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There is a place where I go to eat green corn tamales, it reminds me of the Mexico of long ago, the Mexico before there was so much violence. Hats and chiles, garlic and woodcuts, hang on the walls. The waitresses speak Spanish, and the customers, workers, grandmothers and grandchildren, like eating here, they laugh a lot. You will probably say, "I know that place," because you do. It is in Tucson, it is in Nogales, it is in El Paso, it is in Mexicali, it is in so many places along this border.
On the menu is ceviche, pescado and birria.
There is a sadness in remembering this Mexico, the one I traveled to so many times alone, on the buses to Creel, on the train back from Las Mochis, and in the backs of pickup trucks.
Now the Mexico I see is in police photos, it is not the Mexico I know, not the Mexico I knew and loved on the beach in Puerto Penasco, where they cooked the fresh fish from that day's catch. The land that inspired me, gave me hope, was Sonora, sweating in the summer sun, as I poured water over my head to keep from passing out, and tasted the sweets from the vendors, who stood next to the Mexican soldiers, when they were only a little feared. Now this desert is the desert of bodies, it is the desert where families search for their loved ones, ever hopeful that they have survived, [...]
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