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Jose
H. Juarez was born 50 yards south of the Rio Grande on
the same day that Joe H. Jones was born 50 yards north
of the Rio Grande. By coincidence both boys had the
same middle name, Hypothetical. Jose was born in his
parent's adobe brick home with his loving aunt serving
as midwife. Joe’s mom was whisked off to the local
hospital in his dad’s new van and was born under a
doctor’s careful care.
As small boys, they swam in the Rio Grande. Sometimes
they would yell across the river at each other.
Occasionally, during droughts, the river would be low
and they would meet in the middle of the river. They
swam, wrestled, and had a lot of fun playing together.
Jose’s parents were poor and he soon learned not to
expect many luxuries. Many times he would quietly sit
on the riverbank and watch Joe ride his bicycle, or
come out in his little league baseball uniform just
before a game. He wondered why Joe could have things
and he could not.
On his sixteenth birthday, Jose walked down to the
river so Joe could see the bright red shirt that his
parents had just given him. But Joe was too busy
polishing his brand new four-wheel drive Bronco to
notice Jose.
When
Jose was nineteen, the river was low and he sat on the
riverbank and looked at the water for a long time.
Eventually, he stood up, swung a clinched fist, turned
and walked back to his adobe home with a determined
gait. Inside, he packed all his possessions in an old
cloth bag. He scribbled a note on the kitchen table and
set the peppershaker on top of it. Throwing his
possessions over his shoulder, he returned to the river
and without slowing down he waded in.
Joe sipped a Coke and walked down to the riverbank. He
noticed Jose carrying the bag when he was about half
way across the river and called to him. “What are you
doing, Jose, you can’t cross the river.”
Jose was now waist deep. “It’s low enough, I can
cross it easy.”
Joe yelled, “It’s the border, stupid, you can’t
cross the border.”
Jose paused, looked around and waved his arm, “Where!
I don’t see any border. Is it a line? What color is
it? Who drew it?” and he continued to wade.
“It’s the law, Jose. You’re breaking the law.”
“Whose law, God’s law? I don’t think God drew
lines on this earth. God won’t care where I go.”
Jose was coming up on the north bank with water running
off his trousers and disappearing into the parched
sand.
Joe could talk without yelling now. “You’ve gotta
go back, you can’t come to my country.”
“Your country? What makes it your country? Why
can’t it be my country, too? Anyway, this side of the
river looks better to me. I think I’ll like it over
here.”
“You’re mighty dense today, Jose. This is my
country, you’ve got to stay in your country.”
“There you go again. Your country, my country,
we’re born on the same world. Who’s to say we
can’t go any place on the world that we want to. God
doesn’t care which side of the river we were born on.
It’s my world, it’s your world, we can go where
ever we want.”
“The law of our land says it, that’s who. You gotta
obey the laws of the land.”
“The laws are made by men who want to hog everything
for themselves, that’s not right.”
“If we let you come over, we’ll have to let
everyone come over. We’d be swamped with people. Our
standard of living’ll go to pot.”
“What’s unfair about that, our standard of living
will improve. You’ve no right to hog it all to start
with, it’s our world as much as it is yours.”
Joe seemed to be out of ways to reason with Jose. They
sat in somber silence on a large bolder and stared at
the river. Joe tossed his empty Coke can on the sandy
beach. Jose picked up the can, crushed it in his hands,
and stuffed it in his cloth bag.
Finally Joe said, “If you’re planning a crusade to
change world opinion about borders, I predict you’ll
be met with spectacular indifference.”
Jose placed his elbows on his wet knees and cupped his
face in his hands. “Unhun.”
“Will you wade back across the river now?”
“No.”
Joe looked at Jose for a minute, then stood up. “You
want’a ride down to McDonald’s for a hamburger?”
“Si.”
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