It was an accident of geography.
I could’ve been born and raised anywhere. Even the reverse of my case, as in born in San Diego, and occasionally visiting Tijuana, Mexico, as others have been. But no. I was born in Tijuana, living there while simultaneously commuting and spending nearly half of my waking days on U.S. soil. I was learning English under total immersion while trying to mentally unpack the peanut butter and jelly lunch concoction eaten regularly by my third-grade classmates, which I thought was more under the dessert category think apple pie.
It was hilarious to my 8-year-old self. “Who would eat that?” I wondered. I soon learned that they my classmates were equally perplexed by my exotic lunches like leftover