Camaro

Project Blog It

Camaro was from a border town. It didn’t matter which side of the border. In the US, everyone assumed he was from the other side. In Mexico, everyone assumed he was American, or at least a lucky emigrant.

His language was the language of the border, neither pure English, nor pure Spanish, as if either of these languages could ever have a pure form. Camaro’s border language was slightly accented in both English and Spanish. He spoke those languages perfectly, natively, but with the notes and tones that gave away his border status. It was those subtleties of pronunciation that labeled him as someone from the other side, never someone from here, never someone who belonged.

The other people of the border, people like Camaro, spoke in the same way. Looked and lived the same way; people who ate frijoles as often as they ate potatoes. They were people of nowhere, neither here nor there. Only knowing themselves what their addresses were, addresses that stopped at their zip codes, not extending beyond to the abstract idea of nation.

Camaro knew the border was a line, a political designation marking the boundary between one world and another. But the border, as lived by Camaro, was much more fluid. Not a fine line that marked this side from that side. Not a line that when crossed with a mere step meant the movement between languages, cultures, opportunities, and possibilities. Camaro saw the border as a much wider expanse than a simple line. And he wondered how wide the border was. In not belonging on either side, his border existence transcended nations. He was a man without a country, subject to no one, until it came time to pay taxes, and then both sides wanted him. But he wondered how far either north or south one would have to go before belonging. Where does the border really exist? At what point would he be regarded as one with the others, as one who is home?


Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Words.