The Line Becomes a River: Dispatches from the Border

by Francisco Cantú

So you see, each time I cross I risk my life. When you step into the Mexican consulate, you see pictures of the missing. All of us who cross are exposed to this possibility. We know there are dangers in the desert and in the mountains. La mafia, la migra. There’s mountain lions, snakes. There’s cliffs and deep canyons. There’s no water. There are many dangers, but for me it doesn’t matter. I have to cross, I have to arrive to the other side. I even dream that I am there. I dream that I’m there with my family, that it’s morning and I have to go to work. Then I wake up and I’m here. The judges in the United States, if they know the reality, they know they are sending people to their death. They are sending people to commit suicide. I will do anything to be on the other side. To be honest, I would rather be in prison in the U.S. and see my boys once a week through the glass than to stay here and be separated from my family. At least I would be closer to them. So you see, there is nothing that can keep me from crossing. My boys are not dogs to be abandoned in the street. I will walk through the desert for five days, eight days, ten days, whatever it takes to be with them. I’ll eat grass, I’ll eat bushes, I’ll eat cactus, I’ll drink filthy cattle water, I’ll drink nothing at all. I’ll run and hide from la migra, I’ll pay the mafias whatever I have to. They can take my money, they can rob my family, they can lock me away, but I will keep coming back. I will keep crossing, again ...