Reflections on our Daytrip to Nogales

Rachel Richardson

It’s the day after Christmas and a few tiny remnants of yesterday’s celebration peek out from beneath the gravel—over here is an abandoned plastic glove, dropped by a volunteer server, and over there is a small scrap of the wrapping paper that covered the tables where many of Tucson’s poorest families savored a Christmas feast.  But mostly, the lot is empty now, save for a handful of Giving Tree volunteers who are quietly loading toys, food and supplies into vans.

As I divide a large bag of dried beans into paper sacks I can’t quite imagine the men and women who will hold out their hands, hoping to receive the smallest amount of food to get their families through the next days.  They will be young and they will be old; they will be desperate and they will be endlessly patient; they will clump together and they will be painfully alone.  But above all they will be real.  When I arrive in Nogales, Mexico I do not see the statistics that speak of the billion people worldwide living in substandard housing.  Instead, I see smiling women, giggling children and men with their arms folded across their chests—the kind with names, faces, dreams, heartaches, stomachs that growl and eyes that can’t see in the dark—all living in the cardboard shacks that line the dump, with absolutely no water, heating or lights.

The drive has been peaceful but hardly long.  I cannot believe we are only an hour and a half from home and few minutes south of the U.S border when we pull into the dump.  Now the calm is replaced with energy as some of the local women, who will help us distribute the food and supplies, pile into the van.  I can’t always understand their words but I can feel both their excitement and frustration as they update director Libby Wright about what has happened since the Giving Tree’s last visit.  We choose a spot to unload—the garbage is mostly buried beneath us but pieces of trash still seem to seep up and litter the dirt.  We scurry to prepare as men, women and children arrive from every direction.  I sheepishly slap peanut butter onto slightly stale bread, wishing I had not forgotten the jam: these simple sandwiches will have to do as our hors d'oeuvres.  The children come through the line first.  They smile broadly as they sit among the trash to eat warmed turkey, gravy, salad and small pieces of sweet bread.

As the meal concludes, we are scrapping the end of the pans, serving peanut butter and bread again because the turkey is gone.  I quickly see that our vanloads of toys and clothes will not possibly be enough.  They have nothing here, except moving authenticity and powerful human dignity in the midst of this struggle.  I want so much to sit down with each and every one of them and give them the food and water and warmth and opportunities they deserve.  Instead, I stand helplessly, sometimes just watching, as others scamper to distribute the toys and food in a pattern that is supposed to be fair.  But it doesn’t seem fair at all that we have to choose which little boy can have a Christmas present or which young mother can have a blanket to wrap her shivering baby.

The food, water bottles, diapers, laundry soap and stuffed animals have disappeared.  All that remains is a small pile of random summer clothes which seem out of place in the bitter cold.  When we hand out the last backpack it is dark.  The children dash off, their eyes filled with wonder and happiness even though they won’t be able to take these backpacks to school since their families cannot possibly afford the necessary uniforms or transportation.

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