Kicked Up
The Mexican side of the border in Tijuana, MX
As I sit here ready to reflect on our day in Tijuana, with over a week between me and the experience, I find that I am still having trouble articulating it all. I feel as if the sound, comfortable ground that I stood on before Tijuana was kicked up into the air. And that what was kicked up into the air is still unsettled, waiting to float back down to (hopefully) create a foundation for me to stand on that is more understanding, more empathetic and more truthful because of it . . Some of the things that I blissfully did not have to define before being affronted by my experiences in Tijuana were. . . what it means to be “an American,” what it means to be a “journalist,” and what it means to be a Christian… And how exactly to be all of those things well (an American, Christian journalist) even when combined.
Obviously, these are big terms to be able to define, and people spend their whole lives trying to create ethical frameworks in all these areas, so here, I am not attempting to try to define what this should look like, but rather just explain what came up in my own heart in relation to these areas during my time in Tijuana.
First off, I was really confronted with what it means to be an “American.” While in Tijuana, we met up with Hector Barajas, a deported vet who was born in Mexico but had been living in the U.S. since he was 6 years old. He had created a life in the U.S.: he had a family in the U.S., created a web of community in the U.S., and even served in the U.S. army. After he was deported to Mexico, he founded the Deported Veterans Support House in Tijuana, Mexico, a home for others that found themselves in the same position as him.
Right: Hector Barajas, a deported vet who founded the Deported Veterans Support House in Tijuana, Mexico and one of the house's residents
I was truly confronted by what it means to be an American: my rights and privileges simply because of the geographic location of where I was born and the nationality that I can list on my passport. I thought, “Here’s this man that is probably more American than me (if measured by service, experience, lifespan) but now he is separated from his family simply because of the fact that he was born 20 miles more south.
Next, I was confronted with what it meant to be a journalist. As we sped through the red light district of Tijuana, almost like we were being taken on a tour trying to catch the bus to the next stop, I thought, “Is this enough?” Am I really grasping what it means to be a Tijuana native? Was I really entering into the reality of the people whose lives consist of this every day?
A mural in the Red Light district in Tijuana, MX
Above all else, journalists are meant to be storytellers. To put truth on display. To shed light on issues that are perhaps obscured, overlooked, or outright not seen. But what needs to be done to get to a point where we can tell a story that is truthful? How do we get to this point? What needs to happen to arrive at a place where we retell someone’s story, truthfully? I’m learning that may be simply through listening.
But then being a Christian journalist adds a whole other element to what it means to be a truth seeker. Why do we seek truth? To what end do we tell the stories of others? How much do we engage? How intently do we listen?
And when is it necessary to stop telling stories and start doing something?
Like I said, I am not attempting to define any of these terms or answer any of the questions that I pose.
These are just some of areas in my life that were kicked up because of Tijuana.
Maybe now it will do the same to you.
But hopefully with the end of creating a foundation for us all to stand on that is more understanding, more empathetic and more truthful.