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)
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)
I'll read your writing as long as you continue to write about the world as you see it through your unvarnished eyes. It is a joy.
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