One World by Cora Bixby

My eyes fluttered open from my hour-long nap, not quite registering where we were or how much distance we covered. A few minutes prior we had crossed the border into Texas, or so my father told me. The blazing sun cast down on the treeless, beige mountains, so reminiscent of New Mexico. As we passed by the blue Texas lone star–proudly displayed on homes, painted on walls, printed on flags–it occurred to me that, in a way, I was still in New Mexico… and Texas…and Mexico. I was on a coherent land mass, faced with three imposed discontinuities.   

After unpacking our things at our suburban Airbnb, our group loaded in the van and set out to our first destination, the Abara House. Located at the historic “Hacienda Restaurant,” the house is a Presbyterian Borderland Center, sharing art, stories, and history that educate visitors about migration. Inside, migrant artists display colorful paintings and photos.  In the office, light trickles in from stained glass windows, creating an ambient glow. The outdoor area, the “contemplative garden” has more artwork and quiet places to tuck away. The coziness of the building and the afternoon heat made me sleepy, and I quickly lost sight of why we came.   

Through the small door out of the enclosed garden, I was awoken. Directly in front of me, I met the gaze of the 18-foot tall border wall dividing El Paso and Juárez, Mexico. It stood utterly alone, a real-life dystopia. Not one plant grew within ten feet of the wall’s almighty presence, all forms of life contained within the premises of the house. Cautiously, I broke the distance, walking along the beige sand until the wall became a barrier, and we stood in a faceoff. I didn’t dare to touch it, instead peering through the small holes. On the other side, a body of water about five feet wide continued on its path, marching alongside the border for miles.   

My eyes traveled from the water to a small hill, comprised of the same beige-colored sand that supported my weight on the other side, the water a brief discontinuity. The voice of our tour guide trailed off as my trance deepened, my eyes watching the dust settle. A piece of the ground lay before me, the same warm tones as New Mexican dirt. Light-colored sand, reflecting heat from the Texas sun. Copious amounts of dirt compacted millions of times over, sweeping into Mexican territory and spreading itself further with each gust of wind. The border wall shattered to pieces, a fabrication of my mind. My eyes pieced together the puzzle that lay in disarray before me, forming one coherent picture: one soil, one land, one Earth, one people.   

On the second day, we gathered in the kitchen, listening to a passage from Henry Nouwen, titled “Love Deeply”: 

The pain that comes from deep love makes your love ever more fruitful. It is like a plow that breaks the ground to allow the seed to take root and grow into a strong plant. Every time you experience the pain of rejection, absence, or death, you are faced with a choice. You can become bitter and decide to not love again, or you can stand straight in your pain and let the soil on which you stand become richer and more able to give life to new seeds [. . .] Yes, as you love deeply the ground of your heart will be broken more and more, but you will rejoice in the day abundance of the fruit it will bear. 

My mind wandered to an icy day a couple of years ago, while I was “broad forking” the ground at ReUnity Resources farm, where I volunteer in Santa Fe. I was reminded of stabbing the fork into the sturdy soil with full force, jumping on the prongs, disturbing the soil row after row. Despite the strenuous effort it requires, a proper farmer must use the broad fork to break up and aerate the soil. Using a till will kill all life underneath, although invisible to our eyes. I consider what it means to become conversant with this violence, with healthy destruction. The breaking of sturdy soil, compacted and hardened through the passing of seasons, gifting it air – breath – the capacity to bear new life. After a moment of silence, we break off and head to the van, shuttled to the Sagrado Corazón migrant shelter.  

Sagrado Corazón is a transitional space, where migrants can gather medicine, food, clothing, and hopefully, rest before they are transported to their court hearings. According to the City of El Paso, 1,500 to 2,000 migrants cross the El Paso border daily. And more than 40 percent of El Paso’s migrant population are families with young children. Out of the roughly hundred people in the shelter, around twenty of them were children, ages two to ten. Many families seek asylum in the United States, fleeing economic devastation and crime. I had heard these stories before, and I thought I understood the challenges of migration: a foreign language, a foreign country, a foreign life. But can I ever truly understand the implications? The line between empathy and pity is fine – and I found myself leaning toward the former, clutching a lifeline.   

After sorting clothing donations at Sagrado Corazón, I hesitantly joined other volunteers in the main room, an old basketball court. A volunteer held one end of a jump rope, and a four-year-old girl with big brown eyes clutched the other. My sister, hands entwined with three kids, stood in front of it with anticipation. Following her cue, “Uno, dos, tres!” the group jumped over the rope in solidarity, giggling and celebrating. Surrounding children dropped their candies and threw their bubbles on the tables, trotting over. The crowd rapidly grew from three, to five, to ten, until every child in the building was participating. Each of the children attached themselves to the circuit of energy, lighting up the room. They ran, crawled, jumped, and screamed, electrified by their counterparts. It was an incredible sight. Their hearts wide open and spirits free, love became their guide. My chest deepened, shame welling inside me. Moments prior, I felt unsure of my place; I was wary of my Spanish skills, my ability to entertain, or to meet their needs. I wore this uncertainty to mask a deeper-rooted compulsion to fear difference.   

Then I crouched next to the committed young girl, still holding the rope for the jumpers in her tiny palm. “Quieres probar?” I asked her. She unclenched her hand, letting the rope fall to the ground. Approaching the line, she tapped into the fiery group energy, growing with passion every second. The children continued counting in Spanish, and then, when one would call out “En ingles!” they would shout, “One…two…three!” Instead of staking a claim on our respective cultures, even on our lived experiences, we shared. In  the hearts of these children, they were without borders.  

For the first time, I saw it – a reflection of myself. The narratives my subconscious previously clung to – the picture of suffering, an unfamiliar group of people – dissipated. I now moved as part of a collective. The human compulsion to become boundless: to run, jump, cling to others, laugh, cry. The border wall stood by me, a figure that has grown so custom to human nature: boundaries, barriers, division. To place bounds on love, on belonging, on identity. Borders are a means of control, and control hates the vulnerability that expansion bears. We till the soil that we walk rather than tending it ourselves, shying away from the discomfort of pain and open-ended love because we prefer comfort, ease. I left the shelter saddened, drained of energy. We were only a brief stop in their journey ahead – and what a journey it would be. I wanted to hold onto them, to protect them, to guarantee that they would never experience devastation, that their flame would never be extinguished. And yet, I couldn’t.   

Our final stop of the day, the Opportunity Center, is located just a few miles from Sagrado Corazón. The center houses both migrants and El Paso’s homeless population. Typically, a migrant family will stay at the Opportunity Center for at least a few weeks. When our group arrived, we slung bags of clothes over our shoulders and hauled them inside, the sun blazing down on us directly overhead. I immediately noted the change in energy, not just in our own group, but between the two shelters as well. We were tired, worn out from the emotional highs and lows. This crowd was reserved, hesitant to interact. The bubbliness of Sagrado Corazón appeared to be a result of its transient energy. This group was sunken, waiting, unsure.   

We set out chalk, bubbles, balloons, and toy dinosaurs on a picnic table in the small outdoor area. Inside, we put out coloring books and jewelry-making supplies. After sitting outside, waiting for a child or an adult to come out, I grabbed a box of chalk, sat on the concrete, and began sketching flowers. Even if no one else wanted to draw, someone might feel joy in passing by a colorful picture. A drop in the bucket, but it’s not nothing. After a few minutes, two young girls came out and complimented my flowers, then drawing their own pictures for a few minutes. A 10-year-old boy in an astronaut sweatshirt carefully approached the area where I was drawing, looking, without saying a word. “Do you want some chalk?” I asked, met with silence. I grabbed my box of colors and poured them onto the ground, nodding my head in his direction. He smiled and softly lowered himself to the ground, sorting through the colors. “Es como a mi escuela,” he whispered. After a few moments, his picture – and story – came together. On one end, the Colombian flag, a mass of land encompassing it. On the other, an American flag, enclosed in its own green form. The blue is the uniting factor, flowing between greens to eventually form Earth. Homes spring up around the planet’s border. With soft diligence, the boy persisted through the heat that I could not withstand for more than ten minutes. He did not need an image to follow. Every piece of his picture, of his story, was already inside of him. The components of his life synthesized, coming together as a part of something larger, they became one world.