Birth and Death at the Border

We have returned to the part of the borderlands closest to my heart - Douglas, Arizona and Agua Prieta, Sonora. In contrast to the rest of the trip, everything is up in the air with our schedule. I didn't mean for this to be the case, but life got in the way. Take today, for example. This morning, we had planned to cross to Agua Prieta to visit with some friends and deliver some photographs taken on my last visit. My closest friend's daughter is nine months pregnant, though, and had strong contractions through the night, leaving her exhausted in the morning. I visited with them last night and was greeted by an extremely pregnant Annais baking 60 cupcakes for the next day. An apron stretched across her belly, her feet were bare, and she had just finished ironing her brother's shirt in preparation for a Friday night in Agua Prieta. She was the picture of domesticity, tiny and huge at the same time, and ready to make me comfortable. She refused to sit down, eager to speed along her contractions and have her baby. She demanded stories of my travels since my last visit, but sometimes her face would tighten, eyes narrowing slightly, signs of pain. "Keep talking," she would insist each time I paused in concern.

On my last visit here, Annais and her mother, Monica, guided me through Agua Prieta for days and nights, introducing me to women with fascinating stories of life at the border. They were critical to my work, and terrific friends besides. Going back to visit these same women without them really wasn't an option. Another woman who helped me tremendously on that trip was Wendy Glenn. Wendy's family was one of the first to settle in/near Douglas, and she helped me find rural women to interview and photograph. She was ever-generous with her time, and filled with knowledge of the area and people in it. As I was preparing for this trip, I received an email from her daughter, Kelly, informing me of Wendy's death, which came only two weeks after her diagnosis with pancreatic cancer. Her memorial service was today.

The memorial service was filled to overflowing at the Cochise County Fairgrounds. We arrived half an hour early and barely found seats. Even pulling in to park, I immediately saw familiar faces, some of whom recognized me and a few who did not. Local and national dignitaries spoke eloquently at the service, but none touched me more than Kelly and her daughter, Mackenzie. The crowd was mainly ranching families from near and far, but politicians, environmentalists, Border Patrol agents, and schoolteachers could be seen among the mourners as well.

I had intended to introduce my students to Wendy and some of the other members of the Malpai Borderlands Group (see them at www.malpaiborderlandsgroup.org to find out more). I hesitated to ask anyone to speak about anything while they are mourning the loss of a dear friend and family member. Two of my most beloved ties to Douglas and Agua Prieta are in the midst of life's biggest transformations. My plans are derailed, my heart is heavy, I am eager to meet a new child.

The passing of a friend, the birth of a child - they are momentous occurrences and the most human of struggles. I have certainly experienced both before, but never at the same time, and never in this place.  I am dropping in on friends as they struggle. Asi es la vida, asi es la lucha, on the border and everywhere else.

Mexico's a big country, y'all.

Before I actually got on the plane to Phoenix, coming to the border had a flavor of going home. I had studied abroad in central Mexico (Puebla) in the fall semester, and I hoped to get a taste of the country I'd been missing for the past five months. But hey, that's like studying abroad in Arkansas and hoping to get a flash of that experience in Philadelphia. I mean some of it will be the same, but most of it will be a cheese-steaky new experience. 

I first began to realize that I was not in Mexican Kansas anymore with the food. I knew it would be different--to say that Mexico has regional differences would be a gross understatement--but who knew Mexican food could be capped in so much yellow cheese? There was relatively so little dairy in my daily meals Puebla that I came back to the States having just about lost my tolerance to our levels of lactose in general. And the delicious flour tortillas that we've been inhaling this entire trip to the border? Order any taco in Puebla with cheese OR flour tortillas and you've ordered yourself a "gringo taco," right off the menu.

Restaurants here at the border definitely know the double/mixed origins of their clientele, and no matter the fare there's always some sort of house enchilada or at the very least chips and salsa for starters. One cafe we visited in Portal, Arizona had a whole separate menu just for Mexican-style dishes. I kept wondering why we would eat Mexican food every single day until I realized that for people around here, Mexican food is just called "food." It just felt too close to my own culture to realize it.

But what I most see here on the border that I didn't expect is how important it is to be from the border. It's not just important to be Mexican or American, it's so much more defining to be Mexican/American at the border. These people define themselves by the cultures of the borderlands in a way that I do not define myself by the cultures of "the center." The languages and their mixings are unique to this place (not only between English and Spanish, but also between both these languages and those of the original tribes). Your personal use of language (or pointed disuse of language) signals your history in the region and even more specifically your childhood there as well. The use of native symbols and culture has also been impressive to me, being from a state (Arkansas) that has little to no ties to its earlier cultures.

The emphasis on origin, history, and the mixing of border-specific cultures is so strong that our visit to Chicano Park (previously described by a couple of our other lovely bloggers) took me aback. The descriptive "chicano" is a specific reference to Mexican culture at or across the border and has been a re-appropriated adjective of pride for the Chicano civil rights movement (closely tied to the United Farm Workers movement). So there we were, in a park specifically named to be saturated in border culture, and it was full of metaphors and symbols plucked straight out of central Mexico. Mural after mural depicted Aztec/Nahuatl gods and goddesses (like Coatlicue, the Aztec earth and mother goddess pictured below), symbols that Mexico, as a very center-centric country, has adopted as its own.

And yet, these were symbols of Mexico pride, not really border pride. There were few to no depictions of local native symbols, nothing that I could find besides the logo for the United Farm Workers Association that was even very border specific. All the gods and goddesses, symbols, and folk tales represented in each beautiful mural were straight out of my culture class 2,000 miles south. This park seemed to concentrate on what it meant to be Mexican almost more than what it meant to be Mexican in the United States, the latter of which is totally what I thought "Chicano" meant. I didn't think to ask our two local guides to the park while they were actually with us, but I'm really wishing I had. It just goes to show how complicated identity can be, especially combating both assimilation and marginalization at once.

One thing that sounded familiar here at the border was how Mexico and the United States marginalize the border in general. It is not a U.S.-specific reality that the federal government (and pretty much the rest of the country) hyper-stigmatizes and misinterprets the U.S./Mexico border. I got just as many tales of caution from my Mexican family and friends as I did from my American ones, few of them having ever really been to the border at all. Funny how prejudice flows both ways.

Well, this post started out a fun little intracultural comparison, but it seems to have turned into a narrative about complexity. Sort of like this trip. Let's deem this post an elaborate extended metaphor instead of plot-less rambling and call it a wrap.

Border Ladies, over and out.

Connections

In Mexicali, Mexico, we heard presentations by three graduate students. As I heard one master’s student give a presentation on homosexuality in Mexicali, I recognized many theories and themes that I had learned about in my Gender & Sexuality class last semester – queer theory, feminist theory, the idea that the “personal is political,” etc. More importantly, I experienced another dimension of connections at the border. Social science research in Mexico and in the U.S. is connected by similar overarching theories and ideas. While I expected to draw connections between what we had discussed in our Borderlands class and what we saw on our trip, I am surprised again and again by the different ways in which the borderlands connect to other aspects of my life, my education, and my identity.

This trip is all about establishing and recognizing connections. There is so much more depth in reading and discussing topics about the borderlands in class and then seeing these places in person, talking to people with different perspectives on border issues, and reflecting on those experiences with a group of six passionate, interesting women and one of my most inspiring, empathetic professors.  

I can read and write about land and water rights, indigenous groups, gender issues, the border patrol, immigration...but seeing everything allows me to combine my knowledge and interest in the borderlands region with personal experiences at the border. After driving through Yuma, AZ, I can visualize the Yuma 14 of Devil’s Highway desperately walking through the desert, hot sun beating down as sloping, dry hills and cacti stretch on forever. Counting the number of border patrol cars zoom down the highway as we listen to Spanish pop music brings the border to life. This is why we are here, at the U.S./Mexico border – to see and experience what we’ve only talked about in the classroom.

As a recent college graduate (as of two weeks ago, woop woop!) I am incredibly thankful to be a part of this experience, a member of Dr. Goldberg’s Border Babes. The Odyssey program, which emphasizes experiential learning or “learning by doing,” has been one of the best parts of my time at Hendrix. My past Odyssey projects – ranging from study abroad, self-designed projects, and coursework – have really shaped my academic and career path, giving me more focus while allowing me to succeed – and fail – growing more, perhaps, in the moments of ‘failure’ that led me to reevaluate what is most important to me.

After volunteering teaching health education in Nepal, learning about food security in Nicaragua, taking several courses that were cross-listed as Undergraduate Research, studying abroad in India, and interning at Heifer International, I had the opportunity to go to the U.S./Mexico borderlands with my professor and classmates. The more Odyssey experiences I had, the more focused my interests (in food security, women’s empowerment, foreign aid, international health, etc) became, while my worldview became broader and more open.

After I graduated from Hendrix, I knew that I wanted to build on the experiences I had through the Odyssey program, especially as they related to international health, anthropology, and food security. In September, I will be serving in the Peace Corps in Nepal as a Food Security volunteer. My Odyssey experiences have shaped who I am in many ways, and these experiences challenged me to apply for the Peace Corps last October. I am looking forward to the challenges that come ahead, and I hope to expand on the knowledge I’ve gained through experiential learning from various Odyssey projects, classes, and trips (like this one).

On this trip, I have seen light bulbs go off in people’s minds as we traverse the borderlands. It’s awesome to watch, especially as a recent graduate! It’s inspiring, too – I have learned and grown from my own Odyssey projects, but I am still learning so much from those around me. I see the other students learning, too, and it makes me wonder how this experience will shape their own interests and future research. It’s been really wonderful traveling with these smart, driven, and passionate women. Every day, we reflect on everything we experience throughout the day, coming together to share our perspectives with one another. I look forward to seeing what these driven, interesting women do next, as well as how this experience has shaped them.

The International Virgin

After waiting anxiously for 22 years, I finally lost my international virginity to Mexico. I know, she is MUCH older than I am, but rest assured that this was no hasty decision. I spent almost all of my undergraduate getting to know her. I read about her people, learned to speak her language, and listened to stories of her triumphs and struggles. If she had had a Facebook, I totally would have creeped alllll of her pictures. I cherished our long-distance relationship, but I was eager to take things to the next level.

On May 26, 2014, Mexico and I finally had the chance to meet face to face. I felt strange crossing the border into Mexicali. It was really difficult to tell when I had left the United States and entered Mexico. No one asks to see your identification, everyone looks the same, and the stores are basically the same, only everything is taking place in this weird underground tunnel space. I felt strangely uncomfortable walking through the unclaimed space between Mexico and the EE.UU, which was probably brought on by the abrasive sound of metal clanking on metal as people walked through the turnstiles. I can’t fully understand their purpose, but they seemed to be yelling, “CHECK OUT WHO JUST WALKED INTO MEXICO! NO SERIOUSLY, DOES THIS WHITE GIRL LOOK UNCOMFORTABLE OR WHAT?!” Anyway, it was hard to shake the feeling that someone (or everyone) was aware of my presence.

I (and the other Border Babes) made it into the city, which was everything I had hoped, hopped in a van, and headed towards the Instituto de Investigaciones Culturales. Our guide, Dr. Everardo Garduño, was gracious enough to open his museum for a private tour.  The museum was WON-DER-FUL. It was organized like no museum I had seen before. In sequential order, we viewed exhibits on the paleontology, archaeology, and contemporary peoples of the area. Most notable to me was the museums lack of artifacts in their exhibits. It wasn’t that they didn’t have the artifacts (they had a building full of awesome things, like dinosaur femurs, behind the museum), it was just that they weren’t necessary in the exhibits.

They used models and replicas to bring the information to life. The life sized models of contemporary people were so realistic that I found myself politely apologizing to a woman fishing the Colorado River after almost bumping into her. Unfortunately, she couldn’t respond because she was made of wax or plastic or something. Wow, so engaged with history…. I was thoroughly impressed by this museum. They recreated people and places in ways that I will not soon forget. When I open my own museum or school or someplace full of cool things, you can bet that there will be eerily convincing people statues.

Following our museum adventure, we met with graduate students of the university who presented their research to us. Like the museum, THIS. WAS. AWESOME. There was a translator present to help everyone navigate the language barrier. Only one of the three students fully utilized the translator’s super power. Which means that two students kindly presented their research in English for our sake. While watching these students bravely navigate a presentation in front of strangers in a foreign language, I realized what a pansy I am for not practicing speaking Spanish. SOOO that will be adjusted for the rest of the trip.

The coolest thing about leaving the country was the change in perspective. I don’t often think about the academics of the country. I think more often than not, when we think of Mexico we think of all of the people who need help. We don’t think of the people who are providing the help and making change within their own country. It was an experience that I will never forget, hearing about how the United States has impacted Mexico, from the perspective of Mexican academics. There was a moment, when a presenter was describing how much of a bully America can be, that reminded me of being a sibling. I know the United States is a huge jerk and I can pick on her all day, because she is mine. The second you say something about her, however, I might totally headbutt you in the face. Not that I would. But just in case, wear a visor or something.

 It was a frustrating, hurtful, revealing, and completely necessary experience. I am thankful for these experiences. The information and perspectives that we are exposed to throughout our education evolve to tell a more complete story. My studies at Hendrix provided the foundation for this trip, but reading and listening alone are not enough. You have to take the relationship to the next level. I am so grateful for this trip and our time spent traveling back and forth across the U.S.- Mexico frontera.

I Loved the Class, but . . .

If you are a professor or a teacher, you are probably cringing along with me right now. This phrase, with that enormous BUT at the end, makes me brace myself for what is coming. As much as I care about pedagogy and learning, sometimes I really don't want to hear what could have been better.

Last night, during our group reflection, I heard this comment and it was echoed by everyone in the room. And these women were some of the most dedicated members of my class last semester - consistently prepared, thoughtful responses to the reading, original ideas presented. "I loved the class, but I am finally understanding everything we learned. I can put the pieces together better now; I can tell someone about what border culture means." Another woman added, "I can't imagine how I learned anything any other way."

An experiential learning trip could be written off as a fun diversion. A trip where students are required to pay a very small portion of their costs might be a lark, easily forgotten, unconnected to "real," scholarly learning. Yet this trip is cementing the learning that took place all semester in profound ways. All of the participants on the trip reference knowledge gained in classes (and not just my classes) in each discussion. They talk about how topics have been made real by seeing the people and places we have read about. Caiti said, "How did I ever think I could learn about different cultures without actually going and meeting the people?"

That sentiment, of course, is a major motivator for anthropologists. Indeed, it was the impetus for anthropology as a discipline. We define ourselves through field work, not simply accounts from others nor controlled experiments. We go to where people live and we live and work in those same places. We learn culture by doing culture. Participant observation is the cornerstone of cultural anthropology's methods. I think my students would argue that they learn from classes (and their use of information from those classes backs that claim up), but these experiences resonate with them in a different way.

Yesterday, as we walked around Chicano Park in San Diego, we were joined by Salvador "Queso" Torres, who is sometimes called "the architect of the dream" of the murals that adorn the massive pylons of the freeway over the park. After chatting with Robert Alvarez and I for a few minutes, he declared,"I'm going to give you a tour. Come with me." His coveralls spattered with paint from his current mural project, brushes poking out of his pocket, he led our group from one panel to the next. He explained the history of the movement, the symbolism of the murals, stories of the artists, and the heroes of the Chicano movement. He showed us where his childhood home had stood, where he dreamed of becoming an artist as a boy, how the murals might inspire children to dream of what they could become, to believe that they could achieve those dreams. The meeting was entirely unplanned, made possible by his long association with Robert Alvarez, who also grew up with family in the neighborhood.

Looking at those beautiful murals in a book would teach you so much. Hearing about them from someone who had visited would add another dimension. Visiting the park alone, gazing on them in all their color and height could overwhelm you. But talking with the artist who conceived of them, painted them, restored and guarded them - that is a lesson you won't soon forget.

We spend time each night together reflecting on the day. We learn so much from each other too, as every individual picks out unique details and responds to different events. Those conversations make me agree: I loved the class, but . . .

Border Pulls and Conciousness

"Every morning we go out blinking into the glare of our freedom, into the wilderness of work and the world, making maps as we go, looking for signs that we're on the right path. And on some good days we walk right out of our oppressions, those things that press you down from the outside or (as often) from the inside; we shake off the shackles of fear, prejudice, timidity, closed-mindedness, selfishness, self-righteousness, and claim our freedom outright, terrifying as it is- our freedom to be human, and humane. Every morning, every day, we leave our houses, not knowing if it will be for the last time, and we decide what we'll take with us, what we'll carry: how much integrity, how much truth- telling, how much compassion (in case somebody along the way may need some), how much arrogance, how much anger, how much humor, how much willingness to change and to be changed, to grow and to grown. How much faith and hope, how much love and gratitude- you pack these with your lunch and medications, your date book and your papers. Every day, we gather what we think we'll need, pick up what we love and all that we so far believe, put on our history, shoulder our experience and memory, take inventory of our blessings, and we start walking toward morning" 

- Walking toward morning, Victoria Safford

It is now week two in our trip and as we go further into the borderlands, we are sharing and opening up more with each other. But this also means we are also facing new challenges in how the border pushes at us and forces into thoughts that were not quite fully realized before this trip. This is something both exciting and in some cases a little shocking.  Many of us did not realize how pulled we are by the border. It has latched onto to us already, in many different ways. 

On May 26th we crossed the border in Mexicali and met with grad students working in the border region. They all were doing important and powerful work in the region. Those conversations, a mix of both English and Spanish, will be something we will never forget (Anna wrote a beautiful blog post about this experience). 

 Yesterday (May 27th) we had the honor of seeing San Diego guided by Dr. Alavrez. Dr. Alavrez grew up in San Diego and has done extensive work in the community and the larger borderland region. He is a humble anthropology rock star. We began our San Diego day in Lemon Grove, learning about the nation's first successful desegregation case and the impact it had on the community and the larger civil rights movement. From there we continued to Chicano Park. 

Chicano Park is located underneath the San Diego-Coronado Bridge. The bridge cuts through a predominantly Mexican community. Over 5,000 homes and businesses were removed for the construction of the freeway and bridge in the 1960s. The city had originally pledged to build a park, in response to the forced displacement. However plans were envisioned by the city to instead build a police station beneath the newly created bridge. When the community found out, they fought hard to have a park - full of murals of their community, experiences, and heritage. The park has been/is still extremely important to the Chicano civil rights movement.  

The murals and the way the park is laid out is done in such a beautiful and intentional way. They were demanding our attention. We had the honor (and luck) to run into one of the main directors of the park. Hearing his stories tied to the community and the park was incredible. You could feel from him and from the park, the fight that is still continuing on today.

 

As a group we later on reflected how the park was not made for us - as outsiders, or "tourists" of San Diego. This aspect, I believe is something so crucial to what we have been learning about the border and the people living there. Recognizing this is something we have been confronting over and over again on this trip. We all carry culture, stories, and experiences with us. It is part of being human. Recognizing how this may be tied and not tied to the border can be a difficult challenge - it is a borderland consciousness. I believe this consciousness is of the most important things we can do as learners of the border. 

The murals and park is just one way this is expressed. 

These pictures don't do the park justice

 Towards the end of our day with Dr. Alvarez we ended up at the pacific ocean. We took off our well-traveled chacos and other assorted shoes, and we stuck our feet into the sea. I marveled how just in a few days, our shoes and feet were covered in dust from the desert - now they are covered in sea salt and sand.The border includes both the ocean and desert. It is an oxymoron in many ways.
 It is strange to label the border as a place - with all its complexity and movement.
And this place, I am just beginning to understand it.

“Wind tugging at my sleeve

feet sinking into the sand

I stand at the edge where earth touches ocean

where the two overlap

a gentle coming together

       at other times and places a violent crash” 

- Gloria Anzaldua

Mexico, faintly in the background

Immersion

Yesterday we entered Mexico for our second time this trip. We spent the night in Calexico, across the border from Mexicali. After breakfast, we took taxis to la frontera. We walked through the gates freely, no one asked us any questions and there weren't even people monitoring who was coming into Mexico. This doesn't concern them. 

We met with a friend of Dr. Goldberg's who drove us to a museum that he runs. They opened it for us even though they are usually closed on Mondays, this was so incredibly special! Each and every day I am reminded of the relationships that anthropology allows you to have and how fortunate we are to have access to those connections that Dr. Goldberg has made in her life. The first part of the museum was contemporary art. Much of it was about the border and border issues. This piece was the one that struck me the most. 

It is made of the same materials that the border fence is created of. The contrast between the symbol of freedom of the American flag and the constraint caused by a boundary is fascinating. These artists really captured many issues that are presented by the border. I could talk so much more about this amazing part of our day, but I have so much more to say about other topics!

We then had the opportunity to hear from three Mexican graduate students. The first one spoke completely in Spanish with a translator. I enjoyed listening to his language, but found myself becoming impatient with having to have a translator present. Only a handful of us are proficient; a translator was necessary for everyone to get what they needed to out of the presentation. I was being selfish by thinking that, and realized that this was the time to find patience and to enjoy what I could understand in Spanish. In the middle of the presentations, I had a moment of disbelief, realizing how amazing it was that we were in Mexico, listening to Mexican graduate students talk about such interesting and important topics that they are so invested in. I could have listened to them forever. 

Them as well as three professionals that also presented joined us for dinner at a Chinese restaurant. There is a large Chinese population in Mexicali, which is interesting in itself. The Chinese food was excellent, served in family style. When we arrived, the students and other Mexicans were already there. They had sat close to one end, only leaving one or two seats on the left side of them. I first considered sitting with them and my brain panicked at the thought of being alone immersed in the language. Lora (who also speaks Spanish) sat down with them, and I followed the rest of our group to the other end of the table. 

The entire dinner I had regretted my decision. We happily, but quietly, listened to other conversations but not having our own. I then decided that I needed to take advantage of the time we had with these students, and pulled up a chair next to Lora and two of the graduate students. They had been speaking Spanish the whole time, and I knew that I had missed out. But after that, I understood what they were saying for the majority of the time, and simply asked if I didn't get something. I spoke comfortably, even though I made various mistakes.

I was told afterwards that the look on my face while having the conversation was of joy and passion. This doesn't surprise me; I am so passionate about both Spanish and meeting new people, especially in Spanish speaking countries, where I want to do my work in the future. We said goodbye to each and every person with a kiss on the cheek and a hug. I was so touched by this cultural action and was much sadder than I expected to be after leaving people I had met only hours before. I enjoyed yesterday so much, and I am sure that the other girls will write about their experiences as well, as we did so many things. 

We did so many amazing things today and had such a good period of reflection at the end. I hope you will have the chance to hear about that later from the other girls :)

From the border--

It's difficult to start a story so far into any journey, but as there doesn't seem to be any clear ending or beginning to any of the adventures we embark upon, I suppose I'll wade into the middle of today and see how far away from shore we are when we look back.
Today we -- visited a beautiful church, San Xavier del Bac, and it was stunningly white against the blinding blue of the sky; there were images of snakes interlaced with the Virgin Mary painted on the ceilings, and it felt more earthy and comfortable than any Catholic church has to date, for me;
Today we -- walked over Mesquite pod shells quietly, two of our members weren't feeling well and one is leaving us early tomorrow morning; Tumacacori, another beautiful mission church built by the Spaniards but this one with the forced labor of others; later we ate lunch surrounded by affluent white retirees only a few miles from Mexico, where
-- We crossed the border. And I cannot forget what privileges the blue of my passport allows me, as I swiftly walk with my trip-mates across the border to my sister country whose wind blows across the same mountains as my own, whose language sounds familiar and blends with my own seamlessly, where the people look the same as the people on 'My' 'Side' of the border--two legs, eyes, arms and everything, people still--and I'm still breathing the same air as everyone else, at least I thought so, right, but the breathing of it becomes harder, a lump in my throat, when I can look up - upon crossing that turnstile into a country that feels the same under my feet as the one I was born into - and see a ten-foot-tall steel fence. It's not pretty because it's not meant to be, because nobody who built it seemed to care about that. You can see through it, but only enough to know how far away you are from touching the other side. Only enough to know how much one country doesn't really want you there. And perhaps at one time the people from that other side found something of worth where you are, but now they must not because the streets are empty and the stores are empty and this group of white girls is the first sign of life you've seen all day and Dios Mio it's Labor Day Weekend, so where is everyone? And the girls buy some earrings and trinkets but how much does that help, really, because they can't un-fund the War on Drugs and they can't un-wind the terror and they can't un-lie the lies, really, so where are we then?

Every day we allow ourselves to believe that evil can be separated from us by concrete and steel, we lose touch with our humanity a bit more. Humans are fluid, we move and we change. A border cannot stall that. It's as if we're standing in a lake, but the water is rising, and so we lift the legs of our pants so that they don't get wet, but eventually we'll just be soaked through because we're still standing motionless in the middle of a freaking lake trying to stop the tide from coming in.

But perhaps we can help. By learning, and listening, and igniting others, by allowing ourselves to experience things fully and honestly.
Not too far from shore, I guess, to make use of the earlier water metaphor. Full circle!

Thanks for reading--
and blessins' from the border!

Sincerely,
HDX Border Babes

(For other info: http://www.usborderpatrol.com/Border_Patrol704.htm)

A dose of border reality

Yesterday was an interesting day to say the least. We were steeped in the complex history of the border at Camp Naco and heard Becky's amazing life journey that involved many borders. We finally saw the border fence, and that somehow made where we were even more surreal for me. How could this landscape that seems so continuous be cut in half so sharply? Naco seemed to me like some form of "border concentrate" with all its layered history and proximity to the reality of living at the border, but still it wasn't hitting me.

My dose of reality at the border came from a little shack behind two of the uninhabited officers' houses at Camp Naco. It probably used to be a storage shed at some point, and I didn't even notice it was there as they took us around the back of one of the houses. But it was there, and it had a different purpose. As our guides then made clear, this was a stop for undocumented migrants crossing the Mexico-U.S. border not even 100 yards away.

It's hard for me to describe what I felt and what I still feel about that spot. I first went to Mexico when I was fifteen to paint a house with a Mexican youth group there, and the relationships I formed there brought me back again and again until I finally studied abroad in Puebla last fall as an exchange student. When I picture migrants, I can't stop their faces from being familiar ones, faces of the people who welcomed me, fed me, laughed with me, and loved me when I came to their country completely alone. It hurts to see places like this.

To see that shed pulled me into an emotional place that I didn't expect to go yesterday. Yesterday was supposed to be this scavenger hunt for historical significance and good light and admirable backstories, but to see a part of what it means to be alone in a foreign place was not on the list for today and I was caught unprepared. The shed was full of what people couldn't take with them. Most of it was trash, but you could see humanity there. Rusted cans of what had been someone's rushed meal, a doll half buried in the dirt. There were even tire tracks nearby in the grass, marking this shack as a pick up station.

I took six photos, wondering what I would see if I had more time to look. I didn't realize until it came up later that I and other photo-takers had made some in our group extremely uncomfortable, and I can understand why. A lot of us unknowingly take part in a sort of poverty porn, were we snap a photo of a few dirty-faced kids and their living space on our way by as some sort of momento, never registering them as people and homes. For me, this small place in an old backyard was so significantly part of someone's life that I couldn't ignore it. I spent an hour snapping photos of an abandoned military camp. No one lives there anymore, no one uses it. It's significance is centered on the past, no matter what it will be used for later. This, however, is a place of significance because of the now. It is a piece of reality for people crossing the border every day. It is a thin safety against the reality of being undocumented in the United States. So I felt I had to save a picture of it, because it means something, and it was the first thing this trip to put a knot in my chest.

I'll end this here before I write a novel. I'm writing this blog post this morning with conflicting emotions. I feel so happy to be here and to learn, but I have found that I will not avoid the harder parts of this land like I was able to do in the classroom. Probably a good thing. Doesn't make it any easier, though.

Intention at Camp Naco

Hi friends-
It has been a long day. We left Tucson at 8:30 this morning and arrived back at 10:30 tonight. Arizona is so beautiful, I am in love with the mountains. I want to hug them. Today we travelled to Naco, Arizona, one of fourteen twin cities along the US-Mexico border. We went to tour Camp Naco, a historical site built between 1919 and 1923 to serve as a US military outpost at the border- you can see the wall of the border from the camp. Camp Naco was home to different military regiments at different times, though all were Buffalo Soldier units- units made up of African-American soldiers with white officers during the units' early years. Within the last ten years, Camp Naco has fallen victim to neglect and arson. This site has a considerable amount to add to the country's remembrance of the Mexican Revolution, the history of our military, and to the discussion on interaction between the United States and Mexico.
I am an Anthropology major and an Art minor, with a focus in photography. I work in black and white, medium format film. I am very interested in the use of photography for furthering peoples' understanding of events, and other people and cultures. Photography has become something dear to me, and it is quickly becoming my favorite way to tell a story. Later in our trip, I will have the opportunity to go back to Camp Naco and take pictures of the camp, and allow those photographs to function as another way to tell this story. This site is in desperate need of attention- not just to rebuild and assign purpose, but for people to acknowledge its importance in the country's history. I hope that my photographs might contribute to the spread of that story.
Since taking my first photography class at Hendrix, I have been very interested in the intersection of anthropology and photography, and how I could combine the two. This opportunity with Camp Naco is exciting for me for a few reasons. Yes, it is super awesome that I am getting to take photographs and raise a little awareness about this site. However, this project has opened up some bigger questions for me. As we toured the camp today and I looked for views that would make beautiful pictures, I had to ask myself constantly what my intention would be with each photograph. I wrote a paper at the end of this past spring semester about how the intention behind a photograph can change the meaning of that photograph, and how that meaning affects those that view the work. Armed with that knowledge, it became obvious and important to me that this project could not just represent Camp Naco as it is currently, in a state of disrepair, but in a way that could be viewed as beautiful. If repaired and built up in the way those in charge of the property hope, this site could become a center of community and education for Naco. I hope that if my intentions and photographs present this site as something worth looking at even in its current state, people will realize the potential behind this space.

Today was challenging. When we left the hotel this morning the group had a pretty defined schedule, but from the beginning things did not go according to plan. I think this group of women is pretty good at going with the flow and adapting to unplanned events; though the day was stressful because of the need for the use of those skills, I think we all learned a lot about each other. Today's challenges allowed us, all independent ladies with different perspectives and opinions, to have disagreements and then agree to get over them and work as a team. I am very excited to move forward over the next week and a half, and to learn and grow with these women.
When I applied for this trip, I had hoped to get to expand my anthropological experience and spend time with one of the most inspiring mentors I've had. We are not half-way through the trip, and I realize that I have access here to that and so much more. This trip is allowing me to think about how many ways I can use anthropology in the world to help others, and in what ways I am most qualified to help. I am learning to work with people in a hugely collaborative space, closely and with a unified purpose, but from different perspectives. I am learning that what I thought were my limits in compassion and empathy are expandable in surprising ways. I am so thankful for this opportunity and the women I am working with here.

Where does the border begin?

Every day of our trip, we are faced with what makes up 'the borderlands' - a region that is a physical place, a social construct, an important aspect of identity, and a contentious political boundary. Today we drove down to the border for the first time. Although we did not cross the border, seeing the actual, physical boundary of place and space cast a new light on our already emerging ideas of the borderlands.

This morning, we drove from Tuscan, AZ to Naco, AZ, where we visited Camp Naco and met with two people who are working to preserve the archaeological site. The abandoned buildings that comprise Camp Naco are built on the U.S. side of the border, in Arizona. Looking across the vast expanse of open, arid desert and nearby mountain ranges, I saw the U.S./Mexico border from a mile away. The Mexican side looked virtually the same as the U.S. side. I learned, however, that while less than one thousand people live in Naco, AZ, about 10,000 live in Naco, Sonora, Mexico.

As the day went on, we had another chance to see the border. Becky and Bill, the two inspiring people who showed us around Camp Naco, took us on a tour of neighboring Bisbee, AZ as well as drove us by the border checkpoint that separates Naco in the U.S. from Naco in Sonora, Mexico. Standing 50 feet from the metal fence with heavy security felt more concrete, definitive than our outlook at Camp Naco. There is something very real about a metal border fence separating two twin cities that makes the vast desert landscape and open natural land that also makes up the U.S./Mexico border seem abstract in comparison.

Today, we saw different physical representations of the reality of the U.S./Mexico border. However, the borderlands does not just start and stop at the political border, where the checkpoints and the metal fence are cemented in place. The borderlands is more than a place, though, and we did not have to drive all the way to southeastern Arizona to find implications of the border region.

A few days ago, the Borderlands gang was in Phoenix, AZ. Dr. Goldberg let us explore El Rancho Mercado - a Mexican grocery store. There, it felt like we had already crossed the border. After trying a torta cubana (think mexican sandwich that includes 3 kinds of meat!), horchata, and perusing the bakery section, I started thinking more about the fluidity of the border. Where does it start? Where does it end? Our excursion to El Rancho Mercado reminded me in many ways of the markets, shops, and culture of the predominately Latin American neighborhood next to mine in Dallas, Texas. You can find similar (though smaller) markets, restaurants, and shops there. Many of my favorite childhood foods come from the mixing of American culture and Mexican culture - tres leche cake, Lucas brand salt, tamarind paste, lollipops with chili and mango. All of this seemed normal to me until I left Dallas to attend college in central Arkansas. Many of us on this trip, though, did not grow up next to a predominately Latin American neighborhood. The visit to El Rancho Mercado may have been the first of such experiences. For me, though, it was strangely familiar. It reminded me of my childhood, and my home.

In short: you don't have to go all the way to the border to experience the mixing and blending of U.S. and Mexican cultures. However, coming to the U.S./Mexico border allowed me to realize just how fluid the borderlands truly are - they transcend political and physical boundaries, and are far-reaching in scope.

A view of the Mexican side of the border. Naco, AZ (looking at the mountains in Naco, Sonora)