too late. He seemed to be staring off into space, already gone in spirit. When I approached him, however, I saw that his eyes were shut.
“Tata,” I said softly in his ear, leaning in close, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the weathered skin of his cheek. “It’s me, Alfredo.”
“Oh, yes,” he replied with effort. “Alfredo.”
My tears began to fall helplessly. In recent months, with cancer slowly and painfully killing him, I had visited often but rarely gotten him to talk much. Though I had seen him declining, I wasn’t ready to say good-bye.
In the otherwise silent room, the sound of his breathing and the ticking of a small clock near his bedside were unforgettable. Then my grandfather slowly opened his eyes and asked softly, “Do you remember when we would go to the Rumorosa Mountains?”
“Yes, I do. Always.”
“Me too. You used to call ‘Tataaaahhhh! Tataaaahhhh!’ ”
“I remember.”
“You know,” he said, just before he closed his eyes and offered a final smile, “I really enjoyed those times.”
Tata’s dying message assured me that I should not be afraid to climb mountains, no matter how treacherous, and that I could even take joy in doing so. He wasn’t telling me how to do that but wanted me to know that I could continue to call on him whenever I felt lost.
After Nana Maria passed away two years later, I felt her presence with me too—though her message was to be careful and to look out for pitfalls. I hope she forgave me for not being at her side more when she was dying. After a lifetime as a healer, helping to bring hundreds of lives into the world, Nana went to the grave knowing that no one had ever died in her care. But I was surprised to learn from my father that until the end, she was afraid of death and especially the loneliness of not knowing what was on the other side. My father also told me that in spite of her fear, when her time came she was ready. Nana discovered what many of us will never know until we are there—that no matter how many times we defy the odds, we all reach the moment where the only way out is surrender. Until then? Give it everything!
Christmas 1985 was eventful for a few reasons. At the age of seventeen, almost eighteen, I was on my way to becoming one of the youngest students ever to graduate from the training program at the teaching college that was my stepping-stone to the future. With excellent grades and teachers’ recommendations, once I graduated I would wait to see where I would be assigned in Mexico to begin my journey as an elementary school teacher. I also had a wonderful girlfriend at the time, a beautiful, bright young lady from a well-to-do, respected family. Our courtship was new, but we were both serious enough about our futures to enter into a meaningful relationship.
After many difficulties, I was confident that brighter days were around the corner, as I told my cousin Fausto and his friend Ronnie when they drove down in Fausto’s truck from Mendota for the Christmas holiday. My hope, I explained to them, was that I’d land a plum assignment for my first teaching post, ideally in one of the bigger cities close to home. The government sometimes sent newer teachers without the right family connections to out-of-the-way locations where there was little money to be made and few options for pursuing further education. But given my excellent academic record, I was sure to be rewarded with the right job—or so I expected.
In the best of moods, we decided to drive into Mexicali to join some of my friends for holiday parties. With Fausto’s truck, we had wheels and could make the scene in style—a big plus for me, given that I usually had to ride the bus to such destinations and then walk an additional three miles or more in extreme heat or cold. We were so mobile, in fact, that not long after arriving at the party in Mexicali, Fausto and Ronnie suggested we continue on to other parties across the border in Calexico, California.
Small problem. I wasn’t carrying my passport. Since I hadn’t planned to cross the border, I’d left it at home. Fausto offered to drive us back to my house for it, but I didn’t see a reason to drive two hours just for a little piece of paper. By the time we did that, the parties would be over. “Never mind,” I told Fausto, “I won’t need it. They hardly ever stop us.”
We approached the checkpoint at the border crossing. The agent, seemingly in a cheery holiday mood, started to wave us through when something appeared to catch his attention and he gestured for us to stop.
Standing at the driver’s side, the American agent asked Fausto, in English, where he was headed. Fausto, without an accent, explained that he was from Fresno but was visiting family for the holidays and was just going across the border for a party.
The agent nodded. Then he asked Ronnie, “Where are you from?”
Ronnie answered, “Fresno.” The agent took him at his word.
Hoping to avoid more questions, I pretended to be looking very closely at something outside the window, up in the sky. The agent said,
“You! Where are you from?”
“Fresno,” I answered, mimicking Fausto and Ronnie’s tone and pronunciation. My knowledge of the English language in this era was close to nada.
“And how long you lived in Fresno, son?” the border agent asked.
“Fresno,” I nodded and smiled, clueless.
The agent then asked for documentation and, of course, I didn’t have any.
Within seconds, a group of agents surrounded the truck. After much discussion, they allowed Fausto and Ronnie to go but detained me. A full two hours of interrogation followed, during which I repeatedly insisted that I had simply forgotten my passport and meant no harm or crime. I knew that I couldn’t give them my name, however, because they would then suspend my passport for good. I also couldn’t tell them what I did or where I was from. But I couldn’t lie.
A Spanish speaker, the border agent who stopped us wanted blood. He could see I had nothing on me, as I was wearing only lightweight shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops. He began to threaten harm to my loved ones, even though he obviously didn’t know who they were. Not getting anywhere, he locked me in a freezing cold room, as close to a cell as I would ever inhabit. Curling up in a fetal position in a futile attempt to get warm, I cried myself to sleep, certain that my life was ruined.
Before dawn, another agent came to unlock the door and found me on the floor. A compassionate man, he was clearly upset with the other agents for holding me in such conditions so long without food and water. The agent apologized, handed me money for breakfast, and sent me on my way.
Lesson learned. My better judgment had clearly been clouded. The idea that I didn’t have a plan in case I was stopped was bad enough. But in thinking that I could deceive the border patrol agent who first approached the car, I stepped over the fine line between confidence and arrogance. With due remorse, I resolved never again to travel without my passport.
After that ordeal, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to travel again. But extenuating circumstances changed my attitude. Much to my shock, as soon as I graduated from college, I learned that, because of the political situation in Mexico, my academic credentials hadn’t helped me get the assignment I’d wanted. Instead, I was to start work right away in a very remote, rural area. The better jobs in cities near universities had all gone to students from wealthier and politically connected families. How could the fight be so blatantly rigged? What about merit? What about
