The River That Divides Us

Six am. It is a school day. Today is Friday. I have a physics test but I cannot remember a thing. I can remember, though, closing my eyes, waiting each day for this moment to finally arrive.

Since seventh grade, I have been building houses in Mexico with a group of students from my former school, St. Clement's. While building was always a worthwhile experience, it also provided for me a temporary escape. It reminded me that there were times when I got so caught up in life that I forgot how meaningless some of it was. In the past, I understood that by helping people, I was affecting them. Yet I never understood how they affected me as well. I was not just building a house; I was entering these people's lives. After living together in a colonia, it became apparent that our only difference was that while I could leave after just three days, they would always be there. Until now, I always looked forward to going to Juarez, to be able to leave my life for just one moment. But I never understood that when I returned it was because I had no choice; even if I wanted to, I could never live under those conditions. Though impoverished, the people of Juarez have an ability to survive, to find joy amid the dirt and filth, which, after living with them, is something I know I can never do.

When I left sixth period Thursday afternoon, I knew this would be my escape. My week so far had been unbearable. The semester had barely even begun, and already the days were starting to congeal into one big mass, waiting to be forgotten. I try to recount what I learned this past week in school, but I find myself wondering, "What did I learn?" Bombarded by tests, quizzes, and endless homework assignments, I was reassured that grades are not the only thing. Or, at least, that is what they tell me.

I have been looking forward to this for months, at times unsure if I could really pull it off. Unlike previous years, I would be building the house without the comforts of my former school. Because I did not attend St. Clement's anymore, I would be missing classes, which lately seemed rather implausible. In the past weeks, school had left me feeling like the Greek hero Atlas; but instead of holding the world on my shoulders, I had the task of precariously balancing the elements of my junior year. Speech tournaments, physics tests, NHS meetings—they would all have to wait. I had left school desiring an escape. I had begun the weekend thinking this would be it.

The city of Juarez is just across the Rio Grande. Yet the moment the van crosses the bridge, I know I have entered. The same dune-like plateaus that El Paso is built on suddenly become foreign to me. The faces peering back at me on the streets look at me as if I am an alien, an intruder invading their homes. Finally, after driving for more than an hour, we arrive at the worksite. I thought I would instantly recognize the site, but there is nothing special about it. It is just a bunch of crates.

In front of me, the barbed wire separates the land into plots and stretches for what seems like forever. To my side, the line of barbed wire turns into a thick column of walls. Enclosed in these walls are large ranch-like mansions that make up the Juarez Campestre. Surrounding me are other houses, some of them abandoned or left unfinished. The gaps in their cinderblock walls are filled with old cardboard boxes. While I am in another land, I am still only a few miles from my home. I can see the familiar mountains that run through the middle of El Paso. I can see etched into them the thunderbird, for which our school mascot is named. I can see the river that divides us.

The sun bears down upon us. When we arrive, it is already two in the afternoon. The heat, while at times suffocating, provides a pleasant interlude from the wind and the dust. As I sort the wood, I try to remember their different measurements—seven feet, seven feet one inch, seven feet two inches—cut to fit the slant of the roof. Behind me, a group of people are nailing the wooden borders for the house's foundation. The noises and the people all seem distant, forgotten under the blanket of heat that numbs my senses. It slowly wears away at me like the dull blade of a saw. As I look around, the buildings are covered in a layer of dust; they resemble anything but houses. Each day I would drive by them on the way to school, pretending they never existed. They were always remnants of a nightmare, something I tried to wish away. Now after living in one, I feel them come alive with the presence of people, of families who call this their home.

In past years, we had built houses atop ledges where there was barely any room to work. Compared to that, this site is quite practical. With the exception of a large ditch, the land here is relatively flat. The piles of wood that we separated earlier seem to fit right in with the heaps of trash and abandoned tires. Throughout the day I would see some of the children roll down the ditch in one of these tires. For some reason, a part of me wanted to drop everything and roll right beside them.

The work is monotonous. One gravel, two sands, one gravel, two sands, one gravel, two sands. It plays over and over again in my head as I endlessly heave bucketsful of sand and gravel into the devouring concrete mixer. Surrounding me are boys who are half my size yet who are also trying to help. After getting a drink, I come back to find that my shovel is gone. They are playing with it. I try to tell myself that they are only trying to help, but this is frustrating. The boys have dropped buckets, mixed dirt into the concrete, and now taken my shovel. My patience runs low, and my Spanish deteriorates, but I keep my calm. After all, they are only trying to help.

We all wanted it. We all desired it. But now we were not alone. Men coming from the street are working beside us. Wheeling barrels of concrete, smoothing it out on their hands and knees, waiting tentatively for it to dry—they want it as badly as we do. Sitting atop a wooden beam, I notice that the once desolate streets come alive with people—watching, waiting, and all wanting to help. I only have to glance down at their faces to know that this is what they came for. On the count of three, they push and I pull. Slowly, I walk across the beam. The piece fits snugly into place. I hear a voice saying, "five more times and we have a roof." We have a house. A day ago, this was nothing but a heap of wooden crates. Now, it is a palace. Unfinished, the house is better than anything the family has ever lived in. As I nail the last of the plywood, I watch the sunset from the roof of the house. This is what I wanted. This is what I came for. We accomplished a lot today, and we did it by working together.

It is now Sunday. I wake up and I cannot feel a thing. There is no dust in my eyes. There is no dull beat pounding through my head. There is, however, a stillness that is overwhelming. After three days, I begin to think that I have been here too long and that the desert is finally getting the best of me. As the sun beats down on me, I realize that this really is "the wasteland." I awake already exhausted. It is too much for me. As I work, breakfast seems like a distant memory. My muscles ache. My body hurts with every move. Even hammering a nail takes too much effort. As I nail my thumb, I do not notice the blood swelling beneath my skin.

It is five in the afternoon. I am eating my first meal an hour after we are supposed to be finished. I do not know what I am doing. I do not care what I am doing. We cannot leave even though we want to. We cannot wait to finish this another day. I look around and people are sitting. They are frustrated, but they are too exhausted to act. It is nine now. We are four hours behind and counting. I see my father working, and I remember that physics test I have to make up. We finish rushed, forgetting why we came and allowing that final moment to pass unnoticed. But it would have made no difference. The family had left hours ago. After locking the door, we return to school in silence.

I wish that by building a house, I could forget for just one moment everything in my life. I wish that I could drop everything to help someone else. I tried and realized that I could never survive the same way as the people I helped. Yet, as naïve as it may sound and as illogical as it may seem, I think a part of me sometimes wishes I could live like them. Yet that is foolish. While I did not choose the life I live, I must still live it.

In the same sense, the people of the colonias did not choose to live their life. While it is said that only a river divides El Paso from Juarez, I find that hard to believe. If these people were given the chance to live my life, I would hope that they would take it in a second. But many of them will always remain where they began. They were born into a life that they cannot choose. I know that if it were me, I would think I was born into misery. But I am not. And at the most, I can be grateful for that.

Six am. It is Monday now.

I have a physics test today. I have been studying for the last hour. As I feel the sunburn across my face, I remember that today is a school day.