Though I’ve lived my whole life on both sides of the U.S.–Mexico border, I didn’t understand what a border was until I was eleven years old. That summer three of my cousins were allowed to come back from Chihuahua to Texas with my mom and me. I have ten cousins, four of whom are very close in age to me. I call them my first-batch cousins because we were all born one after the other. Then the parents waited a while and then came the second batch. Some of my second-batch cousins don’t like these designations, but it just makes it easier for me to communicate which cousins I’m talking about—because I talk about my cousins all the time. I can’t help it, they’re just that great!
Anyway, the summer before sixth grade almost all my first-batch cousins were allowed to come visit me for two weeks. Caren couldn’t come because she didn’t have her visa renewed in time, and you need a visa to come to the United States from Mexico. I was so excited! I was going to get to show my cousins my life in Texas. We’d just moved into an apartment complex with two pools and a playground and we would ice skate and go to Six Flags and go to the mall! It was the first time any of my cousins visited me instead of the other way around. But Caren couldn’t come. She didn’t have this little piece of paper. There was no way to get it in time. She couldn’t come.
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