people were getting cancer simply from being alive, from breathing in everybody else’s anger.
He waited for his turn in line, and unlike most people, Diego enjoyed the wait. He was happy to be a part of the line and he liked imagining the sounds of the people’s voices. Their voices, he thought, must be the same color as their skins: they speak in brown. He pointed to two apple empanadas, two fingers for two of them. The guy behind the counter knew him; he was a regular at Vicky’s. “¿Dos empanadas de manzana? Si, señor. Thirty-five cents!” Diego could see he was yelling, the veins popping out from his neck as he shouted. The man yelled again, repeating what he had just said, and then wrote “35¢” on a pad and showed it to Diego. He yelled again: “¡Treinta y cinco centavos!” Diego wanted to yell back: “I can’t hear you any better because you’re yelling, you idiot!” He smiled at the man and gave him thirty-five cents. “Thank you,” he yelled, “y vuelva.” Diego nodded. When he walked out he flipped him one of Mary’s fingers. No one noticed.
He walked down to the Mexican Consulate on San Antonio Street and began eating one of his empanadas. He sat on the steps and watched the traffic moving at a Saturday pace—slow and steady—cars with drivers who seemed almost not to be aware they were actually driving. He noticed the Border Patrol vans moving up and down the street, the men in the front seats noticing everyone on foot, staring at them, watching for signs of foreignness like scientists looking for that virus that did not belong in the healthy body. Some of the vans were half-full; some were almost empty. The passengers stared at him or the sky, stared out at everything outside of the van, their eyes like hands ready to grab at anything. Every time Diego saw those men staring out at him from the inside of a green van, he wanted to do something, hit someone, set them free—and yet, it was all so useless, and even his own feelings seemed useless to him—not worth anything at all. Maybe, he thought, I ’ve been having too many conversations with Luz.
Another van passed him slowly, looking him over. He waved at the uniformed man behind the wheel and whispered quietly to himself: “Hello, you bastards.” He smiled, and cursed them, and it made him feel happy that they did not know why he was smiling. The green uniforms smiled back at him. He wasn’t afraid of them anymore. For the longest time he had lived in fear of them, alwayswanting to run when he saw them approach him, and then one day it happened: They picked him up. It had happened at San Jacinto Plaza, and after the whole incident had passed he’d wondered why he had ever been afraid. They were nothing, Diego thought, nothing. Luz was right about them. They were even stupider than his sister: They couldn’t even figure out he was deaf. They thought he was just another Mexican who couldn’t speak English. He had even signed things to them, and had tried to pull his pad out from his coat, but they grabbed him as if he was reaching for a gun or something. He toured the city with them, and when they’d filled the van with people who looked just like him, they’d driven them all to the bridge. At the time, he had enjoyed the ride since it was slower and cheaper than the city buses. He had had a good time driving around the streets of El Paso.
They asked him questions at the immigration office at the border, and finally he convinced them to let him write something down: “My name is Juan Diego Ramirez. You know, like the guy who discovered Our Lady of Guadalupe, and I want to see a lawyer.” The two officers had looked at each other with questions all over their faces. One of them asked him if he was a U.S. citizen. Diego had nodded and written: “Why didn’t you ask me that before you decided to give me a free ride around the town?” One of the guys laughed and told him to beat it. “And try and stay off the streets.”
He waited for his turn in line, and unlike most people, Diego enjoyed the wait. He was happy to be a part of the line and he liked imagining the sounds of the people’s voices. Their voices, he thought, must be the same color as their skins: they speak in brown. He pointed to two apple empanadas, two fingers for two of them. The guy behind the counter knew him; he was a regular at Vicky’s. “¿Dos empanadas de manzana? Si, señor. Thirty-five cents!” Diego could see he was yelling, the veins popping out from his neck as he shouted. The man yelled again, repeating what he had just said, and then wrote “35¢” on a pad and showed it to Diego. He yelled again: “¡Treinta y cinco centavos!” Diego wanted to yell back: “I can’t hear you any better because you’re yelling, you idiot!” He smiled at the man and gave him thirty-five cents. “Thank you,” he yelled, “y vuelva.” Diego nodded. When he walked out he flipped him one of Mary’s fingers. No one noticed.
He walked down to the Mexican Consulate on San Antonio Street and began eating one of his empanadas. He sat on the steps and watched the traffic moving at a Saturday pace—slow and steady—cars with drivers who seemed almost not to be aware they were actually driving. He noticed the Border Patrol vans moving up and down the street, the men in the front seats noticing everyone on foot, staring at them, watching for signs of foreignness like scientists looking for that virus that did not belong in the healthy body. Some of the vans were half-full; some were almost empty. The passengers stared at him or the sky, stared out at everything outside of the van, their eyes like hands ready to grab at anything. Every time Diego saw those men staring out at him from the inside of a green van, he wanted to do something, hit someone, set them free—and yet, it was all so useless, and even his own feelings seemed useless to him—not worth anything at all. Maybe, he thought, I ’ve been having too many conversations with Luz.
Another van passed him slowly, looking him over. He waved at the uniformed man behind the wheel and whispered quietly to himself: “Hello, you bastards.” He smiled, and cursed them, and it made him feel happy that they did not know why he was smiling. The green uniforms smiled back at him. He wasn’t afraid of them anymore. For the longest time he had lived in fear of them, alwayswanting to run when he saw them approach him, and then one day it happened: They picked him up. It had happened at San Jacinto Plaza, and after the whole incident had passed he’d wondered why he had ever been afraid. They were nothing, Diego thought, nothing. Luz was right about them. They were even stupider than his sister: They couldn’t even figure out he was deaf. They thought he was just another Mexican who couldn’t speak English. He had even signed things to them, and had tried to pull his pad out from his coat, but they grabbed him as if he was reaching for a gun or something. He toured the city with them, and when they’d filled the van with people who looked just like him, they’d driven them all to the bridge. At the time, he had enjoyed the ride since it was slower and cheaper than the city buses. He had had a good time driving around the streets of El Paso.
They asked him questions at the immigration office at the border, and finally he convinced them to let him write something down: “My name is Juan Diego Ramirez. You know, like the guy who discovered Our Lady of Guadalupe, and I want to see a lawyer.” The two officers had looked at each other with questions all over their faces. One of them asked him if he was a U.S. citizen. Diego had nodded and written: “Why didn’t you ask me that before you decided to give me a free ride around the town?” One of the guys laughed and told him to beat it. “And try and stay off the streets.”
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