Photo by Barbara Zandoval on Unsplash
Una historia contada por Marta Ochoa.
Editor’s Note: This story is Wall City’s first Spanish-language story. Scroll down for an English translation.
Nacimos en Michoacán, México. Somos diez hermanos, Toño es el mayor. Mi papá nos llevaba a la plaza los domingos y nos dejaba con él. Él era bueno con nosotros. Lo queríamos y le teníamos mucho respeto. Llegaba de trabajar del campo, sudado y, como estaba caliente y no se quería bañar, ponía su cabeza y yo se la lavaba. También le lavaba los pies. No tengo malos recuerdos con él.
Vivíamos muy alejados del pueblo, no había casi qué comer. Toño se iba de la casa a otros ranchos con unos primos y volvía con el mandado. Llegaba con comida y dinero. Mi mamá no lo aceptaba porque sabía de dónde procedía. Él toda la vida ha tenido eso: como éramos muy pobres, como no teníamos dinero, era eso lo que quería.
Mi papá siempre venía a Estados Unidos y una vez se lo trajo. Era muy jovencito, estaba soltero todavía. Luego, él fue el que se llevó a mis papás a Nueva Jersey. Pero no le gustó: le gustaba estar de lugar en lugar. Se juntó con una mujer y tuvo tres hijos, que ahora tienen 21, 22 y 24 años. Ya no se hablan con él.
La primera vez que lo agarraron estaba intentando arreglar sus papeles. Fue a una cita inmigración, lo encerraron por unos días y después lo deportaron. Regresó un año después a Fresno, California, con otra mujer.
La segunda vez, puse mi casa como fianza. Lo soltaron rápido, a los dos días. Yo me fui a trabajar, creyendo que todo se iba a arreglar, que se iba a presentar en la corte, pero no fue así. Se fue a México por voluntad propia esa mañana . Me llamaron varias veces a preguntarme por qué no se presentaba en las cortes. Como había firmado, yo era la responsable. En un momento, me llegó un acta de defunción, pero yo sabía que no había fallecido. Siempre estuvimos en comunicación.
Regresó de México a los dos años y se puso a trabajar en un empaque de almendra. Con la segunda señora tuvo dos hijos, una niño y una niña, pero no crecieron con él. La niña celebró la primera comunión acá en mi casa. Somos de la iglesia católica. Yo le hice la comida. Estaba muy bonito el ambiente. Fue la última vez que lo vi. A los pocos días lo agarraron por tercera vez. No lo podíamos creer. Ya nadie quiso hacer nada por él.
Hace años, lo trasladaron a Nueva Jersey. Mi hermana que vive allá va cada semana a visitarlo. Dice que se porta bien, que trabaja ahí. Sus hijos mayores fueron a visitarlo una vez, con mi mamá. Los dos menores nunca han ido. Mi mamá ha ido un par de veces. Además de que le toca volar seis horas en avión, la relación con él es muy difícil porque cuando nadie firmó para sacarlo se armó un conflicto.
Su mujer dice que él está ahí por culpa de nosotros. Ella nos tiene coraje. Vive acá, en la tercera calle, con mis sobrinos. Yo siempre le hablo, voy a su casa. Mi mamá también va, pero no le abren la puerta. Mi papá le dice que no vaya más, pero ella sigue intentando porque son sus nietos. Él fue a visitar una vez a Toño, cuando todavía estaba en Fresno, pero nunca ha ido a Nueva Jersey. Él no está de acuerdo con todo lo que nos dice.
Toño lleva cinco años cumpliendo esta condena. No le falta tanto: va a salir en el 2027. Aunque no estoy en contacto con él en este momento, sí me imagino teniendo una relación con él en el futuro. No voy a decir que no por lo que nos ha dicho. Así somos: pase lo que pase siempre estamos hablándonos.
On Border Crossings and Prisons, a Sister’s Perspective
An ‘As Told To’ Story by Marta Ochoa.
We were born in Michoacán, Mexico. We are 10 siblings, Toño is the oldest one. My dad would take us to the plaza on Sundays and leave us with him. He was always good to us. We loved him and had a lot of respect for him. He would come home from working in the fields, sweaty, and, since he was hot and didn’t want to take a bath. He would put his head down and I would wash it for him. I also washed his feet. I have no bad memories with him.
We lived very far from town, there was almost nothing to eat. Toño would leave the house to go to other ranches with some cousins and come back with the errands. He would arrive with food and money. My mother didn’t accept it because she knew where it came from. He has had that all his life: since we were very poor, since we had no money, that’s what he wanted.
My dad, who always came to the United States, took Toño with him once. Toño was very young, still single. Years later, it was he who took my parents to New Jersey. But he didn’t like it: he liked to go from place to place. He got together with a woman and had three children, who are now 21, 22 and 24. They don’t talk to him anymore.
Toño has been serving this sentence for five years. He will be out soon, in 2027. Although I am not in contact with him now, I can imagine having a relationship with him in the future…. That’s the way we are: no matter what happens, we are always talking to each other.
The first time he was caught [by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE)] he was trying to get his papers in order. He went to an immigration appointment, was locked up for a few days and then deported. He returned a year later to Fresno, California, with another woman.
The second time, I put up my house as bail. He was released quickly, after two days. I went to work, thinking that everything was going to work out, that he was going to show up in court, but he didn’t. He left for Mexico that morning on his own free will. They called me several times to ask me why he did not show up in court. Since I had signed, I was responsible. At one point, I received a death certificate, but I knew he had not passed away. We were always in touch.
He returned from Mexico two years later and started working at an almond packing house. He had two other children with his second partner, a boy and a girl, but they did not grow up with him. The girl celebrated her first communion here in my house. We are part of the Catholic church. I cooked for her and the atmosphere was very nice. It was the last time I saw him. A few days later, he was caught for the third time. We could not believe it. Nobody wanted to do anything for him anymore.
Years ago, he was transferred to [a prison in] New Jersey. My sister who lives there visits him every week. She says that he is behaving, that he is working there. His older children went to visit him once, with my mom. The two younger ones have never been. My mom has gone a couple of times. Besides the fact that she has to fly six hours by plane, the relationship with him is very difficult. When no one signed to take him out, a conflict arose.
His partner believes he is there because of us. She is mad at us. She lives here, on the third street, with my nephews. I always talk to her; I go to her house. My mom visits them too, but she doesn’t open the door. My dad tells her not to go anymore, but she keeps trying because they are her grandchildren. He went to visit Toño once, when he was still in Fresno, but he has never been to New Jersey. He doesn’t agree with everything he tells us.
Toño has been serving this sentence for five years. He will be out soon, in 2027. Although I am not in contact with him now, I can imagine having a relationship with him in the future. I’m not going to say no because of what he has told us. That’s the way we are: no matter what happens, we are always talking to each other.
Maria Pachón is an author and a doctoral student in literature at University of California Santa Cruz (UCSC). She served as UCSC Humanities Institute Public Fellow at Pollen Initiative in 2024. / María Pachón es autora y estudiante en literatura en University of California Santa Cruz (UCSC). Se desempeñó UCSC Humanities Institute Public Fellow en Pollen Initiative en 2024.
Marta Ochoa is a mother, sister, and wife who works in the fields of California’s Central Valley. / Marta Ochoa es una madre, hermana, y esposa que trabaja en los campos del Valle Central de California.
This ‘As Told To’ story is based on a conversation between Ochoa and Pachón was edited for length and clarity. / Esta ‘As Told To’ historia se basa en una conversación entre Ochoa y Pachón y fue editada para mayor extensión y claridad.