The Book of Unknown Americans(66)

It’s f*cked up. The whole thing is very, very complicated. I mean, does anyone ever talk about why people are crossing? I can promise you it’s not with some grand ambition to come here and ruin everything for the gringo chingaos. People are desperate, man. We’re talking about people who can’t even get a toilet that works, and the government is so corrupt that when they have money, instead of sharing it, instead of using it in ways that would help their own citizens, they hold on to it and encourage people to go north instead. What choice do people have in the face of that? Like they really want to be tied to the underside of a car or stuffed into a trunk like a rug or walking in nothing but some sorry-ass sandals through the burning sand for days, a bottle of hot water in their hands? Half of them ending up dead, or burned up so bad that when someone finds them, their skin is black and their lips are cracked open? Another half of them drowning in rivers. And half after that picked up by la migra and sent back to where they came from, or beaten, or arrested. The women raped in the ass. And for what? To come here and make beds in a hotel along the highway? To be separated from their families?

And then there are a lot of people who come here because they actually want to try to do something good in this country. In my case, I was working at a newspaper in Sinaloa for years, trying to report on the drug war, trying to make people there aware of what was happening in their own backyard, but my bosses only had an appetite for the macabre. They kept sending me out to take photos of crime scenes that they’d plaster on the front pages. I did it at first because I thought, you know, that’s what people needed to see. Maybe people would be shocked into action. But after a while I realized that it was all just spectacle. Photos of decapitated bodies weren’t helping anyone. So I wanted to come to the other side, across the border. No one here wants to admit it, but the United States is part of México’s problem. The United States is feeding the beast, man. I thought maybe if I came here, I could make a difference.

Now I work with a group in Wilmington that’s advocating for legislation reform for immigrants. I do all the photographs for their newsletter and their website. Pictures of people’s living conditions or of some bodily harm that they suffered because they got jumped just for being brown in this country. I don’t know. We don’t make much progress most of the time. But what else am I gonna do? I gotta fight for what I believe in.





Alma


That Friday I waited by the front window for Maribel’s bus to bring her home from school. Tiny flowers of frost were etched across the windowpane, and I puffed my breath against the glass, watching it fog up and dragging my finger through the condensation.

I checked the clock on the oven. It was an old oven, scabbed with rust, and I remembered my dismay at seeing it when we first arrived. Nothing at all like the tile and clay oven I had in Pátzcuaro with its wide wood mantel. I watched the hands on the clock tick around calmly. It’s still early, I told myself. I bit my thumbnail and waited. And yet, after ten more minutes, there was no sign of her.

I put on my coat and boots and walked downstairs, standing under the balcony overhang, looking around. The grass was ragged and soggy along the edge of the asphalt. Food wrappers littered the ground. I took a deep breath to calm myself and walked to the road, craning my neck to look for her bus.

When I didn’t see it, I cut back through the parking lot and headed toward the Toros’ apartment.

Celia looked surprised to see me when she answered the door. I hadn’t talked to her since I’d called her to tell her that we didn’t want Maribel spending time with Mayor anymore. She had defended Mayor at first, reminding me that Quisqueya was a gossip and assuring me that Mayor never caused any trouble. But later Rafael had called back and told us that Mayor admitted he’d been in the car with Maribel. Rafael apologized on behalf of himself and Celia and said that they had made sure Mayor understood he had to stay away from Maribel.

Now, though, the friction was unmistakable.

“I was on my way out,” Celia said.

She was wearing gold earrings and a butterscotch-colored sweater. Her hair was hair-sprayed stiff.

“Have you seen Maribel?” I asked.

“Maribel? No.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

My stomach turned. “Her bus didn’t come today,” I said.

Celia’s face betrayed a flash of concern. “When was it supposed to come?”

“Fifteen minutes ago. Maybe twenty by now.”

“Did she have something after school? A meeting or a club?”

“No.”

“I don’t know, Alma.”

“Is Mayor here?” I asked.

Celia tensed. She pulled back her shoulders. “No,” she said. “But he’s not with her. He knows the rule.”

“Maybe he’s heard something.”

“Well, he was going to a movie with his friend William after school today. I can ask him when he gets home.” Celia leaned forward and stuck her head out past the door frame. “Is that snow?” she asked.

“What?”

“It’s snowing. When did that start?”

I turned and saw brief glints of something, like dust lit by sunlight. I was so distracted that I hadn’t registered them.

“Dios, qué vaina,” Celia said. “All winter long, nothing. And now this! At the end of March!”