Alternative Spring Break: Critique of the Dreamer’s Movement
Alternative Spring Break has been one of the most physically and mentally challenging weeks I’ve experienced during college. It was physically challenging because we had to hike up hills, trails, and canyons, and mentally challenging because I reflected intensely on what it means to me to be an undocumented Asian American.
Before even coming to Alt Break, I debated for the longest time whether I should apply, and then when I was accepted, I thought about whether I should accept the offer. Even though I work with and advocate for the undocumented community, I rarely pause to think about the position of my own identity in contrast to my undocumented peers, and I was pushed towards this inevitable reflection in the same way I came face to face with the U.S.-Mexico border -- anxious and unprepared.
The first day when we went to Border State Field Park and stepped onto the stretch of fence that separated Tijuana and the U.S., the sight was both hauntingly beautiful and ugly. I saw families walking along the sand on the other side and American visitors strolling by the shore as if the fence was a tourist area, as if the border wasn’t a militaristic tool that barred mothers from their children. Being in such close proximity to the border made me realize the realness of the danger it imposes, because migrants lose their lives every day trying to cross it or go around it in the desert, mountains, and ocean. I was privileged to be in that position -- both in the socioeconomic aspect but also literally my physical position on the American side of the fence.
I’d never have to worry about crossing the border to feed my children or seek better job opportunities to support my family. I’d never know what it would be like to tie pieces of cloth under my shoe to prevent leaving prints in the muddy soil, because Border Patrol security is high in the muddy fields even at night. I’d never have to wonder if I would be alive tomorrow if I were to cross the border today. I’d never be able to relate to the pain of losing my loved ones due to violence stemming from the border, nor would I have to understand the sacrifices my parents made just for basic survival. I may be undocumented, and I may have crossed the border, but that is as far as similarities go. For everything else, I am fortunate.
The border itself is a state of violence and militarization. There is no other way to describe it. Terrace Park Cemetery in Holtville contains more than six hundred bodies of unidentified migrants who died crossing the border, and almost all the graves are unmarked or have names such as “John Doe” or “Jane Doe” engraved. The endless rows of gravestones were powerful images, reminding me that the victims of border violence also extend to their families, friends, and communities. Even today, some families will never know what happened to their loved ones.
In the border city of San Ysidro, which also serves the busiest port of entry in the country, the fence runs through neighborhoods, around backyards of residential homes, and behind commercial buildings. As we drove through the city, I noticed a shopping plaza called “The Plaza At the Border,” as if the border was a desirable attraction and a commodity for consumerism. As if placing an outlet mall next to the fence will diminish the reality of its impact on the mostly Latin@ population in San Ysidro. As if the border not only forces people to migrate between countries, but the border itself is also the physical displacement of people and families.
I will never understand the struggle of crossing the U.S.-Mexico border, but what I do understand is that the presence and effects of the border, both physically and symbolically, is expansive. The border is the reason why two pieces of the same land are arbitrarily divided, the reason why so many of the migrant population are undocumented, and the reason why I have not seen my father for 13 years. But to summarize my experience, I can definitely say that I left with even more questions to be answered and that the week-long memories would remain with me for a long time.
P.S. I’m pretty tired of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
