The Frigid Reality of Illegal Border Crossings

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A Shot from the U.S.-Mexico Border (Flickr/ Creative Commons)

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uploaded by LeahT

During my junior year, I began to work in a small, family-owned restaurant down the street from my high school.   Living in the South Bay in California, there has always been a large Mexican community surrounding my own.  However, it wasn’t until I began to work as a waitress that I befriended these immigrants and became exposed to some heart-wrenching tales.

One dreary Saturday afternoon remains crystal clear in my mind.  As they were often slow, I enjoyed working Saturdays because it gave me the opportunity to ‘practice my Spanish’ and chat with the cooks.  Martín was the “cocinero” of the day, and after the afternoon rush, I grabbed a knife, slid over next to him, and after observing his technique for a few minutes, began to help him slice onions.  

As the rhythmic chopping soothed my restlessness, I asked Martín what his life was like in Mexico—before he came to the United States for the first time.  He thought for a moment, as if carefully selecting every word to assure that I, a well-to-do American, would understand his experience.  He had moved away from his family in Tepic, a city in the state of Nayarit, and into the mountains in order to join the army.  He bragged about his top-notch shooting ability and the boot camps that had put him in the best shape of his life.  However, he soon grew weary of military life and decided to head towards the United States in hope to better provide for his wife and kids.  However, without legal papers, Martín would have to cross the border illegally, leaving his family behind. 

 Martín crossed the U.S.- Mexican border in frigid conditions, unable to drink from his frozen jug.  As the coyote guided the small group, one of his companions began to lag behind.  Martín took the man’s bag along with his own and kept walking.  While the man was able to keep pace for a while, he soon tired and fell to the ground.  He begged them to leave him.  He could not walk another step.  Knowing if they did not continue, they risked their own lives, members of the group gave the man water, returned his bag, and making him as comfortable as possible, said their goodbyes.  Martín said he often times wonders what happened to him and lives with the thought that they may have left him there to die.

I glanced into Martín’s face, the painful memory etched across it.  Perhaps it is in those moments, when the restaurant is quiet except for the chopping of onions that Martín remembers his companion and the painful hardship he endured to come to this country.