A Walk Across

By: Lara Sanchez

I could not tell you how many times I’ve said that in the past 14 years of my life. He hands me my Sentri card- its reflection beaming in the golden badge that reads “US Custom and Border Protection” and I carefully slip it into the top back pocket of my Kipling backpack before tugging on the zipper twice to confirm its solemn refuge. The gate buzzes open and as I walk through it, I cannot help but peer over at the woman on a stretcher. As soon as I notice her belly the first thought that pops into my head: she is going into labor- then: on American soil. A subtle smile steadily seeps into my face. “What are you doing in the US?” My sister ́s voice shivers slightly as she responds “Going to school.”

I usually ride a car to school – my mother ‘s silvery Volvo a haven sheltering us from starkly ripening realities and the school roundabout alike. The recent government shutdown, however, has become a frustrating wake up call to the realities of this cross- customs culture. “Ma me compras un burrito de frijol con queso con salsa verde. Y un chocolate caliente si tienen porfa.” (“Mom could you buy me a bean and cheese burrito with green sauce. And a hot chocolate if they have any please.”) My mom texts my order to the curly-haired burrito seller who made sure we got breakfast almost 5 days a week. I step out of the car, tugging my plaid school skirt down while slightly creasing my sweater vest up, ensuring my polo remains unwrinkled, and walk towards the sea of people lined up. I excuse myself as I squirm my way through the people on the side nearest the street until I see the line category banners reading “Regular” and “Sentri Card Only”. There ́s jaded eyes and worn out dark circles upon me from the hundreds of people I ́m walking straight past and though I try not to notice, I cannot help but feel a bit sheepish as these people have been here since three or four in the morning, some since the night before.

Facing a big black gate – a division between two identities- I show the officer my Sentri card and with a marginal nod and a deadpan expression, he lets me know I can walk further. The officer remains firm in his position, his hands resting on his belt, staring blankly at the twilight sky above the people he is facing until another officer whispers something that makes him lean back in laughter. He lets go of his belt as he claps his hands together and a smile beams from his face- the line at a despondent halt. Through his laughter I can only make out the word “baby”.

At the next official checkpoint, I run through my repeated routine of a forced smile and high-pitched voice as I answer a new officer ́s seemingly incessant questions (which usually sounds something like “US Citizen. School. Sentri. Nothing to declare. ̈). I have grown to understand that at least for that day, my education lies in his hands. Simultaneously, I run through last night ́s biology flashcards in my head. I contemplate Darwin’s theory of evolution as he looks me up on the government grade monitor. “Organisms that are more fitted to their environment are more likely to survive”. I wonder if the people trying to cross through the regular line will be able to make it to work that morning. A green light and a buzz jolt me back and before I know it, my Sentri card is locked away safely and I will be taking the quiz today. I smile at the woman on the stretcher as I walk past her- and she smiles back. I step outside of the hall, now in a different country than when I walked inside, get back in the Volvo as my sister and I argue about who gets the front seat, and I unpack my breakfast (there was no hot chocolate). “How was it?”, my mom asks. With my voice returned to its regular tone, I respond “Eh. fine.”