Becoming Dr. Q. Alfredo Quinones-Hinojosa
the main crossing gate where cars went from Mexico into the United States and, from there, slowly make his way through the streets of Calexico to our designated meeting place behind the house of one of our relatives. My intention, the moment I landed on the other side of the fence, was to race off in an entirely opposite direction from the Thunderbird, kill some time in order to lose the trail of any suspicious border agents, and eventually wind back to our spot. From there, after we made it out of town and onto the highway, the plot would thicken as we implemented a few measures to avoid the immigration checkpoints—which actually posed the biggest obstacle for most border crossings.
Today, with the many changes in technology, many more checkpoints along numerous transportation channels, and much tougher measures along the U.S.-Mexico border, this plan of mine would not work—for good reasons. Immigration issues have grown much more complicated, and we have much work to do in figuring out how to reach fair-minded reform with all of those considerations.
In some respects, however, things haven’t so much changed as they have intensified, including economic extremes in both developing and developed countries. For the poor and the powerless, literal hunger and a quest for opportunity are enough to compel them to risk everything, even their lives, to cross the border. Meanwhile, anti-immigrant resentment has grown too, mainly against the poor, undocumented workers who provide cheap labor.
As I would learn later on, developed countries will always welcome the Einsteins of this world—those individuals whose talents are already recognized and deemed to have value. This welcome doesn’t usually extend to poor and uneducated people seeking to enter the country. But the truth, supported by the facts of history and the richness of the immigrant contribution to America’s distinction in the world, is that the most entrepreneurial, innovative, motivated citizen is the one who has been given an opportunity and wants to repay the debt.
Of course, I was unaware of these complexities as I prepared to cross the border. For me, the fence was the dividing line between oppression and a fighting chance, between stagnation and hope. It was that simple. What’s more, at the time the United States had unprecedented demand for cheap labor that was dependable—decent, hardworking, able. What this said to me was that I was needed. Upon this stage, my drama was set.
At precisely 8:30 P.M., it was do-or-die time. I approached the fairly remote stretch of the border fence a couple of blocks beyond Mexicali’s city limits. As I slid into place, crouched next to a bush between two light towers, I was relieved to see that I cast very little shadow. I knew, however, that when I moved closer to the fence, I would be plainly visible to anyone in the vicinity. No motion detectors were present in this era, but even so, one wrong move, one flinch of a muscle, could cause the endeavor to fail.
Behind me a few hundred yards, hiding behind a tree in the darkness, were Gabriel and Oscar, watching my attempt to make history—to do something none of us had dared consider or witnessed before. From their vantage point, I assumed, the lighting would allow them not only to see me scale the fence but also to look across to the spot in Calexico where Fausto would pick me up. Pumping myself up, I imagined that their challenge would be to stifle their cheers when they saw the Thunderbird speed away—and to avoid any other noise or movement that would attract the attention of the Mexican police who patrolled the border on our side.
At 8:31 P.M., I seized my moment, filled my lungs with air, and knowing that I was being watched by my brother and younger cousin, mustered every bit of courage and showmanship I had to propel myself up the fence and pull out all the Kaliman stops. Even though Gabriel and Oscar were rooting for me to get over the fence safely and smoothly, I knew that they would be equally excited to see me bite the dust. Oh, ye of little faith, I thought, just as it hit me that I was really doing this thing. In an instant, I understood what all my years of agility training had prepared me for. I sprang into the air and vaulted over the top rolls of barbed wire with a jump, hop, and a leap, positioning my body the perfect distance from the fence, moving down through the starless winter night with the grace of a bird. As I landed majestically on my feet, I was utterly exhilarated. Yes, yes, yes, I had done it! The eagle had landed. I had pulled off the maneuver! Just a small glitch. Based on my scientific calculations, I had decided that I needed three minutes to get from one side of the border to the other before speeding away on foot into the streets of Calexico. But my calculations were wrong—by thirty seconds. Out of nowhere headlights blasted into the darkness, momentarily blinding me—amid the screeching of brakes of the border patrol car arriving on the scene and the churning of dust as the two agents threw open the car doors and suddenly stood on either side of me.
So much for pulling off the maneuver. Humiliated, I felt like a total loser. I could only imagine my brother and cousin rolling on the ground, laughing uncontrollably. Despite my audacious, scientific, visionary thinking, the fireworks had just fizzled. Now what? Morosely, I prepared to be lambasted not only as a menace but as an incompetent one at that. To my surprise, though, the border agents were a rather affable duo. In fact, in the annals of law enforcement, my capture was as routine and benign as they come.
I was then chauffeured in the military-style Ford Bronco back to the main crossing station, where I was led into a room for booking. When prompted, I gave the agents a made-up name, knowing they wouldn’t push the issue. I was a scrawny, defeated-looking kid who appeared to be all of sixteen, without even any facial hair. They had nothing to gain from rubbing my face in my defeat. Without saying anything explicit, the agents appeared to be sympathetic—as if they knew the kinds of challenges that had driven me to risk life and limb to cross the border without papers. But everyone has a job to do. And they did what they always do—kicked me back to Mexico, out the rear door to head home on foot.
Memorably, it was right there, as I plodded along the three miles in the direction of my failed border crossing—where I’d last seen Gabriel and cousin Oscar—that I did some serious soul searching. I was crushed. How could the path of last resort lead only to a dead end? But then I asked myself if perhaps only my ego was hurt. In my mind, I put myself back in the ring and decided to be my own cornerman, to summon the Dr. Ferdie Pacheco as well as the Ali in me. Sure, I was knocked down. Yes, my timing was off. But was I going to collapse and cry? No way. I was going to hit back and give it my all once more—this time with a revised plan and new calculations.
Reinvigorated, I sprinted toward the crossing point, eager to share my new approach with my brother and cousin. I assumed that they had watched the whole debacle unfold and couldn’t wait to see me eat crow.
But the two of them had no idea what had happened after they saw me fly into the darkness. As I would learn months later, while I was being booked, Gabriel and Oscar were about to be booked by two Mexican policemen who had picked them up simply because they looked suspicious, hiding behind a tree for no apparent reason and looking young and naive—one of them (cousin Oscar) well dressed in U.S.-bought clothes. Never having been in trouble, they figured that matters could not become much worse when the officers put them in the police car. But after driving for several minutes, the policeman in the passenger seat turned around and noticed a near-empty bottle of beer at Oscar’s feet.
The policeman behind the wheel was outraged as he turned to his partner. “We just got these kids in the car, and they’re drinking?”
With that, Gabriel and Oscar were dragged into the station and soon escorted to a jail cell, at which point they dug into their pockets. Gabriel had only a few dollars to fork over. But Oscar ended up paying something exorbitant—like a hundred hard-earned bucks.
That drama was still playing out for them when I arrived back where I had attempted my over-the-fence maneuver an hour earlier. I wasn’t sure what to do next. All I knew was that I was lucky because I had a choice: either to throw in the towel and give up, or, as I had learned in boxing, to get back on my feet and try again. This decision was a crucial test of my mettle, and it taught me a lesson I have carried with me ever since—that the best successes often come after multiple failures; the key is to try again and again without losing enthusiasm and focus.
Given the choice, I decided to go for it again—the same strategy, only better. To that end, I spent the next hour hugging the ground right next to the fence, below a few bushes, and studying the movements of the border patrol. Instead of giving myself a three-minute window,