Supermen

*Art by Lalo Alcaraz

"¿Cómo estás?" I asked Profe Julio as I entered the teacher's workroom on Monday afternoon. "Bien guapo" he answered, sailing by me with a sly smile on his face.

Last Saturday, Alec and I decided to join a California group that normally advocates for immigrants' rights while they distributed aid near the epicenter of the earthquake, south of Mexicali. We drove east through the Rumorosa and promptly got lost upon entering Mexicali. Finally, we saw the caravan of vehicles with handmade white flags hanging from their cars in the Mega parking lot. We inserted my Mazda in the line of overstuffed trucks and headed south.

It started looking pretty rural as we drove the dusty dirt roads south of Mexicali. As we arrived at our first stop, we saw people gathered in a small plaza and clusters of Mexican army vehicles. It was a little awkward, we had a lot of stuff but Mexico clearly had the situation in control. Large military tents with roll down screens and cots formed a square that included a food commissary and medical post. It was clean and orderly. Soldiers quickly unloaded eighteen wheelers full of food aid. "There are about eighty families living here," our leader told us, after speaking with the soldiers, "but they say there are more people about three blocks away that don't want to stay here because they need to stay by their damaged houses and protect them from looters".

We moved the trucks three blocks away. People began gathering immediately. I wondered what would happen, how would we distribute the stuff, would it get out of control? The waiting people asked us what we wanted them to do, form a line? Yeah, yeah, sounds good. We started unloading the trucks and were promptly assisted by members of the damaged community. They formed a chain and started off loading the trucks so efficiently that I felt like I was getting in the way and moved. I have volunteered with various groups that work with Mexicans in need and have noticed a common thread. The people that I have assisted are not hapless and don't like being treated like babies. In the desert, the first instinct for many of us when encountering ill people is to try to wait on them hand and foot. They don't like it. They are in the middle of a bad situation, yes, but they are not children. They want to cook their own food, load water in trucks, basically, help. At the migrant house in Tijuana, we are constantly visited in the kitchen by recently deported migrants that want to help cook, clean up, do something. Again, they are not children and we are not saviors.

We moved on to the next site. As we drove, I had the weird sensation that I have experienced many times in the desert. Weird stuff happens in the afternoon when you think your job is done. I remembered the helicopter evacuation, the three men that hadn't eaten in five days, the two men laying by the road with their ID cards spread out in front of them...It was obvious which roads had always been bad and which were simply ripped apart by the earthquake. People saw our trucks and began motioning and calling "Over there, over there". We came upon another plaza. A collapsed elementary school sat across from it. Distribution areas were marked, "Hot food" and "Potable water", but there did not appear to be much of either. People started gathering. A leader from the ejido approached and introduced herself. "Put the stuff here and organize it: food, toiletries, water and clothes. Save the camping stuff, I have a list of who really needs it. I'm going to tell them to line up, old people first". I was relieved to see her. A group of ten year-old kids showed up, all wearing identical Superman T-shirts. They helped unload the trucks and sort the stuff. I was in charge of toilet paper and soap and whatever else I could get my hands on. And then they started coming, quickly, and every time I looked the line looked longer than before. I had people on all sides of me; it felt like the restaurant rush. But instead of feeling bitchy, I actually felt completely in my element. Things were moving quickly and the Supermen helped us. "What can I give you, what do you need?" I asked one Señora. "Anything you are willing..." she answered quietly. Don't worry, I loaded her down with stuff. The endless thank you's were awkward. I know it is a social convention and that the recipients of our aid wanted to be polite, but I never know how to respond, in the desert or in Mexicali. "You're welcome"? For what, giving a thirsty person water? Awfully big of you. I settled on "Suerte": Good luck. Good luck with your collapsed town. Not the best, but all I could come up with.

I had to cross to San Ysidro again the other day. As I returned, an American agent approached a Hispanic woman in front of the turnstile to Mexico. "Can I see in your purse?" he asked, more as a statement than a question. She looked baffled. "I'm going to Mexico" she responded, confused. "Are you saying I can't look in your purse?" the agent barked. One little phrase would be very useful to these agents and they may want to learn it in Spanish, as they seem to only stop Hispanics at the turnstile. "This is a routine check. We are assisting the Mexican government to stop the flow of fire arms from the U.S. to Mexico. Can I look in your purse?". I passed through the turnstile, unmolested. Again, in the no man's land between the two fences, I saw a Border Patrol truck. Two agents stood talking and laughing, while a man crouched on the ground between them, his hands secured behind his back.

I think I am a little agitated the last couple of days. I know someone of questionable legal status that is returning to Mexico to see a possibly dying relative. Okay, it's their mother. I have offered what little assistance I can offer that is within the law, as I have no desire to spend time in some tent jail in Arizona. It is not needed. He knows what he is doing and is going to do it. I'm agitated by this new law in Arizona. A police officer will be able to stop anyone that they suspect is in the country illegally and ask them to prove their legal status in the U.S. Supporters of the bill claim it is not going to lead to racial profiling, yet cannot explain how one arrives at this suspicion of illegality. Special clothes? Weird shoes? Or let me guess...having brown skin? If a cop approached me and asked me to prove that I am legally in the U.S., I wouldn't necessarily be able to do it. I thought "Show me your papers" only happened in World War II movies. But you know what? No one is going to stop me. I'm white. An unmistakable euro-mutt. I am not sure how many of you have spent time in the American Southwest, but the ethnic makeup is decidedly Latino. Hell, it was Mexican land. It sounds like if you're brown, be sure to carry identification and be prepared to show it regularly or spend who knows how long in jail because some cop doesn't like the look of you, whether you are a citizen or not. "But this is the USA!" you say. No, not in Arizona.

Our military is also largely Latino now. I'm intrigued to see the outcome when the first cop asks some recently returned Latino vet to prove his or her legal status. Oh, but I lose myself sometimes. It's okay to send Latinos into U.S. wars, or U.S. construction sites, or U.S. kitchens. But the rest of the time they are supposed to remember that they don't have rights.

I guess you could say that I am agitated.