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1 pages, Audio CD
Published May 13, 2025
"The adults who have tried to actively hurt me aren’t as bad as all the adults who stand around, seeing what’s happening, doing nothing. Looking bored. This has been everywhere since I got to el Norte."
"...in Charlie 25, in Tornillo, in this country, if you're a migrante kid, there's no stepping forward and no stepping backward. They keep you pinned where you are. We have no control. We are controlled.
And I don’t even think they’re trying to hurt us, exactly. They do it because that’s just how this system is built. They do it because that’s how it’s done here. They’ve created this prison camp where all of us are constantly told: you’re a criminal, you’re a pain in the ass, you don’t matter. They don't say it out loud, but stay locked up here long enough, and you get the message, loud and clear."
...ever since this morning, I’ve been thinking a lot about a story in the Biblia that Padre Juan talked about at church once in Naranjito. It’s about a man who gets beat up and thrown in a ditch by a gang, just like what happened to Damián. He’s hurt and lying in this ditch, and a priest walks past without helping him, because it'd be too much work or he’s afraid it's a trap or he doesn’t want to get his clothes bloody or whatever. The man only gets saved when a buen Samaritano stops to help him. In a way, even though the priest didn’t do anything, he was just as bad, or almost as bad, as the gang that beat the man up. Padre Juan says the priest in the story was bad because he didn’t do anything. I thought it was interesting that Padre Juan told us about it, even though the bad person is a priest like him.
The point is, there are two ways you can hurt people. You can hurt a person actively, like by punching them or stealing from them or whatever. But you can also hurt a person passively, by refusing to give them help when they need it, or by pretending you don't see them, or by acting like they don’t exist.
Since leaving Naranjito, there have been a few adults who have tried to hurt me actively—like the hombres del cartel who shot at us while we were riding La Bestia, or the pissed-off Migra guys who put me and my cousins in a refrigerator to freeze half to death. And all that was horrible, obviously. But in a way, when someone hurts you actively, the damage is mostly just physical. Back home, gangs are a fact of life, and even though I was always lucky—I was never directly targeted until the cartel chased me off La Bestia—there’s always a risk that someone will hurt you in an active way. But that doesn’t give me this horrible, whole-body feeling of worthlessness. In Naranjito, I never saw anyone get passively hurt. I'm sure some kids had parents and family who were bad to them, but in some ways, anyone's kids were like everyone's kids. Ifa kid was hungry, obviously it was their parents’ job to feed them, but if thelr parents were missing for some reason, the rest of the pueblo wouldn't just let the kid starve to death.
Since crossing the border though, until breakfast this morning, I don’t think a single adult in los Estados Unidos would have cared if I'd starved. In los Estados Unidos, the passive pain has been the worst feeling of all. Passive pain is a little harder to explain than active pain, but I'll try;
It hurts in a different way. The adults who have tried to actively hurt me aren't as bad as all the adults who stand around, seeing what’s happening doing nothing. Looking bored. This has been everywhere since I got to el Norte. There have been a million examples: the woman behind the desk at oficina de la Migra who called Papa and filled out my registration on her computer before her buddies in green uniforms stuck me in a refrigerator. The bus drivers who shuttled me and a vehicle full of innocent kids from one kind of jail to another and never stopped to ask what we did to deserve this, why we weren't in school, why we weren't with our parents, why we were crying, why we were dirty, why my foot was oozing blood and pus and stinking up the entire bus like roadkill. The servers in the cafeteria who see this food is making us sick but won't do anything about it, who won't let us grab another box of Frosted Flakes. The worst of all are the tíchers, these useless tíchers who call us by our bed numbers, these grown-ups who speak fluent English and could really do something to help us, but who just stand around looking tired and annoyed while kids like me are kept from our parents for no reason, tíchers who don’t sound any alarms when nine and ten-year-olds are passing out on the campo de fútbol because they're afraid to drink water, because they’re afraid to use the bathroom.
Sometimes it makes me want to grab a piece of cardboard and write I'm a kid, do something on it. It makes me want to grab a megaphone and scream “I’m a person! I’m supposed to matter!” But more often, it makes me wonder if maybe I don’t matter, it makes me want to collapse, it makes me want to give up, it makes me want to melt into my bunk, it makes me want to climb down the porta-potty pit and dissolve in the chemicals. It makes me never want to look anyone in the eye again.