Lost Children Archive. Valeria Luiselli

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СКАЧАТЬ one looks at the bigger map, historical and geographical, of a refugee population’s migration routes. Most people think of refugees and migrants as a foreign problem. Few conceive of migration simply as a national reality. Searching online about the children’s crisis, I find a New York Times article from a couple of years back, titled “Children at the Border.” It’s an article set up as a Q&A, except the author both asks the questions and replies to them, so perhaps it’s not quite a Q&A. To a question about where the children are from, the author answers that three-quarters of them are from “mostly poor and violent towns” in El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras. I think of the words “mostly poor and violent towns” and the possible implications of that schematic way of mapping the origins of children who migrate to the United States. These children are utterly foreign to us, they seem to imply. They come from a barbaric reality. These children are also, most probably, not white. Then, after posing the question of why the children are not deported immediately, the reader is told: “Under an anti-trafficking statute adopted with bipartisan support … minors from Central America cannot be deported immediately and must be given a court hearing before they are deported. A United States policy allows Mexican minors caught crossing the border to be sent back quickly.” That word “allows” in the final sentence. It’s as if, in answer to the question “Why are the children not deported immediately?” the author of the article tried to offer relief, saying something like, don’t worry, at least we’re not keeping the Mexican children, because luckily there’s a policy that “allows” us to send them back quickly. Like Manuela’s girls, who would have been deported immediately, except some officer had been kind enough to let them pass. But how many children are sent back without even being given a chance to voice their credible or incredible fears?

      No one thinks of the children arriving here now as refugees of a hemispheric war that extends, at least, from these very mountains, down across the country into the southern US and northern Mexican deserts, sweeping across the Mexican sierras, forests, and southern rain forests into Guatemala, into El Salvador, and all the way to the Celaque Mountains in Honduras. No one thinks of those children as consequences of a historical war that goes back decades. Everyone keeps asking: Which war, where? Why are they here? Why did they come to the United States? What will we do with them? No one is asking: Why did they flee their homes?

      NO U-TURN

      Why can’t we just go back home? asks the boy.

      He is fidgeting with his Polaroid in the backseat, learning how to handle it, reading the instructions, grunting.

      There’s nothing to take pictures of anyway, he complains. Everything we pass is old and ugly and looks haunted.

      Is that true? Is everything haunted? asks the girl.

      No baby, I say, nothing is haunted.

      Though perhaps, in a way, it is. The deeper we drive into this land, the more I feel like I’m looking at remains and ruins. As we pass an abandoned dairy farm, the boy says:

      Imagine the first person who ever milked a cow. What a strange person.

      Zoophilia, I think, but I don’t say it. I don’t know what my husband thinks, but he doesn’t say anything either. The girl suggests that maybe that first cow milker thought that if he pulled hard enough—down there—the bell around the cow’s neck would ding-dong.

      Chime, the boy corrects her.

      And then suddenly milk came out, she concludes, ignoring her brother.

      Adjusting the mirror, I see her: an ample smile, at once serene and mischievous. A slightly more reasonable explanation comes to me:

      Maybe it was a human mother who had no milk to give her baby, so she decided to take it from the cow.

      But the children are not convinced:

      A mother with no milk?

      That’s crazy, Mama.

      That’s preposterous, Ma, please.

      PEAKS & POINTS

      As a teenager, I had a friend who would always look for a high spot whenever she had to make a decision or understand a difficult problem. A rooftop, a bridge, a mountain if available, a bunk bed, any kind of height. Her theory was that it was impossible to make a good decision or come to any relevant conclusion if you weren’t experiencing the vertiginous clarity that heights impose on you. Perhaps.

      As we climb the mountain roads of the Appalachians, I can think more clearly, for the first time, about what has been happening to us as a family—to us as a couple, really—over the last months. I suppose that, over time, my husband started feeling that all our obligations as a couple and as a family—rent, bills, medical insurance—had forced him to take a more conventional path, farther and farther away from the kind of work he wanted to devote his life to. And that, some years later, it finally became clear to him that the life we’d made together was at odds with what he wanted. For months, trying to understand what was happening to us, I felt angry, blamed him, thought he was acting on whimsy—for novelty, for change, for other women, for whatever. But now, traveling together, physically closer than ever before but far from the scaffolding that had sustained the daily work in progress of our familial world and distanced from the project that had once brought us together, I realize I had been accumulating similar feelings. I needed to admit my share: although I hadn’t lit the match that started this fire, for months I had been leaving a trail of dry debris that was now fueling it.

      The speed limit on the roads across the Appalachians is 25 miles per hour, which irritates my husband but which I find ideal. Even at this speed, though, it took me a few hours to notice that the trees along the mountain path are covered in kudzu. We had passed acres of woodland blanketed in it on our way up toward this high valley, but only now do we see it clearly. My husband explains to the children that kudzu was brought over from Japan in the nineteenth century, and that farmers were paid by the hour to plant it on harvested soil, in order to control erosion. They went overboard, though, and eventually the kudzu spread across the fields, crept up the mountains, and climbed up all the trees. It blocks the sunlight and sucks out all the water from them. The trees have no defense mechanism. From the higher parts of the mountain road, the sight is terrifying: like cancerous marks, patches of yellowing treetops freckle the forests of Virginia.

      All those trees will die, asphyxiated, sucked dry by this bloody rootless creeper, my husband tells us, slowing down as we hit a curve.

      But so will you, Pa, and all of us, and everyone else, the boy says.

      Well, yes, his father admits, and grins. But that’s not the point.

      Instructively, the girl then informs us:

      The point is, the point is, the point is always pointy.

      VALLEYS

      We wind up and down the narrow, sinuous road, across the Blue Ridge Mountains, and head west into a narrow valley cradled between two arms of the range, once more looking for a gas station. When we start to lose signal again, I turn off the radio, and the boy asks his father for stories, stories of the past in general. The girl interrupts now and then, asks him very concrete questions.

      What about Apache girls? Did they exist?

      What do you mean? he says.

      You only talk about Apache men, and sometimes Apache boys, so were there any girls?

      He thinks for СКАЧАТЬ