The first time we were stopped last Thursday was in Sanderson, about halfway between Del Rio and Alpine on U.S. 90. My friend and driver Rodrigo Bravo Jr. and I were driving 5 miles per hour over the 30-mph limit in our rented, powder-blue Ford C-Max hatchback as we reported a story on Spanish missions for Texas Monthly. As a county law enforcement officer approached our car, I couldn’t help but focus on the bright yellow taser holstered in his olive vest. The reason for the traffic stop, he claimed, was that we were going five miles over the speed limit. He also told us that we would just be given a warning. Why would we get pulled over for such an insignificant overage? I thought. The answer, I believed, was the officer’s boredom from living in a West Texas desert county of 851 souls.
The officer never asked for proof of insurance or registration, just for identification—even though he had already said we’d get away with a warning. “I’m going to check if you have any warrants or anything like that,” he said. He walked back to his cruiser and returned shortly. He only asked for Rodrigo’s ID. If he’d asked for mine, I would have handed him my Texas ID card and my U.S. passport, which I’ve carried with me ever since the Trump administration began a wave of aggressive enforcement operations all across the country. After handing back Rodrigo’s ID, the officer spoke about the local elk population. “If you drive toward Fort Stockton, you’ll see yellow signs with what look like deer,” he said, with the pride of someone who knows something others don’t. “But the drawing on the sign is actually an elk.” He peppered his speech with Spanish, as if we were buddies. The officer described the elk as gorgeous and beautiful.
“Good to know, sir,” I replied. We were excused. Rodrigo and I talked about how weird we thought the traffic stop was and went on our way. An hour later, we arrived at the ghost town of Shafter, along U.S. 67. We read historical markers, took photos of the ruins, and stopped to read a sign on the town’s Catholic church announcing that Mass was held every third Sunday of the month. Then we drove south and west, through Presidio and to the desolate community of Ochoa, to visit a lost mission whose only proof of existence is a historical marker and a small cemetery where the interred share the surname Ochoa.
As we left Ochoa and backtracked to Presidio, we saw an ICE truck pass us. Rodrigo remarked that it would probably turn around and stop us. Thankfully, it kept driving down the quiet border road, but soon after, Rodrigo’s premonition came true.
The same truck pulled us over just north of Presidio. In tactical gear—but without masks or helmets—what appeared to be Latino agents walked calmly away from the truck and directed Rodrigo to roll down the car’s windows. A brief look revealed our luggage, San Antonio Spurs baseball caps, and backpacks, along with a case of water bottles. Then Rodrigo’s interrogation—which I’ve written as best as Rodrigo and I can remember—started.
“Where are you going?” the agent with rigidly coiffed black hair asked.
“We’re headed back to Marfa,” Rodrigo said.
“What were you doing in Presidio?”
“We went to a cemetery. Have you ever heard of the Ochoa cemetery? It’s on that road we were on.”
The agent stared emotionlessly at Rodrigo.
“We’re doing a story on . . .”
“Why did you double back?”
“Double back? You mean . . .”
“Yeah, you pulled off the road over there . . .”
“To take a picture of the road sign. I can show you on my phone if you’d like.”
“But you pulled over again. Why did you pull over twice?”
“We pulled over once to see the cemetery where the marker is, then we pulled over a second time to take a picture of the other road sign. We literally pull over all the time to capture Texas historical markers.” Rodrigo stopped short of asking the agent if it was now illegal to explore Texas history.
“Where are you headed to now?”
The repeated question lingered in the air for a second. Rodrigo had already told him. We felt this wasn’t a simple query but rather questioning for probable cause. His partner, a young Latina, never spoke but stood guard alongside our passenger side.
“Marfa, like I said. Then we’re headed to El Paso.”
“Where in El Paso?”
“Where?”
“Yeah, where are you staying?”
“A hotel? I’m sure it’s the Fairfield; José is a Marriott member—look, we are doing a story and eating tacos along the way; we . . .”
“Tacos? You’re eating tacos? Where?”
“We are doing stories for Texas Monthly. We’re headed back to Marfa,” Rodrigo said.
“Where are you headed to now?”
The inconsistencies in our story that the agent was apparently searching for simply weren’t there. He sighed.
“We’re on assignment. Do you want my business card?” I asked, with the card in my hand. That was a mistake.
He reached for the business card and demanded our IDs.
“Why do you need to see my ID?” Rodrigo asked. He and the agent shared a brief stare before we handed the cards over.
We waited thirty minutes before they were returned. The agent let us go with a warning.
A warning for what? I thought.
“Coño, I need tacos, hermano,” I told Rodrigo. “They’ll calm my nerves and soothe my stomach.” We continued north to Marfa. We passed uneventfully through the Customs and Border Protection checkpoint on U.S. 67 between Shafter and Marfa.
Minutes later, Rodrigo and I saw a Texas DPS SUV. Before I could make out the car’s license plate, the officer inside turned on its overhead lights. “Again! What the f—?” we huffed almost in unison and immediately checked the speedometer. It was set on cruise control at 71 mph in a 70. We pulled over for the third time that day and waited for the officer, a brown-skinned Latina, to walk up to our little hatchback. “I clocked you going seventy-seven,” she claimed. She asked us a similar battery of questions to the one the ICE officials gave us.
Rodrigo mentioned that I am the Texas Monthly taco editor, to which she replied that she loves tacos. “Only good people do,” I chuckled, in an attempt to break the ice. “IDs, please,” she requested, adding she was going to let us go with a warning but still needed to see both of our IDs. She never asked to see automotive insurance. That was it, but it was enough. We were shaken, and angry at and afraid of what seemed like a coordinated effort between federal and state officials.
When I was fourteen years old, I was pulled out of the back seat of a friend’s car by my shirt collar by a police officer in Orlando, Florida. I was the only person of color and the only Latino in the red four-door sedan. The cop didn’t tell me what was going on at first. I think he was waiting for me to get nervous to the point where I gave him a reason to arrest me. It almost worked. He held my small teenage frame up against the cruiser. When the officer finally spoke, he said the car and I matched the description of a suspect and his ride. It was a case of mistaken identity, and I was quickly let go. But I was forever changed: I learned my brown skin meant such interactions are inevitable.
So when the federal government’s immigration raids began at businesses and restaurants across Texas, I felt worried that I would eventually get caught up in one of them. I visit hundreds of taquerias a year all over the state. Even being a citizen with my identification always on me seems like it hardly matters. But I have a job to do.
I am a man of privilege with plenty of resources, as is Rodrigo. Our parents survived so that we could thrive as educated and well-spoken individuals who pursue life, liberty, and happiness on a daily basis. But my working-class Puerto Rican parents instilled in me an aggressive pride for our Latinidad as well as a skepticism of authority, stemming from cultural views about the colonization of my homeland in 1898 and the subsequent destruction of large parts of my country’s food system, in addition to the forced sterilization of one-third of the female population between the 1930s and the 1970s.
The word “no” comes easily to me.
Yet when we were confronted by ICE officers, we capitulated. Or so it may seem. Rodrigo and I realized what we had to lose. We checked our instinct to resist in an effort to escape a potentially terrible fate. We did not want to hand over our IDs. We did not want to help reach a quota. We also did not want to be reduced to a headline. Our loved ones, we knew, needed us. But we protest in small ways, including by documenting the stories of immigrants. In the moment, we went into survival mode, but we thought we were supposed to be past that.
The day after the three traffic stops, we remained rattled. We tried to crack jokes during breakfast, but it wasn’t enough. I suggested we visit Café Piro, across from Socorro Mission, in Socorro, southeast of El Paso. There we would find safety and nourishment. We would be met with hugs and conversations with our friends, the coffee shop’s owners, Gabe and Melissa Padilla. We sat for hours with another friend, chef and Socorro native Enrique Lozano, consoling one another.
Afterward, Enrique and I visited the chapel at Socorro Mission, originally known as Nuestra Señora de la Limpia Concepción de los Piros de Socorro del Sur, where we listened to the church caretaker offer stories of the Native peoples of the area and their significance. Enrique and I sat to pray briefly, and as we left, the caretaker gave me a Spanish-language prayer card with the image of my patron saint, San Martín de Porres.
I read the prayer aloud to Rodrigo in the tiny hatchback. “¡Oh San Martín, Padre mio, atiéndeme! / En mis penas y tribulaciones, consuélame. / En mis peligros y adversidades, defiéndeme,” reads the first part of the prayer of intercession.
“Oh Saint Martin, my Father, attend to me! In my sorrows and tribulations, console me. In my dangers and adversities, defend me.”
Those words couldn’t have been more timely and comforting.
Rodrigo Bravo Jr. contributed to the reporting of this story.
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