Can I use the holy water too?

Last Wednesday at about 3 o’clock, I walking through campus to my afternoon class, and a girl walked past me with ashes smeared across her forehead. I don’t know if anyone else found this to be odd, but I certainly did not. In fact I was a little surprised I hadn’t seen more of it. You see, in Bisbee I was the oddball; the one walking around without the ashes on my forehead.

Growing up in a border town means growing up with a lot of Mexicans, and that means growing up with a lot of Catholics, which I am not. This meant that I was excluded from many of the things that most of my peers were involved in, like Ash Wednesday. By the time I reached high school, that didn’t bother me at all. But as a young adolescent, trying to fit in with my friends, I just wanted to be like everyone else, and in Bisbee that meant being Catholic.

Think back to when you were in elementary school and junior high. If all of your friends wore polka dot shoes laces, you wanted to too. If all of your friends wanted to dye their hair neon colors, you wanted to too. All of my friends wore gold crosses and I wanted to too.

Being baptized, going to St. Patrick’s every Sunday, going to Catechism after school, buying beautiful, frilly dresses for first communion; my not being Catholic continually kept me from fitting in. After Saturday night sleepovers at my best friend Christina’s house, I would wake up to her family getting ready for church. Christina and I spent the majority of our childhoods together, which meant we were both included in the other’s family events, like going to church. So I went. But I always felt out of place. As everyone in the church stood to take communion, I would sit. My friends and members of my community would all walk past me and quite honestly I felt guilty, like I had done something wrong.

So as that girl walked by me on campus, it got me thinking about Ash Wednesday and Lent when I was in high school. I was one of the few who didn’t give something up for the 40 days prior to Easter. I was one of the few who still ate meat on Fridays*. I was one of the few who wasn't Catholic.

I made momentary eye contact with that girl as she passed by and I think she may have felt like I used to- like the minority.

The pictures in this blog are from:
http://vineyardmen.typepad.com/men_of_the_vineyard/images/ash_wednesday.jpg
http://www.arnettslaboutique.com


*Our cafeteria actually stopped serving meat on Friday during Lent – Now that I think about that, it seems a little odd. Aren’t church and state supposed to be separate? Why would a public school cafeteria not serve meat on Friday during Lent?

But it wasn’t just marijuana,

(For privacy purposes I will not be revealing any information about the people I mention in this blog. Everyone will simply be referred to as a friend.)

I think it’s a pretty widely accepted fact that high school students come into contact with marijuana, and yes, most of them try it. But how do you feel about fourth graders being exposed to it? That’s how old I was the first time I saw drugs at school. My classmate had a stash in his crayon box, which he showed me when the teacher wasn’t paying attention.

Growing up in a border town exposes youth to a drug culture that I have come to understand is not the norm. Drugs flow up from Mexico to be distributed throughout the United States and border towns are the first stop. On the surface Bisbee may appear charming and quaint, but if you look a little deeper, you’ll find a different story.

My reputation in Bisbee was that of a “good kid.” I was always on the honor roll, I was an athlete, I was in student council, yearbook, national honor society… Yet, this culture even found its way to me. I was in the eighth grade the first time I came across a drug other than Marijuana. One of my friends showed up to a slumber party with “Angel Dust”. The rest of us didn’t really know what to think, and most of us didn’t try it, but some did… we were only 13.

And then came high school. I think what marijuana is to most high schools, cocaine is to Bisbee High School. It didn’t take long before I saw friends sniffing the white lines up their nostrils. Coke was a common thing. Most often I would see it at parties, but in reality is was everywhere. It was in people’s cars, it was in people’s wallets, it was in people’s lockers, everywhere. Usually I saw people sniffing it, but once or twice I walking in on a lighter heating up a spoonful to be smoked. If a Bisbee High School student wanted to buy a baggie of coke during lunch hour it wouldn’t have been hard. And the teachers and administration all seemed oblivious. One time, during my first period English class, the subject of drugs came up. We let on to the fact that drugs were very prominent at school and our teacher was absolutely shocked, so was I. I was shocked he didn’t know.

But the students didn’t just use, they dealt too. Someone very close to me got caught up in it and it destroyed our relationship. First he sold only weed, but then he moved on to coke and things got bad. He had access to such large amounts of drugs, that he got hooked. I continually struggled with him over it, but my words fell on deaf ears.

One night, at about 1 a.m., he called me crying and I could tell that he was completely coked up. He quickly ended our conversation and left me on the other end worrying. I decided to drive to his house. When I got there the house was silent, and I peered into his room, but it was empty. Then I heard him crying in the bathroom. I opened the door and a wave of shock ran over me. There was blood everywhere; smeared across the walls, on the bathtub, on the toilet, in the sink, on the floor, and worst of all, all over my friend. I began to panic, but calmed down a little when I figured out it was all coming from his nose. He was shaking, and crying, and talking incoherently. He was terrified that his parents were going to find out so I went to work cleaning up the mess. After I had everything in order, I moved him to his bed and held him in my arms for hours, hoping he would be okay, until he finally calmed down. I’m not going to tell of all of my troubling stories because I could go on and on, but I will say that as a young teenager I dealt with situations like this one far too often.

To make matters worse, some got involved beyond personal use and small time dealing. One of my friends made quite a bit of money driving pounds of marijuana from Bisbee to Tucson. Dealers in Mexico would hook up with dealers in Bisbee, who would pass the drugs on to my friend for transportation to Tucson. Having a young teenage face made it easier to get through Border Patrol stops without being searched.

The heavy drug culture that circulates around Bisbee’s youth is detrimental and undiscriminating. It can find its way to even the “good kids” without much effort. But at that time it didn’t really strike me as unusual. I’d been dealing with it since fourth grade and didn’t know anything different. Now that I’m out of Bisbee, even though I’m much older, I come across drugs far less often. I’ve talked with friends from other areas of the country and when I tell my stories they’re amazed. As far as I can tell, most high school students didn’t face the influence of drugs nearly as much as those of us who attended a border town high school.

Now I worry that the effects are becoming even more harmful. After I graduated and moved away, the meth craze began. Stories from Bisbee about high school students destroying their lives make it to me every so often. Meth is such an addictive drug that even students who plan on trying it once, end up completely ruining their futures.

Honestly, I’m just glad I made it out.

The Sweeter Side

Illegal immigration, underage drinking, easy access to drugs… so far I haven’t painted a very enjoyable picture of the border, which may not be exactly accurate. Living in a border town has plenty of positive sides. Great produce, food and candy, cheap pharmaceuticals and medical work, and the chance to explore another culture sits minutes from our homes.

It’s a sunny Saturday afternoon and there isn’t much to do. People in other cities might head to one of the countless malls or the local theater to absorb more of Hollywood’s take on reality, but living in a border town expands on those options. How about heading across the line for some great fish tacos and a paleta (the Spanish word for popsicle)? Theses bars, made with whole chunks of fruit, became a favorite of mine early on. I always found myself going for the cantaloupe paleta, but the options aren’t limited. Mango, tamarind, strawberry, lime, coconut, arroz con leche, pecan, you name it, they’ve got it.

Oh, and the Mexican candy… yum. I think this is somewhat of a acquired taste, but as Border town kids, we loved it. Peanut mazapan, watermelon and mango lollipops covered in chili, sweet and sour lucas salt… okay, I think I could write a whole blog about the candy, so I’ll stop. But I think you get the idea. .Mexico has a lot to offer and living so close makes it that much easier for us to take advantage.

Beyond great food, living in a Border town has economic advantages. Two of my family members have asthma and buy inhalers on a regular basis. Buying them at U.S. pharmacies can start to add up, so they head down to Naco. It’s about a 10 minute drive to the pharmacies in Mexico, and the prices are MUCH cheaper. I can’t think of any of my friend’s in Bisbee whose families don’t take advantage of this. Whether its inhalers, antibiotics, or heck, I even had a friend who wanted to try out Viagra, Mexican pharmacies are cheap and convenient. And some people take it one step further. My uncle gets his allergy shots in Naco, one of my friends has all of her dental work done there, and another one of my friends had her braces put on in Mexico. For those of us who live in Border towns, Mexico is our resource and putting it use seems quite ordinary.

(By the way, purchasing pharmaceuticals in Mexico is illegal in the U.S. if you don’t have a prescription)

Photos in the blog came from the following Web sites:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/warmnfuzzy/161894796/
http://www.mexgrocer.com/9223.html
http://members.virtualtourist.com/m/1f247/e9cb4/a/
http://www.shop-progreso.com/dentists/marco_ramirez/index.html
http://westernblues.blogspot.com/2005_08_01_westernblues_archive.html

And I was only 15

Dancing and having fun with my friends – that’s what I thought it was all about. Being beaten, raped, robbed, or even worse just didn’t cross my mind.

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.

What this blog is all about

With my last blog, I just jumped right in. I offered no explanation for why my blog exists and what I want to do with it over this semester. So that’s what I’m here to do. The name, Living on the Line, refers to growing up in a border town.

Growing up, I did realize that living where I did provided me with many unique experiences. I guess just how different life in a border town can be didn’t really hit me until I moved away. So I’d like to use this semester to dig into some of those differences. In my last blog I talked my experiences with illegal immigrants. But, constantly seeing illegal immigrants is only one of the many, many parts of living on the border.

There are so many things I could write about:

Attending the public schools in Bisbee was quite an experience. Being white made me the minority. I faced racial discrimination, and had to constantly defend myself- verbally and sometimes physically because I was a “white girl.”

Throughout my high school life I saw more drugs than what I now realize is normal for a high school student. The drug culture is huge in most border towns and even as a young girl it was hard to avoid.

The opportunities to experience another culture are everywhere. From going over to Mexico to get lunch on a weekend afternoon, to participating in a middle school exchange program with students in Mexico, to learning the language, living on the border lets you see Mexico in a way others can’t. And let’s not forget about the food. The authentic Mexican food cooked by my friend’s mothers just can’t be topped.

As 16 year old kids we could drive across the border and go to clubs at all hours of the night. The dangers we faced there were very real and when I look back on those experiences, I’m surprised nobody ever got hurt.

Those topics are just a few I would like to cover this semester. If there are any others that you readers would like to hear about, just let me know.

I get to decide their fate

Without any true qualifications and for really no good reason at all, I get to decide the fate of illegal immigrants trying to make their way into the United States.
My home in Bisbee is on the edge of town, three miles from the Mexican border. Our kitchen has a large bay window facing the unoccupied mountains that separate the US from Mexico. So when I emerge from bed in the morning, get my bowl of shredded wheat and plop down at our kitchen table, this is the picturesque view I enjoy. But far too often this docile scene is disrupted by a tired, hungry, and determined line of people walking steadily towards town.
So time and time again I am faced with the same decision; do I call the Border Patrol or do I let these people, who have spent their life savings, and risked their lives to get here, complete their journey? There are two very compelling arguments for both sides of this question and for a long time, without a strong opinion to pull me to one side or the other, I remained inactive. But right there I had made a decision. By not doing anything, I was helping all of these illegal immigrants successfully enter the United States.
The rants of our government and media saying, “We must protect our borders!” and their claims that terrorists could make their way into the US by crossing the Mexican border would creep into my mind. Arguments about the loss of jobs to illegal immigrants willing to work for far below minimum wage and the heavy burden that illegal immigrants put on our healthcare system would wander through my thoughts. But then I would look at them. It was not uncommon to see women and children walking through my “front yard.” I would imagine myself in their position: trying to make a better life for myself and my family, just trying to survive, and I was torn.
But then the problem got worse. Lines of up to twenty illegal immigrants were passing by every couple of days. Their paths were getting closer and closer to my house. And then finally, a man knocked on our door. In broken English he asked to use the phone. At first we refused, but when he came back a second time, he said his family needed help. We allowed him to use our phone, and shortly after a truck pulled up in front of our house and about fifteen people emerged from the bushes to pile in. He had lied. Most likely he was the coyote in charge of leading this group into the US. The following day eight more illegal immigrants were picked up in our driveway and with that, we called the Border Patrol. It seems they had tagged our house as a safe spot. Not calling was one thing, but actually aiding them was quite another.
Now, when we see those lines of solemn immigrants walking across the hills in front of my house, we feel compelled to call the Border Patrol. And with each one of those phone calls, I know that I have ruined someone’s dreams for a better life. But, I also know that I have done right by our government and by our law. But who is to say which is better. After all, just because our government decides something does not make it right. Overall, it is a decision that I feel unqualified to make, but Living on the Line forces me to do just that.