How to earn an Oscar without really trying.
Posted on 04/20/2004 1:07:23 PM PDT by Marine Inspector
Acting: a way of life for border crossers
By Fulano de Tal
Editor’s Note: The following story was submitted by a Mexican national about his travails in crossing the border. Names have been withheld for obvious reasons.
I just had my best acting performance ever with an immigration officer.
And for a Mexican, it is a performance, even though I’m not an actor.
I have a laser visa. I’ve never crossed contraband. It doesn’t matter: If a border agent gets suspicious, and he escorts you to the windowless questioning room – where agents won’t tell you their names – there is little to prevent him from cutting your visa in half. I’ve been in that room. I’ve heard those threats.
It’s 2 a.m., Monday, and my American friend and I are crossing the border into El Paso, returning from a 10-day camping trip in Mexico. Already the situation is weird from an immigration point of view. I tell my friend that the officer is going to be rough on us, because it is late and rare that a Mexican and an American are crossing at this hour, in a beat-up Suburban full of camping crap, smelling like days-old exposure to fire and sweat and with no logical explanation to justify ourselves.
We need to keep our story straight. I give him the line: We are driving back from one camping trip, and we’re on to another in Alamogordo, where he lives. I have a valid, six-month tourist permit, so legally I am allowed to cross – but legality doesn’t matter as much as perception. Border agents have the power to shred your visa for blinking wrong. So I say they still are going to treat us like criminals, interrogate us until they break us, make us slip up on some detail.
My laser visa doesn’t permit me to live in the States, but I do. That is my secret.
We roll up to the immigration booth, windows low. The officer asks our citizenship and where we’re going.
Us, respectively: “American citizen ... Mexican.”
Agent: “Where are you coming from?”
Friend: “From the Sierra de Peñoles.”
Agent: “And where are you guys going?”
Friend: “To Alamogordo, to camp.”
Agent: “Where do you live?”
Me: “I live in Juarez.”
Agent: “Where in Juarez?”
Me: “In my parents’ house.”
Agent: “And where is that?”
Me: “It’s in the (undisclosed neighborhood), near the (undisclosed) bridge.”
Agent: “What do you do?”
Me: “I work in a maquila.”
I don’t work in a maquila. In fact, I don’t work at all, just pick up random jobs here and there – in the States, where I live.
He scans my laser visa. He fills out an ominous orange paper and sticks it on our windshield with our ID’s. Translation: We are getting a major, major inspection of us and our car and, of course, our story.
Agent (shouting): “Don’t get down from the car! Stay in it and shut off the motor.”
Agent No. 2: “Open the doors and keep your hands out of your pockets.”
They take our car keys. They look for hidden drugs, weapons, contraband.
Agent: “Okay you two, get down from the car, keep your hands in your pockets and come around the metal table and sit facing away from the car.”
They work to make you nervous, you know – intimidated, humiliated. If you’re a bad liar, they’ll get you in this round, no doubt. My friend was shaking. He wasn’t used to this. I was solid.
So five of them sit the two of us on a cold, metal table and interrogate the hell out of us. Three more agents dig through the car as if we are kings of international crime. They rummage. They sic the dogs on the car. They hammer at the bottom with what looks like a golf putter.
Agent: “What were you doing in Mexico?”
So my friend answers, and the questions keep rolling – the same questions in different patterns, laid down like a crafty poker hand meant to trip you up.
Agent: “And where do you live?”
Me: “I live in Juarez.”
Agent: “Your English is very good.”
Me: “I know.”
Agent: “I meant good as if you’ve been living in the States for a long time.”
I am not fazed. He grills me. I take the burn without blinking. My story is on. He’ll never catch me. I spin half-truths. He looks discouraged. He’s trapped. I’m nearly free.
Agent: “All right. Well, I don’t have any more questions. Anybody else have any?”
He is so pissed, and I am celebrating on the inside. Every time I feel more powerful. To me, they are unfairness and racism, embodied. I grew up in this town, and they are the deadly dogs I run from every time I cross.
Zen and the Art of Border Crossing
I am an illegal actor. You grow up on the border and become one, like it or not. It doesn’t take too long to learn the tricks of la migra and understanding them is the key to survival. Because your laser visa isn’t worth a damn if a border agent gets suspicious. You can be as innocent as an angel, and he can still cut your card in half on a whim.
Here are 10 things to remember when crossing, especially if you live on one side but belong to the other.
The Top Ten Immigration Tips
1. Make sure everyone in the car knows your story.
2. Only answer exactly what the agent asks you.
3. Keep your responses short and sweet.
4. Always look into the eyes of the officer.
5. Study your rights, and match them with your story.
6. Always have a plan B.
7. Don’t make a routine of your crossings – or your stories.
8. Never show your wallet to the officer.
9. Attach a story to every possession, particularly when crossing on foot.
10. Be confident. Be careful.
How to earn an Oscar without really trying.
And there are FReepers who actually think these folks would make good little GOPers.
Agent (shouting): "Don't get down from the car!"
Agent: "Okay you two, get down from the car..."
Officer: "Open up your wallet."
You: "No."
Yeah, that'll work.
Here is a better idea for Homeland Security.
Every officer has his own style.
Being that this guy spend his life lie, who knows what part of this story is the truth and what part is a lie.
LOL, your right, it won’t work.
It's the same here.
I was wondering the same thing. Perhaps the Mexican telling the story embellished a wee bit.
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