Personal Essay: Mar

“What am I trying to say?” That’s the question I tend to ask myself whenever I have a short amount of time and not enough answers. But it’s hard sometimes, you know? To know what it is you’re saying before you actually say it. Like a vicious cycle. The truth is I’ve been trying to make sense of what’s been happening for the last couple months, and no matter how hard I swim against the current I can’t really get out of the river. That’s when I hear them. The footsteps. The beach. The desert. Maybe I’m just chasing my own tail at this point. Let me start over.

 

​

Mar. It means “sea” in Spanish. Sea as in waves, foam and breeze. But also sea as in dust, rocks and nothingness. Sea because of the journey, the pain and the loss. But also sea because of the promise, the love and the longing. Mar is the title of my TV thesis project, the 20-minute short film I chose to write and direct. I was tasked with this not-so-Herculean task last summer when my professor/mentor saw potential in the story and thought I was the right person to bring it to life. I held the phone up to my ear while I paced around my bedroom, trying to make sense of what he had in mind. He’s the kind of person who never gives you enough time to complete a full sentence before he starts talking again, but he’s also the kind of person who feels abandoned when you don’t talk back. It took me a while to figure out a way to come up with monosyllabic answers that were brief enough to avoid him cutting me off and yet were symbolic enough to show I was paying attention.

 

“It’s a family of immigrants” he said, “like me and you”. “Except they don’t have the privileges we have”.

 

The story was simple and yet incredibly complex: two undocumented immigrants find their world turned upside down when their young child gets physically stuck between two walls of an abandoned building (in a way that was to be ideated later). With no real hopes of getting him out by their own merits, they face a tragic dilemma. They must either leave the kid behind (who like Schrodinger’s cat could be very much dead or alive) and secure their future, or call for help, knowing that it will result in them getting deported and the child (if alive) being taken away from them forever.

​

It doesn’t really take any talent or creative vision to understand how powerful a story like that could be. It had hints of tragedy and melodrama, not to mention it dealt with a pressing issue of the real world. “I thought a Mexican kid like you might be interested, and I called because as a Mexican man myself I want you to succeed.” I took a moment to think about it, the sound of his espresso machine echoing through my phone. “It sounds interesting, there’s clearly a story there” I said in a calm demeanor, trying to sound pretentious and knowledgeable, which is weird because I’m neither, but I feared him thinking I wasn’t good or cultured enough and I wanted to earn his respect.

​

“Perhaps if-

“Just think about it and I’ll call you later” he said as he hung up the phone before I could say a word. (for a Mexican Italian he’s suspiciously talented at ending conversations prematurely).

​

I sat on my chair for a good while, nothing but the sound of the rusty AC coming in from above. A plethora of different ideas and emotions crashed against me as I slowly but surely saw the opportunity at hand. I had a chance to participate in something special. It could be big; it could be heartbreaking. But then again, that haunted question loomed over my subconscious as I committed to this project: why me?

​

After weeks of discussing the project with my mentor and producer friend, the story morphed into something I felt was more “cinematic”. The short now followed a young woman, the man she recently married, and the young brother she had to take care of after their parents died. They’d cross the border in hopes of a better life, however while walking through the harrowing heat of the Arizona Desert, the kid gets trapped between two boulders and the same dilemma as before emerges. It wasn’t long before the visuals started to spread in my mind while the ambience of the desert took over my thoughts.

A couple of weeks before the semester began, I zoom-called an editor friend of mine in hopes of “selling” her the idea. I value her opinion and we work together well, so I was eager to know her thoughts. I told her the general premise and what at that point was my vision for the film. I spoke for about ten minutes, cautious about not losing her at any given moment. After my speech was over, I waited for her response. Nonetheless, all she did was smile like she always does when trying to process new information. The pause became awkwardly long so I decided to cut right to it. 

​

“Well?” I asked.

“That’s crazy” she replied. “You see, that’s my parents’ story.” We stared at each other through our screens for the next three minutes. Not a single word was said.

 

Earlier this year, it was made public that the Trump Administration spent over $16 billion in taxpayer money towards the building of his Southern Wall. But what many people don’t know is that the former does not extend throughout the whole border, nor has it deterred the growing number of people from all nations (Mexicans now encompass slightly less that 20% of the people who cross) who risk everything to reunite with their families, escape their crime-ridden homes, or start a new life of opportunity. People who, for years to come, will be separated from their homeland and their people. A life of hard work and daily sacrifice. Knowing a simple phone call can become the sudden breeze that brings the whole house of cards to the ground.

           

My first interview with someone who had the crossing experience coincided with my 24th birthday. I remember because for the first time I didn’t think to myself “Oh, I’m older. Cool”, and rather woke up with a feeling of dread and thought “Oh fuck no, please stop”. During the call I felt nervous, unaware of how the other person would react to my questions and unsure of whether a word or phrase I’d say would seem offensive, intrusive, or worst of all, patronizing. By this point in the process, I started to gain awareness of that little voice inside me that kept telling me I wasn’t good enough. It’s natural to feel self-doubt, I always find that I do better when beating myself to a corner, but this time it was different.

       

I’ve been travelling from my home country to US soil constantly throughout the years, privileged and often unchallenged. I remember talking with my family about what it’s like to cross and as far as our memories go, they never get any worse than grumpy custom agents or cancelled flights. I, like many others, am a foreigner; seeking a better life in a country that continues to sell its outdated idea of a dream. I, like many others, am an immigrant, except that in my case, there are no footsteps on the sand. No walks through the endless desert, and no walls defining the limits of my world. That’s the difference. That’s what counts. So yet again I ask myself… why me?

 

The interviewee was my friend’s cousin, who she thought she’d never see again after being deported back to Mexico, but then surprised her one afternoon by showing up to a family dinner. He spoke with great tranquility, to my ears the content of his speech simply didn’t match his tone. I guess that’s because we all have our own versions of reality and what for some might seem egregious or larger than life, is just day-to-day for others. Or perhaps he had told this story too many times, so much so that he was now distant from it, like trauma that he keeps away to not fall into despair.

​

He was born in Mexico yet grew up in LA alongside his American-born brothers. He was the oldest, and like all true big brothers he had a deep sense of responsibility. His family immigrated back to Guerrero wanting to reclaim their old lives, brothers and he included. The only problem is that the brothers, like many others, never fitted in. They were American by all standards, and they wanted to return to the place they called home.

           

This is one essential detail I found during my days of research. When families are displaced people on the outside tend to focus on the spatial separation between them, but they hardly ever think about how displacement causes ripples within the world of cultural and psychological identities. When you’ve spent your whole life in the middle of two worlds, it’s hard to ever settle on a specific place, especially when so many individuals and institutions constantly try to make you feel like never you don’t belong there. “You’re not from here but you’re also not from there, and hence, to our eyes, you have no value”.

           

But my friend’s cousin did not drown himself in this dilemma. Instead, he made the decision to accompany his brothers, knowing that despite being related by blood, the color of their passports meant they’d have to take different routes. He wasn’t given permission to migrate under the conditions of reuniting with family (a failed piece of policy the government prides itself with) and his past meant he would not be granted any Visas. This forced him to walk through the desert for three days. Three days where he had to follow volatile, drug-addicted smugglers, that most likely had links to the cartels and therefore use immigrants as mules. Three days where he faced off corrupt Mexican officers who also had deals with the cartels and who made sure to take away whatever left they had of value. Three days where his siblings waited by the phone, hoping to get the call that would reassure them his brother did not die in the same place that takes the lives of hundreds of people every year.

           

The call never came.

           

He was caught after arriving to San Diego, where he was taken to a Border Detention Center nearby. There, he appealed yet again to be allowed to remain in US territory to reunite with his family. The appeal was dismissed. He then appealed to be considered a refugee, seeking protection from his crime-ridden hometown. This last appeal was a long shot; the government only grants certain refugee entries a year and Mexicans are rarely taken into consideration. They were going to review his case and meanwhile, he was transported to a state prison in Louisiana.  

           

You may be asking yourself, Louisiana? But he was in California. Well, as it turns out that is one the most common “deterrence” strategies the government imposes against immigrants. People who cross at a certain spot tend to be taken to a different state and are then deported from there, knowing full on that these people have been stricken away by any money or object of value by the smugglers, and hence struggle to even make it back to their former crossing point. It’s the government’s way of washing their hands if anything happens to them in Mexican territory. In this man’s case, it was the government’s way of saying “There’s no way California laws will stand by what we’re planning to do to you in Louisiana”.

​

He was kept there for three months. Cuffed from both the arms and legs. No glimpse of freedom, no glimpse of rights. He was finally given an answer: it was a no on the refugee appeal. He was getting deported again.

 

During the hour-long conversation I tried to be inquisitive, but I struggled deeply to contain my emotions. My stomach ached; my hands were shaking. He told me he appreciated our talk and said goodbye. The moment he hung up I felt like I was rocked away from my chair by a set of strong tidal waves. I didn’t speak for hours.

           

 

Weeks went by and sure enough we were almost ready to start shooting. Locations were scouted, actors were casted, and as the fierce gaze of a $30,000 project loomed over us all, I tried to prepare myself for what was coming. I read books, news articles and memoirs. I listened to the set of interviews I performed over and over, and I watched as many videos of personal anecdotes as I could. I knew that was the only way I could protect myself from that little voice of self-doubt. I knew that I had to leave that aside if I wanted to do right by the project. How could I not?

The stress from previous months had accumulated and I had trouble sleeping. I kept dreaming of flashes of a life I never lived and that somehow felt familiar nonetheless. For multiple weekends we went to various desert locations across Southern California, each with its own personality and majestic touch. I never really saw the point of that ecosystem, but the more places we visited the more I found its silence soothing. It allowed me to think of the story. The sand. The breeze. The footsteps.

Every time I thought about the immigrants, my heart sank to the floor. I could see them walking through there, with the same nonchalant energy my friend’s cousin radiated. I saw an entire caravan of individuals that each possessed enough life experience to fill up an encyclopedia. I thought of them and suddenly I felt at peace, as if I was becoming one with the environment, alone, quiet.

Shooting the film was rough but not in an unexpected manner. Who knew making a film was hard work? Who knew that perhaps had I been a marine biologist or chemical engineer I’d actually get decent hours of sleep and decent hours of free time to spend doing whatever it is young people do when they have hours of sleep and hours of free time. But I was proud of my team. Proud of what I thought we were accomplishing. We shot on the desert and on the mountains. In a large warehouse in Burbank and on the beach.

 

The beach. I’ve never seen a sunset like that before. A canvas of pinks and yellows sprinkled over the never-ending sky. Begging to be seen and yet humble in our eyes. That was our last day of shooting. It was a wedding scene, and it was beautiful. It was also Halloween, which meant that while others were trick or treating, we had the place to ourselves. After the last take I threw myself into the water. Nobody joined me (cowards!), but it was okay. I was proud and I was confident. And I was at peace, knowing I had done everything in my power to do right by this story and these characters. I felt as if floating away in hopes of finding the end to the horizon.

Then two weeks later, the rough cut came.

 

​

For those who don’t know, the rough cut is the first properly edited version of a film. It’s the first time you actually see what the movie is rather than the idealized version of a “masterpiece” that’s been salsa dancing with your ego in your head for months. In other words, it’s any creative’s Antichrist. It’s the kind of thing that not only makes you question your talent, but also your life choices, self-worth, humanity, inhumanity, beliefs, spiritual connections to 3rd century paganist rituals, and even the laws of physics. So as I sat there on that chair, holding back my human urgency to barf and questioning whether Newton’s laws were full of shit, I couldn’t help but look at my mentor’s reaction as he sat through the whole thing.

​

I didn’t sleep that night. How could I? It didn’t matter that my mentor was unexpectedly enthusiastic about the cut. It’s funny because I felt like I was finally starting to understand him. I was expected a beating and instead I got a congratulatory thumbs up. But why? The story wasn’t there, the characters felt fake. I had done wrong by the people who trusted their stories in me, and I couldn’t help but hate myself. What went wrong? What did I miss? Meanwhile, the footsteps in my head grew louder and louder. The steps. The sand. The desert.

​

The following day I was set to continue the work with the editor. I greeted her as I always do, with a sarcastic comment on my tardiness (I really need to work on my punctuality) and a high five that this time had more shame than joy. We started talking about the cut and how we were both taken aback by the teacher’s promising comments.

“I want you to know I’m trying” I said. “I really am”.

​

She was the last person I ever wanted to disappoint. To a certain degree because I know she’s the only one that cares as much, if not more so, about the project. But also because I know what this means to her. I wanted to break down and tell her that I was completely exhausted. Tell her about the footsteps I hear when I think of the story. The steps that represent my self-doubt. Because I don’t have the experiences she has. Because I don’t know what it’s like to be a young girl coming home from school, hoping that as she walks through the door, she’ll see her father there. That he’s finally made it after months of dealing with smugglers, officers and cartels. Months of walking in the scorching sun. Months of sleeping in the freezing cold. I wanted to tell her all these things, but I didn’t know how.

As it turns out, I didn’t need too. Because she saw the worry in me, and simply smiled in a gentle way.

​

“Emilio, you really think I don’t know?”

 

​

The last day of class had gone differently from what I imagined. We still didn’t have a final cut, and it would be long until we had a finished project. My professor/mentor sat us all down and told us it was an honor to have had us as his students. I shook his hand goodbye, and he told me we’d be in contact during the Spring. I believe him, but like all goodbyes you must always make space in your head for the possibility that there won’t be another time.

​

 Nights went by and I slowly started to feel more at peace with the work we made (and continue to make). That’s when I got a message from my professor telling me I had done a good job and telling me that as far as the future goes, I have to learn how to write with my guts, not my head. And suddenly it hit me. Maybe it’s not about what I think of when I hear the footsteps, it’s not even about how I feel. It’s that impulse you get when the story demands you to be better, because it’s not about you. It never was. You must embrace that responsibility, gain some courage.

​

And in that moment, I was back on the beach. The calming waves, the endless sky. And I could be grateful for having that moment again, when so many, so often, don’t. I’m grateful for the life I’ve had, and I think about those whose lives are reduced to footsteps on the sand. That’s the problem. The lines in the sand. The lines that separate us and pull us away from each other. The lines that in the cruelest of ways, never disappear. Not even with the ocean waves. Not even with mar.