I was seven years old when my mother finally got the money together so that I could join her, my brother, and my sister in the United States. My mom had asked my grandma to take me to Tijuana, where my uncle would join us to take me on my journey across the border. My grandma hated to see me go; she had raised me ever since I was six months old. She did not agree with my mother’s decision but knew I would have a much better life if I went. “Doña Chuy,” as my grandma was called by every kid within two blocks, relented to my mother’s wishes and prepared me for the trip.

My grandma and I boarded an old blue bus with a white rabbit painted on the side. The bus was almost full, and only a few, empty side-by-side seats remained. The seats were old and tattered. They smelled musky and looked uncomfortable but the rest did not seem to fare any better. We took the first ones we saw. My grandma filled the aisle seat and shielded me from the barrage of elbows as everyone crammed the bus. The diesel engine soon roared through the snaking road, and within minutes it had rocked me to sleep.

By morning we had arrived at the station. A big sign read: “Central Camionera, Tijuana, B.C.” I grabbed my belongings; they weren’t much. Everything fit snuggly in a small grocery bag. Inside the bag were: a set of extra clothes, a water bottle, and two cold burritos wrapped in napkins, nothing else. My nubuck sandals, with tire tread soles, had been left behind. In their place was a pair of white, knockoff Nikes that grandma had bought me at the Mercado. “They’ll make you run faster,” my grandma told me. “Para que le ganes a la migra,” she added, so you can outrun I.N.S.

After a quick breakfast, mixed with hugs and kisses, I was handed over to my uncle. I cried my eyes out as I waved goodbye to my grandma. Although I could not see her face as she boarded the bus, I knew she was doing the same. My uncle simply told me to man up, “aguantese como los hombres,” he would say. Night quickly came, and when it did, we were on the move. Before I knew it, I found myself quietly crossing the border atop my uncle’s shoulders. It was eerily dark, but we managed to stagger our way down the banks of a canal. This small body of dirty water was the only thing that separated me and America. The water smelled like the foul rags my aunts used to scrub dishes. Out of the corner of my left eye, I saw an old inner tube that lay motionless, as it stuck to a pile of rubble; perhaps someone’s trampled dreams of making it across. With Nikes in hand, and pants rolled up, as not to get them wet, we managed to make it across the border. I had nothing to my name at that point. The clothes on my back and the grime beneath my untrimmed finger nails were my only souvenirs.

As the sun rose in the San Joaquin Valley, México awoke with fewer people. We arrived in Fowler on a damp but sunny day. It was a small, quiet town outside the city of Fresno, and it was now my new home. Money was exchanged before my uncle and I were let out of the car. Five hundred for each was the going rate in 1989. My mother hugged me. I hardly knew her, and so I did not hug her back. Sadness had started to creep inside me. I missed everything and everyone. Most of all, I missed my abuela.

It took about a year and a half to get accustomed to the gringo way. My sister and brother taught me the ropes. Their friends became my friends, and I soon made my own. I embraced Nintendo, McDonalds, football, and Thanksgiving. I stood proudly every day for the pledge of allegiance even though I could hardly pronounce the words, let alone make out their significance. Every now and then, a few kids would remind me that I was a foreigner. They introduced me to terms such as: wetback, beaner, and border-brother. At first, they did not bother me, partly because I did not realize their meaning, partly because they did not apply. I would try to rationalize the comments, “I am neither from the border, nor did I get my back wet,” I tried to explain to them. To me, my legal status was a minor detail, a bump on the road; besides, I had a plan to become “more” American. I had watched Sylvester Stallone in the movies: Rambo, and Rocky. He was my hero. I wanted to be just like him. After all, in Rocky, he was nicknamed the “Italian Stallion,” yet, there was no one more American than he. I concluded that it would be too difficult to become a boxing champion; it would also be too painful. After watching Rambo II; I decided I would become a soldier, Rambo knife and all.

The years came and went. In a drop of a hat I was eighteen, and I now had a green card in my wallet-a real one this time. I was a bona fide resident of the United States of America. This entitled me to come and go as I pleased, so in the summer following my high school graduation, and before shipping off to boot camp, I returned to México.

As I recall, the plane touched down a few minutes past noon. My grandpa stood waiting at the baggage terminal, looking no older than when I had last seen him. He was a man of few words, and simply shook my hand, as he patted my back. He wasted no time, and said he would circle the pick-up truck while I waited for my luggage. After loading the bags, he awkwardly patted me on my back once more, and then we were on our way. Everyone was outside as we pulled up. Childhood friends, family members I did not recognize, and of course, my grandma. We did as before, when we last saw each other, we cried; though this time they were tears of joy. “Bienvenido a casa,” welcome home, she said.

Inside the house, a meal fit for a king awaited us. The rickety table could hardly stand as it supported steel pots of chile verde, rice, beans, tortillas and a coffee flan for dessert. I ate like a hungry hostage, not once minding my manners. My stomach was quickly heaving with satisfaction. “No más,” I said. No more. After dinner we all talked for a while. My aunts teased me for using o.k. and yeah instead of sí. At the same time, my cousins tested my English proficiency, firing off words left and right for me to translate; as if they had any point of reference to gauge my knowledge. My grandma silently clutched my hand as she caressed my hair. She knew that I had changed a lot, but said nothing. She just smiled and listened to the nonsense of the conversation and the sporadic bursts of laughter from my aunts.

For the first couple of weeks, everything seemed to be as it once was. Though, before long, I became restless. I missed the amenities that California had to offer, and that I now lacked in Mexico. The stores on every corner, pizza on the weekends, water parks, and locking doors in bathrooms were all nonexistent there. Needless to say, I was miserable and made no attempt to hide it. To add to my despair, I had to do my fair share of the chores around the house. It was tough work. My twin cousins looked gaunt and tired from years of the same routine, yet they were unrelenting. Their sun beaten faces and calloused hands told stories of countless hours picking apples from the orchards, or some other back breaking work. As they worked and I rested, they would half-jokingly say, “Ya no eres mexicano, te rajas muy rápido,” you are not Mexican anymore, you give up too quickly. They were somewhat right; how could I be completely Mexican if my heart and soul were on the other side of the border?

After my trip to México, I came back with a bigger sense of appreciation for the mundane things in life. This time, when my mom hugged me, I returned the gesture. I owed her at least that much. Almost immediately, I settled back into my American life, and once again put Mexico behind me. Tucked it away in my back pocket, and rarely checked to see if it was still there.

It was the summer of 2009. I was then twenty seven, and already with a combat tour in Iraq under my belt. Somehow, in my never ending quest to become the ultimate patriot, I found myself at it again; this time in the outskirts of Kandahar City. I stood there in silence, with beads of sweat running down my brow, as I scanned the horizon. The air was dry with a faint trace of scorched tire and goat droppings. Every breath I took was half air, half who knows what. Grains of sand dug in between my teeth and gums like small troops preparing for an assault. “We’re going to miss chow again!” yelled my gunner from the turret, “No shit!” I yelled back.

Another breakdown had halted our convoy. We were providing security for local nationals as they delivered supplies and equipment on their shabby tractor-trailers. The jingle trucks, as we called them, were constantly breaking down. As a maintenance crew provided assistance, a cluster of local kids approached our lead vehicle. The interpreter and I immediately rushed ahead to intercept them. “Water, please mister!” They all cried in unison as they saw us. I tossed them a couple of bottles from the side of the vehicle and asked the interpreter to get them to leave. “They just kids” he said in broken English. “I don’t care. Get them away from the convoy,” I barked back. I knew better. I knew a kid was just as capable of killing someone as a grown-up was. All they needed was three key ingredients; a little training, coercion and intimidation.

As the kids scurried off, one stayed behind and curiously approached me. He was about six, looked dirt brown, dirt poor, and weighed no more than fifty-five pounds. He hesitantly blurted something in Pashtu, and waited for my reply. Bewildered, I looked at Rami, our interpreter, for assistance. “He ask where you from?” Is it not obvious, I thought to myself. “U.S.A.” I spelled out as I pointed to the static red, white, and blue on my right shoulder. The little “hajji” shook his head as he pointed to my three day old stubble, and then my skin. I knew what he meant and needed no translation for that. Rami, now laughing, gave me one anyhow. “He say you not American.” This annoyed me. I slightly raised my weapon and gestured for him to leave. He rapidly understood, just as I had understood his mannerism. He had overstayed his welcome and he knew it. In a blink of an eye he vanished from our presence.

What transpired after that was like a dream. This kid was no suicide bomber, yet he had managed to blow asunder the sense of equality I had created thus far. That imaginary feeling of identity was now in shambles. This kid, thousands of miles away, had just shown me that my camouflage uniform was not enough for him, not enough for anyone for that matter. No flag on my shoulder could define me nor label me. I would never truly meet the criteria for what I had yearned to become. I had wandered from my roots, and did not fit into the mold of any country. Old voices came back to haunt me. They spoke to me. Echoing that I was not Mexican anymore, called me a border brother, and then, past neighbors from California joined in; referring to me as “the Mexican fellow from two doors down.” I was banished, to many; I was neither American, nor Mexican. In a sense, I had become a nomad with no real homeland, and no real destiny. I was the by-product of the search for prosperity, which went horribly wrong. I was a drifter to the fullest extent.

A loud call by my platoon sergeant interrupted my trance. “Mount up! We’re rolling in five!” The nomad had to get moving again, and so I did.