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Border Crossing
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Border Crossing was a song I composed at UNH in collaboration with writer David Jacobsen, soprano Claire McCahan, actress Meghan Blakeman, and trumpeter Melissa Munafo (although this recording just features me and Claire).
David's text is an edited testimony of someone who illegally crossed the border into the United States from Mexico. It's an interesting perspective. You can feel, reading that text, how much this person hoped for an idyllic life in the United States.
Without necessarily making a political statement about border security, this piece provides a way of empathizing with someone in this situation. It portrays an American promise made to somebody in a culture offering less security and prosperity. The message: if you can only make it here, life will be better.
Working on this music was an honor. I feel it was an important project. It was a pleasure to record it with Claire, who is a gifted soprano. I'm very grateful to have been a part of this team.
Sheet music for this piece is available to subscribers.
Text:
There was no high speed chase,
No random search,
No breathless run towards freedom.
Her fantasy of being a humble heroine
Was eradicated
By the monotonous reality
Of actually crossing the fence.
The coyote knew very well
How to make the process
Smooth and unnoticeable.
I guess she just wanted a little more excitement,
Maybe a distant gunshot,
Or one of those blue-eyed Americans
Helping her learn English
During the long car ride.
Instead, just her,
And some other girl
In the back of a jeep
Listening to mariachi bands on the radio
And feeling the gallons of sweat
Dripping down their necks,
Looking forward
To an endless road of dust.
The man driving them
Did not have blue eyes
And was not exciting at all.
The rude goon was wearing
An awful jean shirt.
He was very fond of smoking.
The car smelt like an ashtray
That had been sitting out in the sun.
When she first encountered the goon,
He greeted her with 'money first,'
So she could only assume
This was just another business deal.
She could not wait
To be in New York,
Away from the lies
And closer to becoming herself.
She could not wait
To be greeted into America.
She wanted
One of those pretty white ladies to say,
"Welcome to America, Miss."
Ah, she would love
For someone to call her "miss".
She imagined herself
In one of those houses,
With one of those husbands,
And some of those kids
With red baseball caps, playing
In one of those front yards
With one of those blonde dogs.
That was America:
Pretty white people with blue eyes.
Not knowing
She would live a different dream,
The dream of dried out hands
That smell of chlorine,
Of sixteen hour work days with low pay
That are rewarded
With the poetry of basement rooms
Rusted with heat in the summer
And frosted with depression
In the winter.
After an exhausting car ride,
They finally got out of the ashtray jeep.
The lights of Houston
Blinded the eyes of a woman
Who had never seen
The urban kingdoms of the north.
She felt her body
Catching fire,
Her tight jeans
Had hardened with hours of sweat
And were pushing
Against her skin.
The other girl went on her own way.
Who knows where she went.
There was no need to know.
She probably became a whore.
And if she did?
Who would care.
The coyote disappeared
Into the night
Like most undomesticated dogs do.
She found herself at the Houston airport,
Waiting to board a flight
To New York.
It was her first time on a plane.
At least it was better than the ashtray.
Getting on the plane was child's play.
In there,
Stand here,
Go there kind of business.
Everyone spoke Spanish.
Everyone was of color,
And even the white people
Had tans.
Walking through the narrow plane,
She heard the background buzz
Of the airplane's engine.
It was exciting;
It anticipated flight.
Flight.
Flight is a beautiful thing.
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