Somewhere between Blue and Green

With the countdown to home upon us, we haven’t sat still very long, and set off on a road trip that took us down the coast to the towns of Vejer de la Frontera, Los Caños de Meca, Conil, and Tarifa.

Tarifa, the southern-most point of Spain, almost kisses the rocky shores of Africa. When we stood on the Punta de Tarifa, we could see the blue Mediterranean on one side, and the green Atlantic on the other. We could jump in the sea, run across the causeway, and dive into the ocean 2 seconds later. If we wanted to, we could get on a boat and land on another continent in 35 mins. And as with all borderlands, its hard to separate one water from another, one body from the other, bringing into question how firmly we think these boundaries are drawn, and in actuality, how difficult the idea of a border is.

While the peaceful sounds of the sea and church bells brought the local people out for paseo and tapas in cafes in Tarifa’s plaza, the town had the air of a crossroads. An African woman balanced a tray of rings for sale on her head as she moved gracefully between tables of tourists with British accents; the radio’s clearest station in our rented Kia was in Arabic. When approaching the town from Africa, the first sight is of a fortress, the hulking 13th century castle where Guzman the Bueno infamously sacrificed his son to the Moors (Guzman’s son was held hostage by Moorish forces hoping to snag Tarifa away from Christian Spain– Guzman refused to give in, even throwing his own knife down from the castle to be the weapon for his son’s murder–not sure bueno is the adjective I’d pick…).

And if you walk through Tarifa’s whitewashed streets to the hills on the other side of town, you’ll find a mass anonymous grave sheltering the bodies of Africans who looked across the water to a green, hilly place, thought of a better life, and met their deaths in the Straight trying to get here.

With immigration debates raging on at home, the Dream Act rejected, and Italy and Denmark taking new measures to strengthen the lines drawn around their countries here in Europe, I am reminded of the words of Gloria Anzuldua, who so eloquently represents those “caught in the crossfire between camps.” As I wander freely through the world, I can’t help but think of those for whom the boundaries are drawn in razor wire and brick–or in a blue line of rough water that looks safe enough to paddle across, but shrouds the strongest of currents.

To live in the borderlands means you
are neither hispana india negra española
ni gabacha, eres mestiza, mulata, half-breed
caught in the crossfire between camps while carrying all five races on your back
not knowing which side to turn to, run from;

To live in the Borderlands means knowing
that the india in you, betrayed for 500 years,
is no longer speaking to you,
that mexicanas call you rajetas,
that denying the Anglo inside you
is as bad as having denied the Indian or Black;

Cuando vives en la frontera
people walk through you, wind steals your voice,
you’re a burra, buey, scapegoat
forerunner of a new race,
half and half–both woman and man, neither–
a new gender;

To live in the Borderlands means to
put chile in the borscht
eat whole wheat tortillas,
speak Tex-Mex with a Brooklyn accent;
be stopped by la migra at the border check points;

Living in the Borderlands means you fight hard to
resist the gold elixer beckoning from the bottle,
the pull of the gun barrel,
the rope crushing the hollow of your throat;

In the Borderlands
you are the battleground
where enemies are kin to each other;
you are at home, a stranger,
the border disputes have been settled
the volley of shots have shattered the truce
you are wounded, lost in action
dead, fighting back;

To live in the Borderlands means
the mill with the razor white teeth wants to shred off
your olive-red skin, crush out the kernel, your heart
pound you pinch you roll you out
smelling like white bread but dead;

To survive in the Borderlands
you must live sin fronteras
be a crossroads.

From Gloria Anzuldua’s Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books, I987).