part of the November newsletter...

On the night of October 25th I had the opportunity to speak with Alejandra in the Migrant Resource Center. It was a slow Sunday night and towards closing time she was the only person in the Center other than me. I sat down across from her and started asking the normal questions: where are you from? How did you cross? Do you have family? I then asked “¿Vas a intentar a cruzar otra ves?” Are you going to try to cross again?
Her response was not all that uncommon, “no hay otra opción.” There’s no other option. At that point the conversation became a memorable one. Alejandra said, “me estoy esondiendo.” I’m in hiding. She then explained to me that she suffered for twelve years living with her abusive husband and was trying to cross into the United States to save herself and her child. She finally decided to leave her husband because he threatened to kill her. Alejandra mentioned being caught by the Border Patrol. They told her that she didn’t have permission to enter into the United States. She responded by saying “Dios me ha dado permiso.” God has given me permission. She ended her story by wiping her tears from her face, smiling and saying “¿pero sabes que? Dios es grande.” You know what? God is great.
Alejandra reminds me of the human aspect of the border. She also reminds me of the complexity of the border. But there is one thing that is not complicated: these people need help. Alejandra, clearly a woman of great faith, created in the image of God, had encountered nothing but hardship for most of her adult life. She had just crossed most of Mexico, walked for days in the desert, and was detained by the Border Patrol. After she arrived to the Migrant Resource Center she was eventually taken to a women’s shelter in town and finally felt safe.
Your involvement in the Migrant Resource Center has most certainly made a difference in the lives of those we serve, at least partially alleviating the pain and distance from home so many people unfortunately feel.
At the Migrant Resource Center there is a constant need for food, clothing, and hygiene and basic medical supplies to be distributed to people like Alejandra. As well as a constant need for financial support to continue to maintain the center itself. Your donation will continue to enable us to provide quality support and care for those individuals so desperately needing our assistance.
On a daily basis it might seem like change is hard to come by, but in the past three years we have fed more than 43,000 men, women and children. Thank you for your part in making the change we want to see in the world, and thank you for chipping in and helping the cause of the Migrant Resource Center.

Gratitude.

Its like a chapter from a Steinbeck book. The men are making fun of each others’ mustaches. There’s one guy who keeps whistling as he washes the dishes in the tiny bathroom. The men keep buying Cokes for 5 pesos each and bringing them in and sharing them with everybody. And when they run out, they go back for more. A pleasant hum of conversation fills the Migrant Resource Center. High pitched laughs occasionally pierce the pleasant drone of mantalk. Soon, the men start to leave. The Whistler says, ¡Oye! ¿No me van a ayudar?
Hey! Yall aren’t gonna help me?
Shortly thereafter the men are arguing about who will mop. The Whistler gives up his post as Chief Mopper and delegates to another man.
The phone rings.
¿Puedo comunicarme con José Luis?
Sí, I say. ¡José Luis!
The name echoes as the rest of the men shout it out in unison.
The man in question rounds the corner with eyes wide and mouths the phrase, Gracias, eh?
¿Bueno? He said to his wife.

Echale pino porque huele bonito, says the assistant to the Whistler.
Through some Pine Sol in there, its smells pretty.
The Whistler sits down. A deep satisfied sigh escapes. He looks at his assistant.
¡Eso es chaparro, estas contratado!
Yeah boy, you are hired!
José Luis hangs up the phone with a look of sad happiness. He says: las mujeres son las cosas más hermosas del mundo.
Tienes razon, amigo, I say.
¡Pues sí! Mi mujer me enseñó usar esta pinche trapiador, says the Whistler with his broad mustachioed smile.
Well yeah, my wife taught me how to use this damn mop!
After a while the Whistler leaves the bathroom. He looks at me, the Migrant Resource Center far cleaner than normal. With palms facing the floor he wipes an imaginary surface.
Ya es todo, he says.
Ustedes saben que no tienen que hacer eso. Pero muchas gracias.
No, gracias a usted.

The Whistler saunters outsider, his form silhouetted by the late morning sun, to rejoin the conversation.
No va a cambiar la pinche situación.
This fucking situation isn’t gonna change.
The dull roar of conjecture and conversation continues. The friendships of men forged in desert heat, thirst, and sadness continue to be soldered through commiserating, talk of women and Mexican cities and hope.
The Whistler’s assistant carefully waddles across the newly mopped floor. This is the world of men. Proud men. Migrants.
Its not always like this.
There is a calmness.