Mike Martinez–Border Patrol Agent
     
   by Leslie Clark


A native of Florida, I find myself now in this harsh, beige desert
doing a job that no one respects.  I thought it would be good, this
government job.  In training they told us of keeping the borders
of our country secure–especially important now in these times			
of suspicion.  Appealed to our patriotism, our wish to keep our country
safe from those who would do us harm.  But nothing is what I expected.

I sit for hours in my concealed truck in the desert, or perched on a hillside,
watching, waiting for groups of UDAs to struggle their way
through the heat toward their hopes of a better life, only to find
us instead to corral them, have them sit on the ground, dreams
fading from their eyes, as they wait for the van that will deliver
them back to where they started.  My Anglo partners they see as
their expected oppressors.  Me, with my black eyes and hair,
my Martinez name badge, they accuse as traitor.
I hear their mutterings–cabrón, they call me,
or sometimes pendejo.  I try not to listen, but their
contempt is like a punch in the chest to me, 
raised to be always loyal to my own. 

The citizens whose property we try to protect from invaders
often see us as a hostile force, crossing their private property
in darkness with our growling engines, our searchlights, the
endless circling of our helicopters. Citizens’ groups sneer
at our inefficiency.  One of my colleagues was shot at one night
last week by a rancher who could not see who was walking 
on his property. Two agents from my district have been killed
this year by drug smugglers with automatic weapons.
Every day, I sit in this heat-baked blankness and wish for green.
I ask every time I see my supervisor for a transfer to Washington
state, that other border, where at least there are some trees.
He shakes his head, says, “We’ll see, son.  We’ll see.”
I try to calm the fist clenched in my stomach,
and I wait.