Extramurals

I woke up, hung over, in Mexico with no idea how I got here.

I was not alone. There were hundreds of people with me. We were parked on a hot asphalt strip just south of a huge wall. A man had a megaphone and led the chants. We were angry; we were hungry, dirty, and exhausted. We wanted work, and we were willing to work hungry, dirty, and exhausted. We were angry because we were denied, and we could see no sense in it.

The man then read a manifesto. It was all in Spanish, yet I could understand him perfectly. I looked at my arms and caught a glimpse of my face in the mirrored glasses of an ICE officer. Not only was I in Mexico, hung over, with no idea how I got here, but I was a Mexican, my blonde hair and blue eyes as gone as my memories of the night before.

What chance did I have of getting in, in spite of my board certification in neurosurgery? “I can contribute!” I yelled at the wall, in Spanish--the wall I helped pay for. “I’m skilled. With a unique skill. A surgeon. An American surgeon.” The people around me grew quiet. “You need me back. You could use me. Let me back in. You would be better off with me there!” But no one on the wall even pretended to understand what I was saying. The wall was up; the border was closed; and I was fucked.

“Speak English!” a man shouted back from atop the wall. “Go home. Where you belong. And speak English if you want to talk to us. If you want in. Immigration is closed! There’s no place for you here!”

My accidental entourage shrugged in unison. “You’re a doctor?” I heard a woman ask meekly. “I have this lump, right here, see? I sure could use you.”

“Ma’am, I can’t help you. In fact, I’m late for rounds on my own patients at my own hospital in New York.” But she couldn’t understand a thing I said, because I spoke American.