Healing the Wound: Immigration, Activism, and Policies

Four bridges connect Laredo, Texas, to the Mexican city of Nuevo Laredo. "As children we traveled back and forth constantly," the author writes.

Both my paternal and maternal families have traversed the U.S.-Mexico border back and forth for generations; some uncles and aunts were born on one side, some on the other. Like hundreds if not thousands of other border families, we have maintained family ties and led lives across national boundaries. As a result, we are not your typical "immigrant family": my mother, after all, had been born in Texas — so returning to the United States from Mexico in 1948 was a kind of coming home.

For all my relatives, those who remained in Mexico and those who migrated to the United States, life has remained split. One cousin, Alicia, went to live in Los Angeles, leaving her daughter with my aunt and uncle in Monterrey, the capital of the Mexican state of Nuevo León; another cousin's child paid a coyote and came to the United States, only to be robbed and forced to return penniless. One cousin, Gonzalo, crossed the river, settled in Chicago, married, had a family, and then returned to the small farming community of Anáhuac Nuevo León, where he was murdered in a bar brawl. His family in Chicago remains unknown to us. My mother, while U.S.-born, lived in Mexico and crossed to work as a maid in a banker's home until she married. Now in her eighties, she recalls how she traveled by train every week from Laredo to Rodríguez, Nuevo León, carrying goods for my grandmother and my aunt.

As children we traveled back and forth constantly, sometimes with my parents, sometimes alone, to visit grandparents, purchase certain goods, or just visit friends and have dinner in Mexico. The same freedom was not there for many family members who did not have papers to cross into the United States. In the past, my family had moved pretty freely back and forth. Some of my father's siblings were born in the United States. As a child I often wondered why we even had a border and what it all meant to have to declare "U.S. citizen" to the uniformed young man who waved us through. But all the same, I knew it was serious business.

Crosses on the border wall memorialize the thousands of individuals who have died trying to reach the United States. Border Hopes by Chris Faltis.

One time, we were returning from one of our visits to my paternal grandparents' house in Monterrey. The immigration officer asked the usual, "Where do you live?" and my sister, who must have been about five, dashed off, stating, "Voy a tomar agua" ("I'm going to drink water") as she ran to the nearby water fountain. Her answer meant that we all were ushered into a small room where another official questioned my parents, my brother, and me separately. We had been trained to answer the question with "Laredo, Texas," and from a really young age we memorized our address: 104 E. San Carlos Street. But for some reason, my sister chose to ignore the question. I remember being scared and anxious. I was about nine or so. Ultimately the officials were satisfied with our answers and allowed us to go home.

Unfortunately, these stories persist. About five years ago, some friends from Houston were visiting and crossed from Laredo to Nuevo Laredo. On their return, something triggered a secondary inspection, and the immigration officers questioned the children separately from the parents. My friend's daughter, who was about nine at the time, is still traumatized. Of course, I am certain that, had they been white, they would not have been suspect and would not have been interrogated.

Imagining a World Without Borders

Sometimes I try to envision a land without immigration and without migrants (at least without political or economic migrants): a land where people move freely and where the only motivation...