Gray, black or white?

The people I rely on for rides all have cars in various states of disrepair. Profe Josefina's van doesn't have any seats in the back. When she gives us rides home, various teachers roll around in the back wearing skirts and heels as we drive the potholed streets of TJ. Profe Hector's passenger door can only be opened from the outside. Profe Roberto's seats don't move forward, the only way out is to crawl through the middle of the two front seats or wedge oneself through a small crack between the seat and the door, which always makes the horn honk. I envy the cars that they use to shuttle between their various teaching jobs - though most work from early morning until late at night. "Not by choice" they tell me.

Profe Hector invited Alec and me to his house for lunch. He even picked us up and drove us up a long, dirt road that climbed a tall hill that lead to his house. The "road" was better suited for an off road vehicle. Cars drove on all sides of the path, blowing dirt and dust skyward as they skirted huge holes. "The road is fea" he laughed, "but I like it up here. It's tranquilo" he told us as we bounced up the dusty trail. It sounded like the wheels were going to fall off of his little compact car. "I got this car for $350 in Anaheim, I've had it five years!" he explained "But I don't like that sound it's making".

No one is from Tijuana. They came here for work and made a life. But they all speak wistfully of the various parts of Mexico where they grew up. Many phrases begin with "Mi pueblo...." as their eyes gloss over. Roberto says that Guadalajara is the most beautiful city in Mexico. Hector talks of growing up in a pueblo in Nayarit; he and his friends would hike mountains until they reached waterfalls and pass the day swimming in the pools. I imagine thin, brown boys, laughing and jumping in an Eden-like setting. Profe Patricia speaks of the wonders of Oaxaca and the marvels of its cuisine. The flip flop wearing man at the plant nursery said he hated Tijuana at first, but came to love it after he built his plant sanctuary that shields him from the grittiness of Cucapah, one of the main arteries that cuts through town. He and his family live in a shanty-like house surrounded by an inner layer of plants, caged birds and chickens, and an outer layer of exhaust, calafias and cement.

I haven't felt the urge to "rescue" people and encourage them to go to the U.S. When I watch documentaries about the lost boys of Sudan I am horrified by the lives they lead in the U.S., shuttling on public buses in cold climates to various low paying jobs. Alone, without friends or family in a completely foreign place. The various undocumented Mexicans that I know in Atlanta speak of how much they miss Mexico, the food, the pueblos, their families, being in a culture that is theirs. They live in cheap apartments or trailer parks, work any job that will pay the bills and pass decades worrying that a simple traffic stop could lead to deportation. At times I wonder if it is worth it.

Nor have I been a strong advocate of working in the American, public schools. It frustrates me when politicians rant about the need for "quality" teachers in our institutions. Many quality educators enter the schools with the best of intentions and exemplary qualifications, only to decide that they didn't build a hot shit resume to be treated like crap all day. Provide a quality job and you will get quality people. Disenfranchise and disrespect a qualified professional and you will end up with people that can't get a job anywhere else.

Lately, I find myself wanting to drag some of my fellow educators to the U.S. There are chemical engineers at my school working for $5 per hour. And they can't even count on the hours. One semester they may have 30 hours, the next 20, without notice or explanation. They are assigned classes that are completely outside of their fields. They are not granted sick days. Or vacations. Some work for free on Saturdays. I find myself thinking "They can't do this at home" over and over.

Making quesadillas for over sixty people is kind of tricky. Especially when many of them may not have eaten in days. I got a little in the weeds while making dinner at Casa del Migrante. I nice man from Honduras stopped eating and came to the flat top to help me out. As soon as we stopped cooking, migrants swarmed the kitchen to clean it up. They ripped the grill apart while it was still blazing hot and scrubbed every inch; they didn't stop until they had scrubbed everything, including the oven hood. And all of the dishes. And mopped the floor. It was a little awkward asking multiple men what size underwear the wear. They get a clean change of clothes every three days, I couldn't bear the idea of them walking around in too small underwear for 72 hours. They were cool, even requesting various colors from the bin I manned. After spending days and sometimes weeks in the backs of American migra trucks and jails, they were bien polite and friendly with the American woman that popped up in a mission house in Tijuana for the recently deported and the ambitious who were about to cross.