All the Agents and Saints: Dispatches from the U.S. Borderlands

35 4 The Activist and the Ordinance Suzie Canales was cruising the back roads of Corpus Christi with her sister Cindy when something sinister caught their eye off the side of the road. They pulled over and retraced their route, walking against traffic. Though still within the city limits, they were far from any residential neighborhood . Down the knoll and beyond some trees, they could make out a pond-size body of darkness. Cindy ran back to lock the car. Don’t go down there without me! Naturally, Suzie did. Thewaterwasthickassludgeandthecolorofscorchedcoal.Itexudedan odor Suzie couldn’t place. Like tar, but danker. Cautiously, Suzie stuck a foot uponthemudbanksurroundingit.Hershoesankafewinches,butitseemed firm enough to hold her. What could it be? Given all the oil refineries in the area—Citgo, Flint Hills, Valero—the possibilities were endless. It could be crude oil. Hydraulic fracturing fluid. Drill cuttings. Petroleum waste. She took another step. It could be a benzene bath. A carcinogenic stew. A toxic— Suddenly, she was submerged in it. Chest-high. A scream escaped. Sludge filled her open mouth and, in her panic, she swallowed. The darkness slithered down her throat. She flailed her limbs until they found something solid beneath. A pipeline of sorts. She clenched it between her feet. Seeing her sister struggle, Cindy half-ran, half-tumbled down the knoll towardthebank.Findingagrassyspot,sheextendedherhand.Littlesisterto big sister. Growing up, these women weren’t especially close. Suzie had been the baby for seven years, until Cindy wailed along. Suzie had resented her ever since. Only now, in their forties, were they starting to connect. Now that they had lost their older sister, Diana. Now that they had formed a coalition to fight what might have killed her. 36 The Texas-Mexico Borderlands The sisters locked eyes and gripped hands. On the count of three. One. Two. But Suzie’s hands were too slick. She slipped deeper into the sludge. Cindy screamed with frustration before reaching out once more. Again, she lost her grip. Suzie sank further into the murk. The third try. This is it. They stared hard into each other’s eyes. This is too much! They burst out laughing. That’s when Cindy’s adrenaline surged. Clutching her sister by both wrists, she yanked her from the swamp. The two stumbled backward onto the mud bank where Suzie lay in a heap. I swallowed some. I swallowed some. Asbaptismsgo,Suzie’swasgruesomebutfitting.Herewasawomanwho had dedicated her life to fighting oil companies—and she nearly drowned in one of their pits. Oil refineries are the first sight to greet you upon entering my hometown. They line both sides of the interstate, a city onto themselves, sprawling across hundreds of acres of land as they rise in towering mazes of pipe and steel, looking both antiquated and futuristic as they emit plumes of smoke into the sky. Their storage tanks are mostly painted hospital green or­tenement cream, though some sport murals of dolphins and sea turtles and say things like “Sharing the Earth with Responsibility: citgo.” Powdery black hills of the petroleum byproduct known as “petcoke” abound. Becausetheyarethebackboneofoureconomy,criticizingthese­refineries makes you a polarizing figure. If someone doesn’t work for a refinery themselves ,theirtíosurelydoes.SocityofficialstendtowincewhenSuzieCanales comes knocking at the door. They dispatch their secretaries to stonewall her. Industry reps are even less diplomatic: they reach for the phone and dial security. The media love her, since she’s a reliable source of opinion. She appears on the evening news so often, though, she can seem like a zealot. When I mention my plans to have breakfast with her one morning, a friend asks,“Youmean,thecrazyone?”Butthat’swhyIwanttomeetSuzie.Likethe otherTejanosI’vebeenadmiringlately—SantaBarraza,LionelLopez,Sister Maximina—she appears to have transcended the typical preoccupations of family, career, and self and channeled her fervor into something greater. In her early fifties, Suzie has cropped black hair, a prominent nose, olive skin, and melancholic eyes. Her earrings are shaped like bunches of grapes; beaded bracelets adorn her wrists. She has the air of a guidance counselor from an at-risk high school: deeply empathetic, yet a little wary, too. At the Town & Country Diner, she orders the bacon-and-egg special before saying, more to herself than to me, “Where should I begin?” [210.158.71.88] Project MUSE (2024-06-24 23:11 GMT) The Activist and the Ordinance  37 Suzie grew up on the west side of Corpus Christi—the part of town wheremultiplegenerationsgathereachSundayforbackyardbarbacoa,where sons tinker beneath their trucks while...