CXMX:



Cages. Spikes. Barriers. Obstacles. Dam. Gate. Portal.


The Imperial-Mexicali borderlands are unique, I'd say. Growing up between Mexicali and Calexico, my life always felt like it was shifting, moving between two worlds, like my uncles and aunts stepping into Calexico to play soccer as kids, with no border (wall or fence) separating them.


Yet, at the same time, it was a place full of integrated elements, such as...

The Imperial-Mexicali borderlands always seemed to me to be moving. The shifts between people made it feel like a space that existed, but was always moving. I remember when the fence was just as tall as my tallest cousin. Now, it looms over my parents’ place as it accumulates the hot desert heat. Maybe it's the desert-


The desert feels lifeless to some. To me, I know I can feel the mesquite tree providing cool shade in the dry, arid heat. It almost made it bearable. Although I remember my friend [REDACTED] telling me, "There is nothing to do here but to burn!" At the same time, a little hummingbird passed (me) by. My grandma just passed away-


I did not know how to start this piece without talking about different perceptions of place and space. How do I relate to a space, and how do I make it my place? How did the people between Mexicali and Calexico make these places their own? And how did the powers, the politicians, the people in power, create power? I felt these images were a small, quick snapshot of the space as constructed, but also as a place people made to live, understand, and breathe. From Chinese migrants exiled to the inner city after the rise of Mexican Nationalism to artists expressing themselves in murals of the city's history to reclaim the hegemonic narratives of the borderlands, I think back to how this place was constructed differently, but people made it for themselves. 


This, of course, is quite similar to most people's understanding of space and place. But I offer a different perspective. How does living in the desert reflect upon the living? In other words, I think back to what desert living is, and what it means. Does it mean resilience to the heat? Does it mean collectively bringing resources together? What inherently separates our desert living from our thrilling escape of the beautiful Mediterranean air of San Diego/// /Tijuana? I don't think I have the full answer to that question. I do know desert violence is used against migrants looking for opportunities in the empire. But I also know one more thing; I think back to living the tension of the interconnected///independent outskirts of the city. The plants are far apart, using their own resources to survive despite what may feel like torturous conditions, and still blossoming. In other words, desert living and its definitions should be found across place and space, but these images made me feel like there was one story to tell: a blossoming life.


From this point of view, I don't want us to think of desert living as a lack of life. Look all around us. In this space, in this place, the human and the non-human, we all find ways to live. To thrive. Despite the All-American Canal being made to extract resources for ONLY the US empire's purposes, to the literal cages right off the border to spikes on properties to deter and stop people from entering their premises, there are these residues of surveillance and carcerality found in the space that people are perpetuating through their own lives and the systems and structures we inherited. But that does not mean there is no life. There seems to be a connection between surveillance and the ways it detaches life from place: where borders and conditions are supposed to make it uninhabitable, life blossoms. It is found in the streets when people greet each other; in plants living green despite not being native; and in native plants shining as bright as the stars they live under.


Urban infrastructure is marked by this unified separation: the planes you see in the Sonoran Desert, visually distant from each other, yet connected underneath. How do people imprint themselves on the streets right next to each other? How do they do this despite the harsh conditions? How migrations bring life to a place like the migrants from China transforming and giving life to a city- and the ways the palm trees give each other shade tell me one thing: desert ecologies are spaced, but connected. What can that tell us about a place and how it maneuvers?


 Here’s a starter: despite these conditions, people rely on each other. Yes, it is a place defined by physical separation, but people still rely on each other. The plants decay, and the roadrunner eats. We rely on each other. The living and non-living rely on each other. 


That imprint of how the desert is spaced out lives on in the city. That living makes “Mexicali Calor Del Bueno” feel livable. It is the people and places. It gives that pride because the places are harsh, and we still thrive together; we make it happen.


And this is not to say the desert is lifeless, a void, or a place we must transform. In fact, the native ecologies of the place show us there is life, but marked differently than how we imagine. Therefore, we must not say the place is lifeless or not living, but rather a system interconnected through separational dependency. 


And maybe the border poisons us. But the desert shows us who we are; we make it work. Maybe all we have to do here is be with each other.