Not only do I have the opportunity to make my own legacy by having a life sized, realistic Velociraptor in my garden, I can purchase him for only $2250.
That's what I call a real bargain!
So, I am now a Speedy Thief and a muscular menace! I do eat meat, but mostly only in Argentina. I have terrifying bicuspids! RAWR!
I have not frequented the nail salon, so I can say that my feet are looking a little beastly right now.
I remember my dad calling me "The Shark" when I was a kid since I would wander about the house with items appropriated from hapless family members at inopportune moments of their lives.
I want to slap that sucker in my garden. I can't wait to see the reaction on some people's faces when they walk up to my front door.
It's like he's saying, "Hey, yo! What's happenin'? Fancy a skip in my garden? Don't go eatin' my birds now, yo."
An exciting thing is that I don't have to deal with snowy winters anymore as I am now a Floridian Transplant. I do have to deal with hot, humid summers from about mid-March to mid-October, though. Winter here in Florida is cold. That being said, even though Florida is part of North America. We typically have two seasons: hot and cold. There is no in between.
You're probably shaking your head and wondering..."What does she mean that it's cold in Florida?"
I shall explain.
Florida, being humid year round, experiences a few months of chilly to cold weather in the wintertime. When it is 60 degrees here in Florida, it's cold. It's a wet kind of cold.
As a kid growing up in Kansas, anytime the forecasters said, "Well, folks, It's going to be 60 degrees tomorrow" in December or January, that meant you could run around like Superman without a jacket and wear shorts and a tank top. My dad used that term whenever he noticed I ran around without a jacket or sweater. "You are not Superman!" he would shout at me with his Ecuadorean accent. "You are going to get sick!" "Sick" always sounded more like "seek".
Another thing about living in the Land of Four Seasons is that you have to wake up extra early to warm up your car when it's cold. You have to scrape ice or snow off of your windshield. You run the risk of your boogers freezing while prepping yourself for your daily bump and grind, like if the weather is below 20 degree Fahrenheit. Do I want to do that all time? No, thanks. Although, living in Kansas does have its benefits.
This summer, I will hopefully be going home for a few weeks to enjoy the summer heat of Kansas. Kansas summers to me are incredibly hot, but at least they won't be as humid as they are here in Florida. It seems to only get humid before it's going to rain in Kansas. One thing I really like is when you first walk outside in the summer. It's like a blast of nice, hot air in your face. I like getting nice and tan. :D
If I were to move back now, after having a ten year absence with exception of family vacations, I might have a better tolerance for the nasty weather. In Kansas, you can experience the four seasons in merely one day. Once, I wore shorts in the morning as it was 80 degrees outside. By nightfall, it was snowing. I don't know many places in the world that can do that in one day.
All of this nostalgia for my home state reminds me of the last winter I spent at home before moving out to Florida ten years ago. I lived for 21 years in the Land of Oz
before moving out to the Paradise of Alligators, Beaches and Bugs.
I worked at a place called the "Nazarene Publishing House" back in 2003-04. As the name implies, it was a place where books were published. I didn't spend my time working with books, though. I worked in their cafeteria. The former manager is one of my mom's best friends, Nancy. She is an amazing cook. :D This place was located on Troost Avenue in Kansas City, Missouri, in a pretty crappy area of town. When it was first founded in 1912, the area in which the NPH is located was a nice place. Not so much now. Even the Hostess head bakery was located next door. I could actually touch the Twinkie Building! Now, there's nothing but resident hookers and crackheads on every corner. But apparently, there are plans to revitalize the area. Good luck with that, City Commissioners!
Run away!!!
One day, in February '04, I was hard at work in the kitchen, cleaning and cooking. A blizzard was forecast for the day. I didn't think anything of it, as I was used to snowstorms. I wasn't expecting it to come until late afternoon. My car at the time was a 1994 Mitsubishi Mirage, 5 Speed, Periwinkle Blue, with "Hello, Kitty!" car seat covers.
Mine had Black Spray paint on the hubcaps. Thanks, Dad!
The Ren-Mobile, a great little car for driving in the snow. It would only take me about 30 minutes to drive to work or home. Work was 8 miles from my house. No biggie, right?
Well, this particular day the president of our company sent us home early because the forecasters kept saying "It's a doozy out there folks!" It turns out that February was one of the snowiest on record, which has been surpassed by now, I believe.
Everyone else in the House was able to leave right then and there, but we kitchen workers still had food to pack up, dishes to wash, tables to clean, food to restock, etc.
When I got out to the parking lot and my car, five inches of snow had since fallen since that morning. I started my car to warm it up. Grabbing my ice scraper from the back seat, I began to brush snow off my car since it's against the law in Missouri and Kansas to have snow all over your car while driving. Snow has the potential to fly off your roof and hit someone's windshield, thus causing a visual barrier. It's some sort of liability issue. It's ridiculous.
Twenty minutes later, I'm still brushing snow off of my car. Meanwhile, the snow is falling fast and accumulating quickly. I hop in the car, put my car in reverse and all I can hear is my tires spinning. So... I get out AGAIN! I figured if my tires were spinning, what I needed to do was scoop snow from underneath my car in order to back out of my car space. I'm laying there on my stomach, scooping snow from underneath my wheels, on the corner of 29th and Troost Avenue in Kansas City, Missouri, which, mind you, is a VERY BAD area of town. Anyone from KC on both sides of the state line know not to go in that area after 5 pm. All I'm doing is shoveling snow from underneath my car and my tires. I am laying there on my stomach and thinking, "I could get shot at or mugged and have my car stolen".
After spending 10 minutes backing my car out, success! Kansas City lies on some pretty large hills and river bluffs. Everyone hears that Kansas is flat. Well, not eastern Kansas.
Trying to drive either up or down these bluffs and hills with snow and ice on the road is just a tad difficult. I decided I was going to take the "Long Way" home, which is more or less flat, but takes me about ten to fifteen minutes more time. It's more or less the same distance, but there's more stop and go traffic. The publishing house is only 8 miles from my parents house, if you take the Interstate and go the way of the hilly side roads, but it takes awhile to get to and from going the backroads because of stop and go traffic.
Route A in Grey; Route B "The Long Way" in Blue
I'm driving south on Troost Ave., all the while praying to God that I don't get stopped by somebody demanding my car or worse, pointing a gun at me. I'm the only one on the road, except for the homeless people and neighborhood crack heads sitting on the benches, waiting for buses.
Driving in the snow takes great care. I'm not sure what your expertise is driving in the snow, but my motto is "Safety First". I don't care if you are an expert at driving in the snow. I will be a slow driver until I feel I can drive safely at a fast speed. Any of you can drive as fast as you want and flip me the bird...I still don't care. Safety First.
As I am heading south on Troost towards 43rd Street, I see that I have a green light! "Green light, go! Heck, yeah!" I thought to myself. I'm finally emerging from the bad area of Troost and Gang... Accelerating carefully, I am near the intersection, when all of a sudden...out of NOWHERE, there's a guy crossing the intersection, crossing Troost. All I can think of is, "WTH?! I'm the only person out here on the road. Can't you merely wait until I cross through the intersection? Don't you know that I have the right of way since I am the one with a green light?! ARGH!!!"
Of course, I slow down because I don't want to get a ticket, just in case there are cops hanging out and about, you know. As I stop at the intersection, with a green light pour moi, mind you, I notice that this man is wearing shorts. SHORTS! IN WINTER!! DURING A SNOWSTORM! Picking his way carefully across the walk, I also notice his legs are VERY white. I thought to myself, "This poor black man is so cold, and wearing shorts, that his skin has turned white! Aw, poor guy!" If I had had a blanket or a jacket, I would have gotten out of the car and given him one.
Upon further observation, I noticed why his legs were white. They were prosthetics.
With my mouth agape, all I could think of was how absurd this all was to me. As he finished walking across, I put my car in first gear, skidded, slipped and slid some more. I was prevented from leaving my new perch because, guess what? My green light had turned red. Boo. I sat there some more thinking, "Lord, why do I encounter the most random stuff?! Answer this for me."
With the light finally turning green, I slowly made my way to the next intersection where a Metro Bus was stopped and surrounded by, guess what this time?! Cop cars, paramedics and fire engines. I couldn't see this down the road six blocks because in a snow storm, you can't see squat more than 10 feet in front of you. It's impossible.
Yet again, I had a green light, but yet again, I was prevented from going through the intersection by a police officer. He motioned for me to roll my window down. He asked me where I was going.
"I'm going home from work, Officer." I said.
"Where's home?" he asked, eyeing my little blue car with suspicion.
"Merriam, in Johnson County, where I live with my parents." Saying that you're from Johnson County while you're in KC is your ticket anywhere.
"Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am. It's just your car looked suspicious with those spray-painted hubcaps of yours." I rolled my eyes, and said "Thank my dad for that one. He didn't like silver color that they were and thinks they look better spray painted black. But, since you've stopped me, can you tell me what's going on?"
Turns out that an attempted purse snatching had occurred on the bus. The intended victim was a little old lady who had a heart attack that had to be carried out on a stretcher. The assailant was arrested by one of the cops and they were waiting for backup. The cop moved me along and I was on my merry way.
It took me TWO HOURS to drive 8 miles. Luckily, I didn't have any more strange encounters. When I got home, I wasn't able to park my car in the driveway because a foot of snow had fallen. That's how fast it snowed in the two to three hours I had left since work. I had to park my car across the street. As soon as I got inside, my mother impatiently asked me for the meal that I had brought home from work.
"Are you going to give me any of Nancy's food?" she asked, pursing her lips.
I was in such a bad mood that I said, "No. I'm going to eat this myself."
I told her about my day. Mom had absolutely no sympathy for me.
As absurd as that whole story was, I certainly did not bat an eye. I seem to be destined for interesting things and events.
Sometimes, it can be used to remember a loved one that has gone the Way of Yonder, a.k.a. Death. Other times, it can be used to remember a painful memory. Lastly, it can be used to remember something so memorable, that it's worth laughing about.
Today, I was doing some of the latter.
I was at a friend's house today, regaling her with stories. I honestly don't remember how I got on the subject of awkward people, but I remembered this story of a girl from my time at Flagler College. Reason being...this girl was really weird.
Here, I shall pause and say, I'm kind of weird, too. I'm weird in a fascinating and funny way. I am unique! You won't find anyone else like me. None of this creepy crap with me. No way, José! I am blunt and realistic.
For the last four semesters of my undergrad, I attended Flagler College. Flagler College is a nice little college in Saint Augustine, Florida, that caught my eye for many reasons.
Not only is it a beautiful college campus, but they have reputable academics and small classes, which appealed to me. In 2004, it had a stained glass minor. I had never heard of a college with that kind of a program, so naturally, I wanted to minor in stained glass! As the Vallazza-Luck would have it, the year I arrived was the last year that anyone could enter that particular minor program. So, I switched to Spanish as my major and Creative Writing as my minor.
My first class on the very first day of my "career" at Flagler was "Theatre History". I sat down on the risers with my notebook, pen and paper. The room began to fill up with other students. I didn't know a single soul since I had just moved from Kansas. At last, class began and our teacher, Andrea, went over the syllabus. Just as she was finishing, in walks a mulatto-skinned girl with long hair wearing brogue shoes, a long skirt, a white t-shirt, and a unibrow meant to be the envy of Frida Kahlo. She dragged a suitcase on wheels wrapped in silver duct tape. She found a seat and abruptly sat down.
Her suitcase was one that rolls with an extendable handle.
Andrea, the professor, greeted her. "Hello, Renee."
Renee looks at Andrea. Without a smile of acknowledgement in return, she opens her mouth and releases the most basso profundo voice I have ever heard on a woman. "HULLO!"
Her voice, manly and coming from what seemed like an endless abyss, sounded just like a foghorn.
This was the first of four semesters that I was to have experience with the girl I shall refer henceforth as "The Foghorn", except in case when it has to do with my name or hers, which are both very similar. I had many classes with this girl. In fact, not a single semester at Flagler was spent without having her in at least ONE of my classes. One semester, she was in TWO. That was a nightmare.
The Foghorn was, what I will delicately say here, socially awkward and inept. The poor thing had very limited social skills and really needed friends to help her. She was pretty polite, but as I mentioned before, her social skills were severely lacking. Surprising for a theatre major.
One of many experiences I had with The Foghorn was when I somehow got roped into being the "Inter Club Council" member. A friend of mine got sick and could no longer attend the meetings as the ICC rep so she elected me to be the ICC member. That meant that I had to pal around with The Foghorn. As I've mentioned before, this girl's name is Renee. My nickname is "Ren" or "Renny". People were always confusing us because our names are so similar.
However, does that mean I think it's funny or okay to confuse us both?
NO!
I don't even resemble this girl in any way shape or form, so I felt slightly insulted each time the mistake was made. She had long hair, bushy eyebrows, café au lait skin, and dressed in potato sacks. My hair was short, sculpted eyebrows, Beaner skin and I wore shorts and a tank top with flip flops.
Costa Rica, 2006.
Anyways...back to my story.
For Christmas 2004, we had to come up with an ornament to put on the Christmas tree in the rotunda in the Ponce De Leon hall at Flagler. Me, being creative with wannabe flair, wanted to come up with something snazzy. The Foghorn took it upon herself to decorate an ornamental ball she found at Michael's with red puff paint that simply said 'ARIEL' Spanish Club. We were supposed to place the ornament on a tree during a special ceremony. The club with the best ornament was to have won something pretty awesome, which must not have been that awesome because I can't remember what it was.
The Foghorn told me to meet her at her dorm room at 5:45 p.m.. I had just recently moved off campus, about three blocks away. As I was getting ready, I realized what time it was, 5:30 p.m., and ran three blocks in heels.
I sweat the entire way there. Running up two flights of stairs to her room, I see the door ajar. I knock, wait a moment, hear no answer and very gently pushed the door open.
Lo and behold...The Foghorn is hanging around in her undergarments and she's typing away on her computer. Not even remotely getting ready.
"Uh...you told me to meet you here at 5:45. You're not even ready! I just ran three blocks and two flights of stairs. In heels, I might add. " I said, exasperated.
With her booming, manly voice, The Foghorn says, "YEAH. I KNOW."
"Aren't you going to start getting ready?" I asked.
"YEAH," she boomed.
"Well, I'll just wait for you downstairs," I said, rolling my eyes.
"YEAH. YOU CAN DO THAT," honked The Foghorn. And she went back to her computer.
Annoyed, I walked down the stairs and headed straight for the cafeteria. I had some remaining meals on my plan and decided to get an ice cream. In fact, I went and got TWO. Yeah!
In the time it took for The Foghorn to get ready and come down, I had eaten one cone. By this time, it was 6:05 and the ceremony had begun. The choir was screeching Christmas carols and I was well on my way licking down my second cone. The Foghorn carried our drab looking, golden ornament in her hands.
The clubs were called alphabetically. ARIEL was the second club called up to the front for the night. After the first club went, hung their ornament, they handed The Foghorn the microphone. I am almost finished with my cone. All that remains is the actual cone itself, so I shove it into my mouth so that people aren't looking at me eating ice cream in front of the whole school.
She blasts into it, "My name...UM.... is Renee <Insert Last Name Here>. UH....UM....UH...I'm the president of...UM...UH...ARIEL, the Spanish club. And this is...UH....UM..."
She thrusts the microphone in front of my mouth.
CRUNCH!!! CRUNCH!!! CRUNCH!!!
All you can hear through the microphone is me munching on the rest of my ice cream cone.
"THAT'S REN. SHE HAS AN ICE CREAM CONE IN HER MOUTH. SHE IS THE ICC REP FOR ARIEL," announces The Foghorn.
Mortified, I manage a goofy smile with bits of cone in my mouth. I wave at everyone like a dolt.
I hand the microphone to someone else and we hang the ornament together onto the tree. As soon as that was over, I left. LOL.
Another case in point was class.
The Foghorn had this special knack for asking questions. Lots of them. Which is fine, mind you. There's nothing wrong in asking questions, especially if the meanings or context elude you. The Foghorn would ask questions when the answer was obvious, or if it were in the textbook, or in the discussion.
Here is an example from a blog I wrote back in 2005. I was taking a "Literatura Española" class (Spanish Literature Class) and The Foghorn was in that class. As I mentioned before, The Foghorn was the PRESIDENT of the Spanish club, ARIEL, at Flagler. How she got that position, I have NO IDEA because the poor girl was not fluent verbally in Spanish. All you could get out of her were deep vocalizations of "UH's" and "UM's" in between incoherent Spanish words and phrases.
Read the excerpt below from November 3rd, 2005.
I think I've mentioned that I have a particular classmate that is really loud, but also just doesn't get it.
Today in class was another classic event.
This girl is in my Spanish Literature class. The class is conducted entirely in Spanish, so what ever questions or discussions that we students have must also be spoken in Spanish.
We've been studying a piece called "La Celestina". If you really care, it's set in the late 1500s in Spain and is about a prostitute by the name of Celestina who is a money monger as well as a matchmaker. She sets two people up by the name of Calisto and Melibea. Well, anyhow, think of this story as another Romeo and Juliet, but set in Spain.
Any movie with Jordi Mollá is worth watching...
Calisto, the guy, dies by falling out of a tower and Melibea, distraught over having lost her true love, wants to kill herself. But of course, before she does so, she has a long monologue over how she lost her virginity and how she cannot live in society as a "loose" woman. Then she pitches herself over the same tower and dies.
Now, The Foghorn has no social skills. She shoots her hand up right away and asks in Spanish, "Cómo sabe...UH...la gente que...UMMMMM... sí no estoy....UH...virgen?"
Meaning: How do people know that I'm not a virgin?
First off, she misconjugated the verb "to be" incorrectly. She should have used "SER" instead of "ESTAR." Secondly, she should have said, "soy" for "I am". "Estoy" mean "to be feeling" or "to be located". Let me localize your virginity before I take it!
This girl is a VERY conservative Christian. For her to say something like this is way out of the ordinary, as if Hell froze over!
For those of us that are bilingual or just really good at Spanish, we tried really hard not to laugh straight in her face. I snorted and a few people turned their heads away from her so that she wouldn't notice them laughing either at her or her question.
She then blushed, corrected herself and said with her booming voice, in English, "Wait! UM....No, I don't mean me! UH, I mean her. I'm still a virgin, guys!"
EVERYONE laugh more than they were. A few people were crying from laughing so hard.
But she was in earnest and wanted to know. The teacher didn't know how to respond to her question. I was fed up, since by this time, she had already asked several questions that annoyed the class.
So I told her, in English, "Honey, they didn't use certain feminine products back in that day and age. They're going to know whether or not she's a virgin when she gets poked."
Everyone started howling with laughter!
This girl is so naïve. I feel so sorry for her. She is so out of place because she has absolutely no people skills.
Everyone tries so hard to not laugh openly at her because the questions she asks are absurd.
But, I guess I have to sit back and realize that there really are people who just don't know about things."
Later on that day, after I wrote that post above, I felt badly. I went and actually wrote The Foghorn an apology for laughing at her. The nice thing she did was tell me that she hadn't noticed. That made me feel a little bit better about the whole situation. Nobody wants to get laughed at. I would feel poorly if I laughed at someone, knowing that I caused them some sort of hurt for doing that.
Another time in class, the last semester that I was to share a class with her, she walks into the the second installment of Literatura Española, with her duct taped suitcase. She stalks in with her long skirts and heavy brogue shoes. She stops directly in front of a new student, who turned out to be a roommate of mine later on, and says to him, "I'VE NEVER SEEN YOU BEFORE IN MY LIFE."
Well, no shit, Sherlock! Of course you haven't.
He looked at her strangely, then looked back at me, while I smiled at him a knowing smile of "Be careful with her," and he simply smiled at her.
Later on in the semester, he invited her to a "Study Party" we ended up having at our house. I remember him saying, "Dude...we are going to get her messed up!!! I'm going to give her lots of beer! She'll loosen up that way."
I remember thinking and I even told him, "Oh, please...don't do that. Invite her, but don't try to get her drunk. That's not funny."
She came to the party, but politely declined all offers to ply her with alcohol.
"I'M A BORN-AGAIN CHRISTIAN. I WAS RAISED A ROMAN CATHOLIC. IT'S AGAINST MY RELIGION. JUST LIKE HAVING FEELINGS FOR WOMEN IS AGAINST MY RELIGION." She boomed.
Well...that explains why she speaks with a deep voice, then.
As I have grown older and become a teacher myself, I realize now that I was pretty harsh in my view of her back then. I have had students in her situation that suffer from anxiety disorders related to interacting with others. She could very well had Aspergers Syndrome, which disables people from being able to socially interact with others on a high level.
She was pretty smart, from what I understood, but just really lacked the skill necessary to interact with people on a whole different level.
I wish I could go back and tell myself from 10 years ago that perhaps what she needed was someone to help her.
Knowing that now, I think that's what I'll do in the future to help out a person like...The Foghorn.
When I was in middle school and high school, and even some in college, I babysat a lot.
I was going through an old diary of mine when MySpace used to be popular and found the funniest post I wrote about nine years ago about an experience I had had with some kids as a children's photographer, as well as babysitting.
Please feel free to enjoy this "adventure" from the past. :D
Originally posted Thursday, September 29, 2005. (With edits.) "First Days"
Today, I am going to write yet another babysitting/child experience story.
Friday, I began my job as a children's photographer and assistant for local daycare centers. I get to either pose the kids on the props, "style" their hair and try to calm them down if they happen to freak out.
The kids at the particular center that I was at on Friday had some very well behaved children. They also had some REALLY interesting names. Like Niquel (pronounced Nyquil), K-Shonda, and Jai Kumar, who was from India.
Some kids were also very photogenic, like 4 year old Samir. He came up to me and asked if he could have a comb. I told him that I would give him one after he took his picture and if he gave us a HUGE smile. He got up there on the prop and gave the biggest smile I have ever seen a child his age give. After getting his comb, he began to comb what little hair he did NOT have. You see, his head was shaved. His teacher told him afterwards, "Boy, you ain't got no hair! Whut you need a comb for?!" It was so funny.
Today, I babysat two toddler boys. Their parents hired me to give some relief to the kid's grandmother, who normally takes care of them. These kids are heavy. I'm not saying they're fat. They're just muscular little boys that seem to weigh a ton. The older one, Nick, is almost 3. All he talks about is elephants. Elephants this, elephants that, elephants happened... We watched Dumbo at least THREE times. I hate that movie now. The younger one, Alex, wouldn't stop crying whenever his grandmother left the room. It's not like I couldn't ask her what helped calm him down. She spoke only Polish.
The family had two dogs. A chocolate lab named, guess what? Mocha! How unique!! The other was a German Shepherd called Hilda or Bimbo or something along those lines. Guess what with this dog responded to? German words. Nien or Nein (however it's spelled) means "no" in German. The mother told me that this dog came direct from Germany on a plane and was trained over there. It cannot follow English.
GREAAAAAATTTTT....
All I could do was sit and think--Why, God? You've blessed me with an ear for languages and I have yet to pick these other languages up?
The older boy, Nick, understands his grandmother when she speaks to him. But all he can say in English is "Elephants", "Happened" , and "Hugs" and a bunch of other incoherent words. The mom called me from work and asked how my first day went. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I didn't want to babysit again, but first days are always a bit difficult in any kind of job.
Today, I was trolling through and stalking people Facebook as I normally do and came across a very interesting article/slide show from NPR about life along and immigration via the U.S./Mexico border. The entire presentation may be found here. Borderland
Clicking on it, I was taken by the photos, video and most importantly, the stories of these people that go through what they have to go through just to get to the U.S..
As a daughter and granddaughter and the ex-wife of immigrants to the United States, many people whose families have been here for generations have NO IDEA what it is like for people to come here. My father came for new opportunities and adventure. My grandfather came because it's where his family lived across the river from Mexico. My ex-husband came because he knew he didn't want to be in his country anymore where it was more difficult for opportunity in his field.
Coming to America - It's not just only for Mexicans, or Central Americans. It also is a dream for people from other continents...such as Europe, Africa and Asians.
Most often times, it is for a dream of better living, education, and work. Simply because they cannot achieve those dreams and goals in their own country.
BORDERLAND
We Took A 2,428-Mile Road Trip Along The Mexico Border: Here's What We Saw
Broken up in to a series of 12 photojournalistic stories, each one tells a compelling piece.
Story 1: Just Getting There, by Steve Inskeep, tells the stories of several people crossing the U.S./Mexico border. One young woman, in particular, is from Ethiopia, named Saraa.
Yes, you read that correctly. She is from Ethiopia.
You're probably thinking, "But she's from an African country...how the H*ll did she end up crossing the Mexico/U.S. border?"
Americans, especially those who do not travel internationally, are unaware that most foreigners need a visa to simply enter the United States, even if it's simply for a visit.
Saraa was unable to obtain a visa from Ethiopia, but somehow, someway, she was able to come up with $15,000 to have someone escort her from Ethiopia, Sudan, Brasil, Venezuela, Colombia, Panamá, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Guatemala, Mexico and finally the United States. That's 12 countries. TWELVE! To top it off, she came with her husband, a younger sister who unfortunately perished along the way, and she is pregnant. She is currently in a safe house in Texas, called "La Posada" and has asked for asylum, since she is afraid of returning to her country.
Other people that are waiting there are from: Albania, Bangladesh, Belize, Brasil, China, Congo, Cuba, Ecuador, El Salvador, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Guatemala, Honduras, India, Ivory Coast, Mexico, Nepal, Nicaragua, Romania, Rwanda, Somalia and Sri Lanka, just to name a few twenty-two countries.
Story 2: Why The Border Is Where It Is was pretty compelling. It provides you, the reader, a view through historical maps and interactions that show how the current U.S./Mexico border has changed since Spanish colonial times.
I find it ironic of ignorant people that live in the US complain about the presence of "Mexicans" in the United States. It is ironic to see that firstly, Spain owned a lot of the American West. When Mexico gained their independence from Spain, it became part of Mexico. Throughout wars and purchases and annexations, a lot of the land "Out West" became part of the US. People who have been there for generations are American, but culturally they are Mexican, Spanish, Native American, etc. So...who are the invaders (other than the white folks, no matter their back ground)
Fascinating, at least for history buffs like myself.
Story 3: Fence Facts
Did you know that the current U.S./Mexico Border is 1,969 miles long? Nope, I didn't know that either until today. I knew it was pretty long though. Anyone who has common sense and knows how to read a map can tell.
Parts of the border are walled or fenced, which is mostly in highly populated areas. What's even funnier to me is that part of these walls are erected between 1-5 miles north of the border to keep people out of America. Another thing that I find funny is that parts of the fence have gaps so as to let animals migrate seasonally, to let farmers onto their land to cultivate crops, and to allow their livestock to graze.
Sometimes, the fence is designed to stop transportation. In other cases, people. What even baffles me this fence runs past children's play grounds, through the desert and even into the Pacific Ocean, near Tijuana, Mex./San Diego, Cal..
The first fence was erected in 1909. It was designed to keep out certain types of cattle that had bug infestations...bugs...not people.
I'm sorry, but am I missing something here? Aren't our principles founded on immigration? Aren't we a country of immigrants?
In any case...the fence/wall has been erected in some places. There are resident Picassos and Van Gogh's in the area on either side since art has been placed on these walls. It has only been in recent years that presidential administrations have been hell bent on keeping illegal immigrants out.
Do I agree with the wall/fence? NO. Does that mean I believe in illegal immigration? Of course not. My family came here the right way, including my ex-husband. You file the paper work and try it that way. However, I see where families become desperate to come to the U.S. and cannot wait for the paperwork that is necessary to live and work in the U.S.. But I believe in patience and perseverance and prayer.
Story 4: What's is Like? Portraits of Life on the Border.
People who are not familiar with the Frontera/Border Lands of our compadres to the South think that it's nothing but a showdown with Mexicans in a huge truck and guns. I mean, it's all that is heard in the news, so most people assume that people are still living in the times of the Wild Wild West.
WRONG...
People along the border live normal, happy lives. They do normal things as other people in other states and cities do, taking their kids to practice, running around and going shopping, etc. My favorite slide of this story is of a Gringo wearing a full fledged Mexican outfit. He is the port commissioner for Brownsville Port Authority.
There are stories of people and families living on both sides of the border. A woman in Juarez, Chihuahua, Mex. wants her daughters to find an education in the United States and make something of themselves.
A border patrol agent also states that Border Patrol Agents are not all mean people, that they are empathetic to illegal aliens' causes.
An American born woman to Mexican parents in San Diego says that she enjoys the fact that she can switch living back and forth between the two countries. She says it's a privilege. I see how that works for her. I would love to say, "I'm going to Mexico for the day. I'll be back for dinner!" Other people truly enjoy the proximity of living close to the border because it is good for business.
Some Mexican/American couples learn each other's language in order to communicate. After looking at that picture, all I could think of was "Papers!". However, I could be totally wrong. They could have genuinely fallen in love with one another...but she's MUCH younger than her American husband, so it still makes me think she married him for the papers.
Other people lament, though, the problem of living so close to the border. One man says that a middle schooler brought a bunch of pot to school with him because it was smuggled from over the border into the U.S.. Another family complained about the fact that the drug cartels were fighting with each other in Juarez. An American man has part of the border running through his property, but dislikes that the Border Patrol has essentially taken over his land. Pursuits of illegal aliens on his property have enabled Border Patrol to erect watch towers on his land.
Vacant houses in Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico, that sit pockmarked from bullets fired at other drug cartels. Many of them are identical, but are painted differently. These are the empty shells of family life that once thrived in these neighborhoods. That is, until the drug cartels began their wars of controlling the drug trade out of Mexico.
Juarez is the most dangerous city in Mexico, and one of the most dangerous in the world. It's a pity because I would go over there border from El Paso, on visits to my mom's parents, and wander around with them.
El Paso, over the border and Rio Grande from Juarez, was voted one of the most safest cities in the U.S.. Ironic since it sits merely over the river from the most dangerous city in Mexico...
Junior is a Mexican-born student who attends high school in Anthony, Texas. Junior is an interesting case because he lives with his older sister since his dad was deported only a few months or years before his video was shot. Since his mom was pregnant, she decided to go along with her husband, thus leaving Junior to fend for himself with his older sister.
It was hard watching that video. You could tell that Junior really missed his parents and wanted to be with them. His parents encouraged him to stay and get a better education. He knows this and also wants to file paperwork in order to become legal so that he can stay and bring his parents back.
For about $3 and nine ingredients, you can be the proud recipient of a snack called, "Tostilocos", a snack that has migrated north of the Border from Tijuana, Mexico.
Recipe is as follows:
1 bag of Salsa Verde Tostitos, cut lengthwise. (These can be found in Tijuana, Mexico)
Cucumbers & Jicama
Pickled Pork Rinds
Fried Peanuts
Chaca-Chaca (Tamarind Candy)
Salsa de Chile
Chamoy (Pickled Fruit) Sauce
Squeeze of Lime
You are then supposed to enjoy this interesting mess of flavors and textures. I don't do anything spicy, so that won't work for me. I'd be willing to try it without the spicy stuff.
Or things left behind in the desert, would be a better title for this story. Toys, belts, shoelaces, toothpaste, toothbrushes, deodorant, combs, brushes and carpet shoes.
Carpet shoes, you ask?
Avoiding detection is key when crossing the border illegally. To prevent detection, many people have made slipper like shoes with carpet on the bottom. This enables one to cross the desert virtually undetected. The illegals carry their own regular shoes with them in a bag and once they coast is clear, they abandon their carpet shoes for regular ones and go on their (hopefully) merry way.
Also, the story talks about the majority of the smugglers are men. Women that are smuggled by the men are often raped. Some of them know the risks and carry contraceptives and prophylactics with them to prevent pregnancies and STD's.
Getting your hand caught in a cookie jar is a story that most people can confess to. Getting caught by Border Patrol is reserved for the ultra persistent. From home-made ladders to scale the walls to
children as young as toddlers escaping into the U.S.
After months of walking from their respective countries to the border and stepping foot onto American soil, some are captured and deported. Yet, some of those same people are determined to weasel their way into the American dream and continue to persevere.
Waiting to either get into or leave Mexico via Tijuana is an interesting business, no pun intended. Many people waiting in their cars to get back into the United States are sold a variety of items. From hammocks, to wicker baskets, to pottery, to crucifixes to Aztec wall hangings, wood carvings and cold drinks, you can be sure you'll find it at the border in Tijuana.
I remember my days as a young girl visiting my relatives in El Paso, Texas. We would hop in the car for a day of sightseeing in Juarez, Mexico. Always on our way back into the U.S., we would spend HOURS waiting in line to be processed and all that crap that Border Patrol has to do. Meanwhile, during our hot and arid wait in the car, vendors would come up to us shouting in Spanish, "Quieres un helado?" 'Quieres una botella de agua?!" etc. We often would cross the border and realize, we didn't have anything to eat, drink, cool ourselves off.
Once, my aunt bought a blanket from a vendor. Why she did that, I have no idea. It was hot as Hades that day. Maybe it was meant for a nice Christmas holiday. It does get chilly in the winter in El Paso.
Throughout the time that you go through the whole presentation, it shows you what has happened since beginning the story.
At my time of reading the story, Saturday, April 5th, 2014, this is what was found:
When I started reading the story, only 5 ounces of cocaine had been seized. I'm not sure if that's for the day or just when I started reading the story.
It's amazing to see what comes through our borders everyday.
Conclusion:
Though I am only a 1/4 Mexican, I am proud to say that I am still a small part Mexican. I have lots of family that have lived on both sides of the border...and from other countries as well.
So many people come here for the opportunity. I'm happy to see those that are hardworking and persevere so for the things that they want.
