Copyright 2011 by Robert Lee Maril
Unless otherwise stated, photographs copyright 2011 by Robert Lee Maril
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P erhaps the core implications of Time do not occur until, straining to hear the unintelligible ramblings of the youthful radiation oncologist, we are forced to face down the possibility of our own death. Or perhaps Times reminder is the inevitable passing of a parent or beloved friend, or even the family pet, one second romping with the kids, another inexplicably expiring on the freshly cut front lawn, legs jerking among the roots of the bermuda as unspoken words collect on the tongues of the gathering children. The vapid democracy of illness and death produces in the living an understanding of Time as the distillate of life.
Time can be particularly cruel to those residing in the U.S.-Mexico borderlands. Those living along the northern banks of the Rio Grande, the Big River, as well as those on the Mexican side of the Ro Bravo, the Fierce River, may experience Time in very different and more direct ways than those in the interior of border states and those in nonborder states. The countenance of Time
For undocumented workers along the border, Time may be counted in units of mesmerizing panic while crossing the Ro Bravo on inflated inner tubes linked by lines of thin, wet twine, one eye fixed on a six-year-old child, the other on the coyote, the human smuggler. Traversing a dangerous river is followed by a crazed dash toward a new life, beginning with a wild ride in a fifteen-year-old Ford van, motor revving, the coyote sweating in the vehicles air-conditioned interior as his passengers pray out loud to their patron saint. Illegal entry also may be an attempt to rejoin an abandoned life in the United States after the abuela, the grandmother, has died and the sons have rushed back home to the funeral in San Lus Potos. How then will these same sons get back safely to their families and jobs in Des Moines, Iowa?
If there is not a dangerous river to cross along some parts of the border, there may be an even more hostile desert in locales such as Nogales, where thousands have already died illegally crossing the borderline.
For a Latino Border Patrol agent sworn to apprehend these workers and their families, Times foreshortened memory may end in uncounted bravery or a cowards desperation when shadowy figures suddenly emerge from the banks of the Rio Grande or the deep canyons south of San Diego. Anonymous to the public in his or her green nylon uniform, often despised by local residents for a history of other agents transgressions, this federal law enforcer must immediately decide what action to take. Are these human outlines heavily armed cocaine smugglers, or are they nameless men, women, and children looking for work in a new land? Alone in the desert under a dark moon, the agent knows that, whatever decision he or she makes, backup cannot arrive in less than forty-five minutes.
For those on both sides of this international boundarywhether community residents, undocumented workers, law enforcement officers, or tourists personal safety cannot be assumed or taken for granted. The borderlands have always been a very dangerous place in which to live.
In the border villages, towns, and cities from Brownsville to San Diego, from Matamoros to Tijuana, Time is also sensed as centuries of family, community, and regional history unique to the American experience. Those who live in Nogales, Arizona, may have as much or more in common with those residing in Nogales, Sonora, than with those of nearby Tucson.
The rural landscape ranges from rich delta farmland with two growing seasons to high Sonoran desert. Neither entirely Mexican nor entirely American, the people of the border, sui generis, and the landscape in which they are embedded are perpetually misunderstood, underestimated, and even distrusted by federal officials in the distant capitals of Mxico, D.F., and Washington, D.C.
Arbitrary but binding decisions made in the two national capitals have the ability to directly form, shape, and change the lives of residents on both sides of the borderand, more tellingly but in ways less understood, the lives of those far from these borderlands. The prevalent supposition that residents on both sides of this international boundary are passive recipients of their respective nations laws and policies arrogantly disregards history. Repeatedly these people of the borderlands have negotiated, mitigated, ignored, stalled, passively tolerated, blunted, changed, or fought to the bitter end laws, regulations, and policies they deemed unacceptable. They also repelled invading armies, armed bands of outlaws, and bureaucrats with MBAs and law degrees. The complexities of life in the borderlands are frequently far too intricate to be understood or appreciated in federal offices in Washington and Mexico City.
Olga Rivera graduated from Brownsvilles Porter High School in the spring of 1978. Her life across Time plays out in edited closeups and broad pans of the cameras eye, first as a novice eighteen-year-old field researcher, then a part-time assistant and secretary, then later a full-time college employee at the University of Texas, BrownsvilleTexas Southmost College (UTB-TSC), less than a city block from the bridge to Matamoros, Tamaulipas, Mexico. Just over five feet tall, with long, black hair framing her dark eyes, Olga dressed in crisp blue jeans and a white blouse little different from those of the other Latinas roaming the academic halls of UTB-TSC.