The Virgin And The Migra

by Lee Zurda

Sunday, Feb. 2, 2003.
Texas, near the Rio Grande

Today I broke the law. Not a small law, like parking wrong, or not having mudflaps on my truck. A federal law.

I helped sneak some food across the river into Old Mexico. To friends in a dusty town left stranded by U.S. foreign policy. For years, people crossed back and forth, trading and visiting. It all stopped, just that quick, because terrorists from the other side of the globe scared America out of its wits. And us out of our good senses and neighborliness.

The INS panicked and shut down the river. Or tried to. It confiscated the leaky old boats, or chalupas (no, not the Taco Bell type). Officially designated “invasive aquatic vessels,” they were hauled off to a government stockpile somewhere. Most of them. The ones the Border Patrol could find.

My cohorts in crime today are older than me. Phyllis and Gene are great-grandparents, closer to eighty than seventy. Gene fought in the South Pacific in World War II. Hildy, another friend, came here from Germany, where she saw unjust oppression first hand. She’s not happy seeing it again in her adopted country.

We arrived mid-morning at a point overlooking the Rio, and shouted hello to the standing river cane on the other side. The placid brown Rio Grande seemed like a narrow stream. Hardly grand at all, hardly even a river. From the cane we heard a hola and saw the plants ruffle. We watched a red, plastic rowboat appear and cross north, to vanish once again into a stand of cane.

Pablo’s old grin flashed at us as he started on the trail. His grandson Jesús, around ten, scurried up like a young mountain goat. The path was clean and well-worn. As usual, the Migra hadn’t accomplished as much as it thought.

Jesús shook hands politely with each of us. Mexican kids do that, even today. “Buenos días,” he said. He filled us in a bit on family news, but was more interested in Phyllis and Gene’s new puppy. When Pablo reached the top, he embraced us.

We learned from Pablo that his town was suffering. They couldn’t cross north for supplies, and tourists couldn’t cross south to have tortillas and cerveza in the little cantinas, or buy sotol walking sticks and wire scorpions from the kids.

The town was remote, hugging the north border of Chihuahua near Texas -- closer to U.S. towns than anything in Mexico. A few had moved south to relatives in other areas. But many had stayed and prayed to the Virgin for better days. This village was their home.

We couldn’t talk long, and glanced uneasily back towards the highway. Phyllis said, "If they want to arrest a seventy-something great-grandma, go ahead. It’ll make quite a story on the nightly news." Still, we were watchful.

Pablo’s family gathered across the river on the dusty shore. His daughter and a passel of little ones trekked down, raising a tail of fine dust that floated behind them. One lucky grandson rode horseback, while another bounced along in a pick-up to haul the food back.

On our side, embraces, handshakes, and muchas gracias. Phyllis’ eyes glistened as she held her puppy in one arm and waved with the other. Gene towered over all, tall and stalwart still, even with two knee replacements, his voice huge as he shouted hello across the river. Hildy was busy with that German efficiency, happy with our success.

And me, I was just sad. I promised Pablo I’d pray to La Virgen de Guadalupe for them, and light her candle.

Then Pablo and young Jesús lugged the rice and red beans and soft candy and more down the well-worn path to the “invasive aquatic vessel” and rowed back home to Mexico. We were all safe from the laws of both lands.

We lingered a bit longer, they on the south, we on the north. The stringy, dirty strip of water making all the differences in our lives.

I didn't go to Mass today, and pray to La Virgen de Guadalupe. We only have Mass every other week because there aren't not enough priests to go around. Next Sunday I'll go. Go and light a candle, and pray to the Virgin for Pablo and his people.

The End