Last night my husband told me I didn’t love Mexico. The creep of fascism (and the passage of the big, ugly bill in the Senate, a bill that will harm and terrorize millions) has caused us to talk in depth about moving to Mexico, a land I love fiercely.
We look outside our windows each morning to check for odd vehicles on our street. Is ICE near? Would they come for a heart patient who has been documented for 35 years and make up an excuse to take him?
I believe they would if given the chance.
But leaving? I know myself and my bent toward thinking of negatives first. Our grown children are in the U.S. Our grandchildren. My family. I have to vomit out those negative thoughts before the positive ones can flood through my system.
I am a sentimental person and hold onto things I shouldn’t. The first thing on my mind should be my husband’s safety, but first, I need to feel selfish for a tick, let the brooding make my face darken, thick words of emotion turning my tongue black. I have to let the tears overtake me before I can control them.
In his eyes I see the fear that I don’t want to go and uproot everything we just uprooted 18 months ago. We took the plunge, selling our longtime home in the country for a cozy bungalow in the city. I love it here, but with the creep of things going wrong, a government in the early stages of authoritarianism, I can’t abide that.
Folks who would say, “But it won’t be that bad,” haven’t been paying attention to people being disappeared in broad daylight, taken to basements and given no food and water — local residents who are not criminals but soccer moms and landscapers, people who stir up your horchata and serve you with a smile.
It hasn’t touched you, so you aren’t paying attention. I don’t talk about it with many people. I have a close-knit group of friends who care and would never tell us we’re overreacting. You only need to watch the news to know we aren’t.
It’s kind of like being raptured if you grew up in conservative circles. Soon everyone around you has disappeared, and you wonder where they went because you didn’t take the time to care.
He knows how much I love Mexico. He’s just trying to broach the subject that neither one of us wants to face. But it’s at our door, and we have to grab it by the neck and twist every ounce of our courage.
We’ve talked many times about moving to Mexico in our later years. We are 58 and 56, and there isn’t much time to spare. His parents are aging, yet they keep on living despite the pain of it. He would like to sit with his mom, drink coffee in the morning and chat. He hasn’t lived there since he was 10 years old.
Maybe peace would find him, and he could rest. And me? My peace comes from being with him. Staying here without him isn’t an option.
Yet the faces of my grandchildren calling for me … that will be hard.
America and her slow death have made us make a plan of action. I do blame her government and the lack of empathy she has shown. We are headed down a long, dark path that shows no signs of stoppage. They are cackling in the White House with sharp claws extended. It’s going to end in destruction.
I want to find myself sipping coffee alongside my beloved in a place where he feels safe. Just maybe our lives will end up the way they were meant to. I will cling to that.
Melissa Herrera is a reflective writer who captures the beauty and sorrow of change. With a career spanning 14 years as an opinion columnist and the publication of two books, she resides in Stark County with her husband and four cats. She writes to preserve memories. You can reach her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.
