Chapter 1
Mexicali, Baja California, México, January 1965
Miguel Hernandez-Ochoa gazed across the wind-blown street at the border fence. Lit by a lone incandescent bulb, the barrier rose from a concrete footing and towered above a hedge of twisted brambles. It was more than twice his height. The interlinked, heavy-gauge wire formed small diamonds wide enough to admit the toe of a pointed shoe or two fingers of a desperate hand, but on top of the panels, held open in a V by metal brackets at the top of each post, six strands of barbed wire were stretched taut. Imagining himself at that height trying to wriggle over the sharpened barbs, Miguel’s muscles tightened, and his heart pounded. Sudden dizziness made him take a half step backward. He was forced to look away.
Edging back into the shadows at the side of a building, Miguel shoved his bare hands under his armpits. The night was cold, and his thin coat had no pockets. For two days and nights, he had trundled across the deserts of northern Mexico in open freight cars. He had eaten little and was tired. Fighting despair, his thoughts shifted to his wife, Concha, who remained behind in their small adobe-and-thatch house in Zacatecas. Concha would understand his fear, he thought, but she would count on him to get across the fence. I’ve got to find a way, he told himself. I can’t let my children go hungry.
He shuffled back onto the sidewalk, but he had no place to go in this unfamiliar city and no money to pay for even the barest lodging. Drawn by the lights, Miguel meandered along the street towards the bars and shops that stood across from the two-story port-of-entry building. At the far corner of a blue-walled cantina, he lingered in the yellow glow of a neon Corona sign and listened to the foot-stomping polka blaring from the jukebox inside. Abruptly, the music changed to a corrido, a familiar song about a campesino like him, but it made him all the more lonely.
Preoccupied by the fence, he had ignored the aromas drifting with the music through the open doorway, but the scent of carnitas searing on a hot grill prompted him to glance into the brightly lit room. Two men stood at the bar bantering with a waitress. From their work boots and worn jeans, they appeared to be farmworkers like him, but unlike his own battered sombrero campesino and thin plaid jacket, they wore tan tejanas, and their jackets were lined with fleece.
Despite the open door and the chilly evening air, the waitress wore a low-cut blouse. Dark curls fell on her bare shoulders. She smiled at Miguel. For an instant, he considered asking for some scraps from the kitchen, but the men appeared to be norteños, and Miguel did not want to beg for food in front of them. But before he could move on, clued by the girl’s glance, the men turned and stared.
“¡Mojado!” the heavier of the two snorted before turning back to the bar. His companion laughed.
Wetback! Miguel had been called out as if he were a thief about to sneak into another man’s house in the night. His muscles tensed like a coiled rattlesnake’s. “¡Cabrónes!” he hissed, but the men pretended not to hear. The waitress smiled nervously and slipped behind the bar. Miguel lunged across the threshold.
“¡Cabrónes! ¡Putos! Come outside, and we’ll see who’s a man!” he shouted.
A large man in a white apron suddenly appeared and blocked his way, grabbing Miguel’s raised arm in an iron grip. “Calm down, señor. You’re just getting yourself in trouble,” the bartender warned sharply.
“One day you will know what it’s like, pendejos!” Miguel shouted over the bartender’s burly shoulder. “Then we’ll see who laughs!”
The men turned and looked coldly at Miguel. The bartender spun him around and pushed him out the door. “Go! Get out of here!”
Unable to shake the insult, Miguel seethed as he strode on along the street. The men had made fun of him as if his poverty was a betrayal of his homeland. The gabachos treat me as if this is their country and I am the trespasser, he fumed. They are the foreigners, soft norteamericanos. I can outwork them any hour of the day and all day. But the stark truth of the slur deepened his sense of alienage in this unfamiliar border town. He felt worn, dirty. His pace slackened.
Clutching the strap of his small canvas backpack, Miguel stepped back for three passersby, two men and a woman, well-dressed norteamericanos, hurrying along the sidewalk. They did not acknowledge him, and he stared at their backs while they crossed the street and disappeared around the corner of the stucco port-of-entry building. He hated their wealth, their self-assurance, and that they were headed for warm houses.
Miguel glared at the fence, hating it too, dreading it, yet knowing he had to cross it. The taunts of the norteños in the cantina, wetback, mojado, rang in his head. His mind flashed back to the day, intent on helping his father repair the roof of the church, he had tried to climb the spindly ladder propped against the high wall but panicked and froze. Coached by onlookers, he tried to inch his way down but loosened his grip and cascaded over the final rungs to the ground amid jeers and laughter.
Concha had been there, but she had not laughed. Shamed, he did not try to climb the ladder again, but Concha did. She had worked on top of the roof with his father doing the job that he had meant to do as he had slunk away calling the spunky girl names. He could not quit this time; he was a father, and he and Concha had children to feed.
The melancholy corrido, carried on the night air from the jukebox in the cantina, faded, replaced by the sharp notes of a trumpet and a baritone voice belting out a ranchera tune.
I’ve got to do it, Miguel told himself. It might as well be now!
Miguel strode back along the sidewalk until the fence was again in darkness. Hesitating for a moment to avoid the headlights of a passing car, he ran across the street and brushed his way through the waist-high shrubs. He jumped as high as he could and grabbed the steel chain link above his head. Breathing heavily from the adrenalin rush, he pulled himself up, but the blunt toes of his boots could get little purchase in the small, diamond-shaped openings.
He dropped back and tried again. Struggling to remain calm, he hooked his fingers through the links and tried to walk his lower body up the panel. But the flat soles of his boots could not get traction, and he was able to raise himself only a few feet above the tops of the bushes. The dead weight of his body was cantilevered out from the fence, and the wire links cut into his fingers. A passing motorist honked and jeered.
On the other side of the fence, a Jeep pulled into the near-empty parking lot and bathed Miguel in its headlights. A dark-uniformed patrullero stepped out. Peering into the bright lights, Miguel could see just a silhouette of the man: the outline of the official’s broad-brimmed hat and the handle of a revolver jutting from his hip. He let go of the fence and dropped clumsily into the brambles.
“Go ahead, señor, climb the fence!” the patrullero taunted. “I’ll be waiting. If you get stuck in the wire and I have to climb up and cut you loose, you’re going to go to the corralón.”
Miguel scrambled to his feet and fled back across the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a car. Once again on the sidewalk, he felt safe enough from the official, but after the patrullero departed and his heart stopped racing, fatigue and pessimism returned.
Defeated, resigned to another night in the open, Miguel walked slowly back to a small plaza next to the cantina. At the late hour, it was vacant, and he sat down on a concrete bench.
Despite his failure to scale the daunting fence, Miguel reminded himself over and over that his destination was close at hand. Tomorrow he would look for a place to cross, he thought. It was clear that, at least in the town, the fence was closely watched. He would walk to the end of it if necessary. He did not know how far that would be, but he reasoned the barrier had to end somewhere.
Miguel shifted to a bench at the rear of the plaza. Hunching into his coat, he pulled his sombrero down over his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. The multi-colored lights of the cantina cast a soft glow on the trunks of the surrounding palm trees. Staccato notes of a trumpet and the resonant strum of a guitar drifted on the cold night air.
Arranging his backpack as a pillow, covering his body with a piece of cardboard he had retrieved from a trashcan, Miguel curled up on the concrete seat.
The government in los Estados Unidos says my labor is no longer welcome, Miguel ruminated as he tried to drop into slumber. He did not want to break the law, but Concha and the children, his mother and father needed to eat. Crossing the border was his only hope.
On the other side, el otro lado, I’ll find work, he promised himself. I’ll find a farmer who needs me. How wrong can that be?
Mexicali, Baja California, México, January 1965
Miguel Hernandez-Ochoa gazed across the wind-blown street at the border fence. Lit by a lone incandescent bulb, the barrier rose from a concrete footing and towered above a hedge of twisted brambles. It was more than twice his height. The interlinked, heavy-gauge wire formed small diamonds wide enough to admit the toe of a pointed shoe or two fingers of a desperate hand, but on top of the panels, held open in a V by metal brackets at the top of each post, six strands of barbed wire were stretched taut. Imagining himself at that height trying to wriggle over the sharpened barbs, Miguel’s muscles tightened, and his heart pounded. Sudden dizziness made him take a half step backward. He was forced to look away.
Edging back into the shadows at the side of a building, Miguel shoved his bare hands under his armpits. The night was cold, and his thin coat had no pockets. For two days and nights, he had trundled across the deserts of northern Mexico in open freight cars. He had eaten little and was tired. Fighting despair, his thoughts shifted to his wife, Concha, who remained behind in their small adobe-and-thatch house in Zacatecas. Concha would understand his fear, he thought, but she would count on him to get across the fence. I’ve got to find a way, he told himself. I can’t let my children go hungry.
He shuffled back onto the sidewalk, but he had no place to go in this unfamiliar city and no money to pay for even the barest lodging. Drawn by the lights, Miguel meandered along the street towards the bars and shops that stood across from the two-story port-of-entry building. At the far corner of a blue-walled cantina, he lingered in the yellow glow of a neon Corona sign and listened to the foot-stomping polka blaring from the jukebox inside. Abruptly, the music changed to a corrido, a familiar song about a campesino like him, but it made him all the more lonely.
Preoccupied by the fence, he had ignored the aromas drifting with the music through the open doorway, but the scent of carnitas searing on a hot grill prompted him to glance into the brightly lit room. Two men stood at the bar bantering with a waitress. From their work boots and worn jeans, they appeared to be farmworkers like him, but unlike his own battered sombrero campesino and thin plaid jacket, they wore tan tejanas, and their jackets were lined with fleece.
Despite the open door and the chilly evening air, the waitress wore a low-cut blouse. Dark curls fell on her bare shoulders. She smiled at Miguel. For an instant, he considered asking for some scraps from the kitchen, but the men appeared to be norteños, and Miguel did not want to beg for food in front of them. But before he could move on, clued by the girl’s glance, the men turned and stared.
“¡Mojado!” the heavier of the two snorted before turning back to the bar. His companion laughed.
Wetback! Miguel had been called out as if he were a thief about to sneak into another man’s house in the night. His muscles tensed like a coiled rattlesnake’s. “¡Cabrónes!” he hissed, but the men pretended not to hear. The waitress smiled nervously and slipped behind the bar. Miguel lunged across the threshold.
“¡Cabrónes! ¡Putos! Come outside, and we’ll see who’s a man!” he shouted.
A large man in a white apron suddenly appeared and blocked his way, grabbing Miguel’s raised arm in an iron grip. “Calm down, señor. You’re just getting yourself in trouble,” the bartender warned sharply.
“One day you will know what it’s like, pendejos!” Miguel shouted over the bartender’s burly shoulder. “Then we’ll see who laughs!”
The men turned and looked coldly at Miguel. The bartender spun him around and pushed him out the door. “Go! Get out of here!”
Unable to shake the insult, Miguel seethed as he strode on along the street. The men had made fun of him as if his poverty was a betrayal of his homeland. The gabachos treat me as if this is their country and I am the trespasser, he fumed. They are the foreigners, soft norteamericanos. I can outwork them any hour of the day and all day. But the stark truth of the slur deepened his sense of alienage in this unfamiliar border town. He felt worn, dirty. His pace slackened.
Clutching the strap of his small canvas backpack, Miguel stepped back for three passersby, two men and a woman, well-dressed norteamericanos, hurrying along the sidewalk. They did not acknowledge him, and he stared at their backs while they crossed the street and disappeared around the corner of the stucco port-of-entry building. He hated their wealth, their self-assurance, and that they were headed for warm houses.
Miguel glared at the fence, hating it too, dreading it, yet knowing he had to cross it. The taunts of the norteños in the cantina, wetback, mojado, rang in his head. His mind flashed back to the day, intent on helping his father repair the roof of the church, he had tried to climb the spindly ladder propped against the high wall but panicked and froze. Coached by onlookers, he tried to inch his way down but loosened his grip and cascaded over the final rungs to the ground amid jeers and laughter.
Concha had been there, but she had not laughed. Shamed, he did not try to climb the ladder again, but Concha did. She had worked on top of the roof with his father doing the job that he had meant to do as he had slunk away calling the spunky girl names. He could not quit this time; he was a father, and he and Concha had children to feed.
The melancholy corrido, carried on the night air from the jukebox in the cantina, faded, replaced by the sharp notes of a trumpet and a baritone voice belting out a ranchera tune.
I’ve got to do it, Miguel told himself. It might as well be now!
Miguel strode back along the sidewalk until the fence was again in darkness. Hesitating for a moment to avoid the headlights of a passing car, he ran across the street and brushed his way through the waist-high shrubs. He jumped as high as he could and grabbed the steel chain link above his head. Breathing heavily from the adrenalin rush, he pulled himself up, but the blunt toes of his boots could get little purchase in the small, diamond-shaped openings.
He dropped back and tried again. Struggling to remain calm, he hooked his fingers through the links and tried to walk his lower body up the panel. But the flat soles of his boots could not get traction, and he was able to raise himself only a few feet above the tops of the bushes. The dead weight of his body was cantilevered out from the fence, and the wire links cut into his fingers. A passing motorist honked and jeered.
On the other side of the fence, a Jeep pulled into the near-empty parking lot and bathed Miguel in its headlights. A dark-uniformed patrullero stepped out. Peering into the bright lights, Miguel could see just a silhouette of the man: the outline of the official’s broad-brimmed hat and the handle of a revolver jutting from his hip. He let go of the fence and dropped clumsily into the brambles.
“Go ahead, señor, climb the fence!” the patrullero taunted. “I’ll be waiting. If you get stuck in the wire and I have to climb up and cut you loose, you’re going to go to the corralón.”
Miguel scrambled to his feet and fled back across the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a car. Once again on the sidewalk, he felt safe enough from the official, but after the patrullero departed and his heart stopped racing, fatigue and pessimism returned.
Defeated, resigned to another night in the open, Miguel walked slowly back to a small plaza next to the cantina. At the late hour, it was vacant, and he sat down on a concrete bench.
Despite his failure to scale the daunting fence, Miguel reminded himself over and over that his destination was close at hand. Tomorrow he would look for a place to cross, he thought. It was clear that, at least in the town, the fence was closely watched. He would walk to the end of it if necessary. He did not know how far that would be, but he reasoned the barrier had to end somewhere.
Miguel shifted to a bench at the rear of the plaza. Hunching into his coat, he pulled his sombrero down over his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. The multi-colored lights of the cantina cast a soft glow on the trunks of the surrounding palm trees. Staccato notes of a trumpet and the resonant strum of a guitar drifted on the cold night air.
Arranging his backpack as a pillow, covering his body with a piece of cardboard he had retrieved from a trashcan, Miguel curled up on the concrete seat.
The government in los Estados Unidos says my labor is no longer welcome, Miguel ruminated as he tried to drop into slumber. He did not want to break the law, but Concha and the children, his mother and father needed to eat. Crossing the border was his only hope.
On the other side, el otro lado, I’ll find work, he promised himself. I’ll find a farmer who needs me. How wrong can that be?
