Prologue
Thousands of us – the poorest of the poor, the underdogs – choked the narrow bridge and begged for our lives to the gatekeepers, and despite the sun glistening over the smooth river below us, everyone, including me, believed it was the end of our lives.
The Federales, mounted on their horses, raised dust as they galloped downhill, toward us. Their chase across the desert, full of violence and destruction, was ending here in Piedras Negras at the edge of the Río Bravo. Their fury and rage would soon be upon us, and our lives now lay in their hands.
A blur of people pushed and shoved around me. With my back against them, I gripped the bridge’s iron rail. My little sister, Amelia, was with me and my baby brother, Luisito, was in my arms. I pressed them close to my body, hoping it’d be enough to keep them alive. Terrifying screams ripped through the crowd until the thin gap between the tall swinging gates grew wider and wider, turning the other side of the river clearer and clearer. My eyes narrowed on the opened gate, on our escape from death, on our passage to freedom, and I ran.
For as long as I lived, I’d never forget the smiles on the American soldiers’ red faces as they guided a parade of terrified, broken people into their land. Later that day we found out that after thousands of refugees had crossed the bridge, the Americans had to shut the gates once again, perhaps to keep the revolution from spilling over. My heart ached for the people who hadn’t made it across, who despite their long journey, had remained on the other side of the Río Bravo. Their fates lay in the hands of the Federales.
My sibling and I had made it across, and when Abuelita found us standing under the American flag, I counted my blessings for having crossed. But still, Papa and my cousin Pablo were not with us, Mama was dead, and the revolution in Mexico still raged.
A strange thing happens when a county fights itself. There are no winners or losers. One side may claim victory, but in the end, it’s a loss for everyone. It’s like two parts of a single body fighting each other. If the head claimed victory over the feet and destroyed them, then the body could no longer walk to explore and find a
better place. If the feet destroyed the head, then the body could no longer think nor plan for a better future.
My country had been fighting itself for three years and there seemed to be no end in sight. My family and I had fled before the wide gap that tore our homeland apart swallowed us whole. And as I stood under a new flag with my bare feet grasping a new soil, I wondered about this new land. Had it ever fought itself too? How had it survived? Was it strong enough and able to provide the safety my family and I had walked across the desert for?
All I knew was that this new land had opened its gates when we’d most needed it.