grew up in San Diego,
about twenty miles from the border. However, my family went to Mexico fewer times
than humans have gone to the moon. My parents feared Tijuana. It was,
well‹different . The main road leading into Tijuana looked down into
a usually dry riverbed where people lived in cardboard shacks. The air smelled of
raw sewage, and children dressed in rags sold little packs of chicle (gum) while
people waited in their cars to cross back over to the United States.Over the years, I found most of my views growing and changing, but this view‹ no matter how wrong I knew it was‹stayed the same. This issue of Prism is being used to dispel this image, to try to find the heart of Mexico and Central America.
For my story, I went back to San Diego, spent time on both sides of the border, and then went further south to the small town of Jamay. Phred Lender and Cork Graham write about the fighting that took place earlier in El Salvador‹Graham from the perspective of having actually fought there. Sharman George writes about the Mexican family, photographer Nancy Cordua follows the Banda Fugaz and Bonnie Dhall writes about Dolores Huerta.
If we had any limit, it was time and money, not ideas.
MAIL PRISM (prism@sfsu.edu) ©1995, All Rights Reserved.