Border Update: Closure?, XIII

To Those GOOD FOLKS With Whom I Like To Exchange Stories, share ideas, mutually engage in real work, visit and generally keep up to date:

At what point do we call closure to time periods in our lives? With some of them, it's easy. Grades, for instance, terminate with absolute clarity upon the last stroke of the bell on the last day of school. The school year is over, and summer begins. Within the day, perhaps within seconds, books are dropped, backpacks tossed aside, and victory is declared: "I'm done!" The transition, an emotional wave, crashes upon the beach of time and receeds into the next of life's adventures. Yet some transitions in life, are not so clear.

At what point does one call an end to a trip? a journey? How do we mark the conclusion of a time spent in a distant land? When do we claim that we are home? That a new time is beginning? When is it safe to say, "It's over,"? How do we say, "That has passed; this begins,"? How do you wrap up loose ends? How do you conclude a story?

How do I conclude this story. All these stories? What else must I share?

In his recounts, at what point did Odysseus tell others that his time far from Ithica was coming to an end? When did he say his travels were over? Was it upon embarking for home? After he left the island of Circe? Upon arriving in the harbor of Ithica? Upon entering his household? After Penelope accepted him back only for Odysseus to find that the citizens of Ithica sought his head? How does the Odyssey end? Or, more appropriately, did it ever end?

Will it ever end?

~ ~ ~

On my way home, since my flight dropped me in Tampa, I stopped for a couple of days in central Florida to visit my grandmother. She's 89, so I try to pay a visit each time I'm back in Florida. But, her age, actually, is no indication or eminant prediction of death. Her mother lived to be 94. And her mother, the one well versed in "woods medicine" lived to be 105. As just about anyone who knows my grandmother, Granny Wiley, will tell you, she's tough. And besides, she has a mean way with hot chile pepper and lye. She retold a couple of stories to me.

At one point, she said, "We had rats so bad in our smoke house; you hadn't ever seen so many rats in your life. They were everywhere; there were big ole holes down in the corners, and when you walked in, they'd bolt for those holes, jumping off our meat hanging up and all." Well, she put her mind to work, set a wash tub of water to boiling, added hot chile and lye, and let it simmer. Then she and my grandfather poured that water down those rat holes. She laughed, "You ain't never seen rats move so fast. They came running out of 'em holes, the hair just slipping off of 'em. Your Uncle Ceder like-to-have run himself to death chasing 'em rats around the yard beating 'em with a stick."

A couple of years later, she put experience to use when Lester, my grandfather, went back on his promise to quick dipping snuff. She found his contraband can of snuff tucked in the outside wall of the barn and filled it up with pulverized red chile peppers. "He didn't sleep all night long; kept gettin' up to get water." She concluded that story, interestingly enough, saying, "But we never fought, not the whole time we were married.... But," she added, "I did have to beat the hell out of him once or twice for meddling where he didn't belong." Of course, "It was his fault, you know."

A tough lady, and a darling soul. She's one blessing I count regularly.

Well, anyway, she lives in a poor neighborhood in Auburndale, FL (a bit south of Orlando in the center of Florida) right in the middle of Florida's orange groves. As things go, every one of her neighbers, except one, are migrant workers from Mexico and Central America. Before I knew their stories from their own mouths, I asked my grandmother about her neighbors. She told me, "I don't know nothing about 'em. They have their parties; they listen to their music out there in the yard from their trucks, but I don't speak their talk." After four months on the border, I'm still learning "their talk," but, at this point, I've got enough spanish to introduce myself, to let them know I was visiting my grandmother, to tell a few jokes about huevos (eggs), and to ask questions.

The first night, I met Ermillo and Emelio. They lived across the street. Ermillo was twenty, from Chiapas, the southern-most state in Mexico. He'd come three years ago at the age of seventeen. Emelio was twenty-five, from Mexico City. He'd come nine years ago, at the age of sixteen. Both are currently working contruction doing "Stucco", or drywall in new houses. I told them I'd been studying on the border in Nogales, Sonora, "Puro Sonora" for four months. Something glinted in their eyes. It was recognition. So, I asked, "You know Nogales?" "Yeah," they both said, "We went through there. Everyone goes through there. Either Nogales or Tiajuana," Emelio said. Ermillo added, "Yeah, I passed through there three times. I was caught [depending on the translation of the spanish word "coger"], twice by the border patrol. They sent me back to Nogales." They both passed through the desert west of Nogales by way of Altar and Sasabe. Although their journeys were separated by six years, they passed along the same trail, they both walked four days through the desert, both started with two gallons of water, both gallons were gone by their second days.

We talked on Thursday night. Emelio told me that saturday morning he was catching a bus from Auburnale to Mexico City. "The greyhound?" I asked. "No," he said, "it's an express. Goes strait from Auburndale to Mexico City." "Huh," I responded. "Huh." An express from Auburndale-- have you ever heard of Auburndale, FL?!-- to Mexico city. Huh. I asked him whether he would come back. "I don't know.... The border patrol is getting really tough," he said.

Meanwhile, Ermillo is sticking around. He works building houses, doing sheet rock. Besides paint and carpet, Ermillo puts one of the final touches on new houses. Where do you live? When was your house built? How about those houses built down the road from you? Your friends' and your extended family's new homes? Who put up the dry wall in those houses? Ermillo. And still, for a lot of people, none of that matters because he "snuck in." As such, Ermillo might be a "terrorist." "I've got no problem with people immigrating legally, it's just those illegal aliens I have a problem with." "Why don't they just come in legally?"

~ ~ ~

Robert, my fellow BorderLinks student and my roomate for the semester, researched legal immigration for a class presentation. In Nogales, Sonora, he went to the U.S. Consulate to ask how one immigrates legally from the United States of Mexico to the United States of America. Or, how might one work legally in the in the United States of America if they were a citizen of the United States of Mexico? Again, how might someone visit legally, as a tourist, a cross-border customer? In other words, what's it take to get a visa?

A crossing card is a visa that allows Mexican citizens to cross the border for 72 hours and only allows folks a limited travel distance from the border. Tons of folks in Nogales attempt to get crossing cards because groceries are cheaper in U.S. And, in reality, lots of folks get and have crossing cards. They use them to cross through the ports of entry to buy eggs, milk, cheese, meat, vegetables, and, sometimes, beans because it's cheaper to buy food on the American side.

In order to get a crossing card, first you have to have a job, which you can document that you have had for at least one year. You have to have a permanent residence in a Mexican border city, a Mexican passport, and a birth certificate. Then, with no gurantee of a visa, you have to pay $100 for an appointment with the U.S. Consulate. When you arrive for your appointment, in addition to every thing previously mentioned, you must bring the appropriate forms with you. The forms are available online. Only. This is true in spite of the fact that only 21% of the Mexican population has access to and uses the internet (internetworldstats.com). Even with the necessary forms, passport, residence, and required job, most people are arbitrarily denied. If, by luck or grace of God, they are granted the right for a crossing card, it cost $300.

In order to get a work visa, every thing is the same with slight differences. You must own property and have $10,000 in a bank account. The appointment fee ($100) with no gurantee of approval is the same. The cost of the work permit, also called a work visa, also called a green card, however, cost between $300 and $1500.

Have I mentioned to you that the foeign-owned maquila factories (almost entirely owned by American corporations) are the primary employers in most Mexican border cities, and they pay between 40 and 85 pesos (less than $4.50 to $8.50) a day? A day. Ten to twelve hours. Four to eight dollars. Groceries cost less on the U.S. side of the border.

Supposedly, if you have family and/or if you have a "skill in high demand" it is easier to immigrate. It's strange that there is fruit falling off the trees in central florida, the meat industry in Arkansas is having a tough time filling their meat-packing lines, there is a shortage of agricultural workers in California's central valley, and yet, there is no big legislative move to accept folks already in the US or permit folks to enter legally to fill vacant jobs. Somehow our politcal definition of "skills in demand" does not include those skills which are in demand.

~ ~ ~

Friday a week ago, my last night in Tucson, I went up on the BorderLinks roof to watch the sky, to look at the stars, to await a "good-bye." I found orion and even the big dipper and my personal star, which I claimed about two years ago. Pegasus had already set. In August, Pegasus did not even come into view until midnight. And by December 14th, it had already dipped past the horizon by 1am. A lot has changed this semester.

As I was watching the sky, I saw a shooting star. In a moment, I saw another. It was cold; it was getting late, but I didn't want to go in yet. I was still looking for closure. So, I made myself a deal: when I see one more shooting star-- three in total-- I'l go in. Three in total will be my "good-bye." Three shooting stars in a row will tell me it's over, done. It's time to go inside. You can leave in peace. You can let go. Closure.

I waited with my face to the sky. It was chilly and getting late. The wind blew, and I let out a slow breath. Brrrr. I watch the sky, waiting...

~ ~ ~

Saturday, December 22nd, I made it home. After a stop in Salt Lake and a few days in central Florida to see cousins, my aunt, grandmother, uncle, and more cousins, I'm back home. Like Odysseus.

I find myself back in front of my window. Four months ago, the yard was alive with green. To my western-adjusted eyes, it's still incredibly green. But things have changed. The dogwood tree out front has lost all its leaves. I can see its branches. The trunk. Without its cover, it's naked, like the truth. Complicated, strong, self-supporting. With the spring, the leaves will come back, and it will grow a little more. And just maybe, one day, it will reach far enough.

~ ~ ~

I never saw that last shooting star. Eventually the time and the cold drove me inside. Despite my worded attempt to wrap up my experiences on the border like a cute little present-- like a nice little story-- the heavens denied closure. In the end, life isn't about termination. It's about taking one more, one more, one more, and then, one more step on the path of life. It's not over. In this book, at least, life keeps walking.

~ ~ ~

Merry Christmas. They say it's about "new beginnings." Maybe so.

Maybe Christmas is just another glorious step, dancing with the mystery.

Merry Christmas.


Nathan


PS-
Thank you Good Folks. Indeed, you are those of my dearly beloved with whom I like to exchange stories, share ideas, mutually engage in real work, visit and generally keep up to date. Thank you for reading. Your eyes and attention have been and, for the most part, will remain a blessing I will be unable to repay. Throughout these four months, your replies, questions, requests, and interest (and un-mentioned attention) has affirmed my life's story as I walked down the road. I am honored by your support. Thanks folks.


Hey listen. If you want to revisit any of these stories, but you've lost emails... It's all posted at Nathanwileyballentine.blogspot.com.

+ + I know that, perhaps, you've considered these emails a little long. Ha. In case you take time for them, I've attached two extra pieces I wrote this semester. One is a re-write of the story of the good samaritan. It's called "The Story of the Good Mexican," which I saved under its biblical reference Luke, chapter 10.. The other is a firey, populist/classist paper I wrote about the connections between anti-immigrant sentiment and elite interest. It's called "Profits, Profits, Profits." ('Course, if y'all want them from the blog, you'll have to send me an email: nathan (dot) ballentine (at) gmail (dot) com).

Pues, Andale.
Bai, bai.