Crossing Over

Today, we cross the border into Tijuana. Here is a poem we read yesterday that offered a powerful vision of what it means to live in the borderlands.

To Live in the Borderlands

To live in the Borderlands means you
are neither hispana india negra espanola
ni gabacha, eres mestiza, mulata, half-breed
caught in the crossfire between camps
while carrying all five races on your back
not knowing which side to turn to, run from;

To live in the Borderlands means knowing
that the india in you, betrayed for Soo years,
is no longer speaking to you,
that mexicanas call you rajetas,
that denying the Anglo inside you
is as bad as having denied the Indian or Black;

Cuando vives en la frontera
people walk through you, the wind steals your voice,
you’re a burra, buey, scapegoat,
forerunner of a new race,
half and half-both woman and man, neither
a new gender;

To live in the Borderlands means to
put chile in the borscht,
eat whole wheat tortillas,
speak Tex-Mex with a Brooklyn accent;
be stopped by la migra at the border checkpoints;

Living in the Borderlands means you fight hard to
resist the gold elixir beckoning from the bottle,
the pull of the gun barrel,
the rope crushing the hollow of your throat;

In the Borderlands
you are the battleground
where enemies are kin to each other;
you are at home, a stranger,
the border disputes have been settled
the volley of shots have shattered the truce
you are wounded, lost in action dead, fighting back;

To live in the Borderlands means the mill with the razor white teeth
wants to shred off your olive-red skin,
crush out the kernel, your heart pound you pinch you
roll you out smelling like white bread but dead;
To survive the Borderlands you must live
sin fronteras be a crossroads.

Reprinted from Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. Copyright I987 by Gloria Anzaldua