de muerto.â€
They ride the train for many days and nights without incident. However, upon reaching the dangerous state of Chiapas, Mexico, the tide changes. Joining them are gangsters – and their weapons. Enrique manages to avoid them, but a boy from his village, Carlos, who is just 10 years old, isn’t so lucky. Wielding a gun and with a menacing grip, a man seizes Carlos. “Give me your money!†he says. Carlos tries to run away, but the man is clutching is shirt. In a matter of seconds, the train jerks, sending the man and Carlos lurching forward. The man grabs on to the side of the train, but Carlos falls. Enrique doesn’t hear him land, but he closes his eyes and mutters a prayer under his breath.
At long last, the train reaches the Texas border. There is a mass exodus from it, boys running in every direction, trying to avoid being caught and sent back. Enrique runs with them, he can almost feel the warmth of his mother’s hugs. He doesn’t know where he is going, but he knows he will find her. Behind him another boy trips and is caught by a border patrol agent. He will most likely be sent back across the border. But it doesn’t matter. He will try again tomorrow.
November 12th, 2007
Digging to Freedom
By Lacey Gassaway
A Better life, a better place, where you can have the freedoms that you desire. This can be easy to obtain if you only had a good job that offered you security. This is all you want, though it may be impossible to get there. It’s not fair that you have to stay in this place; you didn’t ask to stay but you have to.
It is scary to try to get into America, you know because some of your family has tried to do it and they just ended up getting caught.They scaled fences and dug tunnels all in the concealment of night, Hoping and praying that just one day they would make it. But you wouldn’t dare try, or would you? It’s considered a felony to cross into America illegally. Is this wrong or right? You’re not sure.
But it doesn’t seem right to live in poverty anymore. All you want is a good job and security. Even if you get over there it you will be living in two worlds. One of familiarity where you were born and the other where you think perhaps the grass would be greener. Or would it be?
November 12th, 2007
Going the Distance
By Kelly Mohr
Armida Santana reluctantly drug herself out of bed in the early hours of the morning. It was five o’clock. She stood in the shower, letting the warm, gentle spray of water run down her body as she thought to herself, cinco minutos mas (five more minutes). It was another day that she had to leave her hometown of Juarez, Mexico to make her daily trek across the international bridge to college in El Paso, Texas.
Armida is just one of many foreign students who make their way across the overly-congested bridge daily to go to school. Waking up before the sun rises is a normal thing to them because it is necessary in order to get over the barrier connecting Mexico and the United States in order to make it on time to school.
Trying to stay optimistic about their educations is a frequent task, all the while knowing what they are doing, for themselves, their families and their futures is worth the struggle.
November 12th, 2007
November Patrolling
A Day In The Life of a Border Patrol Agent
Meaghan Dungan
Slipping his gun into his holster and kissing his wife goodnight, Eduardo Llaguno is just about ready to head off to work. He works the night shift from 11 PM until 8 AM, patrolling the borders of El Paso, Texas and Juarez, Mexico. For over 30 years he has been a proud agent for the Border Patrol.
At the end of this month however, the Border Patrol is forcing him to hand in his gun and turn in his badge. He is too old they don’t need him anymore. You see, once an agent turns 57 years old they are forced to retire. Eduardo turns 57 in only a few days time, fortunately for him though the border patrol does not make you leave the day of your birthday, they let you finish out the rest of the month.
Eduardo realizes that once the month is up he will no longer be employed. After over 30 years of protecting the border-land from illegal immigrants, watching friends get injured on the job, witnessing deaths and injuries of immigrants, he will be pushed aside so that some younger, faster kid will take his place.
He tells his wife he loves her, and that he’ll be home in time for breakfast. For years she has watched him dress for work, watched him put on his gun, watched him leave. What will the end of November bring this family? New opportunities hopefully.
November 12th, 2007
