Customs agents in the Rio Grande Valley apparently have great difficulty understanding why a fair-skinned cyclist born in Mesa, Arizona would be so far from home. Usually they give me the once-over. Then the twice-over. Thrice. They ask me what I was doing in Mexico, how long I was there, with whom I was there (like that is any of their business), where I’m from, where I was born, if I speak Spanish, if I speak Spanish well, where I learned to speak Spanish, what college I attended, what my college’s mascot is… the list goes on and on.
I get why this information is so important: this is my country, but I don’t belong down here. At least that’s what it looks like. I could be anybody from anywhere, with any intention.
After a day in Matamoros, I was crossing back into the United States by car with three others. The driver and shotgun were dark-haired, dark-eyed Latinas, while the passengers in the rear, myself and another Latina, were much more lighter skinned. The customs agent asked for our identification, and we gave it, but he didn’t even say a word to the two in front.
Lately, when agents ask if I speak Spanish, I say “sometimes”. And when they ask whom I was with? “Friends.” If I had been to Mexico before? “I was just there today, actually.”
The process is arbitrary, as is polite compliance and buffoonery. Locals complain about border guards and their glibness, if not harassment, as well—if it’s not for one reason, it’s another. Apparently it goes with the territory. Some locals choose cross the line less frequently, a few give up their trips entirely, and the vast majority can’t even cross to begin with.
Sparky the Sun Devil.
No comments:
Post a Comment