Why I Didn’t Join the Border Patrol

Join the Border Patrol Study GuideOne day, around 2008 or so, my boyfriend (now ex) brought me a book from the library. He couldn’t wait to show it to me. It was a complete study guide for the Border Patrol entrance exam.

He was fascinated with the U.S.-Mexico border in general, but he was especially fascinated with the music and the concept that it was a militarized zone to keep out the Mexicans. He even wrote a song about it, written in an ironic sort of way that both small town conservatives and big city liberals seemed to enjoy.

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Married Once, Divorced Twice

First Wedding
Me with my family at my first (and only) wedding in May 2001. Thanks to my brother, pictured on the right, for not letting this part of my past die by posting it to Facebook thirteen years later.
(Also, he got sick the day of the wedding and puked.)

I was married once and divorced twice.

My first marriage was prompted by a visit to Mexico with an old boyfriend – we were about twenty-three years old at the time, two years out of college. Even though we had already been living together for a couple of years, once we crossed the border, we had to sleep in separate houses. It was the proper thing to do.

According to my relatives in Mexico, “though shall not live together if unmarried” was the eleventh commandment. One of my grandmothers tried to help and urged us to get married right away – she knew a Catholic priest in town that could unite people in holy matrimony in emergency situations.

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Tempered Explosions

Duralex Picardie TumblerIn the middle of the night, I heard the sound of shattering glass. I thought a glass had fallen from the counter or the shelf, or perhaps that the dog had toppled my tea mug off the wooden futon armrest, where I’d precariously left it the night before. But the explosion of glass was so loud and intense, it couldn’t have simply been a glass falling to the floor.

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Growing Up Mexican in America: What TV Taught Me

Family Ties | White American Family

Growing up Mexican in America can be confusing. Even if the U.S. Census tells you you’re “white,” you don’t really see your kind of “white” on television or film.

I used to be ashamed of living in South El Monte, California, a predominantly working class, Mexican American suburb of Los Angeles. As a child, I felt that my classmates and neighbors weren’t cultured or educated enough. The city itself was an eyesore, with block after block of light industrial manufacturing, a gritty crossroads of the 10, 60, and 605 freeways. The Catholic school I attended from first through eighth grade didn’t have a music or art program, and our textbooks were outdated and falling apart.

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Dreams About Airplanes and Elevators

Originally published in my secret, anonymous blog on August 21, 2014.

I dream vividly almost every night. Sometimes I’m the main character in the dream, watching the events unfold around me, but sometimes it’s as if I’m watching a movie with a twisted plot. I try to write my dreams down when I can remember them. Often, I have dreams about airplanes, and every now and then, about out of control elevators.

I was on a plane that was getting ready to take off. Except I was the only one on the plane, aside from the captain, who was about my age and handsome. I had never seen him before, but he seemed familiar at the same time. The inside of the plane was in disarray. Some of the seats appeared to be missing, and there was litter strewn all over the floor.

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