Border Crossing
There was no high speed chase, no random search, no breathless run towards freedom. Her fantasy of being 
a humble heroine was eradicated by the monotonous reality of actually crossing the fence; the coyote knew 
very well how to make the process smooth and unnoticeable. I guess she just wanted a little more 
excitement, maybe a distant gun shot, or one of those blue-eyed Americans helping her learn English during 
the long car ride. Instead, just her, and some other girl in the back of a jeep, listening to mariachi bands on 
the radio and feeling the gallons of sweat dripping down their necks, looking forward to an endless road of 
dust. 
The man driving them did not have blue eyes and was not exciting at all. The rude goon was wearing an 
awful jean shirt. He was very fond of smoking. That car smelt like an old ashtray that had been sitting out in 
the sun. When my mother first encountered the goon, he greeted her with “money first,” so she could only 
assume this was just another business deal.  
She could not wait to be in New York, away from the lies, and closer to becoming herself. She could not wait 
to be greeted into America, she wanted one of those pretty white ladies to say, “Welcome to America Miss.” 
She would love for someone to call her Miss. She imagined herself in one of those houses, with one of those 
husbands, and some of those kids with red baseball caps playing in one of those front yards, with one of 
those blonde dogs. That was America, pretty white people with blue eyes. Not knowing she would live a 
different dream -- the dream of dried out hands that smell of chorine, of sixteen hour work days for low pay 
that are rewarded with the poetry of basement rooms rusted with heat in the summer and frosted with 
depression in the winter.
After an exhausting car ride, they finally got out of the ashtray jeep. The lights of Houston blinded the eyes of 
a woman who had never seen the urban kingdoms of the north.  She felt her body catching fire; her tight 
jeans had hardened with hours of sweat and were pushing against her skin. The other girl went on her own 
way. Who knows where she went. There was no need to know. She probably became a whore, and if she did? 
Who would care. The coyote disappeared into the night, like most undomesticated dogs do.
She found herself at the Houston airport, waiting to board a flight to New York. The coyote gave her all the 
paperwork. She was almost there, but not really. She had a long way to go. It was her first time on a plane; at 
least it was better than the ashtray. Getting on the plane was child play, hi there, stand here, go there kind of 
business. Everyone spoke Spanish. Everyone was of color, and even the white people had tans. Walking 
through the narrow plane, she heard the background buzz of the airplane’s engine. It was exciting; it 
anticipated flight. Flight is a beautiful thing.