Power Dynamics and Violence

Louis J. Rodriguez's "This Memory Begins with Flight" is his memory as a child of crossing the Mexican-American border. This short story is a traumatic experience for his mother, who is forced to go the the United States by her husband who claims, "I'd rather starve here"  rather than return to Mexico. Ciudad Juarez, the border city they are leaving, is a notoriously dangerous space and it is through a struggle for power in this city that Rodriguez's father is wrongfully imprisoned, abused, and refused visitors. His criminal charges? Stealing school funds--an accusation made purely to have him lose his job as a school principle and the power he had accumulated. Power, even that which belongs to a school principle, is dangerous.

Power makes the border a violent space. Even in the most "safe" and controlled situations, it is a violent space. Why? Because whoever has the authority to police the border space has complete control over those who are there. When you are at a political border, personal rights are irrelevant and completely subjected to the security officer with the badge. Detainment,  unlawful searches of belongings or the body, threats (personal or structural), and bribery are all common. You may be singled out at any time (an embarrassing and frightening experience) whether it be because of your clothing, your attitude, your race, your accent, or even just "randomly". Random, we might remember, is often not arbitrary but an excuse. If you do try to resist the power hierarchy in the borderland, if you do try to argue with the guard who humiliates you by making open accusations unless you submit, then you are automatically the threat. You, who law and order should protect, are at the mercy of a law that is unfamiliar.

Now imagine living in this space, like Rodriguez's family. Imagine spending every waking moment in a space that constantly threatens you unless you comply. Survival is based on fitting in and not upsetting the precarious balance that is the power dynamic. This is the experience of many border towns, particularly (but not exclusive to) on the Mexican side of the border fence.  The sheer amount of violence in Juarez is astounding if you look at statistics. Drug cartels, gang violence, political corruption, police corruption and frightening levels of femicide, to name a few. There are online sources that proclaim it the most violent city in the world. I watched a film in a third world course called El Traspatio or Backyard which is the true story of Juarez "where since the mid-90's thousands of women have gone missing or turned up as sun-burnt corpses in the desert" (IMDB). It made me want to vomit. Repeatedly. Femicide in Juarez, is explicitly connected to gangs which target young indigenous women who are moving to larger cities to work in factories, often resulting in rape, murder and the sale of body parts into the black market organ trade. The emptied bodies are disposed of in the desert or on streets as a display of power. Control and power are not governed, except by violent means.

Is it any real wonder that people who live under constant threat of violence choose to cross borders, however dangerous it might be? There is violence, undoubtedly, on the other side. But there is also the hope that once a line has been drawn between yourself and the chaos, that there is a measure of safety.

In the short story, his mother tries to return to Mexico to escape the racism that she is subjected to in America, but is ultimately she is unable to out of fear. Leaving without her husband cannot be an option because of the violence and hardship she will be subjected to Mexico should she return as a single mother. To her, the border does not offer protection because on either side she is the other, the single mother, the female immigrant, the unbelonging. Rodriguez claims that in the United States, "she was unable to talk, and when she did, no one would listen" (6), and as a result, he and his siblings tried to assimilate rather than be similarly positioned. "That river, that first crossing, was the mother of all crossings" (6) but the border persists because there are social, class, racial, and internal borders that continuously define the 'us versus them' mentality.

The entire story is told with a certain amount of apathy from the eyes of the child narrator, which I find particularly fascinating:

Up to this juncture, it's been like being in a storm--so much instability, of dreams achieved and then shattered, of a silence within the walls of my body, of being turned on, beaten, belittled and pushed aside; forgotten and unimportant. I have no position on the issue before us. To stay in L.A. To go. What does it matter? I've been a red hot ball, bouncing around from here to there. Anyone can bounce me. Mama. Dad. Rano. Schools. Streets. I'm a ball. Whatever. (7)

I don't particularly think it is because of the age of the narrator that this apathy exists. Rather, it is the lack of control, the lack of power over his own situation. Travelling, crossing borders, means the same thing for him in either direction because in any case there is the same loss of control. His mother probably feels the same way once she realizes she can't leave the country with out her husband. There is an unspoken violence in being uprooted--however positive that move might be. The act of leaving your "home" is violent and controlled by whoever has the power to cause you to leave. Even the most personal choice of leaving is instigated by something.

I remember a lot of travelling when I was a child. Moving to X or Y country were often equally interesting to me because I had no real idea of the difference between them. Any decisions made were made in my interest but not really with my involvement. I was always excited to move, and indeed enjoyed it, but in many ways I can identify with the red hot ball. Bouncing here or there was an act caused by someone else. And to a large degree, I still am "just a ball" being bounced here or there by outside obligations such as school, family, work etc. I certainly don't regret growing up crossing borders, but I think it is a lie to say that it doesn't change you.

I forget who said it first, probably Gloria Anzaldua in La Frontera, but whenever you cross a border you lose a piece of your self. The question I have is: what do you gain?