The War on my Innocence

The Departure

I was born during the civil war. I did not really know what that meant until my door got kicked in by the violent militant rebel group known as the Contras. I was five years old when they took my father, forced him into the back of a truck, and dragged him off to war. My biological father was already a part of the war, but he was willingly fighting for the Sandinistas (the other side). It was difficult for me to comprehend, at that age, why my fathers were facing off to kill each other. My mother, a tough woman, was my only comfort, though I could see her pain through her smile.

Several months later, a worn-out, thinner version of my father returned to us. He told us over dinner that night that a dark-skinned man, resembling St. Martin de Porres, had whispered something into his commander’s ear, and seconds later, he was miraculously released. He told us how he ran as fast as he could away from the direction of gunfire, and tripped on a rock in a nearby creek. It was there that he found the tiny statue of St. Martin de Porres that he prays to every day, to this day. The next day, my father was gone again.

The next time we spoke to father he was in America. He told us he was working and saving up money to get us there too, where it was safe. He said his trip only lasted nine days, and that it was all worth it. I was excited to join him one day, but scared to leave my home behind. My friends. My family. My country. They all became mere memories once we left.

The Busses

I remember getting into that first bus, headed to Guatemala. It was hot, dark, and dusty outside. I was tired. I rested my head on my mother’s lap and napped for a while. I woke up hungry and disoriented. I ate some cold tortilla with cheese. That was the only meal I remember having that day. My next memory of that bus was from inside the luggage compartment. There was a military blockade in the road making sure nobody left the country without permission. We hid in the luggage compartment for hours with my mother’s hand firmly cupped around my mouth so as not to let any noise escape. I was scared. I thought to myself, “This is only day one out of nine whole days.” Nine days to a six-year-old is an eternity. Little did I know that our journey would not take nine days, but nine whole months…

The next bus I remember taking was from prison. Our Coyote had betrayed us and sold us out. My father had paid this guy to take us from Guatemala, through Mexico, across the U.S. border. Once we got to Mexico, he took our money and our belongings and left us to deal with the local authorities. We were arrested and locked in a cell. At least I was allowed to share a cell with my mother. She was the only source of strength I had left. We were there for a few days until they decided we were to be transported to a cell back in Guatemala. I was holding on to my mother on a bus full of female inmates when the alarms went off.

Everyone was in a frantic state of panic. Guards were running around, rifles in hand, looking for what seemed to be a ghost. All I could hear was the red sound of the alarms. A prisoner had escaped and nobody could explain how this was possible, especially in broad daylight. The alarms grew louder, almost in desperation. The guards lined the male inmates up at gun point as they searched the grounds. The guards looked terrified; the prisoners hopeful. One of them had done the impossible. One of them had made it out. One of them was a magician, a legend, a symbol. That one of them was me…

Mother and I were shocked when we heard my name being yelled over the loudspeaker. “Pedro Mercado! Pedro Mercado!” It was then we realized what had happened. When we were first brought in, they took my name and listed me as a male inmate, but eventually they decided I would be better off with my mother, so they placed me in the women’s cells instead. I guess they forgot. When my name appeared on the list of male inmates that needed to be transported to Guatemala, I could not be accounted for in the male cells or in the bus transporting the men, so they assumed Pedro Mercado had somehow escaped. I had not. Pedrito Mercado was a frightened little boy simply going along for the ride, just trying to get somewhere safe.

Take Two

It took several months for my father to save up enough money to attempt to finance our trip to the U.S. again. During that time, I made really good friends with the daughter of the family we stayed with in Guatemala. I wish I remembered her name. Those were the happy moments. We played house, pretended to be Popeye and Olive Oyl, and even participated on a family gameshow together on TV. I won my first ever remote-control car. Looking back at my childhood, the happy times were few and far between.

I can’t tell you how we got there, but there we were, stranded on a bridge in Mexico City again, surrounded by armed guards. I guess our second Coyote was no better than the first. It’s a shame really, because I liked him. We met his mom and everything; she cooked delicious Mexican food for us. He had warm, green eyes and a nice smile. I learned at a very young age that often times the bad guys look very much like the good guys.

This time around we were locked away for much longer. About three months, I believe, but it’s hard to know for sure. The days all blended in together amidst those grey walls, cold bars, and the smell of urine. The only things to look forward to were the chicken wings and strawberry sodas they fed us almost daily. I’m still addicted to them both today. When the guards were out of cigarettes, they would short us a wing to trade it to the other prisoners for cigarettes. “You’re all skin and bones,” they would say, “you and your mother can share a piece.” Even still, my mother always let me eat the bigger portion.

For those few months, my father did not know where my mother and I were. The last he heard from us, we were making our way toward the border with our green-eyed Judas. I’m glad father found us though. I remember reading stories about slaves buying their freedom. That is what we felt like when he was able to buy us out of that prison. It was really no place for a child.

The Promised Land

Father gave mother a choice: Head back to Nicaragua, or make a final attempt at the border. Mother doesn’t look back; she’s tough like that. Next thing I knew, we were in a grimy motel room with a dozen unknown men, also headed toward the border. My father had hired a new Coyote hoping the proverbial third time was indeed a charm. The Coyote picked us up in the early dawn and put us in the back of a truck. We were headed for the Rio Grande. We had seen stories on the news of U.S. border patrols mercilessly shooting unarmed immigrants attempting to cross the border. My mother made the sign of the cross, lifted me onto one of the strange men’s shoulders, and we proceeded to make that sacrifice.

I don’t remember the first steps I took on American soil, but I remember the feeling. We had finally reached the promised land! We were free! The next month that we spent at a refugee camp felt like a vacation compared to what we had just been through. When we got out, my father was outside waiting for us. Waiting to make the trip with us from Texas to Washington D.C., the murder capital of the world (as it was referred to in those days), where we would finally be safe.