2003-02-24|3:09 a.m.
For the first time in my entire existence as M, I crossed an international border a couple weeks ago. Mind you, I�ve lived in Southern California all of my life, in San Diego for about eight months, and Chula Vista, which is five miles from the border, for a month. In all this time and in such close proximity, I have never been in Mexico.
My dad always told me he�d rather me not go there. According to him, Mexico was dirty, depressing, and dangerous. He and my mom went on a cruise to some tourist spot when I was very young. When arriving there, he was met by a small girl who mirrored me in both age and appearance; except she was very much not me. She was peddling friendship bracelets and was obviously very poor, as my dad would tell me the story many times. She begged my dad to buy one. He shoved much more money than she was asking into her tiny hand. Tears came down his face and he walked off without taking a bracelet. She was me in some other plane of time and space. She was his daughter with dirt on her face and begging strangers.
The story he told me stayed imprinted in my mind. How would my own experience unfold? It only kindled a quiet fascination.
And when my grandma and uncle visited my mom�s and said they wanted to go to Rosarito the next day, I jumped at the opportunity.
We got up early and piled into the truck my brother, mom, uncle, grandma, and myself and crossed the border within minutes. The change seemed subtle as we drove through countryside. Nature in San Diego resembled, unsurprisingly, nature in the Mexican boundary miles away. It was the towns that bore difference. There are in fact areas of money in parts in Tijuana and Rosarito. We did drive past suburbs of large homes built on the oceanside. But there was also the city center.
Here is a couple pictures of the city:
We drove to a favorite restaurant of my uncle�s. It was beautiful inside. There was an aviary with all kinds of birds inside and a tree growing right through the middle of the building. It was if someone had built right over nature. And right next to our table was a woman making tortillas on a fire stove:
All of the food was delicious. I had French toast, fried jalape�os, those tortillas, and mint tea. All served by a very attractive young man. With full belly and doey eyes, I floated behind everyone as we piled back into the truck.
And as I was taking my place in the back seat, two girls on my uncle�s passenger side reached for my arm.
�Please, buy. Please, buy.� They plead to me.
They were the girls from my imagination, from my dad�s story. Their small faces were darkened by the sun and by dirt and their clothes were tattered and worn. One was maybe six and the other was nine or so. One was selling Chiclets and the other was selling bracelets. My uncle bought gum from one and handed it to me as they begged. He told them in Spanish to go, �Ve te, ve te.�
But they did not. And I snapped from my sudden trance. I began rummaging through my purse for my wallet. I had a series of 20 dollar bills and a five and no change. I hesitated for but a moment and took out the five and placed it in the older girl�s hand. She drew back and tried to hand me some gum. I waved my hand �no.� And then the younger girl drew closer. She was almost in the truck at that point and my uncle was pulling her back and my mom was telling him to tell them to go. My head was all chaotic. I had no more I could give them. Those twenties weren�t even something I could really spend, let along give away, with all the bills I had at home. I just started crying. My mom saw the older girl walking away looking at the five in her hand. The younger girl finally left after her.
�Did you just give that little girl a five dollar bill?� My mom asked.
�Yes,� I mumbled, still shaken by the whole thing.
�Oh, M, don�t do that,� my uncle said. �You will have everyone in Mexico following you around for money.� I felt ill.
�I dunno, I dunno, I just had to do it,� I cried. I wished I wasn�t sitting there with them letting them see me like this. I tried to gain composure.
�It is ok, M, you just blessed someone today,� My mom assured me. Why was she saying this to me? Please stop, I thought.
�Yeah, this will come back to you a hundred fold, don�t worry,� my uncle followed. I couldn�t say anything.
And we drove off. I felt horrible. The last reassuring thing I wanted to hear was that I would be better off. The fact that I had all that money in my hand felt ridiculous. I would have good fortune for passing on five bucks to two small girls who lived a life I could barely fathom? I know that they were trying to make me feel better, but everything that was wrong about it overwhelmed me in an instant.
But I finally calmed. Mexico was as my dad said. It was in fact dirty and depressing (I thankfully didn�t see the dangerous). But, once I realized that my dad was right, the rest became apparent as well. Mexico was beautiful and so were its people. Everything was color. Here are some photos of us shopping both in the city and in the outskirts:
And this is a dog I met in a pottery yard:
He came up to me. His elbows, if I can call them that, were scraped very badly. It looked as if his owner put oil or something over the wounds that were still bleeding. He was only five months old or so. I reached to pet him and my mom told me not to because �people in Mexico don�t get shots for their dogs like we do.� When she left, I took my chances anyway. And I made a friend.
So, in the large part, driving home I felt different. Mexico, as I knew it from its border so close to where I live, was more than I could imagine from stories and know from books. It wasn�t simply the contrast of seeing on one side of the border the symmetry of white-painted track homes and, on the other side, the ravine (which is honestly all I could say it was) of makeshift homes of tarps and boards tucked under the freeway in Tijuana.
It was the woman selling items to tourists who kindly showed me these amazing prayer tins from all over Mexico:
People would pray to a saint and someone would paint a pictorial of the story. The prayers were unspeakably beautiful. One I remember was in thanks to a saint who brought word from a son who had left for the US to live and hadn�t told anyone. People prayed in thanks instead of in �I want this� or �We need that,� especially here where I�d much more readily understand requests for things. It awed me.
And it was the old woman with a young girl in her lap playing and clapping as they sat leaning against a bank with a cup for money sitting before them. They, if not homeless, were very poor. Even still, they laughed and enjoyed each other. I wanted to watch them forever.
And it was the vendors who called out for me as �pretty lady� and made me giggle.
I look forward to seeing Mexico again.