by Magda X
i. memory
I remember Mexico. I remember drums, trains and what it took to be the cool kid at school. I remember the smells, colors and even the texture of our old house, back when it was the only home I had ever known.
ii. if it helps
If it helps, we can pretend that this is not the case. We can agree that the United States, I mean America, is the only home I’ve ever known.
When we came over, we were fleeing violence. I was ten, but if it helps you can imagine that I was brought over as an infant, or even a fetus. If the border patrols saw her, would they have shoot my mom as she held me in her arms or womb? It’s a lot to ask.
If I was born here, it would change everything. But all the small hours that make up months and years have passed between when I was born and when I came here at ten. To my new home.
Before I was born, my mother was mournful of the fact that she’d only had boys. A wise woman told her to conceive in the summer if she wanted to have a girl. It worked.
I was born in Juarez, the city named for my favorite Mexican president. We share a birthday, but the deeds, actions and stances of a politician are their only enticement for me.
I started learning about presidents, and most of all Juarez, at the prompting of my dad, who did not come with us to the states, I mean America, with us. There was nothing I could do when he died, though that was not until much later.
My mom and I have talked about the stresses I endure that wouldn’t have been an issue, had we stayed. We can only speculate on what I might have faced back in Juarez.
I tell her that I’m glad she moved us here. That if we had stayed, it’s possible I’d be one of those sheltered Mexican girls that didn’t know anything about any other cultures. I mean it too. Whatever waits for me will not take my experiences away.
At 27, I’ve lived in the States for longer than I haven’t. It’s where I had my first kiss, my first period, my Quinceañera. If it helps.
iii. mi papa
We would to take the train between our home in Juarez to where my dad worked in Chihuahua. Flowers bloomed out the window. Butterflies danced.
My dad was a solitary man, he valued his time to think, but when we got off the train, he would take us in his arms and kiss me on the head. He would hold me and I was home.
iv. fair trade
Mexico is the third largest trade partner of the United States. Volkswagens come from Mexico, as do electronics such as flat screen T.V.s and computer monitors. Medical equipment comes from Mexico.
All of this stuff could be made anywhere, as long as there are workers willing to make it. And employers willing to make it worth the worker’s time.
v. in mexico
In Mexico, the smart kids were the cool kids, so when we lived there, I studied hard every night. That’s what it took to keep up.
One of the things they taught us was national pride. Once a week we would all go outside and raise the flag while preforming the national anthem. Like The Star Spangled Banner, it’s a war anthem. Mexicanos, al grito de guerra. I was the drummer, but I sang too.
Un soldado en cada hijo te dio!
My brother is a teacher in Mexico. Even though I’ve lived in the States for more than half my life, his English is less accented than mine.
I have terrible allergies. I didn’t in Mexico.
There I ate local, organic food, although we didn’t call it that and it wasn’t cool. It was just food. It was what was available.
vi. in america
We crossed into Texas, but lived first in Nuevo Mexico, I mean, New Mexico, then Colorado. In both places the schools were lacking.
It wasn’t just that ESL programs at the time focused on English too much and other learning too little, it was that even after I was fluent, when I got into regular classes, the kids that slacked off and mouthed off were the ones to emulate.
Being cool got easier just like that. Very relaxing.
vii. labor practices
Throughout most of the year it’s impossible to find a tomato in the grocery store that wasn’t grown in Mexico. That’s for the produce section as well as everywhere else. Cans, salsas and frozen.
Raspberries aren’t difficult to grow in the States. Even still, most of the ones sold in the grocery stores here were grown in Mexico.
Picking fruit is exhausting work and most Americans don’t want to do it. It’s the same for slaughtering animals, which is dangerous as well.
Even those who yell most loudly that we should get out, go home, back to Mexico, don’t back it up with their dollars. And even if they never think about it, they wouldn’t want their kids to take these jobs.
For the record, I don’t work as a maid. I don’t make tacos or any other kind of food, nor do I pick or process it. My brother who lives here isn’t a gardener and he doesn’t work in construction.
It’s not that there’s anything wrong with these jobs, someone needs to do them, we just found something better. That, and I don’t want you to think you can assume you know me without taking the time to do so.
I work as a 911 operator. Some of my coworkers have college degrees, even if they are in English or the arts. And I make more than they do because si, habla espanol. But not much. I’m cheaper than the translation services.
viii. dream on
After the election I posted something on social media about being a dreamer. People responded that I should get the fuck out of their country. They wrote that they were going to send ICE to my house.
My mom and brother live here. To go to any city other than Denver would be to learn a new place. Even if I do remember Mexico, it’s more of a feeling. Since it is of childhood, it is one not returned to.
ix. relations
Most of the avocados consumed in the United States were grown in California, although in the winter, that’s not true. The climate won’t let them grow all year long in California, unlike Mexico. Growing water costs threaten California avocado production.
Mexico lets the United States store some of the water allotted to them by the Colorado River Compact in Lake Mead. Our water causes the turbines beneath the surface to spin illuminating the west coast and Las Vegas. It’s like banking, but water is the currency.
x. everywhere you want to be
My work visas are for two years. I can never take renewal for granted, especially this year. I am so nervous that when I am at the consulate reapplying, I forget the Spanish word for identification. It’s identificacion.
While I wait, my life is headed in two directions. It’s a lot like if your life is headed in no direction at all, but with much more day to day responsibility.
Some days it’s okay. I am going to get to stay in the States with my cat, my boyfriend and my hot Cheetos. Other days I spend rehearsing my deportation.
I brush up on my Spanish, learn more about Juarez and practice making myself small, in case I will be living with my father in a house that he had filled up with himself. In that case, it will be okay once I find a job. If I can find a job in Mexico.
Every day I am ready for it to be over. One way or the other.
After I have reapplied for my visa, but before the application is accepted, when there is only two weeks left on it, I talk to my manager about it. I ask her if I should give my notice.
Instead we wait it out. I email all the right people in the company about it. For my job, the training takes a month, but it takes a year to get good at it. Not everyone who works here ever does.
xi. chief experience officer
My visa is renewed. I have to show it to the CXO. I ask her if I should scan it and email her a copy. She says no, to come on down to the building where she works, we’ll take care of it there.
She looks at it, front and back. Compares the picture to my face. Her eyes move up and down from me to the document several times. I almost expect her to say ausweispapiere.
She asks why I got it done in such a timely manner. The word experience in her title is specific to the company and one should not assume that it pertains to life.
I have nothing to worry about. It is mine and it is good. She just wants to make me sweat.
So many people want to make me sweat, I must have magical excretions.
She says it looked good. And that I don’t have to send so many emails next time. If my visa had expired, they would have find out. Magical.
They hadn’t with the last dreamer, when her visa expired it took them weeks to find out. Anyway, what she doesn’t understand is that I hadn’t done it for her or my gracious employers.
I did it for me. To have a record of those emails. In case I needed to use them, if things had gone differently.
xii. death
My mom calls me in the middle of the night. My dad had died in Mexico.
I get on the phone with the consulate. I need to go to the funeral. They tell me that if I leave the States at all, I won’t be able to return for ten years, to my mom, my job, my life.
My brother, the teacher, gives me as many details as he can about the funeral over the phone. We don’t act like it’s the same as my being there.
If I have to go back in two more years, at least I will be eligible for voluntary departure. Even with that, I’ll have to wait ten years to return to America.
My mom will help with the travel arrangements. My brother will greet me when I get off the train. He may even kiss my head.
We will visit mi papa’s grave. I will think about him and look at places I used to know. I will try to find something within myself. I will try to find home.
***First published in Memoir Magazine
About the Author
Magda X graduated Summa Cum Laude from X State University of X with a bachelor’s degree in creative writing. Her work has appeared in Progenitor Art & Literature Journal, Toasted Cheese Literary Journal and Subprimal Poetry Art. "Home. Away from Home" previously appeared in Memoir Magazine and received a Pushcart Prize Nomination.