My watch died in Tijuana. I was waiting in front of the gigantic orange dusted beams made of concrete, attached to the sign “US Customs and Border Patrol,” next to 6 or 8 lanes of cars, in the middle of a line of white tourists with baseball caps fringed with sweat stains, brown families with samsonite and happiness and something else I couldn’t figure out, and black security guards with sunglasses and 360-degree brimmed hats to keep the Mexican side of the border out of their eyes.
I flicked my wrist and brought my watch into view. The face, blank.
I blinked twice before I looked at it again. I bought it off Amazon.com thinking that it was a good deal. The cheapest and the bestest, as my aunt from Meerut would say. She was the only from India that could make my sister’s wedding; everyone else who wanted to come, couldn’t. My uncle and aunt in India who spent hours and hours of telephone calls with my mom in Houston in the middle of the night, or early in the morning, imagining each detail of my sister’s wedding, writing down that piece of their imagination, and buy items according to their imagination-map, couldn’t make it to the wedding.
My watch was solar-powered. I thought the Tijuana sun would make it stronger.
We were walking to the concrete orange monster structure from my friend’s house; it was a one-night deal since I live so close to the border. Tijuana is easy from LA if you have a car, money, and a U.S. passport.
My friend told me that there have been marches in Tijuana in opposition to Arizona’s anti-immigrant law. They were massive, I think. My friend’s friend pointed at my friend’s shirt, laughed, and said “get out of here Arizona!” It had “southwestern” design on it. Throughout the night, he oscillated between hiding his shirt with his borrowed jacket or saying it was from New Mexico. Each time, everyone around him giggled, including him. I even got in on the joke once or twice, but didn’t want to overdo it because it would have been too much.
We searched for food at 3am on Calle Sexto, and found tortas of savory mayonnaise and the thinnest portobello mushroom slices, skinny avocado pieces, and onions and who knows what else. I usually hate portobello mushrooms, but it was good that night. The bread was flaky and soft, and not anything like any torta I’ve ever had. My friend told me that the owner of the torta restaurant was deported. He lived in Riverside, and he said he couldn’t live there no more. He was on the run, my friend said.
I looked at my partner and told her it was dead. I looked around, she looked at me, and she smiled at me below her faux ray-bans. I pursed my lips, shuffled my feet a few feet forward, and waited.
My watch died in Tijuana. I was waiting in front of the gigantic orange dusted beams made of concrete, attached to the sign “US Customs and Border Patrol,” next to 6 or 8 lanes of cars, in the middle of a line of white tourists with baseball caps fringed with sweat stains, brown families with samsonite and happiness and something else I couldn’t figure out, and black security guards with sunglasses and 360-degree brimmed hats to keep the Mexican side of the border out of their eyes.
I flicked my wrist and brought my watch into view. The face, blank.
I blinked twice before I looked at it again. I bought it off Amazon.com thinking that it was a good deal. The cheapest and the bestest, as my aunt from Meerut would say. She was the only from India that could make my sister’s wedding; everyone else who wanted to come, couldn’t. My uncle and aunt in India who spent hours and hours of telephone calls with my mom in Houston in the middle of the night, or early in the morning, imagining each detail of my sister’s wedding, writing down that piece of their imagination, and buy items according to their imagination-map, couldn’t make it to the wedding.
My watch was solar-powered. I thought the Tijuana sun would make it stronger.
We were walking to the concrete orange monster structure from my friend’s house; it was a one-night deal since I live so close to the border. Tijuana is easy from LA if you have a car, money, and a U.S. passport.
My friend told me that there have been marches in Tijuana in opposition to Arizona’s anti-immigrant law. They were massive, I think. My friend’s friend pointed at my friend’s shirt, laughed, and said “get out of here Arizona!” It had “southwestern” design on it. Throughout the night, he oscillated between hiding his shirt with his borrowed jacket or saying it was from New Mexico. Each time, everyone around him giggled, including him. I even got in on the joke once or twice, but was careful not to overdo it.
We searched for food at 3am on La Sexta, and found tortas of savory mayonnaise and the thinnest portobello mushroom slices, skinny avocado pieces, and onions and who knows what else. I usually hate portobello mushrooms, but it was good that night. The bread was flaky and soft, and not anything like any torta I’ve ever had. My friend told me that the owner of the torta restaurant was deported. He lived in Riverside, and he said he couldn’t live there no more. He was on the run, my friend said.
I look at my partner and told her it was dead. I looked around, she looked at me, and she smiled at me below her faux ray-bans. I pursed my lips, shuffled my feet forward, bumped someone’s samsonite, and waited.
Immigration, Law-ing | 1 Comment »
