La guera guerita cruzando los puentes

Living in a Border City I have found that the border itself, that invisible yet very physical marking, inevitably and purposefully acts as an edge, which therefore requires the oh so dramatic “crossing”. Maybe in some parts of the world, such as Europe for instance, a border crossing may seem trite or not worthy of implications which “to cross” brings because the necessary division is almost inexistent. But, for me and for many others I am assuming, between the U.S. and Mexico it is a thing; by thing, I mean a deal, a process, a test, and most of all, something you only do if what is waiting for you on the other side is worth it.

Most people in El Paso never go into Júarez. In fact, when I tell people that I am living there, I often receive requests to accompany that person on a visit to Júarez because they are too scared to do it alone. It’s true – Júarez is not a visually accessible city, by which I mean that the mixture of people, stores, garbage, traffic, and wonderfully colorful buildings, often presents a complicated impression of what is really what. Yesterday a woman told me that it just breaks her heart to see the kind of poverty that exists in Juarez just on the streets. I agreed that there is a substantial amount of poverty in some parts of Júarez, but I qualified the remark by adding that El Paso’s poor neighborhoods are also hard to see and accept. She didn’t react, but she simply wished me a good ride home (on my bike) and told me to be careful “over there”.

Júarez is perceived as the ever so classic “other”, dangerous, unknown, untrustworthy, and third-world city. I suppose that living here I’ve simply come to recognize that there are places in most cities in the U.S. where I might react with the same perceptions simply because I don’t am unfamiliar with, and may not understand, the place or people. If you can’t tell, I get defensive about Júarez. It is a city, yes, which requires awareness and not denial. However, it does not merit the rejection and criticism it often receives in the International Press.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, most people in Júarez do go into El Paso, at least those who are able to afford the Laser Visa which costs about $150 per year(don’t quote me on this, I’m not up on the immigration details). I don’t know the porcentaje of the population which this includes, so I can’t provide proof in reliable numbers, but needless to say, thousands and thousands of people cross daily from Júarez into El Paso.

There are all sorts of random beliefs about what products are just “better” in El Paso. The other day I heard someone say that the eggs in Júarez were always bad, and that you should really get your eggs in El Paso. It’s funny, you’d think these kinds of preferences and decisions would be purely economic (which some are, like buying electronics for instance) but the justifications are mostly complete hearsay. I also can’t remember these remarks being made with the opposite implication – not much is better to buy in Júarez. Although, there does exist a very real struggle between who can claim better Mexican food, Júarez or El Paso. Ironic, eh. (by the way, I buy my eggs in Júarez, and they are cheaper than in El paso)

The "crossing" these days is often between forty five minutes to an hour and a half. This wait-time on the different bridges is part of the daily traffic report for T.V.’s and radios in Júarez. Walking, the line may be a little faster, however you can never be sure. I have always tried to understand the flow of gente, but every time which I come up with a thesis about when there will be the least amount of people, I am confronted with a good long wait. Timing is unfortunately not everything here.

There are a few select choices for transportation across the bridges: automobile, foot, or the ever so rare bicycle. By foot or by car there is a sticky atmosphere of imposed patience which everyone resists, but in the end no one can do anything but wait for their turn to pass through the cameras and stoplights and finally the point of revision where you are judged on your appearance, accent, and most importantly the possession of proof for where in this world your body has rights. These bridges are truly the land of bumper-to-bumper, where chicle(gum), churros(Spanish donut things), cokes and newspapers are thrown in your face every few minutes, offering a distraction or relief from the feelings of powerlessness that everyone, no matter who you are, succumb to. I suppose there is this commonness that occasionally provides for some kindness on these bridges; a car allowing another car to switch lanes, or allowing an elderly person to cut to the front of the line so they don’t have to stand for so long.

As of yesterday, I have crossed via all possible methods of transportation. Previously, I had only driven a car (which takes the longest, and tends to make the craziest) or walked (which I love because it allows for the most people-watching, interacting, and humanness possible in these situations). But, yesterday morning something inspired me to take the plunge into Juarez traffic and side streets, and to cross into El Paso with my red bike (thanks Grandpa) and it’s big honking white basket on the back of it (I was also wearing a helmet, a rare event in these parts). A bike’s place is with the cars, so I weaved in between the lanes, feeling rather slick honestly, and I cut to the front of the line, ahead of cars that had probably been waiting a good hour to reach the brink of passage into the US. I didn’t feel guilty, I felt oddly triumphant. I passed through the border, faster than I ever had before which somehow had the affect of diminishing the drama and power of "crossing". I’ll have to try it again.

It's been hard trying to think of a good introduction to this blog, and to this initial post, but I think this will serve both me, the writer, and you, the reader, best if I just dive right in. Below are some random paragraphs I've already written, some to people in e-mails, some just as writings for myself.

I just spent the afternoon walking around my neighborhood, something which Cristina(landlady and friend), and Daniela(previous host mom and friend), or Abraham(ex-boyfriend) for that matter, never, and I mean never, do.
I spent the afternoon walking around my neighborhood some, trying to get situated and find a good tortilleria. I like knowing where I am, and here there is something almost voyeuresque about walking around because no one goes on walks. By that, I mean that no one who owns a car walks more than 1 block, even if they are only going two blocks. I’m realizing that I’m already slipping into generalizations of Juarez and the border, which I fear will become easier the more I live here and the more I try to find my place amongst the variations of how people live in Juarez. But, none the less, I found some neat folks. Talked to a guy in an abarottes(like convenience store), with whom I had the ever familiar conversation of whether or not it is easier to speak and learn, English or Spanish. He was interesting enough, and I was up for the conversation, having spent most of the weekend by myself. Looking back on it, nothing much was said in the conversation, but I think that was my most pleasant moment of the day. I then spent the afternoon in the park, cerca de la calle Costa Rica, watching kids play soccer, throw around balls, and families engage in goofy park behavior. I got to listen to a roll of hearty laughter which dealt me some vicarious happiness. I sat there, happily ignoring those who stared at me, and finally finishing A passage to India. Maybe it is simply a change in my perception this time here, but I am receiving less obvious attention. I’ve gone running twice in the mornings, and no one has cat called me…no one. For a fleeting moment I missed the familiar sounds, but quickly rejoiced at being one step closer to ‘blending’ or to not be a blaring, shiny foreigner. Even at the grocery store, I feel as if I belong more, whatever that means. Maybe there is something about returning to a known place which merits you the status of more comfortable, and less obviously misplaced. But I don’t feel displaced either, I know exactly where I am, most of the time.

Right across the street from my house is a shelter/prison for the minors who get deported from the US. We visited it because two students will work there, and so we get let in. locks on all the doors, a security guard, meanwhile most of the windows are broken. But you wouldn´t know it from the brightly colored orange wall which surrounds it. Inside, there are lots of people, lots of adolescent boys, some little boys, and a few pregnant women and a few women who have children who are there. People have to wait here until someone comes to pick them up or their family is contacted. The place smells like piss. There are no resources for any kind of activities, and i don´t write this to sound dramatic, but their eyes are simultaneously haughty and desperate... it´s not that they are special or unique or warrant any other kind of treatment than anyone else. But, I haven´t been able to stop thinking about those kids/people who are right there. I run right by their windows in the mornings, and there´s just something about the situation, both in a physical place sense and in a political-humane sense that i can´t get out of my head. Very few people know this place is in this neighborhood, which is odd. There are nice houses with gates, normal house with open doors, and then the ever so classic in Juarez (and I'm sure in many parts of the world), house which isn´t a house but just a big pile of concrete and shit that someone didn´t or couldn´t deal with.