A Wetback in Reverse

by Frederick Martin-Del-Campo

  The Mexican Red Cross had gotten in to the picture, boasting of the readying of millions of volunteers who could be sent anywhere, at any time to help slow down the spread of the virus, including by educating people about hygiene. Oh, how shameful, to have to be taught about hygiene as an adult. No wonder Gringoes, for all of their arrogance and presumptuousness, return from Mexico complaining that, “it’s so dirty.”

  I honestly cannot blame them ~ they actually have a point, even though they aren’t the most sanitary people in the world either.

  But, the actual caring for the sick was another story, and there weren’t too many volunteers willing to sign up for that.

  Thus, the local newspapers went on reporting the deaths of this toddler, or that grandmother who had gone to Texas or California, contracted the flu, and then promptly passed away. It would seem that young adults weren’t the only ones being affected by now; the damned disease had effectively over-taken all age groups.

  Even the stolid members of the Military weren’t immune from its threat; a notice was soon posted that over 40 Mexican Marines had been confined to barracks near Acapulco, on the Pacific Coast, after a couple of them (reputedly having just returned from a brothel no less) had come down with the virus, but it wasn’t certain if it was a human or a pig virus. Since they admitted to having patronized a brothel thereabout, it could be they had come down with the Bird flu, but we’ll leave the satirical details to the individual imagination.

  Waiting for waitresses to make up their minds to serve me coffee, or the fat cooks to re-heat the stale rice, or the loud-mouth viejas tamaleras to finish up with the quesadillas, I paused to consider: if this mix of pig, bird and human flu is something to which humans have limited natural immunity, then what real chance did we all have to really combat it? How do we know it is the dangerous variant if it has symptoms of fever, cough and sore throat practically identical to the flu most people are accustomed to? Just to think that these local Mestizos, selling their execrable recipes in the streets or in unhygienic bistros, engaged in food preparation while picking their noses and scratching their uniquely sculpted asses, were spreading tiny particles of their mucous and other noxious germs through the air, especially after they’d coughed or sneezed, which easily could contain the virus! The mere thought of it, never mind the reality, just gave me the shivers.

  A couple of weekend holidays were coming up, Labor Day and Cinco de Mayo, and word was spread that the authorities were considering using the five-day period for a partial shut-down of government services in the event emergency measures would be extended, or if they’d ease some restrictions. I couldn’t figure out if it minimized the added disruption, but it sure as Hell was annoying.

  People around must have learned of these latest announcements because traffic was unusually light by the end of the week, which was nice for a change, and this was before the shutdown went in to full effect. It was a humorous sight though, to see dressed up businessmen walking the streets wearing surgical masks, passing beggars who kept their masks on too while asking for alms. I think I was most happy that the air was relieved of so much automobile exhausts ~ one could actually breathe again in the middle of the day without choking from the foul fumes.

  I asked one sympathetic bartender named Miguel, who fancied himself as good a singer as the legendary Pedro Infante, what he thought of the whole mess: he feigned indifference, then casually pronounced that, “I think ... well, in my opinion, (he then sucked on a lemon as he cleaned beer glasses) the solution to all this crap is to just keep vigilant, that all people act like they should when more of this illness is flaring up. It’s mostly up to the families to take care of their brats, so they should take more preventive actions. This could make all the difference in the world. But will they? You can be sure that they won’t, and that’s why we are in this mess to begin with, DAMN IT!”

  For a bartender who did not seem to possess much of a brain, he certainly made a lot of sense ~ common sense, the very thing that was lacking throughout this entire medical-hygienic fiasco.

  Even while the populace was trying to celebrate Cinco De Mayo, scientists were announcing that somewhere in the world, perhaps a year before, the pig virus had hopped on to a unsuspecting person, though not before lapping up some bird poop, thus spreading amongst humans since then.

  Now, why didn’t they think of that before? It seems so complicated a matter, and yet so freaking obvious that it escaped half the brains of the world ~ not that half of them were functioning anyway.

  As far as the blame game goes, Mexican scientists were blaming the Chinese for the mess way back when Bird Flu was found in their Bird’s Nests soup, thus provoking world-wide hoopla. Conversely, the Chinese fired back and blamed the flu on Mexican food, since everyone “knows” that it causes people to dance the Aztec Two-Step.

  So, just to patch things up between Mexican cooks, who chided the Chinese for eating dogs, and Chinese cooks, who accused the Mexicans of serving cockroaches in their tacos, all decided to hinder the Hindus, who do nothing but harp on everything, anyway.

  To my great dismay, I learned that the dreaded symptoms were showing up in greater proportion back in Veracruz. This could be a problem, since I had every intention of returning there as soon as I had an opportunity. It seems they were blaming the pig farms again, and the small local clinics providing emergency health care were resentful of the fact that the said farms were not being very helpful or forthcoming with donations, so they went ahead and raised a stink (no pun intended) in the press about the nasty nature of hog-raising.

  The earliest case that filtered out of Veracruz was that of a 5 year old boy, who had probably gotten dirty with something he shouldn’t have touched, and came down with all of the symptoms. By week’s end, unfortunately, hundreds of people had come down with it. The epicenter of the fracas was La Gloria, that same, less than happy town I had first stayed in. And, the people of La Gloria, even while struggling to breathe, kept commuting to jobs waiting for them in Mexico City, thus infecting untold masses in the old capital.

  What some people will do to earn a buck nowadays!

  A few days later, and much to my consternation, a door-to-door health inspector went about the local streets snooping into the private business of the locals. This could have been a disaster for me since, in seeking to root out sick people, he could have discovered my wetback status, and could have called La Migra to have them deport me. Much to my evil delight, I later learned that he had been hospitalized with “acute respiratory problems” not far from the boarding house ~ and he went ahead and infected 18 hospital employees as he settled into his sick bed.

  Needless to conclude, I found that Mexico’s health care system has become the object of widespread, and well-deserved, anger and distrust. In case after case, patients have complained of being misdiagnosed, were rudely sent away by the incompetent doctors or their nurses, and were especially denied access to salutary drugs ~ like that is going to hinder any self-respecting, drug-fancying Mexican?

  The more you provoke a Mexican, the more he/she is going to turn around and bite you... literally.

  THE UNIQUE HELL

  OF A MEXICAN MOTHER

  Time now for a provocative word to the mind: being a Huara, that is an illegal alien, in Mexico just ain’t what it’s cracked up to be! Specifically, I had it in mind for some time to open a checking account at a local Banamex locale in order to facilitate the transfer of funds from my American savings account since I was very limited as to the amount I could withdraw on a given day at any ATM location. Well, these obviously frustrated bank-workers gave me a rotten time, demanded all sorts of proofs to my identity, and then insisted I wait till it was all verified. I did just as they asked of me, and all seemed to go well for 24 hours, until I received a call from the silly clerk who told me that she had to cancel the paper-work after all, that my identifications did not check out, and that the office of Gobernacion would be informed of my questionable, possibly illegal statu
s. Well, it was exactly what I wanted to hear from them, cynically speaking. Consequently, I trudged back to her office to verify all the poop she had alluded to over the telephone. Just as she was about to formally cancel the already signed contract, she was informed by a bank-dick (and he was truly a dick) from the managing office that the identification provided was legal, it did check out, and that there should be no more hindrances placed against my opening the damned account.

  For her part, the timid Jarocha woman lukewarmly apologized, insisted she was new to that bank and was not totally familiar with their rules and regulations, never mind the fact that I had been humiliated, my time had been wasted, needless expenditures were made, and I was left to worry about getting caught as an illegal, and what-have-you.

  One curious thing that came out of the whole process was being asked to provide a couple of valid references who could attest to my identity. One of the more significant ones was my old college-era friend, Rebecca (Becky) Ange-Ingel; in fact, I’d known her since childhood. In any case, the bank monkeys had contacted her, and Becky, gracious to the end, gave me glowing reviews. At this juncture of the adventure, I resolved to personally contact her. Significantly, she lived near Puerto Alvarado, Veracruz, on a beautiful Finca, or cultivated plantation (sugar, I believe). It overlooked the Caribbean to the South. She had always called me Primo, or cousin, with affection, and I regretted not having first visited her, but my extra-legal status, to reiterate, forced me to side-step surreptitiously to Puebla before the Federales did.

  It took me some time to track her down, but she finally received my call ~ in it I had forwarded a song from our youth, which I knew she really loved: Abba’s I have a dream.

  “I have to say that just today for the first time,” she replied, effusively, “I really, REALLY listened to the lyrics Estoy Soñando. This song is precious ~ it answers, and it consoles my dilemma” (which hitherto I knew nothing about). “I do believe in angels and fairies that do good out there, and help us realize our dreams.

  The lyrics say what I have always felt for a long time, yet have foolishly allowed, on occasions, negative people to have their say about the contrary, that they do not believe in the good there is to do, and have in this world. Why? I don’t know, it just happened that way.

  I have always thought that bad or dangerous things, which happened to me, are not so serious because in one way or another my guardian angels have looked out for me, although I have to confess that lately, I think, they have been taking time off.” (she then laughed)

  “Gracias primo, for all the intelligent conversations we’ve had in the past, and the future ones we shall have, and my faith in life is restored.”

  So ended our first conversation. I figured there was a lot more to her sentimental response but couldn’t figure it out. I remembered she would get like that when faced with personal disappointments or impending disasters, or probable traumas that involved her loved ones. She was particularly secretive, and sensitive with respect to her children. What could it be was the question, but I’d have to wait a couple of days before I could contact her again.

  I called her one Thursday morning, complained about my “Wetback” status, and thought to mention her children: “Saludos to the familia, Becky. I hope that Gamaliel (her eldest son, 18 years old) is doing especially well. Have you heard from him lately?”

  At this point she dropped a hint that things were not especially well with them.

  “Hola Primo. Gamaliel is well, but he has been caught up in some trouble with the local police. The charges were preposterous, but these people are so mean that they tear your life apart over the most spurious of accusations. We will find our way, we just need to keep our eyes open. As for your troubles about your illegality, don’t give up. The good thing is that they aren’t even looking for you.”

  ... It did feel good to be reminded of that.

  “Gamaliel is alright,” she continued. “I saw him last Sunday, but he was upset, sad, and he cried constantly, and that just broke my heart. He was always my ‘man,’ never emotional about anything, so his tears felt like daggers to my soul. He usually visited me, here at the Finca from the Boy’s College, every Saturday, but now it was my turn to visit him; as a matter of fact, I only visited him after suffering through numerous sleepless nights due in part to my youngest daughter Campanita’s illness” (probably the flu, but she made no mention of it). “I had left for the prison-compound later than usual, conscious of the fact that it takes me more than 30 minutes by automobile to get there. This time, much to my angry frustration, there was much more traffic than usual, and so it took me more than one and a half hours to get there. I arrived fully ten minutes after closing time, and I did not get in.”

  Then, poor Becky started to get a bit too morose for my taste.

  “I came home feeling sad and pessimistic about the prospects for an early release” she continued, “but went back on Sunday, I guess, because of the holiday weekend traffic. It was crazy, and again it took me an hour or more to get there. This time, however, I was there 20 minutes before closing time, and they did, finally, let me in. He wasn’t expecting anybody, he said. When he did see me, tears started pouring out of his eyes. I’ve been thinking about that moment, and I keep asking myself, why did he cry? I think he is just a frightened little boy who is afraid that even his mother will abandon him; he has lost about thirty pounds, he looks really pale, but not ‘sick pale.’ I guess because he hasn’t gotten any sun-light in a month, which, for a sun worshiper, must’ve been devastating, and he has not been eating properly.

  I told him what had happened the day before, and why I didn’t make it the previous Saturday. I went on to promise him, and myself, I would NEVER abandon him no matter what happens.”

  Her last comments left me a bit pensive: why had her son to spend so much time in jail? What were the circumstances surrounding his incarceration? Surely, she was leading me towards some dreadful revelation, but for the time being she was eliciting all the sympathy for her beleaguered son that she could draw out of me. She then went on to reflect, “Sometimes, primo, it gets really weary, this whole miserable business with the Law, but I won’t complain ~ he is alive, and I know in my heart he did not hurt anyone. I am hopeful he will be deemed to be another victim of the system now that I am in this situation, and know what to strive for at last. I talk to people in jail: mothers, brothers, wives, and I find so many cases where the charges and the punishments are totally ridiculous as well as cruel. There is no cruelty like the sort of cruelty that one Mexican can inflict on another. When he comes out, I hope he doesn’t have to do probation. Then, and only then can we get the hell out of here, even abandoning the Finca if we have to, if I find an opportunity.”

  Well, that was the end of it for now. She did not divulge any details, and I could not press her for any. I bade my goodbyes for the moment, but her situation really depressed me. I thought I was in a terrible fix, but now my dear old friend was going through a unique Hell of her own, endemic to the Mexican Mother ~ that of watching her children suffer at the hands of the sons of other Mexican Mothers, for reasons of revenge, repression, retribution of a sort that borders on the ridiculous yet repugnant, is remorseless and offers no chances for resistance. My heart goes out to her, as she would say of her son the next time she called me to confide the anguished compassion she suffered for her traumatized son.

  I remembered an awful episode in my own life when I ended up in prison defending myself against a delinquent Mexican back in California, and could truly empathize with Gamaliel. I told her, with candor and genuine sincerity, “My heart so goes out to him.” I admitted, almost tearfully. “I remember the 4 rotten days I was in prison, and I was totally abandoned by everyone, after my fight against that son of a bitch (I think his name was Jorge, and had caused trouble around the neighborhood for a long time; I think he’s dead by now) who had tried to steal my wallet, and then tried, in a drunken rage, to rape me. That miserable drug-pushing piece of
shit!

  The memory of all that is still almost too burdensome on my conscience. I ended up, nonetheless, having to spend time in jail for defending myself against him, can you believe it?”

  She was incredulous when hearing for the first time of this affair. Now the personal secrets would flow.

  I went on to mention another incident, which involved an old neighborhood chum-turned drug addict who had screwed me out of my car, and then robbed my identity, which got me in trouble with the police: “Yes, Becky, and then there was Louie, who I had grown up with. That fool got me in so much trouble, and it took years to clear things up. Several years later, after the prison episode, the police came looking for me after that god-damned Louie had stolen the Mazda, which was still in my name, and ripped off my California identification card, then proceeded to commit crimes in Beverley Hills. That was not the worst of it, however, for no sooner had they caught up with him when he told the police that he was me, so I almost went to jail again because of that evil, dope-pushing ex-friend of mine ~ how do you like them apples?

  So, if anyone knows about and feels Gamaliel’s tears, it is me.

  If there is some great deity looking out for us, I beg him to take special care of your boy. I hope some genuine, righteous anger finds its way inside of Gamaliel, that he stands up to these pieces of shit who have indeed victimized him (and you, in the process).”

  I suppose I had surprised her and jarred all doubts, and she then felt she could confide more secrets to me: Gamaliel had been actually charged with driving a stolen vehicle, possession of stolen fire-arms, possession of illegal drugs and trafficking, transporting minors across state lines for illicit purposes. All these were very serious charges that could land him in prison for many years. There was nothing I could say in response, this was all truly shocking. She complained that she felt too weak to face reality; this new, unfamiliar world of harsh attitudes and vicious treatment. The last thing I said to her was, “Much strength and endurance go with you and Gamaliel.”