America Libre (31 page)

Still groggy, Rosa’s bleary eyes drifted to the statuette of Our Lady on the cardboard box Rosa used as her shrine. “I’ve
prayed to you every day,” she said bitterly. “How could you let this happen?” In a flash of anger, she swatted the statue,
sending the ceramic figure to the floor.

The statuette shattered but Mary’s face remained turned toward Rosa, her serene smile intact. Looking at the statue’s downturned
eyes, Rosa’s anger vanished.

“You gave up your own child to save the world,” she whispered. “Forgive me for doubting you.”

As she solemnly retrieved the pieces, Rosa became certain her daughter’s death had a purpose. She was not sure of it yet,
but that would be revealed to her in time. God watched over his servants on this earth.

Elena was buried the following day.

The crude wooden cross marking her grave was among the first in a small plot designated as the Community cemetery.

It would not be the last.

The voice of independence always begins as the whisper of a few. It eventually becomes the shout of many.

—José Antonio Marcha, 1982
Translated by J. M. Herrera

J
o leaned against the rail of the
Sea Jay
, the spray of the waves caressing her face. Along the horizon, fleecy clouds shimmered like jewels in anticipation of the
sun. Despite the splendor surrounding her, Jo felt empty and alone.

Her melancholy had started the night before.

Shortly after the yacht had set sail at dusk, Ramon and Maggie retired to their cabin. They’d been apart for months, and judging
by the sounds from their quarters over the next several hours, they were making up for lost time. Their lovemaking had aroused
Jo—and depressed her. Unable to sleep, she’d gone on deck around three and had been topside ever since.

You have no reason to be miserable
, she told herself. Much of what she’d struggled for was coming to pass. The conflict had hardened their people, creating
a stiff-necked confidence in the Quarantine Zones. Mainstream Americans, on the other hand, were growing weary and distracted.

She’d followed the news reports eagerly. The massive migrations away from the Quarantine Zones had flooded job markets in
the other cities with displaced workers, stressing a U.S. economy that was already faltering. Housing shortages were driving
the cost of a home beyond the means of many young families. The influx of newcomers had turned many sedate suburban areas
into hard, teeming neighborhoods where drug use and crime ran rampant. Outside its borders, the U.S. faced a growing list
of challenges.

As American military interventions overseas had grown, so had the anger of U.S. allies. Many saw the U.S. as a faltering superpower,
arrogant in its supremacy and drunk on its own might. Tariffs and trade barriers had escalated. Years of rising oil prices
were also taking an economic toll.

Meanwhile, the thirst for independence was growing in the zones. Many now believed the time had arrived to fulfill José Antonio
Marcha’s dream—a Hispanic state in North America.

So why was she depressed?

The sound of footsteps on the deck drew her gaze. Mano was staggering awkwardly along the swaying deck, clinging to the rail.
He looked more than a little queasy. She smiled, her gloom lifting. “Something tells me this might be your first time at sea.”

“In the Army, we always flew.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”

“I’ll be fine. But there’s something more important, Jo. I still don’t know where we’re going… or why.”

“You run the risk of capture almost every day, Mano. That’s why Ramon and I have kept you in the dark.”

“I understand, Jo. But we’re all in the same boat right now.”

Jo laughed. “That’s pretty good, Mano. I’ve never heard you joke before.”

“Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be funny,” he said sheepishly. “I just think it’s time I knew where we’re headed.”

“We’ll be putting in at Mazatlán tomorrow tonight. From there, we have a full day’s drive to Santiago.”

“What’s in Santiago?”

Jo looked out toward the horizon. “That’s where we’re going to change the map of the world.”

Mano looked around the ancient cathedral in awe.

Clustered in small groups around the pews, over one hundred men and women were arguing loudly, the stone-walled room pulsating
with the drone of their voices. Representing Quarantine Zones across the United States, these mostly self-appointed delegates
had secretly converged on Santiago, Mexico—a dusty backwater 160 kilometers south of the border. Eager to even the score for
past U.S. affronts, the local authorities had agreed to turn a blind eye on this clandestine convention in the colonial-era
settlement.

Everywhere in the church, Mano saw energetic gestures—fingers thrusting, hands slashing, exaggerated shrugs, and back-slapping
hugs.
There’s no doubt these are Latinos
, Mano said to himself.

Yet as he studied the delegates, Mano was amazed at their racial diversity. Jo had told him to expect this, but the reality
was still a shock. While the majority of the delegates were bronze-skinned and dark-haired people Mano would have identified
as “Hispanic,” there were many others he would have labeled as black or white on sight alone.

A screech of feedback pierced the air. “Su atención, por favor. Your attention, please,” a voice said over the feeble public
address system. The room quieted and all eyes turned toward the carved wooden lectern where Ramon Garcia stood.

“Hermanas y hermanos,” Ramon said, smiling. “Call it a wild guess, but I suspect a few of you may have some comments on this
document.” He paused, waiting for the crowd’s laughter to fade. “Now that you’ve had twenty-four hours to review the first
draft, I’m certain all of you have comments about the opening section. I’d like to propose we break up into regional groups
and put our comments down in writing.”

Over the next eight hours, Mano watched in admiration as Ramon guided the boisterous assembly with an amazing display of wit
and diplomacy.

The eloquence of the delegates also impressed Mano. He’d only recently come to appreciate the power of the intellect, and
this assembly was like a trip to a NASCAR race for someone who’d just learned how to drive.

At sunset, Ramon adjourned the deliberations and the delegates retired to the unfinished condos they were using as quarters.
Abandoned by a bankrupt U.S. company, the condos were rudimentary shelter—cinderblock shells without plumbing or electricity.

Inside their own condo, Mano, Jo, and Ramon unwrapped their spartan dinner—U.S. Army MREs—and ate in silence, glad for a break
from the incessant talking. After their meal, Jo started a fire in the stone fireplace to ward off the biting chill of night
in the high desert.

Ramon moved closer to the smoky hearth, a sleeping bag draped over his shoulders like a robe. “I doubt the corporate architect
who designed these ornamental fireplaces ever dreamed one day they’d keep a bunch of Latino rebels from freezing their asses
off.”

“I still wish we could’ve provided better quarters for the delegates,” Jo said, stoking the fire. “I hope no one is offended.”

Ramon grinned. “Don’t worry. Most of these folks have seen some hard times lately. Three meals a day and free fire-wood at
night is going to seem like a Club Med vacation to them.”

“What’s next?” Mano asked Ramon.

“Well, by tomorrow we should have the first part of the document wrapped up—an outline of our grievances against the United
States. That’s the easy part—mostly a matter of making a list and making sure everyone gets a chance to add their beefs.”

“Then we get to the big show,” Jo said.

Ramon nodded in agreement. “That’s when we have to decide what the hell we want to do about these grievances. That’s going
to be the hard part. We’re going to propose independence, but it won’t be easy to pass.”

“Have you been able to tell who’s going to lead the opposition?” Jo asked Ramon.

Ramon rubbed his chin. “Right now, I’d say it’ll be the Cubans.”

“Why the Cubans?” Mano asked, intrigued by the dynamics of the assembly.

Ramon shed the sleeping bag and began pacing. “If you look at the Cubans in South Florida—along with most of the Hispanic
communities along the Eastern Seaboard and the Midwest—you’ll notice they all face a similar situation: they’re isolated and
surrounded. The Hispanic communities of the Southwest share a border with Mexico. And our communities are denser and closer
together, too.”

“I understand,” Mano said. “The Hispanics in the Quarantine Zones outside the Southwest are in a more precarious position.”

Jo smiled. “That’s right. While all our communities are in jeopardy, the Latinos outside the Southwest don’t feel independence
is a realistic option. They want to remain U.S. citizens. They’re looking for our document to be a demand for government reforms.”

“And you can’t blame them,” said Ramon. “With the exception of Florida, they’re in territories that have never been under
Hispanic control. Our historic claim to their areas is not really valid.”

“But most of the delegates are from the Southwest. Couldn’t you raise enough votes to override them?”

“Yes, we could, Mano. But it’s not that simple,” Ramon explained. “To succeed, we need the support of
all
the Hispanic leaders of North America. Our ultimate goal is to be recognized as a provisional government by the United Nations.
There’s little chance of that if the Hispanics of North America don’t present a unified front.”

Mano recalled the passion of the delegates. “It doesn’t look like that’s going to be easy.”

“Welcome to the goat rodeo of Latino politics, amigo,” Ramon said with an impish grin.

On the second day of the assembly, Mano sat through another endless series of speeches and debates in Santiago’s ancient church.
As Ramon had predicted, at the end of the day there was consensus on only one issue: they all wanted the document to list
their grievances against the U.S. government. Beyond that, there was little agreement on what course of action to take. Even
the name of the document was a subject of considerable debate.

For the next two days, Jo and Ramon worked the delegates tirelessly for the cause of independence, he from the dais, she behind
the scenes. The pair hardly slept as they kept a grueling schedule of private conferences and meetings after the long days
in the full assembly. Mano was astonished at their stamina.

By the fourth day, the assembly had coalesced into two factions.

Led by the Cubans, a group calling themselves the Reformers wanted to draft a document that would pressure the U.S. government
to repeal the Quarantine and Relocation Act.

The Marchistas, as the other faction was being called, argued for a far more radical agenda—a declaration of independence.
Led by Jo and Ramon, it represented the bulk of the Hispanic communities of the Southwest.

The factions had sparred on a number of peripheral issues. But as yet, they’d avoided a direct confrontation.