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Recorded in Tijuana in the week of March 9, 2025, these audio stories feature migrants telling their own experiences of life after deportation or displacement. Their accounts reflect broader regional patterns — family separation, economic collapse, political repression — and offer a close look at how U.S. immigration policies reshape lives.
In the months leading up to these interviews, the Trump administration ended the CBP One appointment system, cut legal asylum pathways and escalated deportations under a national border emergency, leaving tens of thousands stranded in Mexico.
Cler, who requested her full name be withheld for her protection, left Colombia with a friend to seek better opportunities for her children, who remained in the country with their father. She decided to migrate after a surge in violence following the extradition of an accused crime leader to the United States.
After fleeing her hometown, Cler traveled by plane and bus across Mexico — from Cancún to Tuxtla Gutiérrez to Mexico City — before reaching Tijuana in January 2025. She secured a CBP One appointment, then the first legal step in requesting asylum at the U.S. southern border. But on Jan. 20, 2025, the day of President Trump's second inauguration, the administration ended the CBP One system, abruptly canceling roughly 30,000 pending appointments, including hers.
In Tijuana, Cler worked informal jobs while navigating legal limbo and waiting for a chance to reunite with her children. By April 8, 2025, she had returned to Colombia.
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After months stranded in Tijuana, Cler's final attempt to enter the United States legally ended in fraud.
A man posing as a National Guard officer stole her savings under false promises of safe passage. Left with no money and fearing retaliation, Cler returned to Colombia, choosing to risk uncertainty at home rather than further danger abroad.
She reunited with her children and husband, describing the moment as one of overwhelming gratitude and grief.
"I've already had Trump take away all the hope I had of changing my family's life," she said. "I had hopes — dreams of a better life for them — that didn't come true. I spent money I didn't have, time I'll never get back."
I'm a mother. I have three children, but they're not here. I'm married, but my husband isn't here either. They're in Colombia.
I have experienced two forced displacements in my country due to armed groups. They're armed groups, yes, from the country. Well, they usually force you out of the places you live, claiming land that should be yours.
But around April or May, something like that, they extradited a man from Colombia to the United States, and everything got complicated. The area was locked down, there were constant shootings. There were deaths. Cars were burned. It was really intense. So we were displaced again. And on top of that, the armed groups were demanding that my children be “contributed.”
That area, it's near the coast, there's a seaport. And you know that where there's a port, where there are coastal routes, that's where drugs get moved out. Right? So, wanting control, wanting total control of a region or a place, always leads to these kinds of situations.
So I made the decision because these cases are mine. Both displacements are mne. My husband was there for the last one, but he stayed behind to take care of the kids. He's a man, yes. But if I want someone to protect my children, they'll be more afraid of a man than of a woman. Also, my youngest son has epilepsy. He's undergoing treatment, it's managed, but it's a complex topic, and I haven't seen them in a long time.
And I'm here. I arrived in Cancún. From Cancún I went to Tuxtla Gutiérrez, from Tuxtla Gutiérrez to Mexico City. I got a CBP One appointment and made my way to Tijuana.
I came with a friend, my sons' godmother. We got an appointment. It was one of the happiest days of our lives because we had already been through so much. We decided to travel on [Jan.] 19, but they didn't let us through.
We had already pictured ourselves there.
Then, while we were here, we got up early that day. Since the appointment was under my phone, I received a message.
It said the appointment had been postponed.
You can't imagine what a brutal bucket of cold water that was for us. We couldn't believe it. After everything we'd done for that appointment…we had already pictured ourselves there.
So when we saw that the next day, we were crushed.
I had a lot of faith in this process, but it didn't work out, or hasn't yet. I really did have faith in it, that maybe some court would say, “let's honor the appointments that were already given, let's allow all the people stuck at the ports to enter.”
But no one raised their voice for us. It didn't make enough noise for us to be heard.
I had faith in the MPP program, but again, no one says a word. So right now, hope… the only thing I know for sure is that I'll wait a little longer to see if something happens. Or that some American shows up at the gate, falls in love with me, and marries me, and there are the papers.
But being in this situation, being here, is a blessing, but that doesn't make it any less hard.
Even though we speak Spanish, they use different slang here, different expressions. Sometimes what you say in casual conversation can be taken the wrong way. It's also complicated because of the different nationalities. Because of the food, because of everything, everything, everything. And there's a lot of machismo. A lot more here in Tijuana, especially when you go out looking for work. It's very hard, very, very hard.
So yeah, sometimes you just feel like throwing in the towel.
The jobs here… well, the work is really hard. Like during one of the displacements, I broke this hand. So I can't lift heavy things, and the job we got involved a lot of heavy lifting: crates of apples, crates of oranges. Those boxes are really heavy. They don't seem like it, but they are. And even though we're undocumented and all that, they pay terribly here.
So, because the pay is low, you leave work exhausted. If it weren't for that shelter, I don't know where we'd be right now.
I told my husband and my friends, “I understand what the U.S. president was trying to do. He wanted to clean up his country.”
But when there are people like us who want to do things the right way, why push us to do things the wrong way? I don't want him to give me anything for free, because I said I'll work. But don't push me to go looking for coyotes, to risk death, to leave my children alone, just because of his racism. Because yes, he's racist.
I've always told my kids and my husband I love Canada. I've always imagined myself there, my kids studying, with a much calmer life because the U.S. is a country that really doesn't want us.
No matter how much we say, “I'm going to work, I'm going to contribute.”
There are so many people suffering because of this, but everyone is silent.
You have no idea. I'm practically losing my hair. It's falling out like you wouldn't believe. The stress is unbearable. Waking up is unbearable. Just waiting, waiting for whatever he decides to do with us, because right now, as we say back home, he's the one holding the frying pan by the handle. He's the one in control.
Sometimes I lock myself in and hide my shoes so they'll think I'm not home, so nobody calls out to me, because there are days when you just can't. When you want to hide. When you don't want anyone to say anything to you.
So I ask, “what else do I have to endure here?”
I've worked for nothing. I keep working for nearly nothing. I keep praying, and there's no light, no sign. No one says, “We'll bring your kids, we'll fight for this, we'll do something,” because that's what happens with migrants.
Yes, I talk to [my kids] every day. I speak to them. They're anxious to be with their mom. The same anxiety I feel, they feel it too. But I always tell them, “let's wait a little longer, just a little longer.”
And I keep them going like that. Every Sunday, they go to Mass to pray for things to get better.
So yeah, that's my story.
Yo soy mamá. Tengo tres hijos, pero no están acá. Soy casada, pero tampoco está mi esposo, que está en Colombia.
En mi país he vivido dos desplazamientos forzados por parte de grupos armados.
Son grupos armados del mismo país que normalmente te sacan a la fuerza de los lugares donde vives, reclamando las tierras que, por ley, serían tuyas.
Pero en el 2022, como en abril o mayo, extraditaron a una persona de Colombia a Estados Unidos y la situación se complicó. Encerraron la zona, pasaron disparando, hubo muertos, quemaron carros. Fue algo muy fuerte. Entonces salimos desplazados nuevamente.
Además de eso, los grupos armados estaban exigiendo contribuciones, como mis hijos.
Esa zona está pegada al mar. Hay un puerto marítimo, y tú sabes que cuando hay puerto marítimo, hay vías costeras por donde sale la droga. Entonces, digamos, querer el control — siempre querer el control total de una región o un lugar — siempre lleva a este tipo de situaciones.
Y cuando ya se meten con el tema de los hijos, tomé la decisión, porque los casos son míos. Mi esposo se quedó a cargo de ellos. Es hombre.
Pero, pues, si quiero alguien que proteja a mis hijos, le van a tener más miedo a un hombre que a una.
Además, mi hijo menor sufre de epilepsia. Está en tratamiento controlado, y todo ese tema es un poco complejo de hablar, porque ya hace mucho que no los veo.
Estoy acá. Llegué a Cancún. De Cancún me fui a Tuxtla Gutiérrez, de ahí a Ciudad de México. Me salió la cita con la CBP One y llegué acá, a Tijuana.
Vine con una amiga, la madrina de mi hijo. Nos salió la cita y fue uno de los días más felices de nuestras vidas, porque ya habíamos pasado por muchísimas cosas. Decidimos viajar el día 19, pero no nos dejaron pasar.
Estando acá, nos levantamos temprano ese día y, como estaba viendo mi celular, llegó un mensaje.
Decía que la cita había sido aplazada.
Ustedes no se imaginan el baldado de agua fría tan verraco que nos cayó encima. No lo podíamos creer. Todo lo que habíamos hecho para esa cita — no nos la dieron. Ya nos imaginamos allá.
Entonces, ya cuando vimos eso al otro día, se nos bajó todo. Yo le tenía mucha fe a esta situación, pero no pasó nada. Realmente tenía fe en que alguna corte dijera: 'Vamos a respetar las citas que ya se habían dado. Vamos a dejar entrar a toda la gente que quedó varada en los puertos.'
Pero nadie levantó la voz por nosotros.
Eso no hizo el suficiente eco para que nos escucharan. Le tenía fe al programa MPP. En ese momento, tenía esperanzas. Lo único que tengo claro es que voy a esperar otro ratito, a ver si de pronto algo se da.
O que me llegue un gabacho allá en la portilla, se case conmigo y, pues, salgan los papeles.
Estar aquí es una bendición. Realmente lo es. Pero no deja de ser muy duro.
A pesar de que hablamos español, usan otra jerga, otra forma popular de hablar, tienen otros dichos. Muchas veces lo que tú dices, lo puedes decir charlando, pero puede que la otra persona no lo tome como charla.
También es complicado el tema de las nacionalidades. Por la comida, por todo. Por todo, por todo, por todo.
Y se ve mucho machismo. Mucho más aquí en Tijuana. A la hora de salir a buscar trabajo, es muy difícil. Muy, muy difícil.
Entonces sí, digamos que hay momentos en los que a uno le dan ganas de tirar la toalla.
Los trabajos acá, pues, el trabajo es un poquito duro. Como les conté ahorita, en uno de los desplazamientos me fracturaron esta mano. Está completamente partida.
No puedo hacer mucha fuerza, y el trabajo que conseguimos requería mucha fuerza, porque había que cargar cajas de manzanas, de naranjas. Esas cajas pesan mucho. Parece que no, pero sí.
Y es un tema difícil de manejar porque no tenemos papeles ni nada de eso.
Siento que acá se paga muy mal. Y como se paga tan mal, uno sale muy cansado. Si no fuera por ese albergue, no sé dónde estaríamos en estos momentos.
Se lo decía a mi esposo, a mis amigos, "yo entiendo lo que hizo el presidente de Estados Unidos: quería limpiar su país."
Pero cuando somos personas que queremos hacer las cosas bien, ¿por qué nos orilla a hacer las cosas mal?
Nosotros no estamos pidiendo absolutamente nada.
No quiero que me regale nada.
Yo dije, "yo voy a trabajar." Pero no voy a verme obligada a buscar coyotes, a buscar una muerte peor, a dejar unos niños solos, simplemente por su racismo.
Porque sí, es racista.
Yo le decía a mis hijos, a mi esposo yo amo Canadá. Sí. Siempre me he imaginado allá.
Ellos estudiando, con una vida mucho más tranquila.
Porque Estados Unidos es un país que realmente no nos quiere, por más que uno diga, "voy a ir a trabajar, voy a hacer las cosas bien."
Y hay mucha gente sufriendo por esto, pero todas están en silencio.
Ustedes no saben. Estoy ya que me quedo sin pelo. Se me cae de una manera que no tienen idea.
El estrés es horrible. Levantarse cada día es horrible. Y esperar, esperar lo que él quiera hacer con nosotros. Porque él es quien tiene ahora la sartén por el mango, como decimos en mi país. Él es quien tiene el control.
A veces me encierro y guardo los zapatos para que crean que no estoy. Para que nadie me diga "buenos días." Porque hay días en los que uno no quiere nada. No quiere salir. No quiere que nadie le diga nada..
Y uno se pregunta: ¿Qué más? ¿Qué más tengo que pasar aquí?
Ya trabajé por nada. Sigo trabajando por casi nada. Sigo rezando. Y no hay luz, no hay señal por ninguna parte. No hay nadie que diga, 'vamos a traer a tus hijos, vamos a pelear esto, vamos a hacer algo.'
Porque eso es lo que les pasa a los migrantes.
Sí. Siempre hablo con ellos. Todos los días hablo con ellos.
Están ansiosos por estar con su mamá. La misma ansiedad que tengo yo, la tienen ellos.
Pero yo siempre les digo: vamos a esperar otro poquito. Vamos a esperar otro poquito.
Y ya los tengo como ahí, resistiendo. Ellos dicen que está bien. Van todos los domingos a misa a rezar, para que todo esto mejore.
Y, como todo, seguimos esperando.
Entonces, sí. Esa es mi historia. My history.
Facing rising food prices, political instability and poverty in Nicaragua, tens of thousands of people have fled the country in recent years. The United Nations estimates that more than 600,000 Nicaraguans have left since 2018, many traveling through Central America toward Mexico and the U.S. border.
María Luisa is one of them. In her own words, she recounts the journey she made alone — without documents, without money and often without food — after her children urged her to leave and try to help them from afar. Now in Tijuana, she waits, hoping to one day reunite with her family.
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Friendship Park is a historic binational meeting place on the U.S.-Mexico border, located six miles west of the San Ysidro Port of Entry where the border wall meets the Pacific Ocean.
Established in 1971, the park initially allowed open contact between families separated by immigration status. For decades, visitors embraced through gaps in a simple fence, but after new barriers were built and mesh installed in 2011, physical contact shrank to touching pinky fingers through small holes. Beginning in 2011, U.S. Border Patrol permitted limited weekend access to the U.S. side.
Since March 2020, U.S. Customs and Border Protection has fully closed the park, first citing pandemic concerns and later ongoing border wall construction. No reopening date has been set.
For deported parents like Tania Mendoza, whose daughter remains in California, the continued closure underscores how border policy extends into the most intimate corners of family life.
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So basically, International Friendship Park has a little bit of — had a little — a lot of transparency, had a lot of commitment, community. This place used to be an open site where people used to meet. Back in 1971, Pat Nixon created this place, inaugurated this place an official site, which was International Friendship Park, and that's what it has been since then.
People used to be able to meet here. People used to be able to be human, interact with their family members. We used to have a capacity of 25 people here that would meet, and then it started diminishing to 10. Unfortunately, it's been five years [that] this place has been closed. There are many families who still continue to reach out for this place, and this place is still closed.
So, as you guys can see, we have anti-climbers. And you guys will see the variety of different types of borders, and you'll ask yourself: why this particular site, which is a park — why is this like this? We used to have this symbol of the pinky kiss. The pinky kiss was a way we would be able to touch with our loved ones on the other side, and unfortunately we can't do that anymore because they decided to do this 3D mesh that no longer [allows] a connection. They say it's a security purpose because people used to pass stuff through here, but really, what can you pass through here?
Maybe a dollar bill, you know, a snack. But really, can you pass 30 tons of drugs through here? No, you can't. The border is not gonna stop anyone from seeing their loved ones, or connecting with them, or touching base. On the contrary, it just — it makes your heart a little bit more, more sad. Because what can you do through here? You can't do any harm through here, right? So that's the ironic [thing about] this militarization, this enforcement. Because we don't see the danger. We don't see the danger here. All we would see is families connecting, people encountering, people gathering.
They do yoga classes on this side the same way they do on this side. They do everything that used to happen on this side, on this particular side of Mexico. As you can see now, it would happen on this side, but unfortunately it doesn't happen anymore. I was a family — a separated family — because I was raised in the U.S. and then brought out here as a deportee. I wish this place was open in my time, because I could have encountered here with my daughter. It hasn't happened for the past five years.
So, it's very important. It's very important to create that awareness, to let people know how these walls mean nothing. Because at the end of the day, families are — they're still in love with each other. They're still family.
They say they're gonna reopen it after they finish the wall. The wall's been finished, and they haven't reopened this place.
We were here on this site, and there was a boy coming, walking with his family, and as he started walking through here, he said, “Whoa, Mom, the water just crossed the border.”
So imagine his innocence.
Básicamente, el Parque de la Amistad tenía — tiene — un poco, o más bien mucho, de transparencia, de compromiso, de comunidad. Este lugar solía ser un sitio abierto donde la gente se reunía. En 1971, Pat Nixon creó e inauguró este lugar como un sitio oficial, el Parque Internacional de la Amistad, y desde entonces ha sido eso.
La gente solía encontrarse aquí. Solía poder ser humana, interactuar con sus familiares. Teníamos una capacidad de 25 personas que podían reunirse aquí, y luego eso empezó a reducirse a 10. La gente se comunicaba. Desafortunadamente, este lugar lleva cinco años cerrado. Muchas familias siguen intentando acceder a este sitio, y sigue cerrado.
Como pueden ver, hay estructuras antiescalada. Y van a ver la variedad de tipos de muro fronterizo, y se preguntarán: ¿por qué este lugar en particular, que es un parque, está así? Antes teníamos el símbolo del beso de meñiques. El beso de meñiques era una forma de poder tocar a nuestros seres queridos del otro lado, y desafortunadamente ya no podemos hacerlo porque decidieron instalar esta malla en 3D. Ya no permite ninguna conexión. Dicen que es por razones de seguridad, porque antes se pasaban cosas por aquí, pero realmente, ¿qué se puede pasar por aquí?
Tal vez un billete, un dulce. Pero, en serio, ¿puedes pasar 30 toneladas de droga por aquí? No, no puedes. La frontera no va a impedir que alguien vea a su ser querido, o se conecte con él, o tenga contacto, básicamente. Al contrario, solo — solo entristece un poco más el corazón. Porque, ¿qué se puede hacer a través de esto? No se puede hacer daño por aquí, ¿verdad? Esa es la ironía de esta militarización, de esta vigilancia. Porque no — no vemos el peligro. Aquí no hay peligro. Lo único que se ve son familias conectándose, personas encontrándose, gente reuniéndose.
Aquí dan clases de yoga, igual que del otro lado. Hacían todo lo que solía pasar en este lado, en esta parte de México. Como pueden ver, ahora pasaría aquí, pero lamentablemente ya no sucede. Yo fui parte de una familia separada, porque crecí en Estados Unidos y luego fui traída aquí como deportada. Ojalá este lugar hubiera estado abierto en mi época, porque podría haberme encontrado aquí con mi hija. No ha sido posible en los últimos cinco años.
Por eso es muy importante — muy importante — crear conciencia, que la gente sepa que estos muros no significan nada. Porque al final del día, las familias — aún se aman. Siguen siendo familia.
Dicen que lo van a reabrir cuando terminen el muro. El muro ya está terminado, y no han reabierto este lugar.
Estábamos aquí en este sitio, y un niño venía caminando con su familia, y al empezar a caminar por aquí, dijo, “Guau, mamá, el agua acaba de cruzar la frontera.”
Imaginen su inocencia.
Javier Salazar Rojas was born in Tijuana, Mexico, and grew up in Oakland, California, after his family brought him there as an infant. At 11, he discovered he lacked legal status when his family left him in Mexico after a visit.
In 2014, following a criminal conviction, Salazar was deported under U.S. immigration enforcement policies that prioritized the removal of noncitizens with criminal records.
Since then, he has lived in Tijuana, where he uses painting to document life after deportation and to advocate for others expelled from the United States. His portraits appear in the Playas de Tijuana Mural, part of a larger effort to give visibility to deportees often overlooked by U.S. and Mexican society.
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You can view more of Javier's work on his Instagram, @deportedartist.
I was born here in Tijuana. I was about three months old when my mom decided to take me back to California. I remember this one time when I was 11, my mom brought me here to Tijuana, to a quinceañera. After the week was over, all of a sudden I saw my parents, my brothers — they all loaded up into the van — and I ran to the van and I was like, “Hey, you're forgetting about me.” I was trying to get in the van and my mom stopped me. She was like, “I'm sorry, but you can't come back home with us.”
I was all confused. Up to that point, I didn't even know that I was born here in Mexico. I was raised in Oakland my whole life. I didn't know. She was like, “You know what? You don't have any papers. So, yeah, you can't come home with us. You have to try to come back home with your cousins through the hills, through the cerros.”
When she told me that I was mad. Why did you bring me here to Tijuana knowing that I couldn't get back?
That night, I remember my grandparents took me to the border. We hired a guide, and the plan was [that] we were all gonna wait till there were a lot of us. He said, “We're just all gonna run for it at the same time.” That was his big plan, right? He said, “We're gonna run, and they can't catch us all.”
As soon as we started going through the hole, I remember the Border Patrol — just lights came out of nowhere. Everybody just started running. I got separated from everybody. I remember I had these little legs and I was trying to run as fast as I could, but they could only carry me so far.
A helicopter found me, and they sent some Border Patrol [agents] to come get me. They searched me. They made me empty out my pockets. I remember I had a little rosary, the Border Patrol took it. They threw it on the ground. They said it was garbage. Pretty much all they kept was my money. They handcuffed me and threw me in the holding cell with all the adults, with everybody.
I remember there were about maybe 50 of us in the little tiny holding cell, and they only had two toilets in the back, and they were overflowing. They had no toilet paper. At one point, somebody was spitting on the ground. A Border Patrol [agent] saw him, and the Border Patrol [agent] told him, “Hey, pick that up.”
And the guy was like, “Oh man, you know what? Gimme some tissue, something. We have nothing to clean with.” The Border Patrol [agent] said, “No, pick it up with your hand.” The guy was like, “Yeah, I'm not gonna do it.”
They came, they put him in the holding cell that was in front of us — that was empty — and then they beat him down. They beat him up in front of us. They did this so that we saw what was going to happen if we didn't cooperate, if we didn't follow the rules.
They just kicked us right back out the next morning. So, the next morning, we went back home. I remember they took both of our money, so we had to walk all the way to my grandma's house, which is pretty far.
My grandma was like, “Hey, you guys are gonna try to cross again tonight.” The guy that they got us, he had a better plan. He didn't take us through the hills. My parents came and picked me up the next day.
When I was about 16, I finally got my permanent residency. Nobody explained to me back then what permanent residency was. Nobody explained to me that permanent residency doesn't necessarily mean permanent.
I moved in with my girlfriend. When I was 23, she passed away. I kind of self-isolated. I stayed away from my family. Eventually, I fell into alcohol and drugs. Three months from the day that she passed away, I ended up in jail for robbery. That was my first time ever being arrested, first time ever being in trouble.
I was 23 years old and I got sentenced to 12 years. Thirty days before I was supposed to parole, they did a mail call, and I got all happy. I was like, “Oh, I got a letter from maybe my wife or something.” It was actually a letter from Immigration and Customs Enforcement, and they were telling me that I was not gonna go home — that I was gonna get deported.
On the very last day, if they didn't come on this day, they were supposed to let me go home. And I was just waiting for the bus to go home when I saw these two [ICE] agents walk in. They took me to federal court in San Francisco. The judge gave me a lifetime ban from the United States. I got to see Oakland for the very last time. I remember thinking, man, this is probably the last time I'm going to see it. When we got to Mexican immigration, they started telling me things like, “Welcome back,” calling me a countryman. At that point, I had spent 34 years of my life in the U.S., and the first mistake I made, they turned their back on me and they deported me. So, I came back to Tijuana to nothing.
I had no friends, I had no family. I had to start over. I had to go figure out how to get my birth certificate, my IDs. Over here in Mexico, until you have your Mexican ID, you can't have a job, you can't rent hotels, your family can't even send you a Western Union.
I started working here in the call centers. I got my GED in prison, but my first day at work I was already making more money than people who had college careers here in Mexico. They resented us because of that. That's when I realized that out here, they look at us differently when we're deported. Because most of us, we've been in prison, because we got in trouble, because we went out there and didn't make it.
My wife would come visit me every other month.
[On] one of those visits, she came out here, and I remember we were watching TV late at night and I saw Bob Ross painting. I saw Bob Ross and I was like, man, that guy's always happy. Maybe if I had some paints, I wouldn't be so anxious and depressed the whole time. On the next visit, she brought me my first paint set.
At first I started painting because I was anxious, I was depressed, I was lonely being out here by myself all the time. So, it was a way to pass my time, for me not to go crazy out here by myself.
I would paint Lotería Mexicana, but then I realized that being out here and seeing everybody that was in the call centers, how we lived — we lived in the shadows. So, that's when I made a conscious decision to call myself “deported artist.” I made the decision that day that I was going to use my artist platform to give us deportados this ability and a voice that we didn't have.
I remember one time I was on the beach, and there was a couple right there talking. They were talking about the mural, and they didn't know that I was one of the artists for the mural.
And I remember one of them saying, “Why do they paint themselves on the wall? They're not even really Mexican.”
This is a perfect example of why we need to have our narratives out there. As long as we keep living in the shadows, and as long as we don't speak up for ourselves, we're never gonna have anything coming. We're always gonna be invisible to society.
Nací aquí en Tijuana. Tenía como tres meses cuando mi mamá decidió llevarme de regreso a California. Recuerdo una vez, cuando tenía 11 años, que mi mamá me trajo aquí a Tijuana, a una quinceañera. Después de que pasó la semana, de repente vi a mis papás, a mis hermanos — todos se subieron a la camioneta — y corrí hacia ella y les dije, “¡Ey, se están olvidando de mí!” Estaba tratando de subirme a la camioneta y mi mamá me detuvo. Me dijo, “Lo siento, pero no puedes regresar a casa con nosotros.”
Estaba completamente confundido. Hasta ese momento, ni siquiera sabía que había nacido aquí en México. Me crié toda mi vida en Oakland. No lo sabía. Ella me dijo, “¿Sabes qué? No tienes papeles. Así que, sí, no puedes regresar a casa con nosotros. Tienes que intentar volver con tus primos, por los cerros.”
Cuando me dijo eso, me enojé. ¿Por qué me trajiste a Tijuana sabiendo que no podría regresar?
Esa noche, recuerdo que mis abuelos me llevaron a la frontera. Contratamos a un guía, y el plan era esperar a que fuéramos muchos. Él dijo, “Todos vamos a correr al mismo tiempo.” Ese era su gran plan, ¿no? Dijo, “Vamos a correr y no podrán atraparnos a todos.”
Y en cuanto empezamos a cruzar por el hoyo, recuerdo que la Patrulla Fronteriza — de la nada salieron las luces. Todos comenzaron a correr. Me separé del grupo. Recuerdo que tenía estas piernitas pequeñas y trataba de correr lo más rápido posible, pero solo me llevaban hasta cierto punto.
Un helicóptero me encontró y mandaron a unos agentes de la Patrulla Fronteriza por mí.
Me revisaron. Me hicieron vaciar los bolsillos. Recuerdo que tenía un pequeño rosario, la Patrulla Fronteriza lo tomó. Lo tiraron al suelo. Dijeron que era basura. Básicamente, lo único que se quedaron fue con mi dinero. Me esposaron y me arrojaron a la celda con todos los adultos, con todos.
Recuerdo que éramos como unos 50 en una celda diminuta, y solo había dos baños en la parte de atrás, y estaban desbordados. No había papel higiénico. En un momento, alguien escupió en el suelo. Un agente de la Patrulla Fronteriza lo vio, y le dijo: 'Oye, recoge eso.'
Y el tipo respondió: 'Hombre, pues dame un pañuelo, algo. No tenemos con qué limpiar.' El agente le dijo: 'No, recógelo con la mano.' Y el tipo dijo: 'No lo voy a hacer.'
Vinieron, lo pusieron en la celda vacía que estaba frente a nosotros, y lo golpearon. Lo golpearon delante de todos nosotros. Lo hicieron para que viéramos lo que nos pasaría si no cooperábamos, si no seguíamos las reglas.
Nos regresaron a todos a la mañana siguiente. Así que, al día siguiente, regresamos a casa. Recuerdo que se quedaron con el dinero de los dos, así que tuvimos que caminar todo el camino hasta la casa de mi abuela, que está bastante lejos.
Mi abuela nos dijo: 'Oigan, van a volver a intentar cruzar esta noche.' El guía que nos consiguieron tenía un mejor plan. No nos llevó por los cerros. Mis papás vinieron por mí al día siguiente.
Cuando tenía como 16 años, por fin obtuve la residencia permanente. Nadie me explicó en ese entonces qué significaba tener residencia permanente. Nadie me dijo que la residencia permanente no necesariamente es permanente.
Me fui a vivir con mi novia. Cuando tenía 23 años, ella falleció. Me aislé. Me alejé de mi familia. Eventualmente caí en el alcohol y las drogas. Tres meses después del día en que ella falleció, terminé en la cárcel por robo. Fue la primera vez que me arrestaban, la primera vez que tenía problemas.
Tenía 23 años y me sentenciaron a 12 años. Treinta días antes de que pudiera salir en libertad condicional, hicieron el llamado del correo, y me puse todo contento. Pensé: 'Oh, tal vez es una carta de mi esposa o algo así.' Pero en realidad era una carta de ICE, y me decían que no iba a regresar a casa — que me iban a deportar.
En el último día, si no venían ese día, me tenían que dejar ir a casa. Y estaba esperando el autobús para regresar a casa cuando vi a dos agentes entrar.
Me llevaron a la corte federal en San Francisco. El juez me dio una prohibición de por vida para regresar a Estados Unidos. Pude ver Oakland por última vez. Recuerdo haber pensado: Esta probablemente sea la última vez que lo vea. Cuando llegamos a inmigración mexicana, empezaron a decirme cosas como “Bienvenido de nuevo,” llamándome paisano. En ese punto, yo había pasado 34 años de mi vida en Estados Unidos, y por el primer error que cometí, me dieron la espalda y me deportaron. Así que regresé a Tijuana sin nada.
No tenía amigos, no tenía familia. Tuve que empezar desde cero. Tuve que averiguar cómo conseguir mi acta de nacimiento, mis identificaciones. Aquí en México, hasta que no tienes tu identificación mexicana, no puedes tener un trabajo, no puedes rentar hoteles, ni siquiera tu familia puede mandarte un Western Union.
Empecé a trabajar en los call centers. Saqué mi GED en prisión, pero mi primer día de trabajo ya ganaba más que personas con carreras universitarias aquí en México. Por eso nos resentían. Fue entonces cuando me di cuenta de que aquí nos ven diferente cuando somos deportados. Porque la mayoría de nosotros hemos estado en prisión, porque tuvimos problemas, porque fuimos allá y no lo logramos.Mi esposa venía a visitarme cada dos meses.
En una de esas visitas, vino para acá, y recuerdo que estábamos viendo la tele tarde en la noche y apareció Bob Ross pintando. Lo vi y pensé: Ese tipo siempre está feliz. Tal vez si tuviera unas pinturas, no estaría tan ansioso y deprimido todo el tiempo. En la siguiente visita, me trajo mi primer set de pintura.
Al principio empecé a pintar porque estaba ansioso, estaba deprimido, me sentía solo estando aquí solo todo el tiempo. Así que era una forma de pasar el tiempo, para no volverme loco solo.
Pintaba Lotería Mexicana, pero luego me di cuenta de que estando aquí, viendo a todos los que trabajaban en los call centers, cómo vivíamos — vivíamos en las sombras. Así que fue cuando tomé la decisión consciente de llamarme a mí mismo “artista deportado.” Ese día decidí que iba a usar mi plataforma artística para darnos a los deportados esta visibilidad y una voz que no teníamos.
Recuerdo una vez que estaba en la playa, y había una pareja ahí hablando. Estaban hablando del mural, y no sabían que yo era uno de los artistas del mural.
Y recuerdo que uno de ellos dijo, “¿Por qué se pintan en la pared si ni siquiera son realmente mexicanos?”
Este es un ejemplo perfecto de por qué necesitamos que nuestras narrativas estén allá afuera. Mientras sigamos viviendo en las sombras, y mientras no alcemos la voz por nosotros mismos, nunca vamos a tener nada. Siempre vamos a ser invisibles para la sociedad.