American Dirt was one of my summer reads. Written by American author Jeanine Cummins it tells the fictional story of a Mexican mother and son’s journey to the border after a cartel murders the rest of the family. The story covers various themes, from the love and strength of a mother for her son, cartels’ geographical spaces of power, the potential risks journalists face to the hardships migrants endure and the sacrifices and choices one made to keep the family safe.
The story begins in Acapulco, Mexico. The opening chapters depict how a tourist city and its inhabitants find themselves in a tension with the presence of the growing narcotic power. Acapulco is one of Mexico’s coastal tourist destinations—until violence scares most of the tourists away. Many of its inhabitants, like Lydia the protagonist, not only suffer financially from the decrease in tourists but also feel the quotidian suffocation—torn between wanting to know if quieter streets mean less violence and insulating themselves from the ugliness of the narco violence.
The falling apart of the city leads to the path of migration. Forced to leave Acapulco, the protagonist takes her son on the journey to the border. It is then I learn the meaning of city to migrants. City means hope. The sight of a city signals numerous possibilities—the geographical proximity to the North, the shelter of the Church or migrant centre, food and water provided by those kind souls, and the encounter and information exchange with other migrants.
The story of American Dirt reminds me of the book I read for my Latin American Studies course at UIUC many years ago. Tunnel Kids by Lawrence Taylor and Maeve Hickey. I remember how much I enjoyed the book. I was fascinated by the story of twin cities, Nogales, Sonora and Nogales, Arizona. At the U.S.-Mexico border and beneath the streets in the drainage tunnels, tunnel kids, as referred by the authors, make a place out of their own struggles and survivals.
I am very drawn to issues of border. The idea of crossing a “line” and entering a different country while still sharing the common ground fascinates me. In the years I spent in Philly and New York for every family visit to Toronto I chose bus as my ride—even when sometimes airplane tickets were significantly cheaper. In this 13 hours of bus ride I got to pass through many different cities. I got to see city at its dawn and its dusk. I got to see streets, buildings, and people. I enjoyed watching and observing. All the way until I hit the U.S.-Canada border I found it intriguing how by crossing the border—which is both visible and invisible—the nationality of the land changes. Though sharing the common ground and similar geographical features different cities and different countries denote differences in culture and society. This, in turn, leads to the observed differences in the human-space interaction and relationship.
Taiwan is my home country. The island of Taiwan. Perhaps it is this—being raised on an island without land borders—that cultivates my interest toward borders, border-crossing and the stories of and around borders.