For me, it's really easy.
It’s paying $4 pesos and crossing the metal barrier with ease. I walk across the bridge as cars wait in line on my left, my Nine West boot heels clicking over the river water below. I go past little ones who offer me Chiclets for sale before I flash my US passport, the key to my home, the first world on the other side. “Well, we can cross this off our bucket list,” my brother says. My mom asks us to pose and she takes our picture with her iPhone, the sudden flash freezing our privilege in pixels.
For others, it’s life or death.
It’s a deliberate decision executed out of a need for survival, an essential sacrifice for family and future. It’s paying thousands of dollars saved over years for safe passage (in theory) through the desert, surrounded by cacti and snakes, the extreme heat or cold working to convince you to never wake up from dirt-floor slumber. It’s ducking behind trees and praying you aren’t found, the searchlight barely missing the edge of your arm as you start the next leg of the journey.