I spent two hours on the Cordova Bridge yesterday, waiting to get back home. Two hours — trapped in my head, observing. I can’t help but memorize the moments and people around me — the individuals inching forward next to me in their own cars, the sun-baked vendors, and especially the wretched beggars.
I turned off my AC, opened all the windows to my van and waited patiently. I’m sitting alone again, like I did for years in the void of a prison hole, to reflect. I can’t help but hate the injustice I see in this rat race to another side of an imaginary boundary.
I’m out of change so I pass out smiles, nods and conversation, making eye contact when most others dismiss or just ignore them begging for scraps. I’m mesmerized at how quickly the car in front of me is washed by a skinny, grungy-looking Mexican. The car with a Jesus sticker is rolling along while he assiduously labors around it like a bumblebee — for change.
There’s a little, dark-skinned girl sitting on a ledge while her mother’s selling bracelets, and I’m out of cash. The next time I come by, I will buy a bracelet from them — for my little girl.
I smile when I finally see them, the little drummer boy with his dad playing a trombone. They elicit peaceful memories of my grandpa Juan De La Rosa, playing his trombone in his room. He lived with us on San Pedro Street in Las Cruces and he’d spend hours playing his violin, trombone or humming while he worked making guitars.
Halfway up the bridge, I see a familiar face. I gave this man a ride once, when I asked him for directions as I was a little lost in Juarez. He sat in my van, cradling his stack of pastries because fortunately for me, we was walking toward that same bridge. I remember he refused to take the change I offered because I gave him a ride.
When he comes up to my van, he looks at me with a puzzled expression and after a few seconds, he recognizes me. He smiles and comes over for small talk — traffic, the heat and his sales. He’s halfway done for the day, then he’ll head home for more.
I care for these people, ever quick to smile as they squint and sweat in the blistering sun all day, their living handed out from another being’s hand. I can’t stand the hypocrisy they’re showered with and feel helpless to serve them in a significant way…
El Paso Strong is everywhere — a feisty slogan in the face of hate and a verb these wretched people have to exercise on that bridge daily. They’re desperate, hungry and defiant. They toil day in and day out. They’re called drug dealers, rapists and murders, but they’re really just people with less hope than you and I. Much less in status, education and resources… Costly resources now metered for profit.
