Living close to Mexico can provide great opportunities to experience another culture and its customs, but it can also provide many dangers. As soon as you step over that line, the customs and laws of the U.S. no longer govern your actions. Instead you are subject to a new set of laws and for a group of high school students bored on a Friday night, the temptations are great.
I was 15 the first time I went to a night club in Mexico. Looking back on that experience I can’t believe I went. I had no idea what I was in for.
Going over there is a lot easier than most people think. You drive to a parking lot near the port of entry, walk across, and within two blocks you’ll be at your first club. Forget that you are obviously underage – nobody cares. There is nobody at the border making sure you’re at least 18, and the bouncers at the clubs couldn’t care less how old you are. We all thought it was great. We could dance. We could drink. We could do whatever we wanted. Nobody cared. But that was just it. Not only did nobody care what we did, but nobody cared what happened to us.
As a group of young teenagers none of us had much experience with alcohol. We didn’t know how to drink responsibly and soon enough nobody was really in control. One of my girlfriends was pulled into a small room connected to the club, but none of us even noticed she was gone. Three men, two of them club employees, spoke to her in Spanish. She tried to back away, but they wouldn’t let her leave. As the men approached her another club employee came in and began yelling at the three men. They argued aggressively, but finally let her go. Thankfully nothing happened to her, but something so easily could have.
As the night progressed our group got separated. I don’t know what it is about being a teenager, but it somehow gives you the feeling of invincibility. We thought nothing bad could happen to us and we acted accordingly. When I finally decided to leave the club, I was with only one of my girlfriends. Everyone in the group had split up, heading for nearby clubs. As we left, four Mexican girls, all much older than us, started screaming at my friend. Neither of us understood what they were saying, but before I knew it all four of them were attacking her. I tried to pull them off of her, but with all of the limbs and dust and chaos, I couldn’t even see what was going on. My friend was screaming, they were kicking and punching her, and I was getting tangled up in the mess. A few guys that were standing nearby ran over and pulled our attackers off just long enough for us to run. And that’s what we did. We ran all the way back to the border.
And once again I saw that nobody cared. We were both covered in blood and slightly incoherent, but besides asking us for our residency, the agents at the border didn’t seem to think anything of us.
Events like this one were quite common for the high school students in my town. But many of us were willing to risk the dangers of heading down to clubs in Mexico in exchange for the excitement it provided. I can’t tell you how many terrifying stories I heard, yet we still went, and the high school students today still go. Now, looking back, I am very aware that my decision and the decision of my friends to ignore those dangers was a terrible one. We weren’t old enough or mature enough to take care of ourselves, but we didn’t know that and Mexico didn’t care. So although Living on the Line does provide many positive opportunities, it also presents some very scary, dangerous ones as well.
Here is a link to Pachanga's website, the club that most of us went to in high school.
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