Mass Transit

You know the world is yours to care for. You learnt this from your padre. He would have you recite Genesis 2:15 before you knew how to read; he had it engrained in you before anything else could. This sense of responsibility to the world around you, moulded you. You went as far as to spend a summer, when you were younger, helping out the local vet. You would run errands, muck pens, feed and groom the smaller animals. Your enthusiasm was contagious, and your father could barely contain his pride.

You were told you could make it. You decided you had to do it here. A fat envelope arrived at the end of March and with it came the offer of an AnBryce Scholarship. Proof that your sacrifice and determination was all it would take.

Papá had a way of helping you make decisions, without influencing them. You hadn’t even thought step two — mapping out all the options and outcomes — when you started taking over from him. It wasn’t expected or demanded, it just was.

When you first moved here you thought there would never be enough time to see all the city had to offer. But slowly the routine of life took hold. For the first time in months, you went to the park on your break. You sat by the lake, contemplating all of the fictional couples in the movies who had met here. You reasoned there must be countless real ones too.

The boats broke the surface.

By the end, you had both resigned to the inevitable defeat. You chose the outcome that would serve you best — step five. But you are certain you had stopped fighting before he had and later you would wonder if that was what caused him to give up.

You carried the knowledge like dead weight.

You had always been defined by your absolute determination to care for those who could not do it for themselves. Step three — how does it effect others. You slipped once and you wouldn’t let it happen again. Your jaw tightened. Clamped shut to keep the thoughts inside and the feelings out.

Your pretence convinced you that you were no different. But you were imprisoned by anxiety. Slowly your façade had been scrubbed away. Over six months you unsuccessfully competed against your fellow graduates — as well as the national and international ones you hadn’t anticipated.

Taylor moved out; then you had your performance review at the boutique; then you missed three weeks rent. Early one Sunday you called your sister. After an hour of silence, she gave the phone to your mother who demanded you come home.

You were told if you worked hard enough you could be anything you wanted.

Your feet carried you home mechanically. Step four — you measured the risks and gains. Pinned by your responsibilities, you consulted him: The idea of him. Your conversation lasted for the entire walk back from the market.

That morning as you put your dirty dishes in the sink your mamá asked you a daunting question. At first you thought she was talking about a holiday, but you quickly realised her plans were more permanent. You asked her question after question — step one — gather all the information you can. She wanted you to move to America; alone.

You chose the outcome that would serve you best — step five. Your mamá organised the trip against both of your wishes.

Your laptop, your camera, your iPad, your passport, your souvenirs; all of it was carried on your shoulders. And you had to lug it all, from your hostel to the airport — via the L, Lexington Ave Local, Flushing Express and the Q48.

As you had done daily since your father’s passing, you walked to the highway, only much faster today because you had nothing to carry with you. You savoured the landscape; the clear blue sky colliding with a hundred shades of green, the scent of rosewood with a sweet tinge of apricot, the rhythm of dry grass crunching underfoot. This routine had replaced your religion.

The trains and planes and buses were filled with faces you didn’t know. Whirling. You talked to no one, looked at no one, noticed no one.

You saw many faces in town you hoped you’d never see again. Jorge, who grew up next door to your mother; Paula, whose classes you never had the pleasure of attending; Martín, the butcher, who so often convinced his own customers that you had the perfect spices to match his lamb; and Javi who came every week from September to April to buy your granadillas and avocados. You hope for the prosperity that they have. More than that, you hope to find new people just like them.

On the bus to Playa de Rosarito you know you should sleep but instead you’re listening to conversations. Several young children are calmed by their parents. You try to imagine your own mother’s voice.

Your mother calls to make sure you’re at the airport, even though your plane doesn’t leave for another 4 hours. She’s sent you an email to review during the flight that details the meeting with your cousins boss, who is in need of a PA. You tell her you’ll find your own job. She reminds you that she is paying for your flight and says she wants the money back in a month, but you know she doesn’t need it. She tells you, you’re a disappointment. It hurts a little more every time. She missed your greatest achievement. Didn’t come over for the graduation ceremony in May, because it was too cold. You tell her you’ve been called to board, she must know it’s a lie but you’ve turned your phone off before she can call back.

You meet your guide just off the highway near Popotla. You walk with him to the public wharf where you meet the dozen or so people sharing this single-engine, wooden boat heading to California.

Your plane will — barring any delays — arrive at Gate 12 at 2335.

You may arrive tonight, but if you arrive at all, it’s more likely that it will be in the early hours of the morning. You know where you are going. But you are less certain of your route; of your arrival.

Your safety is imperative to quite a lot of people; their livelihood depends on it.

Your life is inconsequential to those you’re trusting — a word you use loosely. If they were in any danger of being caught by the US Coast Guard your life would be thrown away without a moments hesitation.

Now that you’ve arrived in San Francisco it’s time to think on your feet. The trains have stopped. You forgot. They never stop in New York, nothing ever does. You take a taxi to the centre of the city. On the way you panic. It’s going to cost too much. You won’t have enough left to pay for a hotel room. Can you get to your sister’s from the city? The trains have stopped. Is there a bus? You search online. Two buses will get you within a few blocks. The first runs hourly. Next one comes in 45 minutes. It will take every cent you have to get to your sister’s place. It’s 2:00 and you’ve been awake for 26 hours now. You must be vigilant. Your most cherished worldly possessions weigh on you. They make you a sitting duck. You get off the bus. One stop early. You can’t run for the connecting bus. You miss the bus. It runs hourly. You’ve heard stories about this area. You must be vigilant. You’re cold. You’re exhausted. You just want to go home. Where’s home?

Your eyes and lungs itch from the sulphuric fumes. The salty ocean wind whips your hair and dries your skin. You gag on the acrid scent of vomit. Twinkling in the distance, the lights of San Diego make your heart flutter. You gaze out over the ocean and dream. You know where your home is. But what will you call this place?