In her Stories From a Texas Border Ranch series, Melissa Guerra looked at the daily intricacies and deep contradictions of life in a South Texas border town. Sharing tradition, culture, and family with her Mexican neighbors, the narrative journey of her homeland veered away from politics to paint a powerful picture of daily life in the Rio Grande Valley. Now, Guerra returns with another border series, this time looking at life from the other side. A timely perspective that begs consideration, these are the stories of the migrants.

When he unlocked the glass door, I was automatically taken aback. His face was lined with scabs. Smiling shyly nonetheless, he beckoned me to follow him through the corridors of the Respite Center. The last time I was here, the center was much smaller, but it had taken over the office suite next door, whose former tenant had been an Evangelical church. Almost 200 people pass through the doors of the Respite Center daily, so the extra space was much needed. At the end of the corridor was the kitchen, where we found Sister Norma busy making chicken soup. Three young people were in the next room quietly focused on their ham-and-cheese-sandwich-making assembly line. One spoke; they had run out of cheese slices. Sister Norma quickly fetched them a new package and they returned to the neat production of pink, yellow and white squares on the Center’s plastic folding table.

Though it was a typical day at the Respite Center, we were glad to catch Sister there. She is a new kind of busy these days, with the world intensely focused on her efforts to help the recently immigrated as they continue their legal journey into the United States. Migrants that are trafficked by human smugglers arrive at the US-Mexico border every day by the thousands. Many immigrant hopefuls are turned away and deported to their home countries, but a portion of the immigrants will be allowed by the United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency (ICE) to follow the current immigration policies and court procedures for becoming a citizen of the Unites States.

The immigrant voice needs to be heard because it tells us a story. As local residents, we had the unique opportunity to listen to them.

These immigration candidates are under strict orders to meet their appointments with ICE and subsequent appearance before an immigration judge during their citizenship process. Their initial appointment with ICE is usually ten days after they are detained, and then released. However, as immigration judges exist in almost every city across the US, an immigrant can request residential sponsorship with a relative. The immigrant is then allowed to travel to stay with that relative and attend court in the city nearest to their family-member sponsor. Bus tickets are organized for candidates (usually paid for by the sponsorship family), and they continue their journey to their family’s home.

The Respite Center of Sister Norma provides a home base for the people that have been granted permission to travel to the home of their sponsor. The span of time from when they are released from the immigration court, to the time their bus departs can be a few hours or a couple of days. Immigrants were sleeping in the bus stations, in the streets, in parking garages, with no food, no shelter, and no sanitary facilities. Sister Norma recognized an opportunity to restore human dignity to the immigrants and formed the respite center to help those that only need a few hours of shelter, a change of clothing, help with their bus schedule, and perhaps a bowl of soup and a sandwich. State and federal immigration officials welcomed the outreach, and now automatically direct those released from the courts to the Catholic Charity Respite Center. Sister Norma’s commitment to human dignity is her contribution to immigration process.

The few immigrants at the Respite Center were exhausted, sleeping on the raised platform that had formerly been used as a stage when the space was the church. The Respite Center was understaffed for the day, and I was asked to briefly handle the phone desk.

Immediately, upon seeing a new person at the desk, a migrant named Luis approached me, asking if his ticket had been confirmed yet. I scrolled through the open spreadsheet on the computer. Names rolled by, mostly indigenous, spelled with x’s and double vowels, listed with the immigrants’ country of origin and their destinations within the USA. Honduras and Arkansas. El Salvador and Washington State. Guatemala and New Jersey. What information could I provide? Where was Luis going? Oklahoma. Was his ticket confirmed yet? I couldn’t tell.

Edna, a more experienced volunteer arrived, and I told her Luis had questions that I couldn’t answer. “He’ll keep asking every five minutes. They do that. He’s nervous that he will miss his bus, but his family hasn’t sent the money for the ticket yet,” said Edna. With firm assurance she told Luis to take a seat; as soon as the ticket was confirmed, she would notify him. He looked displeased from the scolding, but plopped down into a blue plastic school chair and folded his arms, momentarily resolving to trust us.

After collaborating on a border story last year, a very natural partnership with Rigoberto Gonzales, a fellow local whose artwork illustrated that story, evolved. Both of us have deep roots in this area, and have watched our long ignored riverside farming community evolve into a political talk point. Rigo was born in Reynosa, Tamaulipas, Mexico, just south of the international border. My husband is also from Reynosa and, interestingly enough, both paint scenes of realistic life in Mexico. My husband’s paintings and sculptures focus on regional history and romantic landscapes of days gone by, while Rigo’s paintings focus on the here and now. The violence. The kidnappings. The beheadings. The narcos. My husband paints what was. Rigo paints what is.

It often seems that those who live here in the Valley are voiceless. But there are other people that have an even less vocal presence than the Valley residents: the migrant.

Inasmuch as the national news media decries what they perceive is happening here, as locals, we see so much more. Just like survivors that live through a hurricane, the “boots on the ground” reality and the lesser-told human stories differ from what gets posted by the national newsfeeds. The news media chooses its stories. For us, the stories simply happen in front of our eyes. When we gather, we talk amongst ourselves, so we can be informed and aware of what is happening in our community. We also talk to those passing through. We compare notes from our neighbors, family and friends, patching together the fabric of our truth. After writing the first border series, I heard that people read (and liked!) what I wrote. But I had exhausted my sources — the few people that would talk candidly about living in the Rio Grande Valley. Not many locals wanted to be interviewed and I was becoming a bit of a nuisance at parties, asking too many heavy questions. Did I want to start a new career as a journalist? Not really. But as our nation becomes more invested in what happens at the border, I wanted to continue to tell our story.

It often seems that those who live here in the Valley are voiceless. We know that politicians, the professional decision makers that we elect, will make the tough choices that affect our community with little of our input, but it’s assumed that we won’t mind if an imposing wall is built in our community. We also don’t have much influence with the human smugglers that seem to think we are a bunch of sleepyheads that don’t mind human cargo being stashed in our neighborhoods or marched through our ranches. On both counts, we mind.

But there are other people that have an even less vocal presence than the Valley residents: the migrant.

Everyday, hundreds of immigrants arrive in our community. Stepping away from the heated conversations of politics, human rights, and refugee needs, I began to wonder if they would chat with me, the way I chat with my family and friends at our barbecues. The media talks about the immigrants, instead of talking to the immigrants. Rigo and I decided to see if we could capture the individual stories, stories which related directly to our community. Why were the migrants here? What did they leave behind? What was their course of their journey? Rigo and I are not politicians. But through my writing, and his artwork, we are storytellers. The immigrant voice needs to be heard because it tells us a story. As local residents, we had the unique opportunity to listen to them.