Thank you so much for that introduction, Lee Anne.
This WG Sebald quote is going to make me cry.
I love him so much.
I'm so happy, like everyone else has said, to be here.
Thank you to the Poetry Center, to the staff of the Poetry
Center.
I attended almost every class in the room just behind us.
This book became fully realized here
with the help of the faculty, so many mentors and friends.
And I think you guys teach people to give ourselves
permission to write.
And I think that--
thank you for doing that.
I want to read tonight from the third part of my book,
which was the last part of the book to be written,
and which was the only part of the book that unfolded
while I was in the MFA program.
This was all taking place while I was--
after I had already embarked on this project.
And so, you know, I worked for a border patrol agent--
I worked as a border patrol agent.
When I was in the MFA program, I think
I was doing everything possible to distance myself
from that job.
When I was in grad school, I grew my hair
out long because I wasn't allowed in the border patrol.
I grew a beard.
And I was a barista at a coffee shop.
And that's where I met this man named José.
And I'm going to read from the part of the book that
really tells his story.
And what I think is interesting here
is that one other thing that made such a big impression
on me was the freshman students that I was teaching
for the first time in my life.
Living in Tucson 45 minutes from the border,
it seemed like the ends of the Earth to them.
They had never been there.
They had never thought about this place.
And I was like, you should just go have lunch in Nogales.
And so I think the border seems--
can seem very distant to us.
And it can also seem distant, I think,
to the people who've crossed the border, to their families.
And what becomes interesting and tragic
is the way that the border can be thrust into people's lives.
And we see that now more than ever.
It's being violently thrust back into people's lives.
So I'll read of one of those thrustings.
The coffee shop where I worked was
one of many retail outlets in a shared marketplace,
a small business complex situated
around an open-air courtyard in the style
of an old Spanish mercado.
At 6:30 in the morning I encountered few other workers
as I puttered about--
the pastry chefs at the Mexican bakery,
the prep cooks at the taco shop, the maintenance man who
maintained the Mercado grounds, a strong and clean and clean
shaven man from Oaxaca named José.
Dressed always in black baseball hat and a gray t-shirt
stretched taut across his broad shoulders,
and tucked neatly into a pair of black jeans.
José and I often talk to each other across the counter
of the coffee bar in the early hours before the morning rush.
We spoke in Spanish, exchanging cordialities.
He asked me about my graduate studies, about my travel plans,
about my luck with women.
He asked me about my family and I asked about his.
He asked about my mother, about the health of her heart.
And he would ask that I greet her on his behalf
when I left the city to visit her.
I asked him, in turn, about his wife and three boys.
He stood proudly with his arm resting on the countertop
the day his oldest son started high school,
smiled broadly the day his youngest boy won
his first soccer tournament, and leaned in firmly on a broom
handle the day his middle son was hit by a car.
He's getting better, he would say for months
after the accident.
Gracias a Dios.
José knew I had spent several years in the border patrol.
But he rarely questioned me about the work,
almost as if there was not much to ask.
Likewise, I relinquished certain questions
about his arrival and status.
In my day-to-day interactions with migrants, the customers
at the coffee shop, the workers I encountered
throughout the city, the day laborers who came to the park
to play pickup soccer with my friends and me in the evenings,
I often recognized subtle marks left
by the crossing of the border, an understanding
of its physical and abstract dimensions,
a lingering impression of its weight.
I sensed this knowledge in José as well.
But there was little way to speak
of something so imprecise.
And so we regarded each other with nods and silences,
with glances and gestures, with something
that soon became friendship.
José and I often spoke of the drug wars and of the disorder
swirling in Mexico, the 43 students who disappeared
in Ayotzinapa, the endless cartel shootings along
the border, the persistent corruption of police
and government officials.
On the day the Mexican military captured El Chapo Guzmán
in 2014, José asked me, do you think it's really him?
I don't know, I replied.
Do you?
I'm not sure.
He has body doubles, you know.
José paused and looked up at me.
When you were on the border, he asked, did you ever find drugs?
Sure, I told him, more than you can imagine.
He nodded slowly, his eyes unblinking.
Did you ever arrest a narco?
Sure, I said, but not like El Chapo.
José listened intently.
We mostly arrested the little people--
smugglers, scouts, mules, coyotes.
I watched as a knowing look spread across his face.
His eyes met mine and held them until I turned to look away.
But mostly, I arrested migrants, I
confessed, people looking for a better life.
I'm going to skip around in this section.
So José sort of disappears from work.
And nobody really knows where he is.
And then I sort of find out after getting
in contact with his family that he's in court.
And I figure out where that court is.
And that's where this next scene takes place.
I met José's wife, Lupe, for the first time outside
the courtroom.
She came with the pastor from her church and her three boys--
15, 10, and 8 years old, all of them
called out from school in hopes of seeing
their father in court.
I held the door of the courtroom open for the family
and gestured toward the benches against the right wall.
The front rows, I whispered.
The proceedings had begun just as we entered the courtroom.
And I immediately noticed the smell,
a smell I had not encountered in years,
the sharp scent of dozens of unwashed bodies that had,
for days, struggled through the desert--
skin, sweating and sun-baked.
The courtroom was cathedral-like,
with towering ceilings of brightly colored beams painted
in turquoise and coral.
From his bench, the judge loomed above the room,
a small, white face emerging from black robes,
and seated beneath the massive seal of the United
States of America-- a giant eagle, with its head turned, as
if to look away.
I sat next to Lupe, who held her youngest son close to her body
with her oldest son, seated beside him.
Behind us, the pastor set with the middle son.
The judge addressed the 40-some defendants
seated before him, most of them all male, most
of them wearing black headsets, listening
to the words of an interpreter.
All of you have been charged with two crimes,
the judge began.
I understand that each of you instead
intends to plead guilty to the petty offense of illegal entry
at a place other than one designated
for entry by US immigration.
In exchange for your plea, the government
has agreed to dismiss the felony offense of reentry
after removal.
Some of the men hunched over, holding the headsets close
to their ears.
It is important that you understand this,
the judge continued.
If you understand, please indicate so by standing.
He paused.
All of the men stood, some rising from their chairs
with those shoulders back and their heads
held high, as if in defiance, while others seemed barely
able to get up from their seats, their bodies slumped,
their faces downcast.
I leaned over to Lupe.
Do you see José?
I asked.
I don't know, she said.
I can't see their faces.
Next to her, her youngest son nervously
kicked his dangling legs back and forth.
She placed her hand gently on his thigh.
Tranquilo, she whispered into his ear.
On the floor of the courtroom the defendants
began to file out of their chairs, five at a time.
Their ankles were chained to one another.
And their wrists were bound at the waist.
They stood before the judge, flanked by court appointed
attorneys, dizzied men and women darting from one client
to another in pale suits.
The judge began with the person standing to his left.
Mr. Amaya, he read, as if from a script,
are you a citizen of Mexico?
Sí.
On or about August 31, 2015, did you
enter the United States near Lukeville, Arizona?
Sí.
Did you come through a designated port of entry?
No.
How do you plead in the charge of illegal entry?
Culpable, senor.
Watching these defendants shuffle
to the front of the room to stand before the bench,
I realized that I had never before seen
so many men and women in shackles,
that I had never laid I'd laid eyes upon a group of people
so diminished.
I had apprehended and processed countless men and women
for deportation, many of whom I sent,
without thinking, to pass through this very same room.
But there was something dreadfully altered
in their presence here between towering
and cavernous walls lorded over by foreign men
in colored suits and black robes,
men with little notion of the dark desert nights
or the hard glare of the sun.
It dawned on me that in my countless encounters
with migrants at the hard end of their road through the desert,
there was always the closeness of the failed journey--
the fading, but still hot spark from that last flame
of the crossing.
But here, in the stale, swirling air of the courthouse,
it was clear that something vital
had gone missing in the days since apprehension.
Some final essence of the spirit had
been stamped out or lost in the slow crush of confinement.
The pastor leaned forward and pointed
towards a gray-haired man who had just
stood to walk in front of the courtroom.
It's your dad, he whispered to the boys.
They looked at the man and then at each other, wide-eyed.
Es él, the pastor said, gesturing again and again,
es él.
The boys sat forward in their seats to get closer.
No está, the boys confirmed with each other, no-- no está.
Yes, the pastor said emphatically.
That's your father.
You don't recognize him because he shaves his head.
But his hair has grown out and he has stubble now.
And you can see his bald spot.
Se ve diferente.
The boys looked at each other.
Él es, Lupe finally said.
It's him.
The boys sat on their hands, dumbstruck, their mouths agape.
Beside me, Lupe slowly doubled over,
placing her forearms on her thighs,
her palms open at the knees, her head sinking into her hands
as she gently rocked in place, cradling herself
in her own embrace.
As José shuffled through a row of chairs,
the soft tinkling of his shackles seemed to fill
the room.
When I finally caught glimpse of his profile,
I saw the face of a man adrift at sea--
his eyes scanning the horizon, as if out of habit,
with little actual hope of sighting land.
He wore a sweat-stained t-shirt that seemed to swallow him.
And his body appeared small and gaunt, and slumped inward.
His face and head, leathered and speckled with gray hair.
As he turned, he caught sight of his three
sons with their mouths open, and their arms
draped around their mother, who had finally lifted her head.
He gasped audibly, his eyes dilating in disbelief.
He looked away and then back again,
focusing and unfocusing his vision in confirmation.
Quiet sobs seized his children.
And I wondered if I had done something terrible
by bringing them here.
José took one last look at his family,
his mouth slack and twisted, his eyes wide with longing.
And then with great force he began
to thrash his head downward, to and fro,
as if trying to shake a nightmare upon waking.
I'll skip forward again.
And what's happening now is that José's case has been taken up
by an immigration attorney, who has asked the family to collect
testimonies, character testimonies,
in hopes of assuaging an immigration judge.
And I've been given this packet of letters to bring
to the lawyer's office by José's wife.
At the end of my shift, I drove to the lawyer's office
and sat with my engine running in the parking lot.
I opened the envelope that contained José's letters
and began to flip through them.
Some were typed but most were handwritten,
many of them in Spanish.
They all began with some variation of
"to whom it may concern."
They referred to José as a brother in Christ,
a family man, a good father, a responsible husband,
a reliable person, always working hard,
always giving his best, always offering to help with a smile
on his face, always laughing.
To whom this may concern--
oh, sorry.
Many friends and family members made an effort
to write their letters in a way that
echoed the language of official documents.
I, Leticia Martínez, declare under penalty of perjury,
that the following statement is true and correct to the best
of my knowledge and recollection.
To whom it may concern, I'm Leticia Martínez.
I'm José's niece.
He's been living in this country for many years.
He's a very nice person.
He does not drink, or smoke, or use any drugs.
He is very responsible and a hardworking person.
I wish that he had a chance to let him stay with his children
in this country.
Thanks for taking the time to read this letter.
José's wife, Lupe, wrote in Spanish on lined school paper,
borrowed from her children.
I, Lupe Balderas, declare that José Martínez-Cruz is
my husband since the year 1999.
We have three boys, aged 15, 10, and 8.
We were always a very exemplary family.
We would go out when my husband was off work.
He was always the one who worked.
He had two jobs and his free time was dedicated to us.
My husband is an exemplary father and a caring spouse.
He doesn't drink.
He doesn't smoke.
He doesn't use drugs.
He only dedicates himself to making his family happy.
But now we miss him very much.
Because I, Lupe, cannot take my boys to the park because lately
I have been unwell, my husband took my boys to play soccer
every Wednesday.
And on weekends, he dedicated his time to us,
to eat and go out.
And now we miss him.
My husband has given 16 years of happiness and love to my sons--
to my sons and me.
But we won't return to Mexico because my boys don't
know anyone there, and they speak very little Spanish,
and it's very difficult to adapt to another country
when their whole life has been here.
They were born here and they are growing here.
Vicente Martínez, José's youngest boy,
wrote his own name at the top of a letter scrawled in pencil
on ruled school paper.
There were no spaces between his words
and his writing was riddled with misspellings
and backwards letters.
Hi, daddy, I love you because you take us to the park
and to play soccer.
I miss you because you take us to the stores,
and you take us to go to work, and to get money,
and to feed us.
The final two lines of Vicente's letter were incomprehensible--
a jumble of letters that sometimes approximated
words and sounds in Spanish.
The Spanish word for God, Dios, could be discerned, and perhaps
the word for church, iglesia.
I miss you very much, Vicente wrote clearly at the end.
Te extraño mucho.
José, Jr. had written on two sheets of paper.
On one of them he wrote a brief letter addressed to his father,
much like that of his younger brother.
At the bottom of the message, he taped a wallet-sized picture
of himself with tattered edges.
On the second sheet of paper, José, Jr.
drew his family on a soccer field with frowning faces.
The stick figures, labeled mom, brother, big brother.
Below it was another drawing, almost identical.
Except this time, the stick figures
had smiles on their faces and an extra figure drawn
next to them, labeled dad.
Diego wrote a letter that continued
across several sheets of paper.
At two and a half pages, it was the longest
of any in the packet.
In its opening paragraphs, Diego seemed
to realize that his father would likely not see or read
his words.
And he did his best to maintain a formal tone.
Dear, to whom it may concern, the letter began.
Hi, I'm Diego Martínez.
I'm the son of José Martínez.
I'm his oldest son.
I'm 15 years old.
I have two younger brothers.
One is 10 and the other is 8.
I'm working to keep my brothers happy,
to buy them what they want to keep them happy.
Well, my dad, José, is the nicest guy I know.
My dad is like my best friend and my father.
I treat my dad with so much respect.
He's the father any kid would want to have.
My mom and my whole family broke down
when we saw him at court, on the first court he had.
And everyone started crying.
I broke down so much when I heard his voice
it got me into so much tears.
I miss my dad because he knew how to cheer us up
when we were down.
He took us to the park on Monday and Wednesday
to play soccer with our church friends.
He got along with everyone at church.
My dad was the coolest person--
most nicest, most religious, most caring person.
Always made my mom happy, always putting a smile
on our faces every single day.
He's also very smart and very funny.
My dad always has a smile on his face,
trying always to help people who are in need.
How I feel right now about my dad being in jail
and seeing him like this makes me really sad,
depressed my father isn't here with us.
Everyone that asks me about my dad
makes me sad to say he's in jail.
My heart kind of stops, pauses, and breaks down
on every letter they send him.
He was a man with three children and one woman.
Each one of my friends I've had for many years loved
my dad because he took us to places like any place
appropriate, to mountains in the West, to parks, to many places
in the city.
My dad did anything to make us happy.
Now my life is depressing, hollow.
My dad's not here.
A missing place for him, here waits.
My dad's a very responsible man.
When I was little, my dad was always by my side
and always will still be by my side.
I pray to God that my dad is always OK.
I miss my dad so much.
It's really hard to express and write.
I miss you so much, dad.
You always told us to never look back
and to always look forward.
Thanks for always being there for us
and for never letting us go, dad.
We miss you so much.
Just remember, God has always by our side, never letting us go.
We all want them to set you free here.
Everyone at church and his two works misses him a lot.
Everyone misses my dad.
Nobody wants him to get sent back to Mexico.
Everyone's praying for you, to let you out safely and still
the same house we know.
Dad, we have a tournament for soccer for church
on the 26th of this month.
I'll be making goals for you.
The goals will be for you.
You taught me how to play soccer and told me never to give up.
Dad, I'm going to win that trophy for us.
I'm training with everything I've
got to get better each day.
Thank you to whoever got the time to read this.
I'm sorry it's so long.
It's because I really love my dad--
we all do.
And we're all sad to know he's in jail.
Sincerely, his oldest son, Diego Martínez.
That's it.
Thank you.