A Lingering Memory

Two years ago, when I was just a month into my senior year of high school, my stepfather's brother was killed in a van rollover.

He was riding in a van with 9 others traveling through San Diego after successfully (and illegally) crossing the Mexican border into the United States.

He was 20 years old.

My stepfather heard the news when he was driving me home from school. He had been in contact with the 'coyote' for a number of days, tracking each move the group was making toward America. He received a call on his cell phone as he drove. I wasn't really listening to what he was saying, but I distinctly remember hearing him gasp at some point in the conversation.

When he got off the phone, I asked if it was about his brother. He said yes. I asked how close he was to arriving.
"Fallecio."
He's dead.

I couldn't understand what I was hearing. The past few days it had sounded like things were going well, like he was on track to arrive soon and be reunited with his siblings, and meet his nieces and nephews.

How could this happen when he was so close to his destination? The van was in San Diego. They had crossed the border, that was the hardest part. Apparently the van was traveling at high velocity.

My stepfather's brother was the only fatality in the accident.

My stepdad didn't cry at all during that car ride home. He didn't cry when we got home and saw his older brother outside working on one of their cars. He broke the news to him calmly.

He later walked into our apartment, sat down at the dinner table, told my mother, and finally began to cry. He put his head down and wept so loudly. It still haunts me. Maybe that's why I'm writing this.

The next few hours only increased the agony. My stepfather's sister, brother-in-law, and two older brothers all sat around our dinner table. Pati, his sister, sat in utter shock and with a few spontaneous tears streaming. My stepfather still sat with his head down. His brothers sat in shock as well.

My twin brothers were napping at the time, but as soon as Henry woke up, Higinio (stepdad, their dad) wanted to hold him close. He silently sobbed as my baby brother sat on his lap.

Even more painful was the fact that none of the siblings could travel to Mexico for the funeral, it would cost too much to pay a coyote to go there and back. And why risk another tragedy?

They spent the next few days going to the Mexican consulate in Santa Ana. A picture of the young man was faxed to the consulate, and he was positively identified. Higinio kept the 8 x 11 photograph in a small folder. He wanted me to look at it, he wanted me to see his brother. It was the only way I'd ever 'meet' him.

After spending months arguing with Higinio over trivial things, I regretted everything. As much of a sexist pig as I thought (and still think) he was, this death finally humanized him. He was no longer the evil man influencing my mother into making my life extremely difficult. He was finally someone I could empathize with.

Two years have passed and I still have my issues with him, but I'll never forget the side of him I saw when his brother died. Everyone's human, it just takes time to uncover.

His baby brother died trying to make it to the so-called land of dreams. He was only miles away.