The small town cradled on the sun-kissed bank of the Pacific Ocean, perched precariously on the border where California and Mexico meet, wasn’t much to look at. Unassuming sunwashed, dusty buildings with flat roofs and barred windows hugged the two-lane highway that cut into the dusty ground, it’s asphalt shimmering under the unforgiving sun. The cracked plaster and faded paint blended together, standing stark against the bright blue sky. Behind the houses sat miles and miles of fields. Corn stalks danced lazily in the breeze, rows of vibrant rice plants glared with the heat, while the cotton fields stretched out like clouds on the ground. The few scattered trees stood like sentinels, their gnarled branches reaching out as if to protect the town from the relentless sun. Of anywhere you could live, we chose here. Because it was cheap, and out of the way of any questioning looks, and accusatory questions. Well papa said it was because it's a beautiful beachside town as good as any other. As our 1996 clunker drove down the road, kicking up dust in the the air, you roll down the window, letting the smell of salt and corn and gasoline fill you lungs. You could hear seagulls fly overhead, swooping low to see who their new neighbor would be. “Isn't this exciting, Mija?” Mama looks back at you, smiling. Exciting isn't the word you would use but you nod anyway. She smiles even more, if possible, and turns to look out the front window. Papa mumbles under his breath something about needing to go to the store. Soon the car pulls up to the house. A small thing, with a large yard and colorful stucco walls. Your new home.