I
have a vivid memory of an
old photograph — I am 5
years old. I am in the park
across the street from my house
in my school uniform, clutching
in my hands two Barbie dolls and
laughing. Behind me, the metal
playground stands tall and bar-
ren, too hot to the touch under the
heat of the afternoon desert sun.
On the ground are sparse patches
of yellowing grass, as if someone
tried to make it grow but realized
any attempt to shield it from the
drought would be futile.
A vibrant Ciudad Juárez, Mex-
ico surrounds me. Beyond the
guard and gate that protect my
neighborhood, there is a wide
avenue that runs north to south.
It abruptly turns left when it runs
into the basin of “el Río Bravo,” or
the Rio Grande, as if acknowledg-
ing it is not welcome on the other
side. Despite the apparent rejec-
tion from the “gringos,” a bustling
business district dwells on either
side of the street. Everything from
restaurants and bars to costume
shops and hair salons can be found
there. Old American school buses
that have been painted over and
now function as public transpor-
tation drive up and down carelessly, a phone
number labeled as “quejas,” or complaints,
always written on the back just in case. People
honk their horns at the jugglers who practice
their art standing at intersections in hopes of
receiving a peso or two from drivers.
At night, the avenue lights up in color, with
strobe lights and smoke machines functioning
at maximum speed until the early hours of the
day. Occasionally, sirens can be heard in the
distance, rushing to the site of the next rob-
bery or homicide. Over 1 million people coexist
around this avenue — some are up to no good,
but most lay their heads on their pillows every
night thinking about love, professional success
or responsibilities.
The year is 2002. The average price of a USD
is 9.67 MXN. Due to the implementation of
NAFTA, there are 396
factories, or “maqui-
ladoras,” operating in
Juárez.
The
average
“maquiladora”
worker
earns 6 to 8 USD per
day. But they are find-
ing themselves unem-
ployed as factories gear
up to leave the val-
ley and outsource to
China. Due to the fac-
tory exodus, 200,000
people are uninsured.
The justice movement
“Ni una más,” or “Not
One More,” is formed in
response to an increase
in women’s killings, or
“femicidios.” The mayoral election has been
canceled due to fraud allegations.
I have a vivid memory of an old photograph,
my mother standing behind the camera, cap-
turing a perfectly uncomplicated moment in
my life. My laughter echoes innocently up the
avenue and into my neighbor’s houses, spilling
onto the canvas of a complicated society, one
forcibly delineated by what once was a flowing
river, but is now an empty basin. Once the sound
reaches the riverbed, it dips but then rises again
and crosses freely onto the other side.
That freedom, the privilege, to laugh so sin-
cerely and without preoccupation would soon
be muffled by expectations. From a very young
age, I was accused of curiosity. I was a “calle-
jera,” or a girl who liked being out of the house,
and a “jacalotes,” or a girl who always wanted
to have fun. My curiosity was met with the
realization that the more I learned about my
society, the more I would be pushed to obey its
rules. Close your legs when you sit. Smile at com-
pliments from old men. Feel good when they say
you look like a butterfly. Don’t object when their
eyes follow you as you walk away.
E
ight years later, the candor of my laugh-
ter has been replaced by a feigned,
frustrated smile. Another memory of
a photograph, except in this one I am 13 years
old. I am surrounded by friends in the basket-
ball courts of our “secu,” or secondary school.
We just performed in our school’s “fonoshow,”
the Mexican equivalent to an American school’s
talent show. This year, we banded together with
a group of 9th grade students to choreograph
a medley of songs. In the picture, a group of
nine girls and two boys takes center stage. All
of the girls, bare shouldered and wearing fish-
net tights, don red lipstick and rehearsed smiles
while the boys stand there with their hands by
their sides and straight faces.
I am kneeling on the ground. My hair, made
to look unnaturally big, shines a golden brown,
sun-kissed color that contrasts with my fair,
makeup-covered skin. The outfit makes me
look at least 15. My black shirt displays two
spray painted golden hands over my breasts,
and a white bra strap peeks out from under one
of the shirt’s black spaghetti straps. My hand
is uncomfortably patting my black tulle skirt
down, as if its length made me uncomfortable.
Some of the other girls also place their hands
in strategic places. One covers her chest while
pretending to touch her collarbone. Another
crosses her arms around her waist, hiding her
midriff from the camera. Some hide behind oth-
ers, and some try to make themselves bigger. We
are all dressed the same, but each of us wears
the makeup and clothes differently.
Our school now runs drills in case of shoot-
ings, and the man who used to sell us popsi-
cles from the other side of the fence has been
banned. Security has been tightened –– parents
now have to carry photo IDs of their kids to be
able to enter the school grounds. Kids go miss-
ing for weeks — we are told they went on vaca-
tion, but rumors fly around that they crossed the
border for safety. Their parents have been kid-
napped. Their uncle was killed. Their brother
was caught by “sicarios,” or hitmen, surrounded
by the wrong company.
Beyond us, the sunset, and the imminent
darkness that is to follow it, dissolves plans and
causes families to lock their doors and draw
their curtains. The avenue stretches wider now
than it did in 2002, but there are no cars to fill it.
Once in a while, a lonely driver appears on the
horizon and finds themselves waiting at a red
light in vain. There are no cars driving on the
cross street. What was once a bustling business
district is now plagued by boarded storefronts
and broken windows. In some places, bullet
holes can be seen puncturing old store signs and
doors of businesses that are still open to cus-
tomers –– there isn’t enough money to patch up
or replace them.
Park benches and pavilions don’t serve their
purpose anymore. They just tolerate the sun
every day, their paint chipping and being eaten
away by the radiation. The patches of grass that
once existed in the
park across the street
from my house have
long been forgotten,
and now a layer of
dust accumulates on
our neighborhoods’
cars every time boys
come out to play
“fútbol.” Fences go
up to block streets
that once could be
traveled freely, and
cameras are installed
at restaurants and
stores.
On the north end of the avenue, the “gringos”
have built an iron fence on the ancient basin of
the “Río Bravo.” At night, Border Patrol SUVs
station themselves at intervals to guard it. It is
as if they have grown more scared and proud
with the passing of time, each year broadening
the chasm between self and other within which
Border Patrol officers find comfort.
The year is 2010. The average price of 1 USD
is 12.75 MXN. At least 3,000 deaths have been
reported in Juárez, out of which 306 were
femicides. Living in the metropolitan area are
1,332,131 people, making the city the eighth larg-
est in Mexico. The Sinaloa Cartel and Juárez
Cartels are fighting a “turf war.” During some
months, Juárez reportedly experiences 10 mur-
ders a day. Some consider our city a war zone,
so much so that the Mexican government has
sent us military forces. Military checkpoints
are common, but even more common yet is to
see soldiers with their hands on the trigger of
automatic weapons.
I am kneeling on the ground, and the inno-
cent laughter that seemed so normal in 2002
has now vanished. Instead, I look uncomfort-
able. My smile appears wide, but my eyes say
something else. The moment the camera man-
aged to capture is no longer uncomplicated.
The laughter that once spilled unpreoccupied is
now contained in a forced smile, kept at bay by
the knowledge and the expectations that have
accumulated with time. It is charged with years
of bearing witness, years of seeing, feeling and
hearing things that will never be forgotten.
The avenue and the river basin, as empty and
broken as they may seem, are still my only land-
marks. At 13, I am actively discovering my body
and identity, but I can only build up from what
I already know. I know women are never sup-
posed to sit with their legs open. I know I am
never supposed to admit that I wear makeup.
Instead, I need to apply the perfect amount,
enough to enhance my features but still go
unnoticed by other people. I know my friends
are embarrassed to eat in front of men for fear
that they will be perceived as fat or without
manners. I know I always need to smell good
and smile quietly in the background of a con-
versation. I know I am never supposed to go the
bathroom alone. I know I should feel flattered
when a man tells me I am beautiful, even if it is
at the wrong place in the wrong time.
Even if I never wanted to hear it or do it in the
first place.
I feel uncom-
fortable in my
own body. Vio-
lence finds a
way to circle
around it like a
vulture patient-
ly waiting for its
prey to die.
Violence
circles my body
in the “literal”
way –– I always
have
to
look
back and make
sure that a man
is not following me when I am in the store with-
out my mother. I look back the same way that I
always do when my father is driving past dawn,
making sure no car follows us home, out of fear
of being physically harmed.
There is a park near my house. It used to be
an empty lot, but the government found a way
to transform one of the corners into a memorial
for the victims of femicide. Its walls are painted
white with bright pink trims and the ground is
littered with black and pink wooden crosses.
In 2002, the sight of such bright colored walls
and the presence of the crosses would spark me
to ask questions that my mother never wanted
to answer, but now I keep quiet. I know why
the park is there now. I know what the crosses
stand for. I understand what it means, and I
have no reason to believe that I am exempt from
that treatment.
A
nother 8 years have passed since I
knelt on the basketball courts of my
“secu,” and yet another photograph
has been taken. For this one, I am able to recall
the exact moment when it happened. It was
a humid summer day in Mexico City, and my
family was visiting La Casa Azul, Frida Kahlo’s
childhood home converted into a museum of
her art. My cousin motioned me to pose for a
picture, and I reluctantly agreed. It was a pain-
less, fast moment. She kneeled, took the photo
and stood up. I never imagined she would pro-
vide me with one of my favorite photographs of
myself.
My smile is secure, confident, and I am look-
ing directly at the camera. I am wearing my
favorite summer dress. Its cream color makes
my skin appear sun-kissed, and the pattern
melts into the background, as if Frida and I
agreed to match our taste. The dress itself is
heavy, made out of rayon, but it doesn’t seem to
be bringing me down. My hands sit delicately on
my sides, shoulders are relaxed, and I am lean-
ing back slightly as if motioning to the sky.
In the background, barely there, is the win-
dow of Frida’s studio. Her garden blossoms
around me, and the little sun that can escape
the canopy of trees creates shadows that dance
on my face. The photo was taken from below, so
it appears as if I am towering over the frame.
Despite the exotic plants and colorful flowers
and walls of the background, I am still the point
of focus of the photograph. Every angle and line
leads the eye to my face.
Out of the frame and surrounding me is a
city that I barely know and a country that I no
longer recognize. No sabes nada de la Ciudad de
México, muchos se van y terminan regresando a
sus pueblos asustados. You don’t know anything
about Mexico City, many go and go back to their
towns scared. That is what my grandma kept
saying to me when I told her I wanted to move
there.
The country, I don’t recognize because I left
it. I have been living in the U.S. since 2011 and
I now understand so much more. I am able to
build my identity not only on the things that I
see and experience, but also based on other
people who are different than me but have some
shared experiences.
The year is 2018. I have not lived in Juárez
since I was 13 and I am now 20. The years have
flown by without hesitation, and the girl in the
photograph has learned how to reclaim herself.
I still look back in the supermarket to see if any
man is following me, but have stopped trying to
determine if the person driving behind me has
malicious intentions. I no longer shave my legs,
now eat in front of men and always go to the
bathroom by myself.
Most importantly, I have found my voice.
I never knew it was possible to advocate for
myself the way I have learned to do since 2011.
It is in the small things. The girl with golden
hands over her breasts, red lips and unnecessar-
ily big hair is now a part of a different, slightly
more accepting society.
I now know my voice deserves to be heard.
I know that violence and fear may have pre-
vented me from speaking before, but I am also
aware that what I accepted as normal then
would never pass as normal now. I am able to
see everything that happened to me in Juárez
as an outsider. I learn about my hometown from
books and classes, from people who have never
been there before. Their approach, the way they
see my city may not be holistic, but I do think
that it is valuable to study your experiences
through an outsider’s role.
If it wasn’t for the University of Michigan,
I would have not had the amount of education
needed to process and deal with the remaining
trauma left over from those last few years in
Juárez.
Wednesday, February 27. 2019 // The Statement
4B
5B
BY ANDREA PÉREZ BALDERRAMA, MANAGING STATEMENT EDITOR
Wednesday,February 27, 2019 // The Statement
Picturing
the
border:
memories
of
Ciudad Juárez,
México
Andrea Pérez Balderrama // The Daily
From a very young
age, I was accused of
curiosity.