Читать книгу They Call Me Güero - David Bowles - Страница 9

CHECKPOINT

On our road trip to San Antonio

for shopping and Six Flags,

Dad slows the car as we approach

the checkpoint, all those border patrol

in their green uniforms, guns on their belts.

Mom clutches los papeles—our passports,

her green card. She’s from Mexico. A resident,

not a citizen, by her own choice. At the checkpoint

a giant German Shepherd sniffs the tires

as the agents ask questions, inspect our trunk.

My little brother squeezes my hand, afraid.

My rebel sister nods and says her yessirs,

but I can tell she’s mad, the way her eyes get.

We’re innocent, sure, but our hearts beat fast.

We’ve heard stories.

Bad stories.

A cold nod and we’re waved along,

allowed to leave the borderlands—

made a limbo by the uncaring laws

of people a long way away who don’t know us,

a quarantine zone between white and brown.

I feel angry, just like my sister,

but I hold it tight inside.

We just don’t understand

why we have to prove every time

that we belong in our own country

where our mother gave birth to us.

Dad, like he can feel the bad vibes

coming from the back seat, tells us to chill.

“It won’t always be like this,” he says,

“but it’s up to us to make the change,

especially los jóvenes, you and your friends.

Eyes peeled. Stay frosty. Learn and teach the truth.

Right now? What matters is San Antonio.

We’ll take your mom shopping,

go swimming in the Texas-shaped pool,

and eat a big dinner at Tito’s.

Order anything you want.”

And he slides his favorite CD

into the battered radio. Los Tigres del Norte

start belting out “La Puerta Negra”—

“Pero ni la puerta ni cien candados

van a poder detenerme.”

Not the door. Not one hundred locks.

Ah, my dad. He always knows the right song.