Border Crossing Anxiety Of The Sentimental Variety
"Home. . home is where you wear your hat... I feel so break-up, I
wanna go home."
- Lord John Whorfin, The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th
Dimension
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Every time I cross the border from Mexico into Texas, in the US of A I get this weird
feeling. This strange anxiety, in the pit of my stomach, that feeling you get
when you know you've eaten some bad Chinese food but the effects haven't set in yet.
[[When walking across the bridge I may have once or twice danced in front of this sign, just to say I did it Which I just did. So there you go.]]
Its not dealing with the immigration officers on the Mexican
side, unless I'm in my car. I'm always worried about getting Greta stuck in Texas after that one fiasco thanks to the state of Pennsylvania no longer
issuing stickers.
Its not dealing with the border patrol agents on the US side either.
Though they have performed more than one "agricultural inspection" on
Greta more than once. It seems when I'm at the airport I look like a terrorist,
but when crossing the border from Mexico I look like the type who
would have a trunk full of illegal fruits and vegetables. Strange.
No, it took me awhile to discover the exact source of that
anxiety but I finally did the last time I came across the border in my car.
My trunk contained nothing more exciting than a new scented
candle, a few packs of cloves, and an embarrassingly large quantity of pudding
snacks. Hey, they are tasty, shelf-stable, and I can't find them anywhere down
here. I'm told the Wal-Mart in Rio Bravo has
them, but they are more expensive there. Also, there just seems to be something
weird about going to a location as historic as Rio Bravo (both for the actual
history and the classic Howard Hawks Western starring John Wayne and Dean
Martin) to visit a Wal-Mart to buy large quantities of scented candles and butterscotch and tapioca flavored pudding cups (I'm preparing for old age).
So it wasn't like I was worried about the contents of my
trunk concerning the border patrol agents. No, it wasn't that, it was a lot
simpler; I was worried about not getting back into Mexico.
[[A fact some people find strange, as it can get so hard core down here even the coat racks are chambered for 5.56 rounds.]]
It occurred to me sitting there in traffic on the border
bridge, with loud tourists on all sides carrying on as if they already been
enjoying the potent, cheap drinks Nuevo Progresso is famous for. Right there it hit me, I was worried I
wouldn't, for some reason, make it back home. The same anxiety I feel every
time I'm driving through southern Texas
running errands, the same anxiety I feel when I approach the vehicle checkpoint
on the Mexican side of the border, that was it. Its an irrational worry that
for some reason I won't get home.
In a short period of time Mexico has come to feel very much
like home to me. Not just my tiny apartment because I pay for it and it
contains nearly all of my worldly possessions, not just because Tessa is here,
its not just that, its that for some reason in a very short period of time
Mexico has come to feel like my home.
"The Edge... there is no honest way to
explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who
have gone over."
- Hunter S. Thompson
So far, car issues aside, I've accomplished what little I
set out to do here. To break out of the suicidal rut I found myself in for the
last few years. To change things, my situation, my life, in a drastic way. A
way that reminded me that I was still alive, that there were still reasons to
get out of bed in the morning that didn't involve the Smith & Wesson
revolver on my nightstand.
For a long time writing, something I had always done for
largely my own entertainment, only occasionally being paid for it, had become
something I dreaded. I knew I had things to do, scripts to write, articles for
blogs both my own and others, even the odd bit of poetry (Star Trek haikus,
seriously, they even got published), and my most prolific use of prose-fiction
which was writing background material for role playing games I occasionally
run.
I would sit and look at the blinking cursor on my screen and
feel a deep sense of dread. It was the same with other creative endeavors I've
always enjoyed; photography, reading, the pursuit of the fairer sex. All the
things that involved creativity in some way stopped bringing me joy. I've detailed
that at much greater length in another post here.
What I didn't really go into, because it didn't occur to me
fully until recently, is that aside from the absence of people who have become
very important to me over the years this place, this strange country I find
myself in, feels like home. Mexico
has become home.
Hell, thanks to the afore mentioned car difficulties I have not even made it to my intended destination here in Mexico of the Yucatan Peninsula. A goal I will reach, come hell or high water as the saying goes, sooner than later.
Hell, thanks to the afore mentioned car difficulties I have not even made it to my intended destination here in Mexico of the Yucatan Peninsula. A goal I will reach, come hell or high water as the saying goes, sooner than later.
The Yucatan is still a good distance away from Nuevo
Progreso, the strange little border town I've lived in now for about 3 months,
but its still Mexico. My guess is that when Tessa and I do finally arrive in
the Yucatan, which is still Mexico, it won't feel like coming
home, because we are already there.
For whatever reason, my past, psychological damage, my
innate need to periodically pick up and go someplace new which I blame on the
not insubstantial quantity of plains Indian blood in my veins, I always feel a
need to be somewhere I'm not. Very rarely have I ever found myself in a new
place and felt the way I do here, like I'm home.
[[A strangely welcome sight after a long day.]]
I've felt that way in Morgantown,
WV and Pittsburgh,
PA, but in those places it was more
the people around me, my friends, than the places themselves. I've felt that way in the
deserts of the American Southwest. The first time I found myself in the desert,
alone, with nothing around me but scrub brush and sand... that felt like
home. Its the same feeling I get every
time I cross the border from the United States
back into Mexico.
That relief one feels at coming home after a long journey, no matter how
pleasant. That feeling of finally being able to kick off your boots, pour a
glass of something alcoholic, and sit down on your own furniture, in your own
space, with your own cat, and completely relax.
Because you're home.
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This
post and its original content copyright James Radcliff, and has been
brought to you by Mexico, tequila, and generally poor decision making.
If you would like to donate
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