My son, Nicolas, is turning 18 this summer, and he’ll be voting for the first time later this year. Nicolas probably doesn’t realize it yet, but in the November election he and millions of other young Latinos could determine who the next president will be.
The notorious drug lord Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzman may be locked up (again), but it would be naive to assume that his recapture will significantly improve the well-being of more than 120 million Mexicans.
When the plane’s doors opened after we landed in Des Moines, a frigid draft blew through the cabin. I checked the temperature on my phone: zero degrees Fahrenheit. As someone born in Mexico and tempered in Florida, I felt almost frozen.
I don’t know exactly how we got here, but rather than discussing the influence that Hispanic voters can wield in the upcoming presidential election or how lawmakers can pass commonsense immigration legislation, we’re back to focusing on deportations in America.
Sometimes those of us who live outside Cuba forget that the country remains a dictatorship. But for the 11 million people living on the island, forgetting is impossible — they live the consequences every day.
The children of immigrants in America tend to take on two responsibilities: They care for their immigrant parents, and they care for other immigrants as if they were their own parents. That has been a noble American tradition for over two centuries. Few things are sadder or more treacherous than closing the door to immigrants who came after us, which is what some U.S. presidential candidates want to do.
We’re stuck. It’s almost midnight, and Mexico City’s airport doesn’t have enough gates to accommodate all the flights that are landing. So we wait: a half-hour in an airliner at a standstill, then another half-hour in a small bus, then an hour in line at customs. By daybreak, there is a chill in the air. But it doesn’t matter. I’m finally home, for a little while — to see my mother, my siblings and the city I left almost 33 years ago.
Exercising journalistic freedom in Mexico these days can be a heroic feat. In the last decade, some 80 Mexican journalists have been killed, and many more have faced reprisals or been threatened into silence, by criminals and public officials alike.
Dec. 2 was a typical day for me. I woke up early, due to jet lag. I sweated my way through a yoga class, paid some bills, wrote a bit, returned some calls, then went to the studio to interview chef José Andrés about the ways that food can change the world. A few hours later, I was on television, reporting on that day’s massacre, this time in San Bernardino, California.
PARIS — This city, one of the most beautiful and civilized in the world, is not the place you’d expect gunmen to stand outside a café and spray diners with bullets.