Road Trips

Look at the woman with the white shawl. There is a hidden pain behind that laughter. Life has tried to destroy her, but she refuses to cry; she refuses to wear black. People want her to admit her suffering, but she refuses. Miguel Mejía, the song’s composer, and I are from the same place. I am drawn to this song. I even sang it once as a mariachi while playing the violin in my youth. 

I was born in Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua, across the border from El Paso, Texas. People go from one city to another, back and forth. In reality, it is one community separated by national boundaries and a metal fence. On the U.S. side, almost everyone speaks Spanish. Our roots are, and will always be, on the Mexican side, so we visit whenever we can. We go to Juárez to taste the food, to remember our childhood, and to visit with relatives. We go there to separate ourselves from the constant pressure of progress. 

My parents were still teenagers when they had me. My dad worked in construction and then as a milk delivery driver, back when the milkman still existed. At the age of 3, my parents bought a house in El Paso and enrolled me in an elementary school there. It was easy back then. No threat of deportation or questions of nationality. 

I did well in school, and MIT admitted me. Today, I am an engineer living in Boston, but hidden deep inside are the memories of my hometown. I bet there are not too many of those around here. People ask me where I’m from. 

“I was born in Mexico. “

“You don’t look Mexican” is the most common response. 

When I travel to México, people think I don’t speak Spanish. They try to speak to me in English, and I have to convince them that I’m Mexican, but they don’t believe me.  

After graduating, I worked as a manufacturing engineer at a maquila, a twin factory, in Cd. Juarez. I was there for 10 years, but I couldn’t stay there for two reasons. The first is that I felt something in my stomach, like something was missing from my life. I had tasted life in Boston, and I missed it. Even when I was working in Mexico, I would often visit Boston at least once a year. The second reason was the violent situation in Mexico. It was becoming impossible to commute to work. Caught in the crossfire of the drug trade organizations, several of my co-workers died. It was time for me to leave.

Now I am a refugee (because that’s the definition) and a mechanical engineer who was once a mariachi.  I miss my friends, my relatives, the music, the laughter, the food. This past summer, my parents planned a trip to Mexico City and asked us if we wanted to come along.  Not the warm beaches of Cancun. The capital, the heart of Mexico,  has 21 million people, bigger than New York. My two sons have never been there. What a wonderful opportunity for them to learn about their roots. I also realize this might be my last opportunity for us to vacation together. My sons are getting older, and they don't want to be with their parents.

As the date approaches, we receive advice from friends and family. 

"Don't take anything valuable. Don't wear any jewelry or fancy watches. Hide your phone. Take a fake wallet, and if they mug you, you give them the fake wallet with expired credit cards."

A few days before our scheduled departure, my older son comes into our bedroom. 

"I don't want to go." 

"But you had already said yes! I already bought the tickets. I can't cancel everything now. We can’t leave you here all by yourself. " 

He leaves the room and packs his bags.

We arrive on a Sunday night. It is raining as always, it is cool, and we wear light jackets. We took an Uber to my uncle’s apartment in Zona Rosa. It is three floors with a small kitchen on the first, and bedrooms on the second and third. My parents are already there, and they greet us with hugs and kisses. There are old pictures of me and my parents hanging on the walls, and books everywhere. 

In the morning, we go to the zocalo, the square next to the national palace, where the president lives. There is a gigantic Mexican flag in the middle. This was once the ceremonial center of the Aztecs when the city was Tenochtitlan. The smell of incense fills the air. The matachines dance in traditional Aztec headdress and move in unison to the beat of the drums. The sounds of barrel organs and people selling souvenirs fight for attention.  

I will admit, the mixture of sights and sounds in a city of millions can be overwhelming. My son does not want to be there anymore. He wants to go back to the apartment. He’s an adult now, so I hand him the keys to the apartment. The rest of us visit the Palacio de Bellas Artes and the murals of Diego Rivera and David Siqueiros. Through the paintings, I begin to understand the struggles of this nation.

The next day, we had breakfast and then visited the Castillo de Chapultepec. On the last day, we visit the historical city of Cuernavaca and Taxco, where they produce silver. I’m a bit nervous because Cuernavaca is currently one of the most dangerous cities. Our tour guide Rocio reminds us that Juárez is way more violent, and besides, we are together.

I’m happy to report we made it back and the road trip was uneventful. My dad says he would like to someday retire here. The hardest part of the trip was returning home. What did I like most? Seeing the younger generation embracing their culture and keeping it alive. I see myself in them, and it reminds me of when I was younger.

Was it worth it?  Yes, definitely. Despite the risks and the never-ending news of violence, the trip was worth it. To see the smile on my son’s face in Xochimilco, to see the Mariachi sing and dance and make us laugh. I can’t put a price on that.