Border Crossings

The group of people walked slowly along the sand toward the south jetty. How many times Gladys remembered climbing out onto those dark gray boulders, daring herself to go all the way to the end where the huge waves crashed over the sharp edges of the rocks. It was worth the risk. The force of the wave shattered the bubbling white surf into a million shiny pieces of water. Sometimes it saturated her clothes and left her stiff and soggy.

There was something familiar about the people walking toward her. Their dark skin and gentle manner gave them away. Spanish words drifted in the air. A young woman approached.

"Donde esta el telefono?" she asked.

"Telefono." Gladys pointed to a nearby shop. She had only comprehended the last word and wasn't sure exactly what the woman wanted. She seemed nice enough and Gladys wanted to be helpful.

The woman was dressed rather heavily for a beach walk. It told a story of having come a long way. She wore green polyester pants, wet up to the hips. The only way north across the border included a water crossing. The woman was very brave and somewhat na?ve. Her dark brown eyes shared a surrendered happiness.

The woman looked at Gladys' hand and followed the pointing finger to a bunch of buildings.

"Restaurant." Gladys clarified.

"Alla a la izquierda?" The woman questioned.

Gladys didn't understand and, with a puzzled look, shrugged her shoulders. The woman smiled and walked toward the structures.

Going to the beach meant shorts and barefeet, sandy walks with a dog, collecting shells, swimming, watching people, their sun bleached hair and tanned bodies with tiny bathing suits. People crossing the border looking for work were a stark contrast to the afternoon past times of the southwestern beach community. They were darker than the tannest beach bum and always wore long pants, long sleeved shirts and shoes. The pants were wet higher than an occasional shore wave would make.

A simple, six foot chain link fence with huge holes and missing sections divided, however inadequately, the dry, barren landscape, separating two distinct communities. One side spoke English, the other side spoke Spanish. One side was controlled and fearful, the other lawless and rich with culture. The neighbors hardly knew each other, yet their lives were blending more and more.

One time Gladys' dad had gone out to the car to get something. It was a cool fall evening and his voice carried into the living room. He seemed to be talking to someone.

"No problema, no problema!"

There wasn't a response. He came back into the house.

"There were some Mexicans huddled beside the car. I didn't want to scare them" he explained.

He did not even mention that we should call the border patrol. It was his belief that anyone who wanted to work hard, deserved respect. He had no fear of the migratory workers that passed through the neighborhood heading north. He never spoke out against the border patrol officers, but you could tell that he sided with the immigrant workers. He had compassion for their struggle. He was himself a man who had worked in the fields and now was a member of a local union, laying floors.

So many times Gladys had been pulled over in her car by the border patrol. The flashing red light startled her. She always thought it was the police and immediately checked the speedometer. The officers were poorly trained in social skills.

"Get out of the car," they barked.

There was no "please", no "Ma'am". They were gruff and no nonsense. They made her get out of her car and stand on the side of the road in the hot sun. They checked inside the vehicle thoroughly using a flashlight.

"OK, that will be all," they muttered.

Gladys would drove off, hurt and angry. She was not accustomed to being treated so harshly. She was used to seeing the green and tan border patrol vans parked on every bluff. Officers scanned the area with binoculars. It was a twenty-four hour a day job. Now that she was able to drive, they took on a new meaning. She did not trust them.