El Puente Kellen Lapp

El Puente Kellen Lapp The international bridge broke the silence that seemed so deafening to my ears. Nuevo Laredo was my home for many years. Darkness blinded where there once was light, and sweetness was replaced by bitterness. The beckoning cries of the bridge called out to cross the waters of the Rio Grande. The banks on either side served as safe zones, either by keeping out, or by keeping in. The darkness filled the room and the alarm screamed, unyieldingly, to wake. Not certain whether reality or a dream, I sprang from bed to quiet its demands. Tiptoeing silently, not to wake the four angels, sleeping soundly, I slipped into the bathroom and turned the faucet of the shower only to find that, once again, the boiler had not been lit. Chilled to reality, I dressed quickly as my anxiety mounted every second that passed by. I woke the children and readied them, in assembly line fashion, changing diapers, dressing, grooming, and carrying them out to the car. I woke my husband to say goodbye and kiss him farewell, the urgency to get in line at the bridge was paramount. It was 6:00 a.m. as I rushed through the streets of Nuevo Laredo. In the darkness and gloom of the early morning hours, the world was asleep. The silence, so deafening, numbed me to the outside world. The flicker of streetlights, as if metronomes, were keeping time. It was now 6:05 and the lines came into view as I filed right along beside. Approaching the bridge, and the ever-growing lines of cars, I slowly inched forward while keeping pace with those around me. Taking a deep breath, I instantly felt the sensation of overwhelming relief. My anxieties quieted as the sun peaked over the horizon and the world awakened outside my windows. Success! “El Puente de las Americas” stands strong. Its hard cement flooring and metal enclosure gave a sense of safety, direction, and hope, connecting Mexico to the United States; two countries divided only by a plaque that drew an invisible line, separating two worlds. As the line slowly crawled forward, I noticed the vibrant colors lining the entrance of traditional Mexican crafts for sale. “Would you like a poncho? A hand painted ceramic bank? A painting of The Last Supper? A child’s guitar?” 7 El Puente Mothers toting their newborns on their chests, held only by a piece of fabric wound tightly against their bodies, begged for payment. A male in his thirties, dressed in a faded pair of plaid khaki shorts and a simple white t-shirt, pedaled his bicycle past the crowds while hauling a vendor stand of breakfast tacos. The worn wooden sign, hanging crooked to oneside, displayed the menu. The smell of grilled meat and roasted sweet corn filled the air. Fresh flavored waters in large plastic jugs caught my eye and left me with insatiable thirst. The colorful piñatas and traditional Mexican attire were brilliant and abundant. Disabled individuals rolled down the center of the lanes in their wheelchairs, or staggered on crutches, using any and all talents they possessed to earn a dime, supplying entertainment through music and magic tricks. People raced up to vehicles, one after another, to clean windshields with rags and bottles of soapy water, all with the uncertainty of whether they would be given a much-needed gratuity. There stood a sweet man, somewhere in his ‘60s, handing out literature on religion and preaching the word of God to those passing by. The commuters, in a rush to cross, seemed inconvenienced, while the vacationers formed lines to have their possessions checked by customs on either side. Road rage was prevalent as someone cut into line, and the unwillingness to offer goodwill in allowing others to merge was at an ultimate high. Mexican newspapers, with bone-chilling headlines and uncensored photographic images of ruthless crime, and pirated videos, were shoved against my windows. The world unfolded around me as I recalled memories of the past. One day while crossing this bridge on foot, I proceeded as normal to pay my toll and file orderly into the pedestrian line. This day was like any other, everything seemed normal. I was approached by an older gentleman I did not know, he tapped my shoulder and I turned to face him. “God bless you child, for this too shall pass, I know your suffering.” He stared into my eyes, into my soul. He told me that I was unappreciated. I continued to return day after day to this bridge, a beacon of hope for a better life, as it called to me. Why did this man feel the necessity to confront me? Why did he claim to understand my situation? Although his words were gentle and from the heart, they left me with a feeling of uneasiness that I could not seem to shake. Yet 8 Kellen Lapp days, months, and years have passed. I had forgotten about this man, but I recalled this memory for a reason. Four children sat, sleep-deprived, in a compact vehicle, impatient and crying. While others stared, wondering what was wrong, I tried to console them and pull myself together. This had become the normal daily routine. The bridge was an escape, a window to another world, where U.S. Customs and Mexican military were the supreme authority. It was a road to the freedoms we all so easily dismiss and take for granted. The bridge was the road that led me to make a living, sufficient enough to get by, and the road that allowed my children to obtain an American education. It was “El Puente” that ultimately led me home. 9 It Takes a Lot of Practice to Be a Ghost Ali Abercrombie It takes a lot of practice to be a ghost. Most people think a ghost is about being terrifying, about invoking bloodcurdling screams and frightening small children in the dead of night. Or, conversely, about being Casper—white, friendly and unable to cause harm. There are many different retellings of ghost stories across the ancient seas, from Egypt’s inhabitants with their five-parted souls to India where they cremate their dead to avoid possession. Everyone knows the tale of the River Styx and the coin put in the mouth to ferry the dead across. Stuff his mouth with gold and you get a front row seat on your way to see the Three-Headed Dog! A measly Hemitartemorion, and you’d be in the back with the mouth-breathers. Sorry, I’m rambling. I do that a lot. My point is all of these stories have something in common. A ghost can only come back during certain times. More significantly, most spirits can only be seen by certain people and then only in torchlight. That’s the important part of being a ghost—the blending, the fading, how people’s eyes slide right by you on the street. You know how people say ghosts can manifest as a cold spot in a room? That’s a true ghost, one that you barely notice at all. It’s easier being a ghost when you’re as commonplace as a sidewalk crack— average height, average build, brown hair of average length, brown eyes, beard, glasses. I highly recommend becoming average if you want to be a ghost. If you’re not average, see below for further instructions. The next piece is how you dress: no colors. You have your grays, your blacks, maybe a brown. Olive is pushing it. Shoes must be unremarkable in all ways. Black is safe. Bottom line, if you could be described to the police after walking out the door as anything other than, “I have no idea, he was just some guy. I didn’t notice him,” you are performing this step incorrectly. Finally, consider your demeanor. This one takes some work. You can’t be too introverted or dull—then you’re known as the awkward, shy guy—but you can’t engage too much either. You have to slide under the radar everywhere, silent as a shadow and as unnoticed as the whir of a fan. You don’t walk hunched over, but your head isn’t held too high. You’re just…there. “How’s it going, Dave?” 10 Ali Abercrombie “Good, and you?” Then you go on with your day and no one realizes, because no one thinks about these things. That that’s all they’ve ever said to you, and they’ve worked with you for three years. They never notice that you don’t show up for lunch, and if you did they wouldn’t notice that you’d sat down beside them. That’s being a ghost. You blend. You fade. You’re only seen briefly, in glimpses and flashes, in torchlight. This is a tale about how someone saw me. • • • You notice a lot of details about people as a ghost. You notice if they like to dominate a conversation, if they push their glasses up the bridge of their nose when they’re nervous or bored or agitated, how they draw out a word when they’re lying. Did you know there aren’t foolproof techniques to determine if someone is lying? Everyone can train themselves out of the most common signs if they so choose. Anyway, most people know these kinds of quirks about their friends or their spouse, people they have contact with every day. I discern this about everyone within hours. The trick is to watch, to not put yourself forward.

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