From the front doorstep of my childhood home on Z Street, we had a view of San Diego Bay and its naval ships. She was a retired nurse who lived on the steep hillsides of Colonia Libertad, right alongside the boundary.
My life was shaped by these comings and goings: During the week, we’d go to school and work in San Diego on weekends and holidays we’d head south for a birthday or a wedding, or to have dinner with my grandmother Esperanza. More than 100,000 of us crossed in either direction every day. It was a time when such a relocation was less an international move and more a matter of switching neighborhoods. They decided to build a family across the border in San Diego, and that’s where I was born. My parents, who are both from Tijuana, met in that city in the late 1970s while my father was home from California’s Central Valley, where he was a field worker. I grew up on the border between the United States and Mexico, near the boundary line that starts at the Pacific Ocean and weaves east toward the Gulf of Mexico.
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