Why

Why Dustin W. Leavitt It was the beginning of the rainy season, and the sopping summer clouds that shrouded the peaks above the Purépecha pueblo of Santa Fe de la Laguna in the highlands of central Michoacán, Mexico, vented cool draughts of air, making the citrus trees in the courtyard quiver. Sitting stiffly beside me, Mateo—a small, solidly built young man with soft, brown eyes, a shy, white smile, and a nature that was enduringly sweet— projected a conflicted air of trepidation and resolve. We exchanged pleasantries for several minutes and then fell silent, the moment for the interview to begin having arrived quite naturally. “Listos?” I asked, turning to Mateo. “Are we ready?” Bracing himself, he placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward , clasping his hands together. “Sí,” he assented, looking at the floor between his feet and nodding his head. “Mateo,” I said, and he nodded his head once more, though he didn’t look at me. “Mateo, I want to know your story, about how you crossed to los Estados Unidos. I’m interested in everything, everything you want to tell. Está bien?” “Sí,” he replied, as if to say ‘of course.’ “Well, at the beginning of May I left from here in the autobus, from here to Sonoyta on la frontera. Then I took a taxi to the desert, that is, to get outside the town. There were fifty of us, and from there, we started to walk. And the coyotes, the ones who were taking us, had told us we were going to walk two hours until we reached ‘the Line.’ We were walking for an hour, and we went up a hill, and then, going down, some thieves came out to us, three thieves with guns.” “Thieves!” I said. “Sí. We were many, but without guns. Four women were with us, too, and well, the thieves scared them. For us, the men, just giving them the money was enough. But they wanted to rape the women. Well, that’s Dustin W. Leavitt is associate professor of creative writing at the University of Redlands. Journal of the Southwest 51, 2 (Summer 2009):275–284 276  ✜  Journal of the Southwest what they said they would do if they didn’t give the money to them. And that was when a young woman took out her deodorant. She had the money hidden in it. And since they had already roughed her up, she took out her deodorant and gave them the money. “Then a thief told us to take out everything we had, even the pan Bimbo, the loaves of bread we had brought to eat, to make sure no one was hiding money. I was carrying some money here, in the waistband of my pants, where the belt goes, here behind it. I had cut the waistband and I had put some money in there. But I was also carrying some in my billfold, so I told them that was all I had, and they didn’t search me. But the others who didn’t have any money separated out, the thieves took everything from them, everything.” “They knew what they were doing,” I observed. “Sí,” Mateo agreed, “My cousin, who has long, shaggy hair all the way down to here . . .” he moved his hand horizontally, palm up, across his lower chest . . .” they even took off that thing you tie your hair up with because they thought he had money there.” “What about the guides?” I asked, “Did they rob the guides, too?” “No, not them. There was a ditch, and they had put us all in there, and the two coyotes were up above. They were not put in the ditch.” “Doesn’t that sound suspicious?” “Yes, yes, we thought they had contact. But, well, we didn’t say anything to them.” When the thieves had left, Mateo and his group moved on, arriving at the border in the early evening. “How did you cross?” Mateo laughed, as if to say it wasn’t hard. “There is a fence, but it’s all broken. It doesn’t work anymore. There’s even a path there.” Having crossed into Arizona, the...