The Trek North: Part One

IMAGE: Local passport photo of our mother and the first five of us. Left to right: Amanda, Rosa Carmina, our mother Lydia, Julio César (in her arms), Armando, and me (Pedro).

There was no triple wall then, in 1962, the year we crossed the border between Mexicali and Calexico in our way to a place that promised us a better future. Triple walls are abundant now in myriad spots along the geopolitical line that defines where Mexico begins and the United States ends. And vice versa.

There was only an eight-foot chain link fence in the fifties and early sixties, with rolled barbed wire on top, protecting illegal entry to this country. The pervious barrier extended its presence three or four miles to the west and just as many miles to the east of the border crossing. Permanent resident visas were fairly easy to get that year. It was for us, anyway, because our father already had one. He had gotten it in 1945, the same year the big war ended.

The hard part was saying goodbye to Mexico. It was a time of trepidation, especially for me. Before us stood an uncertain future in a foreign place. But we got over it. Once we accepted the reality of moving to the United States, our minds began to envision a fabled world dominated by the English language and light skinned people, but with plenty work and opportunities for us all. We liked what we imagined, but we were also apprehensive.

Leaving our cherished home in Mexicali’s Colonia Cuauhtémoc dampened our joy. We had struggled financially there, but we had also thrived. We had our own house on a big lot with fruit trees and other greenery, a throng of animals raised for profit, and plenty space for playing and running around. Leaving Mexicali was hard. Most of us were going to school there and had friends and family in that valley. It was tough saying goodbye.

Our mother had made the decision to go north. She was tired of the grim winter months when we repeatedly had a hard time making ends meet. Our father drove tractors on the U.S. side. He had plenty work just prior to spring, in the summer, and during part of the fall, but was usually unemployed in the time between. To earn a few dollars in those times of dire straits, our dad would go to Imperial Valley and give rides to Mexicans that needed them and that he found along the way. He used his old beat-up car as a taxi.

We also chipped in. We sold shoes and other goods on credit (house to house). I did it on a bicycle; our mother and my oldest sister sold the wares and collected payments from steady customers from the back of a 1952 Ford station wagon. I also sold newspapers and shined shoes. We did well; well enough to pay for the vehicle, but not sufficiently enough to maintain a family of eleven.

We were no strangers to the local U.S. area. Prior to getting our permanent residency, we had a border-crossing card that allowed us to visit the United States for shopping and other needs, as long as we remained in a limited regional area for no more than seventy-two hours. We all came across often, mainly to buy groceries and other consumer goods.

We also went to the U.S. side to visit our dad at his workplace. After the crops, we would go there to pick up leftover fruits and vegetables before they were to be plowed and buried underground. We always wondered why such waste took place.

Mexicali, our hometown, was no stranger to Americans either. For all purposes, it was developed and farmed for the first time by a company controlled by the publisher of the Los Angeles Times and his son in law. In 1902, Harrison Gray Otis and Harry Chandler and their Colorado River Land Company received a concession from the Mexican government (and a man named Guillermo Andrade) to raise cotton in what was to later become the Mexicali Valley. It was before the beginning of the revolution in nineteen ten and way before Mexicans took back the land some thirty-five years later.

Much of Mexico’s economy had strong ties with foreign enterprises at the time. Porfirio Díaz had been running the country for about twenty years at the turn of the Twentieth Century. It was a period of peace, in a way. After close to seventy years of the internal turmoil that followed Mexico’s cry for independence, the new ruler had found a formula to do away with the infighting. He called it “Pan o palo,” (bread or stick). It worked. The ruling class got the bread; the rest got the stick and a few crumbs.

Once the Colorado River Land Company began to farm the valley, instead of using Mexican workers, it used Chinese.

Go figure.

They were mostly “coolies,” laborers that were imported from China to help build the railroad lines and other governmental projects in California. Once they completed their gigs north of the border, they were to return home to China, but many didn’t. A few went to Mexico.

Besides the coolies, there were other Chinese men that ended up in Mexicali after landing in San Felipe with the intent to cross the border into California and other points in the United States. Some died in the desert during their trek north from the port; some stayed in the valley and worked for the Colorado River Land Company.

Mexicans were eventually hired to work the land. Over time, most Chinese moved from the farms to the city where they built a China Town near the border crossing. They founded stores, bars, and restaurants to serve the needs of the growing population. The area thrived for years and added a rich cultural element to the city. The ethnic richness infused by the Chinese immigrants to the region remains today.

NEXT WEEK: Part Two