|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Blind Bewilderment
by Jessica Marks
Mexico enthralls me. I love the culture, the people, the food - and, most of all, the colors. My parents recently moved to Montana. There is not a house within 40 miles that varies beyond a single shade. A plethora of brown, brown, brown, slight variations in drops of pigment from the paint department man at the local Home Depot. But Mexicans paint their houses with the type of passion I crave in my life. Cotton candy pink wallboard, unicorn purple trim and a splash of blue. Lemon yellow, tiles of grass green, tangerine swirled with crimson. The colors go beyond their homes - Shoe stores - zapaterias - outdo any parking lot oil spill. Turquoise knee high boots that scream, "I'm hip and I'm hot." Red heels for a night of passion, gold cowboy boots both cheap and classy, fuchsia sandals to celebrate a summer evening. Awed by the vibrancy of the South American color scheme, I pull on black sweats in slight disgust. Later that evening, I watch women walking the streets of the town of Bisbee, Arizona, just 20 miles North of the border. Unencumbered by socials skills, I stare blatantly from the coffee shop window. The women are covered from head to toe in smoke. Grey and black, "flattering and slimming." The only visible flashes of color are the occasional artsy misfit, an accent accessory, or a small child not yet sucked into the blue jean standard of the United States.
I wonder out loud, "Why do so many Mexicans want to move here; what do they see that I don't?" A hunched form in the corner stands and walks towards me. Brushing past, he leans down, "Because it's the greatest nation on earth." I look at him, smile and nod. I want to tell him "No, no you're wrong." I've spent the past three months exploring environmental issues of the Western United States. All I've found is the nation's problem child, a rebellious teenager born illegitimately. I want to tell him about the state of our public lands, of stolen water rights, of national parks, of ecotourism endangered species and destruction. I want him to see the despair that hit a campsite of 20 college students on Election Day 2004, hear the statements, "I'm moving to France," "My parents are looking for a house in Ireland." I want to tell him that what is good in our culture is dying, that we are mining away our insides, that dreams of the West are fantasies. They are fiction, myth, lies.
But, I can't. Instead, I hold my mouth in place until the smell of old spice and old age has drifted on. He pushes open the glass door and I question my silence. I, just like so many others, take my status as a US Citizen for granted. A rare day passes that I do not lament over the state of the environment, shake my head at the incompetence of my government.
I take a sip of tea and my mind returns to Mexico, to the border. A perimeter defined by US customs, laws, and agencies. Each day, thousands of Mexicans work to cross that boundary. Some enter legally - and even more illegally. The path is treacherous: accosting heat, fierce terrains and expensive guides as knowledgeable as the local Wal-Mart greeter. Walking the border fence and wandering North, the path is littered with belongs and garbage. Water bottles, cans of food, used clothing. These people leave their homes with everything they have - "they're often wearing three pairs of pants and have all of their money in the world strapped to them," said US Border Patrol agent, Greg Mayer. They risk their lives to make it to America, to the land of the free. They degrade themselves - strap fake cow hooves to their feet to mask their footprints, cram into trailers as crowded as a Texas feedlot, become nothing more than "illegal aliens," - with the knowledge that they will likely be caught and sent back to Mexico. Though three out of four make it across, the US Border Patrol is always there watching, cameras rolling. Night after night, desert tracks turn into death contracts of starvation and dehydration. Those that are caught fight to restart their voyage as soon as possible - that same night, the next day.
Prodding through a pile of trash, I find a baby bottle, a container of Pedialite and a used diaper. A mother, a father - someone was willing to risk their child's life for the chance to make it to the West, to the United States, to live and work in my soiled home.
It amazes me, bewilders me that so many Mexicans are willing to give up their fine painters palette for the charcoal that defines the US. When did I become so uppity, so snobby, so eager to lose all of my patriotism? What made my friends even more critical than I? Not only have I explored the West, I live the West. I learned early to take care of that which matters - and I don't want that which I love to disappear.
I leave the warmth of the shop to stand amidst a crowd of strangers. "Oh come, all ye faithful," rings down Main Street, wrapping around shops, restaurants and stained glass windows. It is strange to hear the voices of a high school choir singing a religious song - strangely beautiful. Young girls flit about in fairy costumes and a man in a striped tie and worn boots walks by me. What the West has to offer is something I readily desire, readily take: friends, family, home, hope. There is a reason hundreds of thousands of Mexicans are willing to risk their lives to come to America.
I realize I've spent most of my adult years resenting the United States, as I believe many Americans have - and I can no longer remember why. We have so much: the ability to see change, to work hard for a living wage in fair conditions, to leave cookies in a tin box for our mailmen, to flick a light switch, to wash our hands with warm water, to sing to the night. I've been disappointed by the consumerist mentality of my National Parks, witnessed environmental desecration, have mourned the extinction of a species,- but I also believe things can change. I may not approve of the multiple use policy of my public lands - but, at least those lands exist. The West still has a lot of growing up to do - and some of it may be painful.
I've looked into the eyes of men and women waiting behind bars to be sent back home, back to Mexico. I read their words, heard their silent wishes: to be, to live as you do - in the Wild West, in the United States of America.
The grey cover has disappeared. Desert rain sketches doubles rainbow across the open sky.