colonia outside Laredo to tape a 'day in the life of' profile of a young Latino doctor named Jesse Rincon. Harvard- educated and born in Texas to a Mexican mother-one of those so-called 'anchor babies'-Dr. Rincon had returned to the border to care for his people. Jorge grunted. These human interest stories often proved not so interesting, but this story held promise. So when the waitress brought his check, Jorge held up his coffee cup for a refill. He would wait for the show to return from a commercial break.
'Jorge,' Clint said, 'I just got off the phone with the national party chairman. He wasn't happy. Shit, he got a standing ovation at Yankee Stadium.'
'The chairman?'
'No! The governor-by Yankees!'
'The baseball team?'
'The people! They fucking love him. You see how many followers he's got on Twitter?'
'Twitter? Uh, no, I did not see that.'
'Four million-that's more than Snoop Dog.'
'Whose dog?'
'Another week like this, and he'll have more followers than 5 °Cent.'
'Snoop Dog, 5 °Cent… these are people?'
'Jorge, this is no longer just about the Governor's Mansion. This is about the White House.'
'Oh, Clint, you worry too much. After George W., no Texan will again be elected president, not in our lifetimes.'
'Don't bet on it. He's a hero now, and heroes are hard to beat. Especially a hero who kills Mexicans… no offense. You see the latest tracking polls? He's in a dead heat with Obama. A couple of our internal polls put him ahead.'
'He will fade. They all do.'
'Maybe. Maybe not. No other Republican has a snowball's chance in hell of beating Obama-but Bode Bonner's got a chance. A damn good chance.'
Jorge heard heavy breathing on the line. He often worried about Clint's heart.
'We've got to stop him, Jorge.'
'How?'
'We've got to beat him here in Texas.'
'A Democrat beating Bode Bonner in Texas? That is not possible. Not now.'
'Not a Democrat… a Latino. Me and the national chairman, we think a Latino could beat him.'
'Not this election. Four years from now, possibly. Eight years from now, probably. Twelve years from now, absolutely. But not this year. Bode Bonner will win this year.'
'We don't have twelve years or eight years or even four! We've got to win this year! We need a Latino candidate now! This election!'
'But who?'
'That's your job, Jorge. Find him. Find the candidate, and the national party will put all the money behind him that it takes to beat Bode Bonner in November. The chairman said we'll have a blank check. Texas is now a national election-because if we keep Bode Bonner out of the Governor's Mansion, we keep him out of the White House. And, Jorge, if a Latino is elected governor of Texas, you will have won what you've worked for all your life.'
Jorge Gutierrez was seventy-six years old. He had served as a city council member, state legislator, and now mayor of San Antonio for the last fifteen years. He ran for governor once, but lost in the Democratic primary to an Anglo who was backed by the state party. Thirty years ago, the state party did not need Jorge Gutierrez. But they needed him now. Because Texas was now a minority-majority state. Because Hispanics accounted for forty percent of the state's population-which number increased by the day. By the birth. Seven out of every ten babies born in Texas that day would be Hispanic. In ten years, we will be the majority population in Texas, in the U.S. in twenty years. We immigrate, we procreate, and we populate-with a purpose. A plan. To take political power. Over Texas. Over America. For Hispanics.
Know this, my Anglo friends: Every year, six hundred thousand Hispanics born in the U.S. turn eighteen and become eligible to vote. Every year. Year after year. Forever.
Of course, the Democrats think Hispanics will vote always for them. That Hispanics are beholden to them since they call for citizenship to all illegal Mexicans while the Republicans call for a bus to the border. The Democrats think we will vote as instructed, as if they remain our patrons as they were back in LBJ's day. They want to make us dependent on government so that we will be dependent on the Democratic Party. But we will not be beholden to either party. To anyone. Except ourselves.
Then we will have respect.
Jorge Gutierrez was the leading Hispanic in Texas, even though few voters outside San Antonio had ever heard of him. But politicians knew him well. Because he headed the 'Mexican Mafia,' as he called the network of Hispanics who had infiltrated the Anglo power structure in business, law, media, academics, and politics. Hispanics who long to see Texas and the nation turn from red and blue to brown, who stood ready to use their power to promote a Hispanic candidate for governor of Texas. Jorge had once dreamed that he would be that candidate. But, alas, it was not to be. He was too old and too tired. The people needed a new face, a new voice, a new leader. Someone who inspired them. Someone handsome and charismatic, educated and smart, someone who had one foot in Mexico and one foot in Texas, someone like Jorge noticed now that the cafe had fallen silent. He had been lost in his thoughts. He glanced around. All eyes were turned up to the television. Dr. Jesse Rincon commanded their full attention. On the screen, the doctor wore a white lab coat over a black T-shirt and jeans. He stood in a shantytown surrounded by half-naked brown children. He squatted next to a little girl with a dirty face and a runny nose.
'And this beautiful little nina is Bonita. She is four years old. I delivered her right here in the colonia, as well as her two little brothers. Say hello to San Antonio, Bonita. Saludales a los ciudadanos de San Antonio, Tejas.'
The girl smiled for the camera and said, ' Hola, San Antonio.'
The doctor flashed a bright white smile, and the screen came alive with his face. He was handsome, more handsome than any TV doctor, as the women in the cafe would attest. His black hair was thick and silky and fell onto his forehead. He was tall and lean and photogenic. The children crowded close around the doctor like sinners to Jorge sat up. He said into the phone, 'Clint, I will call you back.' He disconnected the call. On the TV, the doctor stood and led the reporter through the colonia. The camera captured the desperate living conditions. The doctor gestured at a patch of bare dirt, where a few barefooted boys kicked a soccer ball.
'This is our futbol field.'
The ball came to the doctor; he stopped it with his foot then kicked it back to the boys as if he knew how. They continued through the shanties and to a small white structure. The doctor pointed to the blank side wall.
'This is our movie theater. We show movies on the clinic wall every other Friday night.'
He walked on until the colonia became the desert. The doctor pointed to a distant shadow that stretched across the land.
'To the north is the border wall.'
He now pointed in the opposite direction.
'To the south is the river. These people are caught between the border wall and the border, between America and Mexico, between the future and the past. We stand on land that America has abandoned in the drug and immigration war, a land that is neither here nor there, neither-'
'?Doctor! '
The doctor turned at the sound of a loud voice off-camera. The camera now caught a young boy and a dog running to the doctor.
'Doctor,' the boy said in Spanish, 'we have been searching for you! Come quickly! To the river! The nurse, she needs you!'
The doctor said not another word. He broke and ran after the boy and the dog, as if in a race for his life. The camera followed, the image bouncing up and down as the cameraman ran to keep up with the doctor, deep into the colonia, cutting between shacks and across dirt roads, ducking under clotheslines and running around water tanks, dodging pigs and goats and squawking chickens and finally arriving at the river. A crowd had gathered on a low bluff above the river. The boy pointed down.
The camera captured the scene.
Down below, a solitary woman wearing a white lab coat over a blue dress and a wide-brimmed hat sat on
