I Come From Broken Lands.

I come from broken lands. From lands where fish can walk and birds build nests under the water, from which they hatch stinging centipedes. It is a land filled with hot dry rocks and surly mud. My beloved grandfather is buried in a rusted green oil drum at the edge of a stream that runs black in the winter and red in the summer. The trees drip a sour gum that eats holes in hats and shoes.
I come from broken lands and have left them behind to find out what it means not to be broken. To care again about wholesome streets and gainful relaxation. To look through clean windows. To watch children smile.
And I am stopped  by you, a man in a brown uniform. A gatekeeper at a blue portal. Blue is the color of the ocean, of turning around to say goodbye to fear. And brown is not a bad color for a man who must be hard sometimes. Whose eyes reflect the color of disturbed sand. You will not beat me, though you will not like me much either. I think it was you who left the speckled banana on the bench next to me when I fell asleep.
I fell asleep because I was exhausted with all the questions and all the lines to fill in on all the forms that came in pastel green and pink and yellow. And I don't know your language very well. We read it in books at school but it seemed like the sound of stormy water slapping at slimy cliffs to us. Your words are cold and harsh, like your winters to the north. I do not enjoy using them. 
But you in your stiff brown uniform and your stiff brown language are now my captor -- and maybe my captive, too. It's hard to tell sometimes. I hear you laugh down the hall, the cracked linoleum floor carrying your delight in something or other up the hall to me. And I am made aware of my insignificance to you. But then your inflexible boots march towards me and there is a moment when you want to ask me something, maybe beg me for something. What could it be? I can't know, not under these circumstances. You have a night stick in your belt, but it has never been used -- it is shoe shine bright. And I understand you must wear a mask in my presence. A muzzle that I put there. 
If I ever escape into your unbroken lands I will plant chives to your memory. I respect your sad dream-killing duties. But I think maybe my living dreams are going to be stronger than your dead duties. 

(Inspired by the NYT article "People Actively Hate Us": Inside the Border Patrol's Morale Crisis. by Fernandez, Jordan, Dickerson, and Kanno-Youngs.)

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