It was my first time leaving the United States. And so, by necessity, it became my first time returning.
We crossed back into the country over the Paso Del Norte Bridge, the border visible not as a scar, but a seam—stitched with concrete, rebar, and the soft patience of people waiting in line. The traffic moved in steady intervals. No sirens, no shouting, just the shuffling forward of the human tide, each traveler holding a passport and a story.
I hadn’t known what to expect on re-entry. One hears things. Rumors, warnings, the bureaucratic myths of suspicion and snarl. But everyone was kind. The officer who scanned my passport greeted me like a regular customer. No theatrics. Just a nod, and the world resumed on the other side.
The truth is, beyond the politics, people are still people. They laugh, they shop, they complain about the weather. They love their families and worry about their jobs. They sell fruit on one side of the bridge and buy sneakers on the other. The flow of culture doesn’t respect the wall—it weaves through it. Language, food, music, clothing—it all bleeds through, like watercolor on wet paper. Beautiful, imprecise, human.
El Paso was waiting, quiet as always. I looked back once, toward Juárez, and felt something loosen inside me. Some old knot of assumption, pulled apart by hospitality. No one had to welcome me so warmly. No one had to help me order food, or find a magnet for my wall, or smile at my clumsy Spanish. But they did.
I return changed. A little more traveled. A lot more understanding. And if nothing else, deeply aware that the accident of my birthplace is not a badge, but a beginning. The border may be drawn in steel and concrete, but kindness knows no such lines.
I am grateful to have been treated not as a visitor, not even as an American—but as a member of the human race.