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.

