I
THE GAME
OF SURVIVAL
s te p p e d i n s i d e t h e
head of the robotic
creature. Observing its
brain, I saw the flight
attendant. “Make your way
to your seats,” he said. But
how would I know? His
language was all gibberish.
We s t o o d f ro z e n w i t h
blank stares, backing up
traffic. The flight attendant
realized we didn’t speak
English and using his
hands, he motioned us to
our seat. A few minutes
later, the flight attendant
came pushing a little
cart full of food. My Dad
elbowed me and raised his
head signaling me to make
a choice. I was astonished
at this little bread, a brown
cloud above a house. I held
it in my hands, admiring
its composition and
appreciating its warmth.
The cloud took on the same
structure as the cloud that
always lingered above my
pueblo. The little house
was the same color of
the soil; the soil that my
grandpa would always
have after working in the
campos. I appraised it from
every possible angle. As my
eyes traveled across the
cracks of the cloud, like
a map, they led my mind
through the roads of my
homeland. I lay back in my
seat and looked out the
window. “Just five hours
from Arizona to New York,”
I thought. I gave the piece
of it to my Dad, telling him
to save it and take care
of it as if it were a fragile
creature. I closed my eyes
and suddenly the images of
my journey appeared.
Imagine you’re barely big
enough to overshadow a
small rock and yet you’re
ex p e c t e d t o l e ave t h e
only place you know as
home. You’re faced with
unfamiliar faces, languages,
and customs. Coming to a
new country illegally is one
of the most dangerous and
riskiest journeys to make.
At the age of five I learned
to be a tough soldier. I came
to the United States with
my father and two sisters:
Lupe, 12 and Isamar, 9. I
was as small as a mustard
seed and was deceived into
believing that I was simply
p l ay i n g g a m e s . I n t h e
first game, my Dad would
scream “Escóndete!” and
that was my clue to run to
the nearest rock and hide,
letting its size shield me.
The selfishness of the night
sky by imprisoning the
moon, as well as the sun,
did not help. I struggled to
even find a rock big enough
to swallow me. I stumbled
over my own speed and
scraped my knees, leaving
scars of my journey. The
feeling of finally reaching a
rock was satisfying. I didn’t
understand the game, but I
liked it. It was adventurous.
In the second game, which
was my favorite, I had to
make my way across a
landscape by avoiding the
searching lights of many
helicopters. I would hear
the unbearable sounds of
the propellers, engine, and
the voices screaming “Te
veo!” which my Dad stated
was only an obstacle to stop
me from winning the game.
I could feel the challenge