“Su país/hogar/pueblo/de dónde viene” are all terms for the US. Most commonly it is “Los Estados Unidos” (never America- Guatemala is in Central America).
Ana María (we’ll call her) is a school secretary. First I met the bookend siblings in her family: She is the oldest and her sister is the youngest and was one of my students. It wasn’t until later that I met the other eight siblings that make up the creme center. It took me months to meet them all, but they all have really similar facial features. Gaspar works as a gardener at the muni/town hall, Haroldo works at the despensa/corner shop and when I see the others coming and going I just point at them and say “Ana María!” and their faces break out in smiles.
On an afternoon in November I got to Paquip, a village outside of Santa Clara, and sat next to Ana María on the curb. I played the usual game I play which is to try to name all of her siblings. I always remember ‘Par’s name because I see him almost every day when I go to the muni. The rest are a swimming pool of names in my brain: Haroldo, Francisco, Griselda… and on and on. It sounds heartless but I’ve learned a million faces and names since I moved to this 6,000 person pueblo in December 2016. Not to mention everyone has 5 names (Diego Alexander Guzman Sac Chacom, as a fictitious but entirely probable example), plus a K’iche’ version of that name plus nicknames plus the names are repetitive. Don’t ask me how many Claras live in Santa Clara because I probably know 97.
She stopped halfway through the list of her siblings and said: “Él no está ahora.” I imagine he left to work in Huehuetenango or the capital or somewhere like that. I ask “where?” and she says: “ya leeeeejos” with a smile like… “get it?” But I didn’t. And I say: “Dónde?!” and she says: “El otro lado.” The other side. Ohhhhh. “The other side” is my country.
The words struck me: “The Other Side.”
The three words say a lot. They say a lot about the impression Guatemalans have about the US: The Out-of-Reach Place with Work, Nice Things and Rich People. Sure, some Guatemalans don’t think that, some Guatemalans would never want to live in the US because this is where they call home: The Land of Eternal Spring. But most Guatemalans I encounter in my pueblo are quick to remind me, inquire, and interview me about my país. The questions cover this span: How much did your iPhone cost? How much is that in quetzales? How much was your visa? (And I explain that I did not have to get a visa to come to Guatemala so I don’t know the cost of a visa to go to the US). How much is a passport (and again, I don’t know, because I don’t know how much a Guatemalan passport costs). How much did your airline ticket cost? I cringe inside. I don’t want to tell them.. A flight from the US in quetzales averages on 5,000.
The second highest income source in Guatemala is remittances. Most remittances come from family members working in the States sending money home, seeing as the dollar goes a tremendously long way in quetzales. I could give you a tour of Santa Clara and point to the houses that are funded by people working in the States. It’s stark the difference: an adobe house next to a modern, out-of-place structure with multi-levels and luxurious finishes.
The border they would give their right arm to cross is so easy for me to pass. And crossing the Guatemalan border? Almost just as easy for me: a result of privilege. I’ve known this for a long time, my easy access to the land of opportunity, but I don’t consider the implications. I guess it’s because I don’t like to sit and think about how harder their lives are than mine when I see the effects of poverty everyday: older women walking without shoes, rotting teeth, malnutritioned bodies sleeping in adobe houses. But what I don’t see is the border to the US, what I hadn’t heard were the stories of people trying to cross, so I didn’t really give the border much thought. I’m embarrassed to admit this now: there have been documentaries and news stories on the border but I haven’t searched for them or tried to educate myself.
I hadn’t heard the stories of my students, my sweet, young, innocent, mischievous, sometimes rude, frustrating and amazing middle school students. And then we had camp.
Last week it was cold at Parque Chuiraxamoló in the mountains and trees. One of the health center workers (we’ll call him Armando) and another co-worker lit a campfire and I dispensed angelitos/marshmallow at two per person. The campfire did what campfires do best: warmed us all up and encouraged an unspoken pact of confianza for storytelling.
Armando began to describe when he lived in the US. The youth interjected with a list of questions: “How did you get there?” “What was it like?” “Did you like it?” “What was your job?” He lived in NYC for three years until he got caught by immigration. He lived in Queens in a store where he also worked nights, after he spent the days working in construction. My mouth went dry and my eyes stung with the ignorance afforded by my privilege as a white, middle-class US American. I knew that Armando lived in the US, but I didn’t think about what his border-crossing was like or how scary it must have been.
Every sentence, every question and thought contributed by the Guatemalans were things I had never considered. William (we’ll call him), a 16-year old camp participant, chimed in about the dangers of the border. Ana María, my friend who called the States “El Otro Lado,” talked about the brand of shoe her brother used to cross the border. “Shoes made from the US are the best to use so that you don’t get burnt” they say. You can get burnt by the sand in parts of the desert. “You have to throw out your clothes once you get to the other side because they’ll see you dirty and know you crossed the border” they say. And everyone asks, adults and youth alike, for William to tell his story.
I stand and listen, stiff and awkward. I wonder if Tanya, the volunteer with me, feels the same. We’re two Peace Corps volunteers, we can cross the border any time we want.
William begins his story. When he was 13, he tried to cross. He told us about what it was like to work with the coyotes (the guys who know how to get you over and have connections on the other side). He explained that he went in a group, that he hid under the sand and that he was eventually caught. He didn’t make it. He is my neighbor and I never knew he had this story in him. I always thought he was a kind of a shy kid with a smile and calm demeanor. I would have never imagined.
“It’s worse for women to cross the border.” Tanya knew about this, she said she had heard horror stories of women being abused. Sometimes they are offered as a sacrifice to the coyotes or whoever it might be for the overall benefit of the group. How strong these women must be, to leave their homes and risk everything for a better life. I’ve never been in such a predicament, not even a little bit. I’ve never had to fight for my life.
Then Armando detailed one of his failed attempts in crossing the border. One woman was traveling alone and she asked him to say that she was his sister. This would protect her if worse came to worst. It turns out that he had to lie and say that she was his sister when asked. I don’t remember what happened after that but they did not make it across the border.
These were the campfire stories. In this panel-style storytelling session, the group wanted to tell stories of adventure, daring and fighting for their lives. My definition of a campfire story is a dramatic story from your real life or a horror story. In this case, they were telling both. I stood and listened, feeling humbled to be in the circle and ashamed for what I didn’t know.
What I mostly felt was empathy and apathy: I wanted to call my parents, hold up the phone to the stories and say: “Listen.” I wanted to explain to everyone I know that illegal immigrants want a better life just like the rest of us, but the formal process of immigration is not necessarily feasible. I wanted to connect these stories with their humanity. I wanted to say that these people are my neighbors, my students, my friends. I wanted to hug everyone and apologize or encourage them or mostly fix the situation. I want everyone to have good lives and access to work. They’re not lazy: I’ve seen how hard it is for them to find work.
Whatever I say to them won’t fix their economic disadvantage. This camp on sexual health and goal-setting won’t get them to the States, but I hope against hope that it benefits them somehow.
I had a bittersweet feeling leaving my site today. I’m going home for Christmas. I thought it would be a relief. I’ve been looking forward to this for months, since I booked the trip, but now I feel torn. I love Santa Clara so much and I feel guilty that I can go to the States so easily. Everyone, and I do mean everyone including the tomato vendors on the street, has been requesting two things: that I take them with me or/and that I bring them a gift from the US, a ‘recuerdo.’ First of all, I don’t have room in my suitcase for either request, and secondly, how do I respond? It’s taken me a long time to figure out how to dance around the awkwardness of the request. What I’ve come to say is: “Sure, I’ll take you with me.” The humor in it is that we both know that I won’t take them with me.
But I don’t know what else to say.