First Crossing

Paloma, they told me, your name is Paloma.  I was seven, a few months away from my birthday in September and I was supposed to start school that fall in the United States, but in the meantime I was in the backseat of an older model Toyota sedan, I think it was gray, and I was sweating, as I rubbed my hands I felt them sticky and saw them tremble a bit, and as I looked sideways there was a festival of cars aligned, the faces looked desperate, they were touching their heads, rubbing their hair, looking sideways just like me, sometimes our eyes met and then it would be too weird to smile, so we just turn away from each other as fast as we could, evading each other.

 

Adriana and her husband, of whom I forgot his name, but just recently I ran into him at (funny) another line, the line to Las Cuatro Milpas, the historical Mexican eatery in Barrio Logan, and I asked how their daughter was, Paloma.  Seeing him them transported me back to that day, when I was on the back of their car, and I posed as their daughter, an American citizen, my mom must have give them a good chunk of money so that they risk so much, but I guess back then, in the late 80s, it was much easier to fool La Migra, and just say that you were an American citizen and be welcomed in, but for me all I had to do is say my name was Paloma and I was in the land of the plenty, in the states, the place where my mother decided had better opportunities for me, and now, almost twenty years later, I know she was right.

 

It took me years to get used to this country, as a matter of fact I am still not all that in love with it, but yet Mexico is also distant.  I am stateless.  But really, I don’t care, I’ve come to the conclusion that homeland is an invention, that patriotism is nothing but shit, a political device, a war excuse, how many dead now from Iraq?

 

As the car pulled up to the agent, Adriana and her husband smiled, He handed him the documents, theirs and my birth certificate, he looked into the back, he must of asked for my name for I blurted out Paloma and he gave the papers back and he waved us in.  That was the very first illegal entry, and it wasn’t my choice, I much rather would of preferred life back in Zomatlan, the laid back life style I had with my grandmother.

 

I actually made friends with the real Paloma.  We used to play barbies together, she was indeed my first playing buddy in the U.S.  At the time my mother owned a Mexican seafood restaurant called “El 7 Mares”, it was right on 25^th street, in Golden Hill, now, when I pass by it, it got painted light brown and is a Tax Service office.  Next door to us is Mireya’s Salon, and it’s still there.  On top of the restaurant was a second floor used for storage, that’s where I spent a lot of my first time here in San Diego, Adriana would bring in Paloma so that we could play.

 

On Saturdays and Sundays I would walk over with five dollars in my hands to the Golden Hill Café and I would order my chocolate milk with fluffy pancakes.  I sat in the long breakfast bar, and the waitresses knew my mother, so they were very nice to me.  After breakfast I would walk back or get on my scooter, and I went back to El 7 Mares.  It’s funny because my Costco card still has that mark, on the back of it, in black letters, it reads: 7 Mares.