I gave out socks. Lots of socks.
I was volunteering with No More Deaths in Agua Prieta. The organization had just opened a hospitality center for migrants recently apprehended and returned from the United States. It was late at night when I was crossing back into Douglas, to go to sleep.
The customs official asked for my documentation at the port of entry. I gave it. He knew me and our group from our many trips back and forth.
“So you’re helping the Mexicans?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“And I bet you think that you’re doing some good, aren’t you?”
I had helped clean out blisters on the migrants’ feet. “Yep.”
“You know,” he said, “Americans need help too. Maybe you should spend more time on this side of the line.” He handed me back my passport.
“Thanks,” I said, “and I do a lot of work on the American side as well. But I don’t need a prick like you to tell me what I should be doing with my time.”
I returned to the volunteer house and soon fell asleep, my sleeping bag stretched across a bare, worn mattress. I had more work to do the next day.
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