{"id":142432,"date":"2020-01-31T11:00:20","date_gmt":"2020-01-31T16:00:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=142432"},"modified":"2020-01-31T10:56:02","modified_gmt":"2020-01-31T15:56:02","slug":"going-blind-at-the-border","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/01\/31\/going-blind-at-the-border\/","title":{"rendered":"Going Blind at the Border"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

\u00a9 Lenspiration \/ Adobe Stock.<\/p><\/div>\n

I don\u2019t know why I went temporarily blind in Tijuana while waiting to cross the border in 1993. It didn\u2019t happen all at once. It wasn\u2019t like someone suddenly turned off the lights. First it was the colors that started fading, then it was the shapes, and then shadows altogether. Or maybe not in that order. I could explain the colors leaving, I knew that the world sometimes did that\u2014seemed grayer than usual. I thought it was clouds. I thought the gray came from the walls themselves, and the dried trees and the loose dirt. Maybe that\u2019s just what Tijuana looked like.<\/p>\n

But it was shapes I could not explain. Their edges softening into the empty space around them until I couldn\u2019t tell where one thing started and another ended. I could see something was more of itself closer to the center, and less of itself farther out\u2014a gradient. Maybe the soul wasn\u2019t just one thing but an assortment of many little things huddled together, like penguins keeping warm in a blizzard. Or like a flock of birds packed so tightly in a tree that you think they\u2019re all just leaves, until a loud noise startles them and they shudder the bare limbs loose.<\/p>\n

The things in front of me slowly became less and less of themselves, but they stretched out nonetheless, beyond the edges of themselves, as if they no longer wanted to be whatever it was that they were put on this earth to be\u2014as if they too wanted to get a little farther north.<\/p>\n

Even the sky no longer felt distant but rather like it began right above my head. And didn\u2019t it? <\/p>\n

When I tried to look at Am\u00e1 and Ap\u00e1, I saw an interchangeable thing. Part was more mother, the other part was more father, but it was one thing nonetheless\u2014malleable, connected.<\/p>\n

The trees and the cars and the houses and the children felt like the same thing, too. I could feel the dirt, I could feel the bricks along the wall and their grainy textures\u2014how one square ended at the deep ridge of the grout. I could feel the grout, and I ran my finger along it until it scraped the tip. With time, maybe things would have separated again, maybe they would have gone back to themselves.<\/p>\n

But initially, and because it happened so fast, it looked like someone went by and smudged the people\u2019s faces with paint thinner. I could hear Am\u00e1 talking to me, but I could only see the darkness of her eyes contrasted with her light skin.<\/p>\n

After colors, after the shapes, and after the shadows, all that was left was contrast\u2014one thing held up against another. I could tell there was a chair not by what it looked like but by the things around it. By what it was not. It never went completely dark, just almost.<\/p>\n

I cried and felt my way along the edges of the wall. There was no here or there, except the sounds of the cars outside and Am\u00e1 and Ap\u00e1 fighting in another room about what to do with me.<\/p>\n

\u201cMijo, can you see me?\u201d I heard my mother say somewhere in front of me.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about now, can you see me now?\u201d<\/p>\n

Soon we would be crossing. Soon we would want no one else to see us<\/em>\u2014to go invisible too, to move through the mountains like a flock of birds shaken by a sudden clanging of a bell.<\/p>\n

Wouldn\u2019t it be wonderful to slowly disappear? First our shapes, then the edges of ourselves, and finally our shadows, how we looked against the backdrop of the sky. How easy it would be to walk right past the guards so that Am\u00e1 would not have to run with my baby brother knocking around inside her big belly. We could take our time, stand in the middle of the checkpoint and watch the faces of others as they nervously talked to the guards. We could look at the landscape instead of trying to run away from it, pick up a few rocks and toss them leisurely against the lights and laugh.<\/p>\n

I could hear Ap\u00e1 grunt and complain that I was watching the TV too closely and that\u2019s why my eyes \u201churt.\u201d He didn\u2019t say blind<\/em>, he said that was why they \u201churt.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019ll be fine, just give him a few days,\u201d said Ap\u00e1.<\/p>\n

Was it something so ordinary, so common? He\u2019ll be fine<\/em>. What was the point in worrying anyway? We had no money for a doctor, we hardly had enough money for food. All we could do was wait for my vision to return. And if it didn\u2019t, would they go on without me? Would they lead me by the hand and describe what was happening around me? \u201cHere is a mountain. Here is a snake. Feel the coarse leather of this man\u2019s boot.\u201d<\/p>\n

When it came back, it didn\u2019t return in the same order it vanished. Things were separate from themselves again\u2014distinctly each their own. Am\u00e1 was Am\u00e1, and Ap\u00e1 was Ap\u00e1. The birds in the trees were again just birds.<\/p>\n

I saw her face at last as she held me\u2014rocking me to sleep. It wasn\u2019t smudged. I would need my rest. Her shirt was green. If we were in a meadow somewhere far away, it would still be the brightest thing in that field.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Marcelo Hernandez Castillo is the author of <\/em>Cenzontle, winner of the A. Poulin Jr. Poetry Prize.<\/em>\u00a0He holds a B.A. from Sacramento State University and was the first undocumented student to graduate from the Helen Zell Writers\u2019 Program at the University of Michigan. His work has appeared or is featured in the <\/em>New York Times, <\/em>The Paris Review, <\/em>People magazine, and <\/em>PBS Newshour, among others. He lives in Marysville, California, where he teaches poetry to incarcerated youth and also teaches at the Ashland University low-residency M.F.A. program.<\/em><\/p>\n

From <\/em>Children of the Land<\/a>, by Marcelo Hernandez Castillo. Used with the permission of Harper. Copyright \u00a9 2020 by Marcelo Hernandez Castillo.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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