Tattoos :: Tatuajes

PT.1 - TATTOOS::TATUAJES

There have been a number of times in Mexico that friends, familia, migrants, or random strangers have asked to see my tattoos. Many have also asked me about their meanings. While this could get old, I've found it to be a great conversation starter [besides, I like sporting my art]. In turn, I have asked many of the migrants with tatuajes about their body art. EndFragment    

Twenty-year old Charli received his first tattoo a couple of years ago. He got a tombstone with a cross in the middle. It was a design that he had seen and liked [without knowing it's meaning]. It was only later that he found out that this design signifies that you have killed someone. He promptly, covered up the design with another tattoo.

Charli also sports a scroll that says in English "God Bless My Family." Above that, he has the name of his mother - "Ester" - inked on his upper arm. In Central America, it is very common to tattoo the name of one's mother as an act of love and display of loyalty. 

Charli also has a bird on his hand, which resembles Honduras... I think.

Erik sports a number of tattoos which he has received while living in the U.S. Erik's tattoos are noticeably different than those of other individuals I have seen in the shelter. Erik's left forearm is adorned with a colorful and artistic rendition of Jesus on the cross. 

Meanwhile, his upper left arm carries a portrait of the Virgin Mary.

Erik shared that he plans to get El Padre Nuestro [Our Father] inked on his body as a return on a promise he made with God. He also plans to tattoo San Tobias on his upper right arm.

And, his left bicep reveals the hebrew script for "yeshua," the Greek word for Jesus, which is translated as "God is Salvation." [I found this tattoo very interesting because I nearly got the same tattoo before deciding to write "yeshua" in English rather than Greek script. Also very strange is the fact that Erik has this tattoo on the inside of his left bicep: the exact same place that I have my "yeshua" tattoo.]

Upon his arrival in the shelter, Charli a twenty-year old Honduran [pictured above] shared that his reason for leaving his home was to flee the gangs who threatened to kill him for his tattoos. I proceeded to ask him about this. He shared that he was from San Pedro Sula, which is purportedly the most dangerous city in the world.* Charli shared that only gangsters and their allies are allowed to have tattoos since gang affiliations are revealed within tattoos.** If someone not in a gang has tattoos, the gangs will try to recruit him or her. If the person refuses to work with the gang, they will be viewed as an enemy gang member and killed. 

When gangsters saw Charli’s tattoos, they took notice of him. They asked him to sell drugs for them, and threatened his life if he refused. Because he did not want to sell drugs, Charli knew he would have to flee if he were to keep his life. The next morning, Charli left with his cousin.

Julio, who has been living in Minnesota for over 25 years, carries the name of his daughter on his neck

A number of weeks before, another migrant told me he would like to get a tattoo, but never has because of the gangs. He shared that a catracho [nickname for Honduran] friend of his became covered in tattoos while living in Houston. Later, he was deported to Honduras. One month after arriving back in his home country, he was killed for his tattoos.

If you think it sounds trivial that people are being killed over tattoos, you’re right, it is trivial. This lethal game is not limited to just tattoos, though. In the shelter, hand scribbled 13s and 18s decorate the bathroom stall and bunk bed posts. One can see where 13s have been transformed into 18s and where 18s have been crossed out. Meanwhile, my migrant friend Fidel tells me that in Honduras, each gang wears a different brand of clothing. Barrio 18 reps Nike, while MS-13 reps Adidas.  While all of this seems so trivial to an outsider, it is a part of the lifestyle of the gangsters. The gangs seek to maintain their territory and show their dominance. While their tactics may be trivial, they are nonetheless lethal.

Fidel's left arm is marked by a scar from having his tattoo removed. He did so because of fear that his tattoo would endanger him as gangs encroached on his Honduran neighborhood.

While Charli’s story may sound extreme, he is far from alone in fleeing gang violence. Out of the first two hundred migrants to pass through the doors of La Sagrada Familia in November, forty-five reported that their life would be in danger if they returned to their home country. Among the reasons reported for why they were traveling, these individuals said

“pobreza y delincuencia,” “huyendo de MS-13,” “delincuencia… no puedo vivir en paz,” “delincuencia… tengo que pagar renta a las Maras,” “la violencia,” “proteger mi vida,” “he estado almenazado por las pandillas,” “las pandillas quieren que sea miembro,” “hermano fue matado por una pandilla,” “corrupción,”…

“poverty and delincuency,” “fleeing MS-13,” “delincuency… I cannot live in peace,” “delincuency… threatened by the gangs,” “the gangs want me to join them,” “brother was killed by a gang,” “corruption,”…

In a number of ways, gangs are ravaging the nations that form the northern triangle of Central America: Honduras, El Salvador and Guatemala. The gangs control neighborhoods and thus the movement of people within the cities of Central America [especially, San Pedro Sula, Tegucigalpa and San Salvador]. The gangs impose taxes on the people in their barrio for protection – just as the mafia does. The gangs sell drugs and work with narcos in the movement and distribution of drugs. The gangs defend their turf and seek revenge against those who have harmed them, and those who refuse to work for them. The sad thing about all of this is that the gangs have impunity from everyone but each other. As Fidel shared, the gangs and police are the same thing.

PT.2 - AN INDICTMENT OF THE UNITED STATES

While this problem may seem distant and irrelevant to the lives of United States citizens, this is anything but the truth. To tell the story of these gangs, we need to rewind history sixty years…

Throughout the Cold War, the United States intruded on the sovereignty of Latin American nations in the name of “democracy” and “national security.” This “Big Brother” policy was carried out with the intent to stop socialist and leftist movements, which were seen as evil. While few may argue that the U.S. had good intentions, none can deny the consequences that these practices have had on Latin America. In Central America, the U.S. government subversively supported coups to resist leftist movements and overthrew newly elected leftist governments. The U.S. also supplied weapons and military training to a number of Central American governments and militia groups, provoking a number of military conflicts and several civil wars.

As a result of this violence, a number of Central Americans refugees fled to the U.S., where they were granted refuge. However, this was not the end of these refugees’ struggles. As foreigners in U.S. cities [especially Los Angeles] that were at times turbulent and violent, immigrants from Honduras, Guatemala and El Salvador found themselves persecuted and at risk from established gangs. In order to protect themselves, these immigrants formed their own gangs. Hence, Barrio 18 and MS-13 were born on the streets of Los Angeles, California.

The power of these gangs increased over time. Soon, these two gangs found themselves among the baddest of the U.S. In order to fight these gangs, the U.S. government began deporting gangsters who were immigrants in the early-1990s. We essentially deported our problem to another part of the world. As members of the Maras and Barrio 18 arrived in Central America, they entered a world that lacked economic opportunity.*** With lack of legitimate economic opportunities, these gangsters naturally turned to the illicit activities with which they were familiar. These gangsters discovered new territory that was ripe for gang activity. Their new homes lacked the vigilance and law enforcement present in the U.S. Furthermore, these new homes abounded with impoverished people, who were vulnerable to recruitment by gangs. The gangs soon spread like wildfire.

Today, people are fleeing Central America, not only because of poverty, but also because of gang violence. These individuals are headed north to Mexico and the U.S. to seek asylum and refuge. Unfortunately, the U.S. immigration system is not built to accommodate gang violence. Asylum in the U.S. is granted for persecution that results from race, religion, nationality, or participation in a political or social group, but not from random – though lethal – gang violence. As a result, the U.S. government is deporting many individuals back to their home countries where there lives are threatened by gangs.

To make matters worse, the U.S. has continued its “Big Brother” tendencies by giving money to the Mexican government to stop Central American migrants in Mexico before they reach the U.S. border. Over the last year, the U.S. has given tens of millions of dollars to the Mexican government in what has been deemed “El Plan Frontera Sur” [“Plan Southern Border”]. Other than the obvious disrespect for Mexican sovereignty and explicit acts of neo-colonialism, this action is horrifying because of its’ effect on Central Americans fleeing violence. “El Plan Frontera Sur” has led to increased violence against migrants from immigration agents, federal police, state police and municipal police. In addition, it has led to many individuals being deported to their home nations before their pleas for asylum are ever heard. It is already harder to get asylum in Mexico than the U.S. [many statistics share that Mexico grants less than twenty percent of asylum pleas, while the U.S. grants closer to fifty percent], but recent reports share that many asylum pleas are not even being heard. As NPR’s Carrie Kahn reports

advocates for the migrants say many would-be refugees with credible asylum claims are getting swept up. On a recent tour of detention facilities along Mexico's southern border, Eric Olson with the Wilson Center in Washington says he saw evidence of that. He reviewed dozens of forms to be filled out by migrants with questions regarding fear and requesting protection. They'd already been checked no.[see further resources #4]

Eric Olson further states, “it wasn't just that somebody had gone through with the pen and marked off no, no, no, no, but it - they were literally printed with a check in the box” [see further resources #4].

In other words, by diverting State Department funds for drug interdiction to “El Plan Frontera Sur,” the U.S. government is denying Central Americans the opportunity to plea asylum. The U.S. government is essentially sending these Central Americans to their deathbeds. When asked how we should respond, Sonia Nozario shared

I think that we expect Europe to step up and do the right thing when it comes to people who are fleeing for their lives, which is very different from an economic migrant who's coming to this country because they want a better life. I draw a clear distinction. We cannot take every economic migrant on earth. But if you are a person running for your life, we need to step up and do the right thing. Now is one of those times.[see further resources #3]

Charli's hand after removing his own stitches. I promised I would share this picture [he was proud of himself]

*There is a toque de queda [curfew] when night falls in San Pedro Sula that is enforced by the gangs. After this time, only gangs and police are on the street. Being out at night, puts one's life in the hands of these violent gangs.

** Charli said that candle on my arm could easily be construe as a “1,” which would put me in danger with the two biggest and baddest gangs in Central America. Both MS-13 and Barrio 18 incorporate their numbers into tattoos. Thus, my candle could be construed as the 1 in 13 or in 18. Either way, I would be in big trouble. 

***This lack of economic opportunity can partly be traced back to the decisions of transnational corporations [many of which were born in the U.S.] and international trade agreements. However, this discussion [err… rant] is better left for another time.

Further Resources:
1. "Surreal Reasons Girls Are Disappearing in El Salvador"
2. "In A Nation In the Grips of Gangs, 2 Sisters Make A Bid For Safety"
3. "Inside the Crackdown To Stop Migrants, Before They Reach U.S. Border"
4. "Mexico Deporting Migrating Minors In Record Numbers"

To learn more about MS-13, I recommend this video as a starting point:

Seis Días de los Muertos

As we approached Día de los Muertos, I could feel the excitement in my family growing. "Josh, ¿cuantos de tus amigos vendrán a hacer pan? Josh, how many of your friends are coming to make bread?" my cousin Jacobo would eagerly ask me. He had invited my YAGM Mexico friends to come to Tlaxcala for the quintessential Mexican holiday in order to make Pan de Muerto and experience the traditions of Tlaxcala. When I asked my family about the traditions of Día de los Muertos in Tlaxcala and within our family, the answers I received were vague. Like many other aspects of life in Mexico, I realized that I would just have to wait and experience Día de los Muertos myself. Here is an account - in words and pictures - of what I experienced.

Calaveras de Chocolate en el mercado antes de Día de los Muertos ::
Chocolate skulls in the market leading up to Día de los Muertos

DAY ONE - OCTOBER 28th

Today was dedicated to making offerings to those who have died in accidents: drowning, choking, fires, car accidents, etc. My family has four relatives that have died from accidents. Mamá put together a small offering for these family members, consisting of:

-a candle: a light to illumine the path
-a cross made of flowers: to find their destination
-salt: to purify the salt
-water, fruit, and Pan de Muerto for each individual: to eat, drink, and enjoy

DAY TWO - OCTOBER 29th

Today, I accompanied Tía Norma to the school she works at in order to see their Día de los Muertos celebrations. The school had displayed a number of Catrinas that kids had made.

A number of kids had their faces painted as skeletons, and a number of girls were dressed up as Catrinas.

One class in the school was responsible for making an offering.

Cempazúchitl flowers - more commonly known as Flor de Muerto - adorn the offering and lead over a hundred feet from the entrance of the school, guiding the dead to the offering. 

Colorful and intricate tissue paper art decorate the offering. 

A picture of Jesus and the Virgin adorn the top of this offering. Many offerings hold the pictures of deceased loved ones to which the offering is dedicated.

The offering is filled with oranges, bananas, tamales, mole, bread, Pan de Muerto, apples, rice, Calaveras de Amaranto, Calaveras de Chocolate, jicama, sugar cane, camote, chicken, tequila and mezcal. 

Candles and incense bath the offering.

In addition to the offering, there was a large fiesta. Each class in the school was responsible for brining one dish: rice, tamales, tlacloyos, agua, tortillas, mole or candy. Everyone ate and took in the surroundings for an hour or two before school was dismissed for the day.

DAY THREE - OCTOBER 30th

At the shelter, we made an offering for the three migrants who had died in/near Apizaco during the last couple of years. The offering was adorned with paper-tissue art, flowers, water, guayaba, sugar cane, jicama, oranges, flowers, and the names of the three individuals who had passed away. The crosses adorned the ground: one of dirt to remind us that those passed away lived and walked on the earth with us, one of salt to purify the souls of the deceased, and one of flowers to celebrate the deceased. After putting the altar together, we had a service of sorts that lasted close to an hour. I think we said the Rosary during the service, but I'm not really sure. [Church services or speeches combined with a language in which you are not completely familiar is a good recipe for a lack of attention.]

In memory of Arlen Nahum, Henry Hernandez & Marly Marcial + Chavez

DAY FOUR - OCTOBER 31st

Today my YAGM friends Becca and Alyssa accompanied me to my cousin Jacobo's house to make Pan de Muerto. We began shortly after 7am by mixing the ingredients for the bread. 

We mixed flour, sugar, vanilla, eggs, oil, milk, yeast [and probably some other things that I don't remember]. We did this three different times, making one batch with nueces [pecans], one with guayaba [guava], and one with canola [cinnamon]. 

After this, we allowed the bread to rise. 

And we prepared the adobe-like oven for baking. [A fire was made within the oven to heat the stones around the oven. Eventually, the sticks and coals were removed, and baking commenced. Every once in a while, a blow torch was put inside the oven to add heat again.]

After the bread rose a tad-bit, we formed it into Pan de Muerto. It is called this because the pieces of dough that adorn the top represent huesos [bones] and the ball in the middle represents a skull.

After forming the pieces of bread, we added a glaze and seeds. 

At this point, it was 3pm. We had been working on the Pan de Muerto - and taking breaks - for over seven hours. We had formed seventy pieces of Pan de Muerto with nuez from the mixture, but still lacked the baking, and the formation of the other 2/3 of the mix. Alyssa, Becca, Catherine [who also joined us] and I decided to go see some Día de los Muertos traditions in the center of town, while my family continued to bake. Jacobo did not finish baking until after 2am! Here is a video of the process we undertook to make Pan de Muerto

The Zócalo in Tlaxcala hosted about a dozen different altars that people and organizations had made. It was part cultural display and part offering competition.

After viewing the offerings in the center of town, we headed back to my house to celebrate the birthdays of my sisters: Annie and Karla. The party was part birthday, part Halloween party, and part Día de los Muertos celebration, outfitted with face painting, a mariachi band, a taco stand, and plenty of tequila and mezcal. It was a fun night of celebrating life with my Mexican family and American friends.

My primas Laura & Yiyi, My sisters Karla & Annie

DAY FIVE - NOVEMBER 1st

Today, we put together a big offering in our house for the abuelos and bisabuelos. 

Traditional Candy: Cajeta, Camote, Cocada y más

DAY SIX - NOVEMBER 2nd

Today felt like New Year's Day. Most people had the day off. The town was quiet, and we spent most of the day laying around the house. In the afternoon, my family went to the grave site of los abuelos and laid flowers there.

Goofy Gringo Cuentitos [short stories]

Living a new country inevitably leads to interesting incidents, misunderstandings and lessons learned. Life is even more ridiculous when you live with a big, outrageous, and loving Mexican family. The last couple of months have created a number of great stories. Here are a few of the funny stories of mishaps and mistakes that I have made...

Miel Cough Drops

Saturday and Sunday of every weekend, the center of Tlaxcala – the town in which I live – is flooded with people buying and selling fruit, clothes, artisanal goods, and even animals. It’s like a farmer’s market, only much bigger, more active, and more vibrant. Plus, it’s not only health nuts and hippies at the market, all kind of people are there. One specific plaza in the center of town sells only hand-made crafts, goods, and natural products.  One Sunday, I accompanied my Tía Norma and Luis to a honey stand in this plaza. I was given a few samples of honey, and then the owner of the stand began telling me about the candy that they also sold. I didn’t understand all of what he was saying, but I was pretty confident that I understood him. He had me taste a certain candy that is supposed to help with gripe – the flu. I wanted to support his business, but felt no need to buy flu medicine candy. So, I proceeded to buy some honey suckers. After walking away from the stand, I popped one in my mouth. It was kind of sweet, but also tasted like a cough drop. I realized that this candy was also for gripe. I laughed at myself. I’m sure the man had told me this and I just didn’t realize it. I will make sure to ask more questions next time I don’t understand what someone is saying. 

posing with rice I helped make at the shelter

Agua de Zanahoria con Sal

Here in Mexico, agua does not have the same meaning as “water” in the U.S. Yes, agua means “water.” Most of the time though, when someone drinks agua, they are drinking a flavored beverage, consisting of water, fruit juice or blended fruit or another flavoring, and a butt-load of sugar. [i.e. Agua de Mandarin, Agua de Chia, Agua de Frutas, Agua de Alfalfa, Agua de Chocolate, Agua de Guayaba, Agua de Lima.] While this agua may not be the best for one’s health, it is certainly delicious.

One day in the shelter, I was tasked with making the agua of the day. Spefically, I was making agua de zanahoria [carrot]. I know it doesn’t sound appetizing, but it is actually pretty darn good. After slicing a ton of carrots into strips, blending them and mixing the resulting carrot liquid with a lot of water, I arrived at the most important step: adding the sugar. During my previous two attempts to make water, I had been very hesitant to add too much sugar, but this time, I wasn’t going to be as reserved.  I poured a butt-ton of sugar into the water. I was proud of myself. I had set aside my concerns for the health of everyone in the shelter, including myself, and had flavored the water like a true Mexican.

Unfortunately, my prideful thoughts were interrupted by Jacqi, saying “¿Sabes que fue sal, verdad?” [“You know that was salt, right?”] I was devastated. I grabbed the white container with the blue lid instead of that with the green lid. I couldn’t believe my careless mistake. I had ruined nearly an hour of work and a lot of carrots. Fortunately, my thoughts were once again interrupted. Jacqi and John could not contain their laughter. While I had been traumatized, they realized that it was not a big deal, and in fact, found it very funny. I immediately felt better knowing that I put a smile – albeit unintentionally – on the faces of John and Jacqi after their stressful week in the shelter.

Jacqi helped me to problem solve the situation. I added juice from a dozen oranges to the shelter, and then added the proper amount of sugar to the water. The water still tasted salty, but it was manageable. As we served the Agua de Zanahoria at mealtime, Jacqi announced to all the migrants that we had made a special electrolyte beverage, so that everyone would be hydrated for their journey. I smiled. I suppose it’s all a matter of perspective.

Getting Sick

Animals eat very well in Mexico. Well, at least the animals with which I have contact: my family’s dog, and the chickens and turkeys at the shelter. They receive whatever food is not eaten during our meals. For the turkeys and chickens this usually means fresh rice, beans and soup. For my family’s dog, usually tortillas, chicken, and caldo. As a result, I have no problem eating the same food as the animals. This is not something I usually do, but it is something I did one day in the shelter. And in these circumstances, it was not a great idea…

“Jacqi, ¿que vamos a hacer con estos totopos duros?” [“What are we going to do with these hard tortilla strips?”] I asked. We had left a number of tortillas out to harden in order to make chilaquiles, but we did not end up using all of them. “Puedes echar agua en los totopos para hacerse mas maduros, y luego podemos darlos a los gallos” [“You can put water on the tortilla strips in order to soften them so that we can feed them to the chickens later”] Jacqi replied. I proceeded to fill the pot of tortilla strips with water straight from the facet. Since I was hungry, I proceeded to eat some of the tortilla strips. Unfortunately, I did not think about the fact that these tortillas were soaking in unfiltered water.  My stomach felt better for the moment, but my carelessness would come back to bite me that night.

I spent an entire day either sleeping or on the toilet. My Mexican family was very worried about me, so they eventually decided to take me to the doctor. Luckily, mi mamá is a doctor at a nearby clinic and was on duty. My primo took me to her clinic, where I was given a suero. Suero has a few meanings. It is an electrolyte beverage, and IV, or in the state of Oaxaca, a michelada [a beer with tamarindo and other flavorings]. In this case, suero refers to an IV. The next day I felt much better, and was able to laugh at my dumb mistake. Thank God for my Mexican family.

My Neighbor Is A Migrant

My first day at the shelter caught me off guard. I didn’t spend much time talking with migrants that day, but quickly bonded over the game of fútbol. Running up and down the court, passing the ball, and defending attacks, I felt like I was at home, playing soccer with friends. If I had not know better, I would have had no idea these guys were on a long, arduous journey, on which the fate of their futures and their very lives clung. I would have had no idea that some of these men – the “lucky ones” – would soon be labeled as “illegal aliens.” They sure didn’t look like “aliens” or “illegals” to me. In fact, one of the guys at the shelter looked nearly identical to a friend of mine in Texas. I was struck right away by the fact that immigration was no longer an “issue” about which I had an opinion. Immigration is an activity undertaken by real people – people searching for efficacy over their lives. People searching for the same freedom to live, earn money and live comfortably that I take for granted each day. These people helped me to realize that immigration is something that is happening all around me. I am affected by people who immigrate, and the decisions I make also affect these individuals’ lives.

I was initially taken aback by the fact that one of the individuals at the shelter looked like my friend. A little while later, a young man arrived sporting a Texas State hat – the state university that is less than half an hour from my home in Texas. Then, I met a man named Santos. Santos was trying to make it back to Houston, the same city in which much of my family lives. Santos had been living there for a year with his wife and two kids before being caught by immigration and deported, leaving his family behind. During his year in Texas, Santos worked construction jobs in College Station – the same city that my brother lives and attends college in, the same city in which my parents met. I realized that my life is intertwined with Santos’ in many ways. Santos was not an “alien” or an “issue,” he was my neighbor.

View of Shelter from the Tracks

A few days later, I met Franklin. Franklin, or Franky as everyone at the shelter called him, approached me speaking flawless English. He asked me where I was from, and I responded “San Antonio, Texas.” Before I even finished responding, Franky began talking about the Spurs. He shared his love for Tim Duncan and Manu Ginobili, and how he thought that DeMarcus Aldridge was a great addition to the team. I warmly embraced the topic of conversation since the Spurs remind me of home and family. I would soon find out why Franky knew so much about the Spurs.

Fanklin is from Honduras. When he was fourteen years old, he was struck by a stray bullet from a nearby gang fight. Franky was not seriously injured, but the incident was taken seriously by Franky’s father. Franky’s dad, who was living and working in the U.S., made arrangements for him to be brought to the States. Franky did not want to go; his whole life and his family were in Honduras. Plus, he did not feel that he was unsafe. But, he felt obliged to follow his dad’s request. He was soon on his way to the U.S. via Mexico and La Bestia.

Franky made it across the border and moved in with his dad in Iowa. He enrolled in school for two years before beginning to work. At eighteen, Franky was arrested for DUI and deported. At this point, Franky had made friends in the U.S., had become accustomed to life in the States and was awaiting the arrival of a baby girl. Franky decided that he would return to the United States.

Franky made the journey by train again. This time he settled in San Antonio, where he began to work as a landscaper. He moved into a house in Northeast San Antonio – near Retama Park and The Forum – with a woman who worked in a clinic. Together they had a son. Franky quickly became a San Antonian. He became a Spurs fan, and enjoyed weekend trips to toob the San Marcos River and jet-ski on Canyon Lake with friends.

On July 4^th, 2014, Franky’s future would take a turn. After being clean from drinking for many years, Franky was swept up in the excitement of Independence Day celebrations, and began drinking with friends. While driving to the stores to purchase more alcohol, Franky was pulled over and arrested for driving under the influence. He spent the next two months in a detention center before being sent back to Honduras.

"La Bestia." Seen from Shelter on Rainy Day

Franky told his girlfriend – with whom he lived and had a son – that he did not know if he would be back. Trying to make it to the U.S. is always a crap shoot. It takes a lot of luck to survive the gangs, the train, La Migra, the desert, and other travails of the journey. Entrance to the U.S. is never guaranteed. Knowing this, Franky told his girlfriend that she could move on with her life. They agreed that he would still retain the right to see and speak with his son.

Franky spent the last year in Honduras, working construction and spending time with his mom. During the year, Franky spoke on the phone with his kids in the States. Though initially content to be back with his mother in his home country, the sound of his children’s voices soon stirred paternal instincts within Franky. It pained him that he could not be there to comfort his kids when they were sick. He also struggled to explain to his eight year old son why he left. All that he managed to say was that he had to leave for a while, but would be back soon.

Now, Franky is traveling north again to try to make it back to San Antonio, to his son. He was already deported once from the state of Tabasco on this attempt to make it to the north. As soon as he and his friend reached the Honduras border, they boarded another bus and began the journey again. He knows he’s not guaranteed to make it back to the United States, but he’s hopeful. He’s made it twice, and already on this journey he’s made it through the perils of Chiapas and other southern states. He prays he’ll make it again, so his son no longer has to ask why his dad is not present at school events when all the other kids’ fathers are.

Talking to Franky was refreshing. Franky was kind, outgoing and full of life. I was sad to see him leave after spending time with him for several days. I told Franky good-bye and wished him luck on his journey. Franky looked at me and said, “Remember, Go Spurs Go!” Little did he know, “Go Spurs Go” was a code my parents use to tell me “I Love You.” They began using this phrase when I was in fifth grade, knowing that I would be embarrassed if they told me they loved me in front of my friends. Thinking back to this, Franky’s words took on a new meaning. I looked back at Franky, and with a smile on my face, replied “Go Spurs Go!”