Caminante, no hay puentes, se hace puentes al andar. (Voyager, there are no bridges; we create bridges as we walk.) – Gloria Anzaldúa
The day begins at 8:00 a.m. I welcome sleepy students as they saunter into the Campus Ministry office. I can’t help but feel surprised each time another enters; it’s a Saturday morning and they’re all here by choice. Often, one or two have never left the country. Today is especially big for them.
They’re here for one of our department’s most popular offerings: a Tijuana Day Trip. San Diego’s proximity to the U.S.-Mexico border enables us to visit Tijuana for a one-day immersion each month. We gather in a circle, Student Leaders facilitate the inevitable icebreaker, and shortly after, we’re off.
We drive south for thirty minutes. The car ride is quiet, but it’s not long before traffic signs in capital script loudly announce where we’re headed: INTERNATIONAL BORDER CROSSING. Several miles later we see: LAST USA EXIT. They beckon one last time before we reach the border: LAST CHANCE FOR U-TURN. Each sign might as well ask, ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO GO TO MEXICO?
We approach the Otay Mesa Port of Entry and hop across a few speed bumps before gliding into Mexico. “Don’t we need to stop,” asks a student, “and show our passports?”
“Not on the way in,” I say, “but we’ll wait in that line on the way back.” I gesture across the street toward hundreds of vehicles in bumper-to-bumper traffic waiting to enter the U.S. “Oh,” he says. I watch his brow furrow in the rearview mirror. I’m delighted that his wheels have started to turn: Why is it so easy to enter Mexico, but so difficult to enter the United States?
Then we reach our first stop: Albergue Casa de Las Memorias, a hospice and home for those – many of whom are deportees – living with HIV and AIDS. It is Holy ground.
A student leans in as we approach the front doors. “What are we going to do here?” she asks. I smile and know that my answer won’t satisfy. “Build relationships,” I say. “Talk to people, learn their stories, and share your life with them, too.”
As our group tours the facility, I peek around the corner and see one of my favorite smiles. It’s my friend, José. He pulls two chairs off of a stack in the common room and sets them next to each other. He sits down in one and softly pats the other. He asks about my husband. I ask about his daughter. We are happy to be together. I gaze across the room and see some of my students laughing with children as their Jenga tower crashes down.
This is what ministry looks like for me today: being with loved ones, asking questions, and cheering on my students as they venture to do the same.
Our next stop is Casa del Migrante, a temporary shelter for migrants. I sit across a metal table from a row of men who’ve just been expelled from the U.S. It’s got to be the twentieth time I’ve sat here for dinner, and still discomfort overtakes my body. Conversations don’t always get far:
¿Cómo estás? Bien.
¿Cómo te llamas? Eduardo.
¿De dónde vienes? California.
¿A dónde vas? Veremos.
He stands up, removes his plate, and offers a polite, “Provecho.” I glance past the empty seat in front of me and see my students taking this in. Two of them listen closely to a different man share his story. Three giggle as they try to translate for one another. Others have lost their company like me.
I’m overwhelmed with guilt as I compare my reality with my dinner companion’s.
Tomorrow Eduardo, who was stolen abruptly from his family, will wake up in a country he doesn’t know, and face one of three decisions: to stay in Tijuana and look for work, to find a way back to his country of origin, or to try and cross the border again.
Tonight, I know exactly where I’m going. I’ll wait in the border line and cross back with ease. I’ll drop off my students and fall asleep in my bed. I’ll have been a visitor in Eduardo’s complicated narrative: a privilege I don’t deserve, and about which, it feels, I can do very little.
It comes time for our group’s closing reflection. In this headspace of helplessness, it’s always my students who remind me what it means to hope:
They call their new friends by name.
They begin to grapple with the weight of their social responsibility.
They’re going to pursue that Spanish minor after all.
They can’t wait to come back next month.
The world hasn’t changed, but seeds have been planted, and that’s a win for this Campus Minister. Their eager insights show me that none of us holds this space alone. The situation along the border is a mess, but authentic relationships will help clean it up.
I get home at 9:00 p.m. and find my husband, a fellow minister, waiting for me. “How did it go?” he asks. Like most questions from today, it’s difficult to find an answer. “Borders,” writes Gloria Anzaldúa, “are set up to define the places that are safe from unsafe; to distinguish us from them.” Today my students began to break down those dichotomies. They are up for the challenge.
“It was great,” I say.