Javier Zamora, like my own daughter, was born in 1990. In the spring of 1999, while my daughter was finishing third grade, practicing handsprings, and sleeping safely in the room next to ours, Javier was journeying alone to join his parents in “la USA,” from the tiny fishing village in El Salvador where he had been born. That is a distance of 3000 miles—by buses, a boat, the beds of pickup trucks, and many miles on foot through the Sonoran desert. For nine weeks, Javier’s parents had no idea where he was, whether he was alive or dead. That thought rarely left my awareness as I devoured this moving memoir recounting little Javier’s ordeal.
Whatever your thoughts about American immigration policy, you have to feel for this little boy through whose innocent eyes we see all the events of this engrossing narrative. When he leaves home, Javier still doesn’t know how to tie his shoes and is afraid of flush toilets. He is entrusted by his grandfather to the “coyote” who four years before had safely escorted Javier’s mother to join Javier’s father, who, when Javier was a toddler, had needed to leave El Salvador on account of politics. Sadly, Javier was deserted by both the coyote and a man from Javier’s town to whom Javier’s grandfather had trusted him for protection. Dependent on the kindness of strangers, Javier is befriended by a mother, daughter, and their fellow townsman, who quite literally save Javier’s life, many times.
That this is a book by a poet is readily apparent by the vividness of its felt life, its appeal to all the senses. We experience the nausea of rocking in a small boat in the Pacific, the intense heat of the desert by day, the cold at night, the stench of unwashed bodies, aching feelings of hunger and thirst, but also the savor of good food after a long fast, the wonder of seeing new plants and animals, the sparkle of moonlight on the sand. Here’s a passage I marked as I read: “One by one we stand. I dust myself. Look at the pinholes in the sky’s dark blanket. Stars twinkling ¿Why do they blink like that? ¿Can they see the dirt under our feet? Like old newspapers. Crinkle. Crunch. Like walking on eggshells. Crack. The gallons of water in people’s hands. Slosh. We’re walking again.” In one of the interviews I read, Zamora explains that “you have to process the fear somehow,” and that a way to do that is “finding beauty in the landscape or making jokes or really loving food, these become your new echelons of joy. I wanted to honor that aspect.” He also reproduces Salvadoran vernacular, caliche, because, he says in the interview, “that’s how we think, that’s how I think.” That makes the book somewhat challenging to read at times, and I depended a lot on my phone for the many words I didn’t learn in long-ago Spanish classes, but the authenticity made the challenge well worth it.
The book deserves every honor it has received. I will be thinking about it for a long time.