My Father The Great American

My father was the proudest American in Texas. Growing up he’d make me work with him on his car every Sunday and tell me American history. He wanted me to know that the United States was the greatest country in the world. Every Fourth of July there’d be the traditional barbecue and fireworks. He’d take his stereo outside and play Frank Sinatra on full blast and let me shoot a couple rounds from one of his handguns in celebration.

One of the speeches my father used to give me the most was, “Mijo, you might be Mexican but you’re American, you hear me? We’re American just like everyone else. And we came here the right way! Not like those pinche parasites who come flooding here these days. We did it the Right Way. Understand?”

I would nod my head and say I understood. Because I did. We were Mexican, sure. We spoke Spanglish, loved Selena, celebrated our own cultural holidays but I bled red, white and blue just like my father. When I joined the Border Patrol, I don’t think I’d ever seen him so proud. It was the only time I’d ever seen him on the verge of tears. Let me tell you, I almost cried just looking at him. He was my hero, you understand. He not only provided for us, but he was there for us. He made sure that no matter how hard his day had been, that the evenings were for his family. He was the perfect role model. I hoped that when I became a father I would at least be half as good as him.

Every time I would catch someone in the desert, I would tell him about it. I remember one time capturing a family, who had become separated from the rest of their group. There was a little girl staring at me in fear and I told my father how I hated the parents for putting her in that situation. I remember him patting me on the shoulder saying, “They should have done it the right way. Like us. They brought it on themselves. You’re doing good work, mijo. Don’t forget that.” When he passed away two weeks ago and I found out that my father was undocumented, I thought of that speech.

He was undocumented and he and my mother decided it was best to keep it from me.

“You were born here. You are a citizen. Why would we have let it affect you?” my mother told me at the funeral.

My mother went on to tell me that that my father was twelve years old when he came to the U.S., running from the cartel that tried to make him join them. He was sent by his mother who couldn’t come with him because the cartel’s leader “liked her,” and so she was being watched closely. My father snuck out of his childhood home to make the dangerous trek. I imagined the obstacles he must have come across. How scared he must have been all alone. His mother had sent word to a cousin that my father was coming. My father was able to find him, and his cousin just told everyone that my father was his son. My father never saw his mother again.

I asked my mother about his patriotism, his bravado, his insistence that we were different from “those other Mexicans” when we so obviously weren’t. She said it started out as a way of compensating.

“El tenía miedo,” she said. He was afraid.

Eventually, I guess he didn’t necessarily believe his lies but got comfortable with them. He was hard working, paid taxes, spoke English, so what difference did it make? Except it made all the difference for me. I had been proud to call my father an honest man. But not anymore. His lies made me a liar. I was a Border Patrol officer. And my job was more than an occupation. It was a vocation. A calling. Something I was proud to be a part of. Proud of the men I worked with. My brotherhood. How would those men see me now? Would they still call me their brother? And how could I keep doing what I was doing?

When I started to look back, there were moments that stood out. I had always wanted to take my father to Ireland. He loved Irish literature. Poetry, novels, biographies. I even remember him trying to learn Gaelic. He didn’t get that far with his studies, but you understand his enthusiasm. I tried to surprise him with a trip, and he refused. We got into a huge argument about it because I had bought the tickets, and I just didn’t understand why he didn’t want to go. He kept saying that he had responsibilities but would explain no further. Now, of course, I understand why he didn’t want to go. Flying out of the country as an undocumented man? Terrifying.

Last night I was patrolling when me and my guys saw a large group of people. We pursued, splitting up to cover more ground. I ran with my flashlight and gun in hand. I was on automatic pilot, pursuing my target until completion. But then I found myself stopping suddenly, having an existential crisis about what I was doing. As I stood there, in the middle of the dark, cold desert, I heard something to my right. I turned and the light flashed on a young boy’s face. He stared at me, deer in the headlights, frozen. I found myself walking toward him. All I could see when I looked at him was my father’s face. I raised my gun and hit the kid square in the jaw. I hit him over and over again. He cowered on the ground, hands reaching up to try and protect himself, and I didn’t stop. I didn’t stop until I was pulled off by one of my guys. And even then, I was still gunning for the kid, wanting to destroy him. But not really him. My father. Myself.

They had to put the kid in one of our hospital beds. He’s alive but his face will never look the same. It wouldn’t be the first time a Border Patrol officer beat up an illegal. No one seemed to care that much. They never do really.

I’m home now. And I know it’s only a matter of time until my team finds out about my father. And I’m wondering how long I can keep doing this. And I keep seeing that kid’s face whenever I close my eyes. And I’m trying to figure out what my life means now. And I don’t have any answers.