Once settled in San Juan, Texas, we met Julio a hardworking immigrant whose outspoken personality made for a great case study if there was ever one to understand the hardships of life in the town.
Julio works several jobs, seven days a week. We met him at one of the organizations we were visiting as he parked his lawnmower after a day of landscaping and maintenance for the area. After a brief conversation we were invited to meet the family and have dinner at his house.

One Way street deal

On our way to Julio’s house, we realized that our GPS was not aware that people lived in these communities. We also realized that for a community of mostly undocumented immigrants many American companies and corporation had a lot of involvement in this area, but none where they gave back to the communities.

Most residents own cars, and with a car comes a lease or loans that must be paid while being in the United States, as well as insurance. Once those immigrants leave or are deported who will pay for those cars? Same can be said about mortgages. Many immigrants obtained their houses by the means of loans, predatory loans, or from the many organizations that provided services for immigrants. Just as the car payments, these monthly bills must be paid; and due to their status in this country and a lack of voices to protect them, these payments come at a higher cost than your usual resident.

While this people struggle for bare necessities like constant electricity, postal services or road maintenance, they also live in constant fear of being deported or oppressed by the local authority and the border patrol; they, just as every person living in America are tapped by the American way of living and consumerists ideologies.

It is imperative to say that the Colonias are confined to two set of borders. Both “Virtual and Actual” are known to separate both countries will the “BP” enforces its definition for those willing to cross over. The real separation comes from within; one border that is known to its local residents from all levels, but is “Virtually” unknown for those who have never been San Juan, Texas or being told about them. “Checkpoints”, are more feared than the actual border protection. Imagine being already established with a job, a house, a car, and on your way to pick up your kids from school, when……….., exactly you end up in a checkpoint ready to be sent back to a country that hardly knows you and you hardly know. That has been the case in some of the worst scenarios.

What’s ironic here? Once you make it pass the border and find yourself in between the wall and the checkpoints, you create a “Colony” explained in Part I of this piece as a territory under the immediate control of a state; some colonies are without definite statehood from their inception.

Yet inside these barriers, you are surrounded by car dealerships, mall after mall, realtors, fast food joints, everything available to spend towards others except being able to obtain what they need most; A comprehensive reform that would provide for better conditions for those in need.

This became very evident when Hurracaine Dolly was about to come through San Juan, Texas in July, 2008. All stores were swamped by locals including undocumented immigrants looking for supplies, food, water or gas among others. But, once the imminent approach of a dangerous system came to real, residents were asked to evacuate town. There was only one problem. Homeland security was only allowing those with proof of citizenship and legal documents to pass through checkpoints or gain access to the buses designated for evacuation purposes, leaving thousands of undocumented immigrants from all ages and gender to ride the storm on their own means if they had any.

At the end this practice was drowned due to the legal pressures from civil and human rights organizations as well as grassroots groups advocating for common sense during the possibility of a natural disaster coming to American soil. But not without inserting the daily reminder of the mistreatment they often get as if they were second class humans or not human at all. May I say, this happened three years after Katrina.

Part III coming soon: Julio’s raison d’être.

No matter how tall or wide the wall across the vast Mexican/American border is, the will of the immigrants will always find a way to get to a destination where jobs are awaiting them. I guess it would be hard for any immigrant to leave their family, even when at times the young ones are unable to understand why this imminent and necessary abandonment is pursued.

For many immigrants who ventured to the north, Mexico is not a distant memory, but a distant place without opportunities, hunger and desperation. In Texas, where family and friends could be up to five minutes away, a border town feels like a daily reminder of the why’s, when’s and how’s of making the deadly trip across the river and desert.

“BP, BP”, that’s the authority in this town. Border Patrol can be seen in almost every corner of the city; airport, roads, checkpoints, gas station, the flea market and of course the border.

The whole town felt as if it was disconnected from the rest of the country. Maybe that can be said about other small border towns across the southern states along the Republic of Mexico, but San Juan, Texas was unique in my experience.

Out of the thousands of immigrants that successfully make it pass the dangerous obstacles, and the border patrol, many of them are disperse across the United States to be with family, friends or where jobs are available. Some will stay close to their home country; those will stay in San Juan, Texas (or any other border town).

Las Colonias
In Mexico, Colonies are often described as a territorial division inside cities and towns. Also a Colony can be a group of people from another territory, making another piece of land their own. In History and Politics a colony is a territory under the immediate control of a state, some colonies are without definite statehood from their inception.

I choose the historical and political definition to describe San Juan, Texas.

Some of these colonies look like beach towns, along palm trees, sand roads, but no beach, I forgot I was in the desert.

I travel to the Colonias several times, once with Ann Cass the executive Director of Proyecto Azteca, and a great source of information. She worked at the UFW (United Farm Workers), with Cesar Chavez back in the 1980’s and has dedicated her life to help those in need, especially the immigrant community in McAllen and San Juan, Texas. Let’s just say she has been saying “Si Se Puede” (“yes we can” way before Barack Obama made it popular in English.

Back to the Colonias.
The other times, I traveled to the Colonias with our camera in hand and a thirst to find the true face of the Colonias. Several trips were made following a GPS system that at times seemed to be on a lunch break. Getting lost was part of the trip and finding our way back was more rewarding than knowing our destination.

There may be many neighborhoods resembling the Colonias across the Nation and this vast globe, but all of them are unique. The social structure or the people of a community will cement itself far more deeply than its infrastructure at any given place.

The definition of the Texas Valley Colonias varied from person to person. Some argued that Colonias were communities from the ground up, were families invaded the land and made them their own. Others argue that through organizations and advocacy they were able to acquired the land on fair terms, others commented on the fact that they bought the land from predatory lenders and subprime loans and now owned a piece of land which they have lived, but weren’t able to pay it anymore.

All of the above were right at some point or another, depending on the family or the Colonia.
We were at the Colonias during the day most of our time, not because we wanted it that way, but our schedule almost never allowed it, due to the fact that the Colonias are marginalized by the city and authorities and once the sun is out, it all becomes pitch black. Yes! There was no public electricity at the ones we visited.

During the day, some streets felt strangely desolated. Even when school was out and at any other given place, you would see kids playing, young boys and girls hanging out, it was rare for us to be there for hours and hardly see any people.

No house ever looked the same; they were unique even within the same structural resources which the owners had to build them. Some of them looked as they were victims of hurricane Dolly back in 2008 and never got fixed. Some were half way through their construction or reconstruction cycle, and of course some looked great. Surrounding the houses, skinny horses, chickens, roosters and straight dogs, decorated the outdoors of this picturesque community.

On the main roads many taco stands, little marquetas and tortilla shops, coasted the Colonias, where its residents stop to buy what was needed and catch up on the local, and very internal news. As I learned one day, when Luis and I were looking for a rooster farm for cockfighting, I stopped at one of the many local stores, and I ended up buying two Tacos al Pastor, got the directions, and found out that La Migra away some immigrant residents’ days before not far from where I was buying my goods.

Part II coming soon………….

The surprise came hours later, when I realized that I was in a Mexican county inside American lines. The closer we got to the border the more Mexican it got. The Anglo life was missing in person, in business, in language and culture. Even if there was a border, it was a just a representative of a massive structure to keep people in instead of out.

La Pulga

Sunday afternoon, we drove into San Juan, Texas in search of the communities that represented the Mexican immigrant experience, the only problem? The whole town was representative of the characteristics we were looking for. Where can you get a whole town on a Sunday afternoon? La Pulga.
Luis and I set out to enter one of the biggest flea markets I ever seen. The entrance fee was 25 cents, but we’re filming a documentary, once the cameras were out, those around us got nervous, suspicious and eventually security came to us and told us we couldn’t bring the camera inside. I asked to speak to the owner, a Korean man named Steve; sitting inside a booth in what it looked like a box office for a rodeo event, with everybody sporting cowboy hats and boots on top of a dirt surface.

After minutes of explaining to Steve about the documentary and HITN.TV, he agreed that I could tape as much as I wanted, as long as I made the immigrant community look good, hard working, etc etc, he stressed.
How can I explain what La Pulga in San Juan looked like? It’s a poor’s man Mall, a concreteless structure made from the ground up with wooden and zinc panels. Everything you need and the stuff you don’t, you will find there. In a big hall outside Steve office, a Norteno band played for the hundreds of folks sitting on wooden picnic tables eating, drinking, dancing, while outside those wall hundreds or maybe thousand browsed through the endless labyrinth of stores and food markets.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to buy anything, but the reality is I wanted the rooster buckle, the Chapulin Colorado piñata, and maybe those ostrich black boots that would’ve made my life a living hell in New York, both because of my friends and due to the city’s walking culture. I didn’t get any of it, but I wanted too, I thought to myself, I’m here for another four days, either I get it here or I will find it somewhere else, it never happened. Sorry friends, No Gama in cowboy boots. Not this summer.

Everything went smoothly we recorded almost everything, no problems, everybody was eager to be part of the video. At the end, I almost forgot were in Texas, almost took out my passport leaving the Pulga, just kidding. When I left I returned to the old lady who charged 25 cents to get in, I handed her 50 cents and she denied my offering, she just wanted to know where I was from. Apparently while I was recording inside she made a bet with the security guard as to my nationality.

“Are you from Honduras or Puerto Rico? She asked.
“Puerto Rico” I replied.
“Yes, I told you so” said the old lady rejoicing to the security guard.
“Here you go, and thank you sir” said the security guard, handing over what seemed to be five dollars in ones. The old lady just won five dollars on my name, she was happy I was happy.
They say everything is big in Texas, but the small details are the ones worth paying attention to.

Okra field in Homestead, South Florida.

Hopefully, this blog will provide an inside look into “Pandemia Invisible”, or “Elusive Pandemic”, the new HITN documentary that is being made as I write this.  I should know, I’m the cameraman.  The whole idea started with Columbia University’s School of Public Health.  That’s where the National Center for Disaster Prevention is based.  The Center is conducting a study into how a pandemic like the Swine Flu (H1N1 Influenza) would affect undocumented Mexican communities in New York City, Southern Florida, the border town of San Juan in Texas and Los Angeles.  My colleague and producer for HITN Gamaliel Ramos, who also posts regularly on this blog, made the initial contact and conceptualization.  So there it was, the doc would follow Columbia University’s research as it traced what it calls “elusive communities”.  I find that concept thought provoking, especially as the doc team moves from city to city.  I suspect that the real story lies more in the communities we document, in the people we meet and their daily grind, which more often than not is far removed from the Swine Flu and other health scares.  But are these communities really elusive?  Why?  As we go forward I see our doc turning on these questions.

Take Southern Florida, for instance.  We arrived and stayed in Kendall, a Miami exurb.  It was supremely uninspiring: miles and miles of palm tree lined cement sprawl;  stretches upon stretches of soulless strip malls.  Echoes of the current recession manifested themselves in the  eerily empty new houses that have gone unsold in the landscape, or in abandoned half-finished developments.  I was discouraged.  As the doc team arrived I thought to myself that there really wasn’t anything interesting to document.  But then we headed south to the Everglades; to Homestead, where the farms and the migrant laborers are.  These are people who migrate from crop to crop throughout the year.  They’re mostly Mexican, although their Spanish accent has become somewhat Cubanized, after the most prosperous Hispanic community in the area.  The whole situation reminded me of John Steinbeck’s “The Grapes of Wrath”, but instead of American migrant laborers making do in the Great Depression, these were Mexican faces set adrift in our new hard times, the squeeze put on them by the recession, a hardship augmented by the ubiquitous danger of detention and deportation.  We met some day workers who were stationed in ornamental tree farms.  Some of them spend up to three months out of a year waist deep in swampy water, harvesting a palm tree that would look cute in somebody’s yard.

 By far the most intense experience for me was in an okra field that Maricruz, the other producer on this doc and the community outreach person for this project, found for us to shoot (if you haven’t done so you should check out her video blog in this site).  We first went in the early afternoon to scout it out before shooting.  It was empty, even though it was near the middle of the day.  Turns out the humidity and the heat get so bad, upwards of 100 degrees Fahrenheit, that workers there pick their way through the field early in the morning and sometimes late in the afternoon in order to avoid the crippling heat at mid day.  An empty okra field is an amazing sight.  I didn’t know that the okra plant produces a beautiful white flower.  So there I was, in the empty field, taking in several acres of green topped by white dots blinking in the sun. 

 When we came back the next day we met the workers and filmed them.  They wore homemade netting over their heads to protect them from all the bugs buzzing around.  It’s backbreaking work to pick okra, it’s difficult to take it off the plant.  On top of that there’s the heat: a sticky, humid, nasty heat.  And so the image I had thought so beautiful just a day before evaporated into an inferno as I taped the workers.  The aesthetic pleasure of the field was further tempered by a sobering fact.  The day laborers, all of them undocumented, do not get paid by the hour, they get paid by the box.  That is, they earn about five dollars for every box full of okra they turn in.  The box is a foot and a half wide by a foot tall.  It has to be filled with small two-inch okra.  In a good day it would take over four hours to fill it. 

 So in situations like that it’s hard for me to turn back and think about what an “elusive community” is.  Which is not to say that it’s not elusive: its members are cut off from mainstream society by legal status as well as cultural and language barriers.  But it sounds so abstract, so hard to grasp.  On the morning I went to the white-flowered fields in Homestead elusive was the price of okra, and the emptiness of a box that needed to be filled.

The first time I thought about the migrant workers camps, I had a very clear picture of how they would be. I was wrong, dead wrong. For example in Florida City, the first camp we visited was beautiful, organized, clean and most important; it dignified the hard work of this community.

During our visit at the camp we met with some of the administrators, most of the former migrant workers themselves. The community worked in the field doing the “Pisca”, spanglish for picking crops. There was a long waiting list to obtain a house in the complex, which made you wonder. Where were the unlucky ones who didn’t get in? We were told downtown, were living conditions were sub-par.

At the center of the camp, there was a community center, were children from the area took classes, went to after school programs and for the very young, it had a day care center. We found out also about the strictness of living in the community, codes to keep you to stay. Administrators often visit the houses to make sure residents are complying with the codes such as a clean house and surroundings.
The second camp was a little different from the first one, it was older and the community seemed to have made that place their very own. But, just like the other camp it had the same services to help all the families work and still provide their children with essential necessities needed to have a healthy home.

“Even when asked, at no point people seemed concerned about the AH1N1. Most immigrants would tell you that the “supposed” pandemic was at the bottom of their priorities when it came to public health problems. The community was more worried about what President Obama would do to resolve their immigration status.”
In the second camp we met with Gabriela and her family. Gabriela works at a nursery in Homestead, Florida where most of the plants and flowers we see at Ikea, Home Depot, Wal-mart and so on, were planted, groomed and fertilized.

Gabriela left Mexico and her two older daughters behind to look for a better life for her and her kids. With old pictures, and many cell phone conversation she tries to stay focus of why she did what she did when she crossed the border through Arizona and made the journey to the south of Florida. Here in the United States she has a new family, more worries and responsibilities on top of the ones back in Mexico where she can’t attend personally. I couldn’t imagine my mother not being able to take care of me if something happened to me. In the eyes of our moms we still their little kids until the day we die.

Gabriela introduced me to her youngest and only American daughter, Diane. She was born premature, and at a early age had a stroke which paralyze her left leg and damage her right eye. Even at three she acknowledge her limitations, which often makes her frustrated with herself and those around her, but in all honestly, she is a remarkable girl, savvy, smart and witted. Gabriela and her family represented this community, and just like the others we visited, they spoke to us for one reason; they wanted us to tell others that they are in no shape and form different from the rest, they work hard, they have problems. They are human beings. They need help and services like everybody else, but it’s harder for them if they have no voice to be heard.

The reason I’m going into small details that might not seem important, is due to the fact of the baggage and bad press that this hard working communities often have to deal with. I can’t forget the day we visited the Okra fields. It was probably around 94 degrees and humid. It rained the day before and the mosquitoes and other unknown bugs to me were on full force at the fields. Dozens of workers walked up and down, back and forth picking three inch okras to fill boxes. These workers are contracted to fill each box at 5$. In order to explain to you how bad it is, it would take a worker to be in those conditions for over ten to twelve hours in order to make 25$ in one day.

Florida, wouldn’t be able to survive without its migrant and immigrant community, is very well known to everybody from all levels in society.

“Taking the jobs of the American people” some say. Can you really believe that statement?

El virus AH1N1, que alcanzó magnitud de pandemia a finales del pasado mes de abril, me agarró en su epicentro, en México. A continuación presento un texto que escribí en el momento más álgido de la crisis en ese país, durante la semana en que la capital quedó clausurada mientras el conteo de muertes e infectados seguía subiendo. Yo estaba visitando amigos en el estado de Michoacán y me vi forzado a vivir el trauma junto con el resto del país. Lo escrito es una mezcla de diario y diatriba que oscila entre el pánico ante una enfermedad sumamente contagiosa y el deseo de burlarme de un gobierno que se revelaba como un cómplice activo de los medios de comunicación masiva, que hicieron su agosto con una noticia que dejó al mundo en vilo por cerca de un mes. ¿Pero cuán real fue la pandemia en México y cuánto tuvo de montaje mediático? Este texto también intenta contestar esa pregunta, sin una contestación satisfactoria.

Las primeras noticias de la crisis me llegaron al iphone, durante un viaje con unos amigos michoacanos a un rincón de su estado que está repleto de grandes granjas porcicuoltoras. En aquel momento nos reíamos del aroma a porqueriza que entraba por las ventanas del auto. Poco sabíamos que la verdadera porqueriza estaba por estallar. Sin embargo, no pasó por desapercibido el extraño encabezado del New York Times: “Swine Flu outbreak in Mexico”. Lo comenté con mis colegas y esto también se convirtió en objeto de broma: “tu ves, esto termina de probar que los chilangos son unos puercos”, me dijo uno de ellos con el escarnio habitual que los provincianos reservan para los capitalinos. Luego de eso nos desconectamos del mundo en nuestro placentero viaje de fin de semana.

Cuando regresé a Morelia, la capital de Michoacán, donde habría de quedarme solo en un apartamento hiperconectado al internet, ya la voz de alarma se propagaba a través del mundo con una velocidad vertiginosa. El DF estaba por cerrar en una quasi-cuarentena. El monto de muertes atribuídas al virus iba creciendo, no solo en el Distrito Federal, sino en todo el estado de México, en San Luis Potosí y en Oaxaca. La Organización Mundial de la Salud subía su nivel de alerta para pandemias mundiales. Hong Kong, el centro de trasbordo de mayor volumen de vuelos entre oriente y occidente, apretaba botones del pánico y suspendió todos los vuelos provenientes de México. En Estados Unidos la directora de Seguridad Nacional hacía las rondas para prevenir  contra la epidemia inminente. Los casos fueron incementando como una metástasis: una veintene en una escuela católica en Queens, Nueva York; unos diez casos de nuevazelandeses que habían estado turisteando en México; y siguieron surgiendo- España, Escocia, Israel. Como reza la canción de Disney World: “it’s a small world after all”. Todos los enfermos tenían una conexión con México. Casi todos habían vacacionado allí. Mientras la industria del cerdo presionaba a las autoridades pertinentes para cambiar el mote de la enfermedad –“gripe porcina”, que afectaba sus ventas injustamente ya que alegan ,con razón, que la gripe no se pega por ingerir productos derivados del cerdo- yo me reafirmo en que un mejor nombre hubiera sido “Spring Break Flu”, ya que los primeros casos internacionales, sobre todo en Estados Unidos, se debieron a la escapada a México que se dieron muchos para las vaciones de primavera.

Los medios fueron alcanzando todo su dudoso esplendor: dándole cobertura 24 horas a cientos de aspectos de los que no tenían idea a ciencia cierta. La pandemia viral pareció ser mucho más cibernética y transmitida por cable televisión que real. El saldo de muertes siguió creciendo, pero solo entre los mexicanos.  No hubo una sola muerte atribuída a la gripe fuera de México en aquella semana de histeria globalizada . ¿Porqué muerieron mexicanos por una influenza que en el resto del mundo parecía tener más en común con un catarro que con una enfermedad mortal? Esa es la gran pregunta y sobre todo lo que debería ser objeto de escrutinio para las autoridades del país. Me sospecho que la falta de infraestructura médica ligada a la falta de comunicación efectiva entre los gobiernos locales y el federal fueron cómplices en la tragedia. De ser ese el caso, eso probaría que las autoridades en la gran República Mexicana, al igual que en tantos otros lugares en América Latina, son criminales en su mezquindad política y en su ineficiencia. El asunto entero se podría ver como una farsa atroz de no haber cientos de muertes de por medio. ¿Cientos? Ni tan siquiera eso se supo durante aquella semanita. Y es que para confirmar un caso de gripe porcina en México había que enviar las muestras a E.U. o a Canadá, por lo que obtener un resultado, sea ya positivo o negativo, tardaba entre 48 a 72 horas. El virus tarda menos de un minuto en propagarse. Alguien enfermo estornuda, el virus vuela, otro lo aspira, y ya está. O alguien infectado se limpia la nariz con la mano y luego abre una puerta, otro toca la perilla, también se limpia la nariz, y ya, otro caso. Visto de esta manera la matemática pandémica resulta imposible… y mortífera.

Y así, poco a poco, me fui convirtiendo en espectador adicto de aquel espectáculo malsano. Desde el departamento donde me hospedé en la Colonia Las Américas en Morelia me quedé enganchado del más mínimo pestañeo cibernético. En una episodio particularmente intenso estuve unas 72 horas aislado, periódicamente revisando todos los sitios de internet a mi disposición. Fui cayendo presa de la histeria. A decir verdad, esto ocurrió no solo por el consumo desdebido de noticias, sino también por la influencia de mi familia y amigos en mi isla natal de Puerto Rico. Hago una aclaración: los puertorriqueños somos tan propensos al pánico y a la histeria como los mexicanos lo son al escepticismo y a las teorías de conspiración. Mis 72 horas de cautiverio viral estuvieron marcadas por llamadas telefónicas de mi madre que, con toda la histeria de la que era capaz, me instaba fuertemente a tomar el primer avión que saliera de Guadalajara a Puerto Rico, o en caso de no conseguir un vuelo al Caribe me exhortaba a que me agenciara un pasaje a donde fuera con tal de lograr una salida pronta y diligente. Como complemento a esto me llegaban mensajes en Facebook cada cinco minutos expresándome la consternación de la mayoría de mis amigos en Puerto Rico.

Estuve a punto de sucumbir, lo admito. En dos o tres ocasiones estuve muy cerca de cambiar mi pasaje de salida a un costo exhorbitante. Mi mamá me llenaba la mente de visiones post-apocalípticas de la cuarentena que me esperaría cuando llegara a Puerto Rico, donde aparentmente preparaban campamentos de concentración para todos los llegados de México. Mis amigos puertorros tampoco fueron de mucha ayuda, sus mensajes que intentaban ser de confort y preocupación: “cuídate”, “usa mascarilla”, etc., se tornaron tan frecuentes que llegué a sentirme como un paciente de cáncer terminal, abrumado por tanta pena de gente que está segura que tu defunción es inminente.

El humor negro mexicano, por su parte, iba desapareciendo. Con el cierre de todos los lugares públicos en el DF y la paralización de la vida corriente la onda ya no pintaba tan chistosa. Aunque sí hubo mucha metáfora floja, mucho editorial en los periódicos jugando con la palabra “influenza”, al estilo de “no te dejes llevar por la mala ‘influenza’ y muchos más por el estilo. Para colmo, en uno de los días de más casos reportados en la capital se sintió un terremoto de casi seis grados en la escala Richter. Prueba de la desaparición definitiva del ingenio chilango fue que el chiste que surgió entre los capitalinos para burlarse del suceso fue el siguiente: “¿Qué le dijo el DF a la gripe porcina?… “¡Mira como tiemblo!”. Fatal, lo sé.

Lo que no escaseaba, a diferencia de mascarillas y tapabocas que no se encontraban en ningún lado, fueron las teorías de conspiración. Escuché de todo, lo más frecuente siendo expresiones de que el brote de gripe se debía a una “cortina de humo” originada por el gobierno para encubrir su manejo ineficiente del país. Cuando intentaba indagar más sobre el asunto las teorías de conspiración se desmoronaban en un mar de vagas aluciones al narcotráfico, a la crisis económica, o a las elecciones senatoriales que se avecinaban. Entre lo más absurdo que escuché fue una teoría afirmaba que la gripe se trataba de un arma bio-química que habían soltado los narcos al aire, o el gobierno (variaba la teoría según el que la profesara). La más ridícula se basaba en el hecho que el gobierno intentaba esconder del ojo público el traspaso inminente de Baja California a los estadounidenses, debido a que el presidente Calderón ya le había vendido ese territorio a los Estados Unidos. Los más contestatarios, incluídos mis amigos poetas y cineastas, se abanderaron con el video que circula en youtube de The Shock Doctrine, realizado por los hermanos Cuarón y basado en el libro de Naomi Klein sobre el “capitalismo catastrófico”. Esto también me pareció una exageración, ¿aunque quién sabe?, a mí también se me iba pegando la paranoia natural del ciudadano promedio mexicano. Y es que en México el primer instinto es descreerle al gobierno, asumir de plano que está mintiendo. Es un legado triste que han dejado tantas décadas de mentiras oficiales, robos flagrantes de elecciones y una total opacidad en el manejamiento del sector político y público.

Al final no huí en un avión y esperé hasta la fecha señalada para mi partida. Decidí quedarme en México y auto-aislarme con mi conexión de internet para ver como se desarrollaría el gran circo mediático. El espectáculo fue divertido y aterrador al mismo tiempo, lleno de payasos y triples saltos mortales… tan mortales como los 20 muertos  por gripe (en las últimas horas de mi estadía volvieron a revisar las cifras, y ahora dicen que las autoridades sanitarias habían inflado los números de mortandad para lograr que la población les hiciera caso, por lo que los únicos casos confirmados de muerte por virus porcina son siete). Así terminó mi semana bajo la Influenza en México, donde no me contagié con gripe, sino con rabia y confusión.

Astoria- Queens

Is hard to separate one’s emotions even though is a must while working in the media, doing news reports, producing, etc. But sometimes it would take only a machine to just look away like there’s no problem.

I had spoken with Don Felix three days before meeting with him and his family. As I conducted the interview over the phone, he told me what I already knew. He had no papers, his youngest son had a liver disease and his children lived with him. “Ok, Don Felix, I’ll see you Saturday at four in the afternoon” I said and that was that. Saturday came, and I’m knocking at Don Felix Apartment. I’m 10 minutes late, I got lost, almost end up at LaGuardia airport, but my co-pilot was on point. Thanks Luis. Don Felix opens the door; his greeting smile couldn’t shine a light on those tired eyes. He introduced us to his wife, only daughter, youngest son, son-in-law, grandson and excused his older son for his absent. They all live in that humble one bedroom apartment.

Because we are filming a documentary I won’t go into details about what we talked about, but those tired eyes I saw when we met him made more sense. The life of an immigrant anywhere is hard, those long years of adaptation without your family, adapting with them if they ever get the chance to come, all the frustrations and worries. Don Felix spoke from the heart, and so did his entire family who were more than kind to open their lives, their home and share their experience.

Don Felix and his family are one of millions of stories of hard work, love, family. As I left his house with a bag filled with food that “The Mother” Don Felix wife made for us (The food was great), I leftwith a weight on my shoulder, kind of down, but at the same time excited and happy.

I will tell their side of the story, not just theirs, but the story of all those who will open up their lives, their experience to us during this trip. Most important I will tell the real story of millions of immigrants residing in the US hoping for a better life, a life most of us take for granted.

In New York we worked extensively with the Columbia University research team, both our documentary subject and in some way partner in crime during this adventure. We visited community organizations, and staff members. Also, we spent endless hours, day and night helping their fellow immigrants, their friends and their cause.

Jackson Heights-Queens

Latin Americas Worker Project, directed by Oscar Paredes hosted us one night. Columbia did their research and we did our filming. While Ligia, a staff member and also an English teacher took care of her students, one by one they kept going into the office where the research h team had set up to do their interview.

As we filmed part of the class I couldn’t help but notice how enthusiastic the student were, they really wanted to learn, they were eager to learn. There were parents with their babies, married couples, mother and daughter, young and elderly workers, basically all demographics from one single community. It was gratifying to see so many people learning a second language, above all trying to get one step closer to improved themselves and skills in the big apple.

At the end of the night, when the class was over I chatted, laughed and even got to meet the “bees” of a bee healer if we can call it that. He stated he can cure all kind of illnesses with his bees, all packed in a little wooden boxes which he kept in the same bag as his class supplies and notebooks while they rested till next session.

El Barrio- Manhattan

Oh “El Barrio” no longer Boricua town, things have change, is the order of life. First were the Jewish, then Italian, some decades later Puerto Rican and now is becoming Mexican. Time will tell who will take care of the Barrio later on. Mexican flags are visible down Second Avenue, “cuchifrito” spots are now replaced by taco stands, you got to love the city; one block you are in Puerto Rico, two minutes later you are in Puebla.

We met the research team at Esperanza del Barrio, while they conducted the interviews we all chatted about the trip. How interesting all four places would be? How McAllen, Texas seemed so intriguing? Maybe because none of us have ever been to the biggest state in the US. The day went fast, we talked, we filmed, we had some important meetings at the National Center for Disaster Preparedness main office and we called it a day.