Читать книгу Becoming Dr. Q - Alfredo Quinones-Hinojosa - Страница 12

How did I do it?

Even today, I’m not sure how I managed to jump the fence to start a new life in California. Throughout the years since then, I have often said that I was propelled by a combination of audacity and naivety. Why else would I defy gravity and risk injury, incarceration, and even death to cross the border? Without a certain degree of ignorance about all the things that could go wrong, it would have been much harder to screen out disabling thoughts. If I had been more realistic and had considered the pitfalls in greater depth, I might not have made the journey at all.

But I was not entirely blind to the risk I was taking on that New Year’s Day in 1987. When I watched the sun rise over the fields of home for possibly the last time, I was fully aware that the strategy I’d crafted during the night might fail. If anything, life had taught me not to be afraid of failure. What made me more afraid was not trying to embrace the world just beyond my reach. My fear was that I would not go for it, not give it my very best shot. And that wasn’t audacity or lack of worldly experience. It came from the belief that I had valuable assets to offer—my passion (Quiñones stubbornness) and boundless energy, even if I didn’t yet know how to harness it in a meaningful way.

These resources likewise came into play in my approach to crossing the border without documentation. Certainly, desperation added fuel to the fire. But the scientist inside me was also already at work. Remembering Tata Juan’s advice, I realized that I had to veer off the well-traveled path to build a promising future. And anticipating the advice of the great scientist Santiago Ramón y Cajal, whose writing would influence me greatly in my career, I knew instinctually that I needed to think clearly, plan my strategy carefully, and never give up. Of course, having just put away my school books to prepare for full-time work at the lowest rungs of agriculture, I would have laughed at the notion that I could become a scientist one day—let alone a neuroscientist.

Not that my plan was perfect. As any science-minded person could have told me, most real breakthroughs come about through a process of trial and error, repetition and adaptation, imaginative leaps, and—even though we are not supposed to admit it in the scientific world—the all-important commodity of good luck.

Indeed, there was nothing very scientific about my decision to defy the conventional wisdom that the safest way to get across without capture by the border patrol was to make a hole at the bottom of the fence or tunnel under it. According to lore, if not fact, people who attempted to scale the fence, as I planned to do, and then tangled with the barbed wire were the ones who sustained the worst injuries, and some even died. Although armed vigilantes were not prevalent at the time, most of the stories about shooting fatalities at the border involved people who had been trying to go over the fence rather than under it.

Perhaps it was the underdog in me—the boy who was used to being challenged and who wanted to do things differently—that opted to go the dangerous route. And being of a rebellious mind-set anyway, I found no allure in going the easier way—or so I tried to explain to Gabriel, Fausto, and Oscar on the evening of January 1, as the sun began to set during our drive to the drop-off point in Mexicali.

“Doc, you’re crazy!” cousin Oscar scoffed from the back seat of my Thunderbird, where he sat next to Gabriel. “Nobody jumps the fence.” What he meant but didn’t need to say was that nobody jumped the fence in the middle of Calexico. Actually, lots of people found remote stretches of the fence to climb. But attempting to do so in the middle of town was so bold as to be nuts.

From the front passenger seat, I glanced over at Fausto, who was behind the wheel. In his kind, intelligent fashion, Fausto suggested, “Well, I think we’re using the word ‘jump’ as a euphemism, right Freddy?”

“Exactly.” Then I explained that my move would, in fact, be more of a Spiderman climb up the eighteen-foot fence, followed by a hop over the barbed wire and a leap toward foreign soil—culminating in a flying descent and a pantherlike, spring-loaded landing, reminiscent of the Kaliman maneuver that I’d never mastered.

Although Oscar and Gabriel expressed misgivings about this outlandish plan, we were all pumped by the excitement of the undertaking.

For all the risk that the gravity-defying portion of the crossing would entail, the rest of the plan was much tamer and had fewer potential pitfalls. Or so I insisted while explaining that Fausto should stop the car a few blocks from the stretch of border fence where I would attempt “the maneuver.”

Fausto would then drive west the three miles or so to the main crossing gate where cars went from Mexico into the United States and, from there, slowly make his way through the streets of Calexico to our designated meeting place behind the house of one of our relatives. My intention, the moment I landed on the other side of the fence, was to race off in an entirely opposite direction from the Thunderbird, kill some time in order to lose the trail of any suspicious border agents, and eventually wind back to our spot. From there, after we made it out of town and onto the highway, the plot would thicken as we implemented a few measures to avoid the immigration checkpoints—which actually posed the biggest obstacle for most border crossings.

Today, with the many changes in technology, many more checkpoints along numerous transportation channels, and much tougher measures along the U.S.-Mexico border, this plan of mine would not work—for good reasons. Immigration issues have grown much more complicated, and we have much work to do in figuring out how to reach fair-minded reform with all of those considerations.

In some respects, however, things haven’t so much changed as they have intensified, including economic extremes in both developing and developed countries. For the poor and the powerless, literal hunger and a quest for opportunity are enough to compel them to risk everything, even their lives, to cross the border. Meanwhile, anti-immigrant resentment has grown too, mainly against the poor, undocumented workers who provide cheap labor.

As I would learn later on, developed countries will always welcome the Einsteins of this world—those individuals whose talents are already recognized and deemed to have value. This welcome doesn’t usually extend to poor and uneducated people seeking to enter the country. But the truth, supported by the facts of history and the richness of the immigrant contribution to America’s distinction in the world, is that the most entrepreneurial, innovative, motivated citizen is the one who has been given an opportunity and wants to repay the debt.

Of course, I was unaware of these complexities as I prepared to cross the border. For me, the fence was the dividing line between oppression and a fighting chance, between stagnation and hope. It was that simple. What’s more, at the time the United States had unprecedented demand for cheap labor that was dependable—decent, hardworking, able. What this said to me was that I was needed. Upon this stage, my drama was set.

At precisely 8:30 P.M., it was do-or-die time. I approached the fairly remote stretch of the border fence a couple of blocks beyond Mexicali’s city limits. As I slid into place, crouched next to a bush between two light towers, I was relieved to see that I cast very little shadow. I knew, however, that when I moved closer to the fence, I would be plainly visible to anyone in the vicinity. No motion detectors were present in this era, but even so, one wrong move, one flinch of a muscle, could cause the endeavor to fail.

Behind me a few hundred yards, hiding behind a tree in the darkness, were Gabriel and Oscar, watching my attempt to make history—to do something none of us had dared consider or witnessed before. From their vantage point, I assumed, the lighting would allow them not only to see me scale the fence but also to look across to the spot in Calexico where Fausto would pick me up. Pumping myself up, I imagined that their challenge would be to stifle their cheers when they saw the Thunderbird speed away—and to avoid any other noise or movement that would attract the attention of the Mexican police who patrolled the border on our side.

At 8:31 P.M., I seized my moment, filled my lungs with air, and knowing that I was being watched by my brother and younger cousin, mustered every bit of courage and showmanship I had to propel myself up the fence and pull out all the Kaliman stops. Even though Gabriel and Oscar were rooting for me to get over the fence safely and smoothly, I knew that they would be equally excited to see me bite the dust. Oh, ye of little faith, I thought, just as it hit me that I was really doing this thing. In an instant, I understood what all my years of agility training had prepared me for. I sprang into the air and vaulted over the top rolls of barbed wire with a jump, hop, and a leap, positioning my body the perfect distance from the fence, moving down through the starless winter night with the grace of a bird. As I landed majestically on my feet, I was utterly exhilarated. Yes, yes, yes, I had done it! The eagle had landed. I had pulled off the maneuver! Just a small glitch. Based on my scientific calculations, I had decided that I needed three minutes to get from one side of the border to the other before speeding away on foot into the streets of Calexico. But my calculations were wrong—by thirty seconds. Out of nowhere headlights blasted into the darkness, momentarily blinding me—amid the screeching of brakes of the border patrol car arriving on the scene and the churning of dust as the two agents threw open the car doors and suddenly stood on either side of me.

So much for pulling off the maneuver. Humiliated, I felt like a total loser. I could only imagine my brother and cousin rolling on the ground, laughing uncontrollably. Despite my audacious, scientific, visionary thinking, the fireworks had just fizzled. Now what? Morosely, I prepared to be lambasted not only as a menace but as an incompetent one at that. To my surprise, though, the border agents were a rather affable duo. In fact, in the annals of law enforcement, my capture was as routine and benign as they come.

I was then chauffeured in the military-style Ford Bronco back to the main crossing station, where I was led into a room for booking. When prompted, I gave the agents a made-up name, knowing they wouldn’t push the issue. I was a scrawny, defeated-looking kid who appeared to be all of sixteen, without even any facial hair. They had nothing to gain from rubbing my face in my defeat. Without saying anything explicit, the agents appeared to be sympathetic—as if they knew the kinds of challenges that had driven me to risk life and limb to cross the border without papers. But everyone has a job to do. And they did what they always do—kicked me back to Mexico, out the rear door to head home on foot.

Memorably, it was right there, as I plodded along the three miles in the direction of my failed border crossing—where I’d last seen Gabriel and cousin Oscar—that I did some serious soul searching. I was crushed. How could the path of last resort lead only to a dead end? But then I asked myself if perhaps only my ego was hurt. In my mind, I put myself back in the ring and decided to be my own cornerman, to summon the Dr. Ferdie Pacheco as well as the Ali in me. Sure, I was knocked down. Yes, my timing was off. But was I going to collapse and cry? No way. I was going to hit back and give it my all once more—this time with a revised plan and new calculations.

Reinvigorated, I sprinted toward the crossing point, eager to share my new approach with my brother and cousin. I assumed that they had watched the whole debacle unfold and couldn’t wait to see me eat crow.

But the two of them had no idea what had happened after they saw me fly into the darkness. As I would learn months later, while I was being booked, Gabriel and Oscar were about to be booked by two Mexican policemen who had picked them up simply because they looked suspicious, hiding behind a tree for no apparent reason and looking young and naive—one of them (cousin Oscar) well dressed in U.S.-bought clothes. Never having been in trouble, they figured that matters could not become much worse when the officers put them in the police car. But after driving for several minutes, the policeman in the passenger seat turned around and noticed a near-empty bottle of beer at Oscar’s feet.

The policeman behind the wheel was outraged as he turned to his partner. “We just got these kids in the car, and they’re drinking?”

With that, Gabriel and Oscar were dragged into the station and soon escorted to a jail cell, at which point they dug into their pockets. Gabriel had only a few dollars to fork over. But Oscar ended up paying something exorbitant—like a hundred hard-earned bucks.

That drama was still playing out for them when I arrived back where I had attempted my over-the-fence maneuver an hour earlier. I wasn’t sure what to do next. All I knew was that I was lucky because I had a choice: either to throw in the towel and give up, or, as I had learned in boxing, to get back on my feet and try again. This decision was a crucial test of my mettle, and it taught me a lesson I have carried with me ever since—that the best successes often come after multiple failures; the key is to try again and again without losing enthusiasm and focus.

Given the choice, I decided to go for it again—the same strategy, only better. To that end, I spent the next hour hugging the ground right next to the fence, below a few bushes, and studying the movements of the border patrol. Instead of giving myself a three-minute window, I would need to condense my movements into two minutes and thirty seconds. In my first effort, I’d moved too soon, and the agents had spotted me in their patrol car’s rear-view mirror.

Some would have thought it folly to repeat the same move, from the same spot, that had led to my capture the first time. For me, it made perfect sense. The border agents wouldn’t be looking for me to come back within a couple hours and try the same thing that had failed before. Who would be that crazy, right? They had to be thinking that lightning wouldn’t strike twice in the same place. I knew better!

So again I climbed to the top of the fence in a matter of seconds and flew over it to the other side. My flight was much less elegant this time, as I came within a hair of getting tangled in the barbed wire at the top of the fence and then bit the dust and fell to a less-than-cushioned landing. But before I’d even planted myself on the ground, I was running so fast that my feet cut air, with the motion of my legs carrying me as fast as the wind. With my heart bursting out of my chest, I moved so fast that I nearly tripped again, coming close to crashing to the dirt. Instead I moved even faster, careening down alleys, over more fences, under clotheslines draped with laundry, and across fields, stirring up a badass pack of dogs that barked in chorus as they chased me through the city. At last, I reached the neighborhood where Fausto was supposed to meet me. Magically, when I turned the last corner, I saw him there, waiting in the darkness in my Thunderbird.

He approached slowly, reaching across to throw open the door, and I leapt into the car with it still in motion. As I caught my breath, we high-fived, neither of us saying a word, and he drove us away from the border, moving along the well-lit main drag of Calexico until we blended in with all the cars driven by local revelers continuing their New Year’s festivities from the night before. We then turned west and wound around until we reached the highway leading toward San Diego, which thankfully had no checkpoints.

Now came phase two of the strategy, which called for Fausto to drop me off at the airport in San Diego. Here was where the plot became much more complex and where the outcome was going to depend less on science than on luck. I had heard that some people paid smugglers six hundred dollars to orchestrate and implement such a plan, but with only sixty-five dollars to my name, I had no choice but to devise my own makeshift version.

Not knowing what to anticipate, I was on pins and needles. From the moment my passport had been confiscated, I’d been on an adrenaline rush, catching only a few hours of sleep here and there. Exhaustion should have set in by now. Not a chance! My heart beat faster as Fausto and I reviewed the logistics of the next step. To avoid the Indio checkpoint, we needed to separate in San Diego and then reconnect in Los Angeles—probably in the early dawn. In these pre-9/11 days, airport security and requirements for showing one’s ID were not as stringent for short domestic flights as they were for transcontinental and international travel.

My gamble—which was huge—was that I would be able to buy a ticket and board a plane for the very short flight to L.A. (thus avoiding the checkpoints along Fausto’s driving route) without having to show my ID. But, of course, this wasn’t an original idea, and ticket agents were sure to be on the lookout for people like me. So on the way to the airport, Fausto had helped me memorize and rehearse answers to some of the questions I might be asked. Being a good mimic, I listened to his pronunciation of key phrases—“A ticket to Los Angeles, please”—and then repeated them, practicing my best American accent.

Only after Fausto dropped me off in the middle of the night at the San Diego airport and sped off into the darkness did fear really set in. As I stood in line at the airport ticket counter, I began to panic, afraid that immigration agents would suddenly appear and surround me. Although I was dressed in stylish American Bugle Boy slacks and a preppy Le Tigre polo shirt, I doubted that my attire was fooling anyone.

When my turn arrived, I walked up to the woman at the airline counter, concerned that my heart would beat right out of my chest. I summoned every memory I could find of past successes at mastering my fears: driving a car for the first time at five years old, overcoming stage fright at my first public speaking event, turning menacing bullies into bodyguards. These thoughts quieted my nerves and I said with as much charm as possible, still keeping it cool, “A ticket to L.A., please.”

“Next flight out, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.” I almost added “my lady” like Tata Juan and threw in a small doff of my imaginary hat.

The cost of the ticket was sixty-three dollars and change.

I paid for it and nodded graciously, carefully tucking away the dollar and coins that I had left and looking around to determine where to go next. Without a better option, I decided to follow the early-morning crowd and fortunately ended up at the plane’s departure point. The flight was surreal, astounding, and stomach-churning. Not once was I asked for identification or questioned by anyone in authority. Even so, I didn’t exhale until we landed in Los Angeles and pulled up to the gate.

But now the plan lost all scientific control. Since Fausto hadn’t known what plane or what airline I was going to take, he had simply said that he would do his best to be there to meet me when I disembarked. If I didn’t see him when I got off the plane, the plan was for me to wait for him near the lower level of the terminal entrance by the baggage carousel—though we had no idea that the airport had numerous terminals. So I wasn’t alarmed when he wasn’t in the gate area to meet the plane or even when a few hours passed and he hadn’t arrived at the terminal entrance where I’d arrived. Though somewhat concerned, I thought perhaps he had driven back to Mexicali to get Oscar and would eventually show up.

While the past two days had flown by, the hours now slowed to a sluggish crawl. Of course, I wanted to run victory laps around LAX, but until we were on the road to the San Joaquin Valley, I wouldn’t be able to relax. Besides, I was famished, even after spending my remaining dollar and a half or so on a cheeseburger at the first spot I found—Burger King. To distract myself from worrying about where Fausto was, I decided to explore the airport and spent the rest of the day listening to the fantastic array of conversations, languages, and dialects. At one point, weak from hunger, I went to sit in the food court, hoping to spot leftovers at other tables. A few tables over, I saw a couple with two children dash off to catch their flight, leaving their trays behind. With the agility of a gazelle, I went over to bus the table, discreetly feasting on the food that would have gone to waste otherwise.

The food revived my energy and spirits, but by late afternoon, I was frantic, ready to give up on the long odds that Fausto and I would ever find each other. The prospect that I’d have to make it on my own suddenly became real. True, I knew no one in Los Angeles, had no money, and spoke practically no English. But if my road had brought me here, I would follow it out into the city: someone would recognize a hard worker and give me a job sweeping floors or pumping gas. And just as I resigned myself to this fate, right as I stepped onto the down escalator—in a terminal far from where I arrived—to make my way into the cool of the evening, there was Fausto coming up the escalator on the other side! Unbelievable! What were the odds? We could have circled the airport for days, never finding one another. But here he was! I will never forget the moment when I saw his face and his warm smile grinning up at me.

We jumped into my Thunderbird and peeled out of the parking lot, into the chilly night air of Los Angeles, California. Before I could get a sense of the city, we veered off and away, onto the freeway, following the signs north. Once we were out of the city limits, I finally allowed myself to hoot and holler and to thank the saints above for the miracle of this opportunity.

If memory serves, the date when all of this came together was January 2, 1987—my nineteenth birthday.