El Luz Cruzando El Río (The Light Crossing the River)

“Hey sweetheart, drink some water. You look dry,” said mi madre as we trekked across the dry plain. Throughout this whole journey in the desert, it was like her worry had walked parallel to us.

“No.” I coughed extremely hard, hiding in my hand the blood that followed. “Estoy bien.” 

When I turn down the water, she begins to cry, urging me again to drink the water. I only do it for her sake. I need to prioritize my mother over myself as much as I can, or we will be sipping lizard blood and cactus nectar until we get to the “checkpoint.” I sip the water as slowly as I can, preserving as much for her as possible. 

“Finally, mi hijo.” She stands up teary-eyed. “You know I do this for you.” 

She begins to rant about how she envisions a better future for me, the same story I have heard for as long as I can remember. What can she enjoy from the so called: “Sueño Americano” I keep hearing about? What the gringos call the: “American Dream.” 

“I want to bring my sisters and cousins across the river too.” When mom says this, I do not know how to feel about it. 

The more I walk towards the border, the more doubt I feel about finally making it over. I have heard of how they do not want “my kind” on “their land,” which is crazy to think. Mi tios from across the border talk about how they’ve been abused and taken advantage of when they work. They’re paid up only 5 dollars a day for hours of backbreaking work. Other family members of mine have said that though they are living well in a subtle house, they still face hate from racist neighbors and gangs. 

We still cross, knowing all of this.

So we wonder - if we cross that border, will we face hate and despair, or hope and safety? I do not know for sure. My mom and I are just the sheep being herded by the dog. 

Two days later, the border stands before us. 

“My son, look! " Mom raises my head to look at the river that borders the two worlds down the hill. Are we angels looking down into hell, or are we already in hell, descending further into something worse?

When we walk onto the boat, we hold the rails with shaky hands. A mysterious lady rows us across towards mi tio who waits in the jeep across the river. When we sit in his car, at last, we take in the largest sigh of relief. We hug each other, and stuff our faces with the food he gives us. 

“Hey loco, drink some water. You look dry.” 

I drink the water this time without being begged to. With it my worries and the blood from my throat wash away. 

“I hope the leaving is joyful; and I hope never to return.” - Frida Kahlo