We all have a few undies we wouldn’t want the paramedics to see us in. Such are the panties I’m wearing now. Thank God I left a week’s worth at my destination, on my last visit. While packing this time, I left all my decent underwear in a plastic bag – somewhere. Who knows? What is clear is that they didn’t make it into the car. I feel like an idiot, because I mismanaged an essential bit of life.
But what if I’d had to leave on a moment’s notice with no possibility of managing the niceties at all? What if gangsters had come to my house to murder my brother, and the family unanimously decided to flee our cattle farm in the night? No planning, no packing, no carefully folding my undergarments or indeed any garments neatly into a bag of any sort.
Last June, on the Mexican side of the DeConcini Gate, Port of Entry to Nogales, Arizona, my husband Ron and I with a band of friends in Voices from the Border saw many people seeking legal asylum in the United States, squatting on the pavement. Talk about the huddled masses! Families and groups of friends camped out on the concrete in front of the gate to cross and hopefully be granted asylum. Some sat for days waiting to be processed, with their children around them.
We decided we would bring them toys and diapers and food next time. But for now, what? A mother with two teen boys told us they had nothing but the clothes on their backs. Ron and I said we’d take them to buy clothes. When they discovered what we were doing (no secrets here), five young women asked us to get them bras and panties. They carried only small bags of snacks. How would I buy brassieres and panties for these female twenty-somethings? Searching back decades in my mind for elementary Spanish, I asked, “que talla,” what size? Perhaps that wasn’t the word in their country’s idiom. I got no answer and found myself cupping both hands around my boobs and shaking them to explain. Everyone laughed, but I got my answer: four chicas and one grande. Ok, I figured we needed to get going before I was purchasing underwear for the 50 or so women standing in line nearby.
We followed a man familiar with Nogales streets, farther away from the border than we’d ever walked, to buy clothes at a local discount store. “Tienda de ropa?” we kept asking. We quickly marched so far I began to worry that we were being led away from our friends and the border and possibly to a sketchy end, but all turned out well.
There were stacks of colorful bras and panties to choose from, all affordable, and cheap by U.S. standards. Standing in front of an array, I tried to think like a young Mexican (Guatemalan?) woman. Hoo boy! What would my daughter have chosen in Victoria’s Secret at their age? I decided to get each girl two pairs of panties and a bra. No dickering for prices, but I searched counter after counter for styles I could find five of, but with different color prints, so each gal could identify hers in some imaginary laundry facility in their future. Surreal. When I got to the cashier, the mother of two boys, who had gone with us, saw a pretty, dark blue bra I was rejecting, and asked by hand signals if she could have it. Of course! She needed underwear, too. Ron had purchased jeans and shirts for the family of three. He had it easier than me, I thought, because they were there with him to make their selection. We bought the clothes with cash we had on hand — lucky that we had enough, because we had no idea when the day began how we would be spending our time.
At the border, the five young ladies appeared delighted with their new underthings. I used my phone’s SayHi app and called “Buena suerte!” good luck, to the folks we had met. It felt good to have helped a few asylum seekers in their search for a better future, even though I had been able to aid such a pitifully small number compared to the hundreds appearing daily. Our Voices from the Border group has to get more organized, and we need funding, because these people need more than just good luck.