READING ABOUT THE SAN DIEGO/TIJUANA AREA
I stumble on an old article about Cañón Zapata, a place along the border
That the U.S. often referred to as the soccer field.
In the eighties the border was more porous—
Three sagging strands of barbed wire, cheap metal fencing—
And the Border Patrol too few
To seize all the people crossing in through the canyon.
I learn that this small patch of soil
Near a neighborhood east of Tijuana served as a camp and staging ground—
With hundreds of migrants crossing from there everyday.
The campground had a marketplace that sold clothing, shoes, meals—
It was a scattering of tables, stalls, some covered with blue tarps—
It was a last resting spot before stepping into a different country.
No one gathers there now.
In the mid-nineties Operation Gatekeeper started
Building large metal fences in the area that marked a stark divide—
A neighborhood on one side—
A heavily patrolled canyon on the other.
This is what my parents meant when I was younger—
Their passing comment about the crossing becoming more difficult.
The fence did what it was built to do—
Funnel people further East through the desert,
The idea being that traversing a death-dealing terrain would serve as a deterrent.
Yet people continue to cross, despite the deliberate cruelty and death.
Days later, I discover that during the late eighties a Mexican university began
To document Cañón Zapata and its migrants.
There are photographs:
A woman in a pink sweater carrying an infant,
Her back turned, squeezing between a torn fence—
While the infant’s dark eyes look back directly into the camera—
Men gathering at a table clutching tortillas and carne—
A paletero reaching into his wheeled icebox for a requested treat—
A group of people congregating around a makeshift altar for mass—
Border Patrol agents handing out Christmas presents,
One of them dressed as Santa Claus—
Those same agents walking in the dark
Over men they caught then made lie face down.
There are photographs shot from above the campground every day—
An hour before sunset, ten minutes before sunset, and an hour after sunset.
When put alongside one another, the crowds in the canyon
Seem to expand and contract like anything in nature—
There were shifts during seasons, during days of the week.
I see patterns emerge, a story of migration—
Proof that ran counter to the U.S. narrative of foreign invasion.
Rather, showed waves of people, each one different, propelled North by need.
That movement has never ceased.
Looking through the photographs, I can’t help but wonder
If either of my parents were in these crowds—
I know they had both come to Tijuana during the eighties in different years—
And so many who came to the city at that time crossed through the canyon.
I can see them so clearly in that campground—
Young and hopeful and nervous—
Sitting down at a table to get something to eat—
Wrapping their hands around a hot cup of coffee—
Looking over blue jeans or a pair of boots that they had no intention of buying—
Sitting on their haunches, drawing lines in the dirt waiting for the sun to fall
And be lead into a different country by their coyote.
I was born of my father’s and mother’s motion—
Out of their labor, their love, my parents fashioned for me this—
The gift to move unencumbered in any direction I chose, yet—
Amá, Apá— I am always choosing the road back to you.
Alfredo Aguilar is the author of On This Side of the Desert (Kent State University Press 2020) selected by Natalie Diaz for the Stan and Tom Wick Poetry Prize, and the chapbook What Happens On Earth (BOAAT Press 2018). He is a recipient of 92Y’s Discovery Poetry Contest and has been awarded fellowships from MacDowell, the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, and the Frost Place. His work has appeared in The Adroit Journal, Best New Poets 2017, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere. Born and raised in North County San Diego, he now resides in Central Texas. Find more at alfredoaguilar.net.
“READING ABOUT THE SAN DIEGO/TIJUANA AREA” was originally published in Bat City Review Issue 17.