taken from the Border Patrol WebsiteU.S. Border Patrol and Customs Operate Roadblocks Throughout the Southwest.
Many of us here have grown used to them. They are just a fact of life going from point "A" to point "B." For instance for me to go to San Diego, I need to pass through these roadblocks, where there are people with automatic weapons at the ready, both coming and going. Most of the time they look at my new, American/Japanese ride, hear the English music coming from the stereo and wave me through without a glance.
This Thursday when I was going to Palm Springs for an NA (Narcotics Anonymous) Convention, it was different. First off there was over a mile and a half of cars, trucks, busses, and every other vehicle trying to go North along the one road that goes that way, backed up, stopped, idling away precious gasoline in the hot (112°) sun. It took us nearly half an hour just to get to where we could see the goings on of the firstline guardians of Homeland Security (am I the only motherfucker in the world who gets nazi style goosebumps every time they talk about our "homeland?" I hope not, I used to feel like a citizen of a free country and not a subject.)
Two positions in line ahead of us, *[lemme 'splain]: I am the literal definition of "mestizo" being of mixed Native American and European heritage. Mom was a White Mountain Apache, Da was from Ireland. I have green eyes and pale skin that tans quickly and very dark, my once black hair is now grey and I'm balding on top. I was traveling with three strikingly beautiful white girls. [/'splainin'] was a Greyhound Bus. It was instantly pulled over to the secondary checkpoint, three armed Border Patrol Agents boarded the bus to check the documentation of the driver and every passenger, while two dogs sniffed the cargo area. One of the agents came off of the bus and a cordon of six other agents, three to a side, carrying M16s at the port formed a corridor. They brought off a skinny kid on crutches, and a mother with two small children. Escorted them, under all those guns to a cinderblock structure, without any windows but possesing a metal door which can be only operated from the outside.
Welcome to our world down here folks. We can travel to other regions of our own country, our own home state, only by passing through the same roadblocks that confront the citizens of Iraq and Afghanistan. For me to drive from down here to L.A. means I have to go through this stopping and checking, all the time of it watched by folks in dark green BDUs and carrying automatic weapons.
I don't know what it was about that day that bugged me so much. It really wasn't all the different. I've been in even longer lines, with longer waits, with more guns drawn. Still, I know there's no percentage in some lone schmuck in a car cracking wise to some dude standing in dark BDUs in the sun doing a job he knows is thankless and probably useless to boot.
When it's my turn to be checked, the agent is polite, so am I. Maybe I was somewhat curt with him. He asked "Where were you born?" I said "At home." He said, without exasperation or any visible irritation, "Where was home?" I said "The White Mountains of Arizona, the Apache Nation." [lemme 'splain sumthin' else] There really isn't any standard way to address those of us who can be Native American, Indian, North American Indian, Redskins, or what ever. I happen to prefer Apache, on account of that's what I am, and it gives me status like being German, or Irish, or British, dig? For those same reasons I prefer "Nation" to "tribe" but I am also pretty thick skinned so please, don't be holding your tongue on my account. [/'splainin] He then moves on to questioning the other passengers. Much more cursory and less inquisitive with them, probably a complexion thing, but, that's just my impression, and you might have already guessed that I'm a documented attitude case.
The agent stops talking to us, and steps back, I take my foot off the brake and the car begins to roll. He all of a sudden holds up his left hand in the universal "Stop!" gesture while his right hand goes down to his pistol. I stop and quietly say "I'm sorry, is there a problem? I thought I was free to go." He says "No, there's no problem, you just need to wait for my signal."
This is where I figure since we have four more hours of leeway to make a one hour drive, and since I am in a car full of absolutely natural born Americans, I should be able to speak my mind. I point to the cinderblock carcel structure and say
"I'm more afraid of you motherfuckers than I am of them. These checkpoints don't make me feel any safer or better protected, only less free. A skinny kid on crutches and a mother with two small children doesn't scare me in the slightest. A bunch of guys standing around in BDUs carrying automatic weapons does scare me, and it worries me. I'm only trying to get to Palm Springs and I feel like I'm trying to cross from a Shia to a Sunni neighborhood. And, I'm feeling like this in my own fucking country. May I go now?"
He says nothing, just waves us on. The girls give a collective sigh of relief. My girlfriend, April, looks at me with alarm and says "I hope you weren't ready to start some shit, Stevie."
Many of us here have grown used to them. They are just a fact of life going from point "A" to point "B." For instance for me to go to San Diego, I need to pass through these roadblocks, where there are people with automatic weapons at the ready, both coming and going. Most of the time they look at my new, American/Japanese ride, hear the English music coming from the stereo and wave me through without a glance.
This Thursday when I was going to Palm Springs for an NA (Narcotics Anonymous) Convention, it was different. First off there was over a mile and a half of cars, trucks, busses, and every other vehicle trying to go North along the one road that goes that way, backed up, stopped, idling away precious gasoline in the hot (112°) sun. It took us nearly half an hour just to get to where we could see the goings on of the firstline guardians of Homeland Security (am I the only motherfucker in the world who gets nazi style goosebumps every time they talk about our "homeland?" I hope not, I used to feel like a citizen of a free country and not a subject.)
Two positions in line ahead of us, *[lemme 'splain]: I am the literal definition of "mestizo" being of mixed Native American and European heritage. Mom was a White Mountain Apache, Da was from Ireland. I have green eyes and pale skin that tans quickly and very dark, my once black hair is now grey and I'm balding on top. I was traveling with three strikingly beautiful white girls. [/'splainin'] was a Greyhound Bus. It was instantly pulled over to the secondary checkpoint, three armed Border Patrol Agents boarded the bus to check the documentation of the driver and every passenger, while two dogs sniffed the cargo area. One of the agents came off of the bus and a cordon of six other agents, three to a side, carrying M16s at the port formed a corridor. They brought off a skinny kid on crutches, and a mother with two small children. Escorted them, under all those guns to a cinderblock structure, without any windows but possesing a metal door which can be only operated from the outside.
Welcome to our world down here folks. We can travel to other regions of our own country, our own home state, only by passing through the same roadblocks that confront the citizens of Iraq and Afghanistan. For me to drive from down here to L.A. means I have to go through this stopping and checking, all the time of it watched by folks in dark green BDUs and carrying automatic weapons.
I don't know what it was about that day that bugged me so much. It really wasn't all the different. I've been in even longer lines, with longer waits, with more guns drawn. Still, I know there's no percentage in some lone schmuck in a car cracking wise to some dude standing in dark BDUs in the sun doing a job he knows is thankless and probably useless to boot.
When it's my turn to be checked, the agent is polite, so am I. Maybe I was somewhat curt with him. He asked "Where were you born?" I said "At home." He said, without exasperation or any visible irritation, "Where was home?" I said "The White Mountains of Arizona, the Apache Nation." [lemme 'splain sumthin' else] There really isn't any standard way to address those of us who can be Native American, Indian, North American Indian, Redskins, or what ever. I happen to prefer Apache, on account of that's what I am, and it gives me status like being German, or Irish, or British, dig? For those same reasons I prefer "Nation" to "tribe" but I am also pretty thick skinned so please, don't be holding your tongue on my account. [/'splainin] He then moves on to questioning the other passengers. Much more cursory and less inquisitive with them, probably a complexion thing, but, that's just my impression, and you might have already guessed that I'm a documented attitude case.
The agent stops talking to us, and steps back, I take my foot off the brake and the car begins to roll. He all of a sudden holds up his left hand in the universal "Stop!" gesture while his right hand goes down to his pistol. I stop and quietly say "I'm sorry, is there a problem? I thought I was free to go." He says "No, there's no problem, you just need to wait for my signal."
This is where I figure since we have four more hours of leeway to make a one hour drive, and since I am in a car full of absolutely natural born Americans, I should be able to speak my mind. I point to the cinderblock carcel structure and say
"I'm more afraid of you motherfuckers than I am of them. These checkpoints don't make me feel any safer or better protected, only less free. A skinny kid on crutches and a mother with two small children doesn't scare me in the slightest. A bunch of guys standing around in BDUs carrying automatic weapons does scare me, and it worries me. I'm only trying to get to Palm Springs and I feel like I'm trying to cross from a Shia to a Sunni neighborhood. And, I'm feeling like this in my own fucking country. May I go now?"
He says nothing, just waves us on. The girls give a collective sigh of relief. My girlfriend, April, looks at me with alarm and says "I hope you weren't ready to start some shit, Stevie."
I say, "Nope, I already know all the words to Guantanmera, besides, I look crappy in orange. Want a Date Shake?"
GUANTANAMERA
Original music by Jose Fernandez Diaz
Music adaptation by Pete Seeger & Julian Orbon
Lyric adaptation by Julian Orbon, based on a poem by Jose Marti
Yo soy un hombre sincero
De donde crecen las palmas
Yo soy un hombre sincero
De donde crecen las palmas
Y antes de morirme quiero
Echar mis versos del alma
Chorus:
Guantanamera
Guajira Guantanamera
Guantanamera
Guajira Guantanamera
Mi verso es de un verde claro
Y de un carmin encendido
Mi verso es de un verde claro
Y de un carmin encendido
Mi verso es un ciervo herido
Que busca en el monte amparo
Chorus
I am a truthful man from this land of palm trees
Before dying I want to share these poems of my soul
My verses are light green
But they are also flaming red
(the next verse says,)
I cultivate a rose in June and in January
For the sincere friend who gives me his hand
And for the cruel one who would tear out this
heart with which I live
I do not cultivate thistles nor nettles
I cultivate a white rose
Cultivo la rosa blanca
En junio como en enero
Qultivo la rosa blanca
En junio como en enero
Para el amigo sincero
Que me da su mano franca
Chorus
Y para el cruel que me arranca
El corazon con que vivo
Y para el cruel que me arranca
El corazon con que vivo
Cardo ni ortiga cultivo
Cultivo la rosa blanca
Chorus
Con los pobres de la tierra
Quiero yo mi suerte echar
Con los pobres de la tierra
Quiero yo mi suerte echar
El arroyo de la sierra
Me complace mas que el mar
Chorus
©1963,1965 (Renewed) Fall River Music, Inc (BMI)
All Rights Reserved.
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