May 4, 2004
I went to the beach in Tijuana. It was crowded on sunday, it was sizziling hot. So yeah, there are we, strolling, me and my friend. So I tell him, let us go to the fence. It was corroded, the sea salt did it and the stupid army surplus material which was used to build the fence up is rapidly deteriotating. Nature making sure the gringos get it: nothing last forever. There were some kids on the other side of the beach. The so called, Otro Lado. The migra came to them because they were having conversations with mexicans on this side of the border. They asked for identifications and those were provided.
But suddenly one of the migras asked if we had not seen the paletero.
The migra wanted a mexican ice cream and the little crowd that formed to see the agents do their job, with jeers and boos tried to be friends. The paletero came and he bought an ice cream. I could not resist asking if he did not have pesos on him. I do not need to, he said. Why not? I answered back. We carry dollars with us, right?
So I was there, giving the agent a hard time. Those poor souls in those green uniforms, bullet proof vest and a million other safety precautions under Californian heat, seeking out a threat/treat among us. This is Aztlan I told him, as I pointed to the both sides of the land with my finger, separated by a corroded fence. He craving for an ice cream and I craving for an anger to be let loose. It was after all, safe therapy.
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