I first blogged about the Mexico-California border in December, 2018:  A first-hand look

Now four months later not much has changed despite the cleaning house in Washington. Do you feel like you have vertigo? I do.

A little grounding in reality always helps. My sister,Irene, is a family doctor in San Diego. She works for a Federally Qualified Health Center (FQHC) that has several clinics that care for many of the poor in the region. A third of the staff lives in Mexico because it’s cheaper.  Monday through Friday her medical assistant (I’ll call her Rosa) has a morning like this: Wake up at 3:00am in her Mexican home and awaken her grade school age daughter to drive across the border before a line forms. Arrive at Rosa’s mother’s home about five and sleep a little more, then get ready for school and work. Rosa arrives at the clinic at 7:30 am to prepare for her day of assisting Dr. Irene with patient care. Rosa’s husband lives in Mexico. He has been deported from the US twice. However,they have a new immigration lawyer who is hopeful about securing his legal status in the US. If the current administration closes the border, it would be devastating for the health center, the staff and the 97,000 patients they serve with medical and dental care, behavioral health, school based settings, WIC sites, and mobile health vans.

Saturday Irene volunteered at the clinic which serves the asylum seekers. It is housed in a government building in downtown San Diego and the shelter is run by Jewish Family Services.She shared her morning with me.

I drove up to the locked gate andthe guard let me in. The clinic is ice-box cold thanks to the air conditioning and is located a floor above where the asylum seekers live. We see patients inthe morning and try to complete prescription orders before 11:30 so we can hand them out after lunch.

I saw families, moms with kids, and dads with kids. They are all shades of brown from the countries we’ve heard about: El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua.  Although we don’t ask why they’ve left their homes, their stress is obvious. Adults wear monitors--a smartphone size box on their ankles. Everyone is so appreciative. A mother had stomach pain and nausea. I worried about pregnancy. Fortunately, the test was negative and I gave her medicine for gastritis (heart burn) and birth control.Her son had green snot coming out of his nose and pink eye. I treated him with antibiotics and eye drops. Another mother was there with her 12 year-old son who I treated for strep throat. She was worried about how he was growing. I showed her where he was on a growth chart, the lower 10%, and told him he had six years or more to grow taller. He smiled. Mom wasn’t very tall and she said Dad wasn’t either. I reassured them. He was so proud as he thanked me in English. A father had a three year old son with diarrhea. Dad was worried that the boy was eating too many bean burritos. The boy didn’t have a fever and his diarrhea wasn’t bloody, so I gave him a couple of bottles of pedilyte to push fluids.

After clinic we went down a floor to the living area to pass out medications. The floor has big windows with a beautiful view of downtown San Diego. Planes fly low as they take off and land at the nearby airport.  In contrast to the clinic floor, the temperature is uncomfortably warm. Rows of red and green cots occupy half the floor, the other half is the eating area where parents and kids waited their turn in line. A big television screen showed the movie Madagascar. Some watched; others stood looking out the window at the view. I couldn’t help wondering what they were thinking. Reporters from a Chinese Daily came through and interviewed some of the immigrants and our interpreters.

My interpreter and I handed out the morning’s medications. The boy with diarrhea was eating more bean burritos. The12 year-old practiced his English phrases as he accepted a foam soccer ball we gave him. The three year-old with the snooty nose was thrilled with a toy car and his friends wanted some too. His mother was sitting with her husband and crying.I told the interpreter to ask her if she wanted to share with us what made her sad. We learned that she was upset with her husband’s cousin who wouldn’t acknowledge that they were related which would allow them to move to that community. The family was told that if they don’t come up with $2000 they would be deported. I wanted to give them the $2000, but then what?

As I left and drove through the downtown streets, I couldn’t help noticing the homeless—disheveled and predominantly white,Veterans, the mentally ill, and those with substance abuse problems. I thought about who is this nation. How do we care for our own and how do we welcome others? Whose land was this before my ancestors arrived?

Thanks Irene for your reflections. From the genealogy buffs in our extended family, I know one side of German immigrants followed a priest to a community in west central Ohio likely seeking religious freedom and job opportunities.Notes about the other side say that they left Fautenbach, Germany, for the new world with great expectations and hope for a better life.

Do you hear the echo? We fail to remember that we are a nation of immigrants, except for the Natives who greeted the explorers. And even their ancestors wandered across the Bering strait, likely seeking a better life and other opportunities.