When my father was crossing the U.S.-Mexico borde r like an undocumented Road Runner back in the 1970s, la migra caught him more than a few times.

They chased him and his friends through factories in Los Angeles and across the hills that separate Tijuana and San Diego. He was tackled and handcuffed and hauled off in cars, trucks and vans. Sometimes, Papi and his pals were dropped off at the border checkpoint in San Ysidro and ordered to walk back into Mexico. Other times, he was packed into grimy cells with other men.

But there was no anger or terror in his voice when I asked him recently how la migra treated him whenever they’d catch him.

“Like humans,” he said. “They had a job to do, and they knew why we mojados were coming here, so they knew they would see us again. So why ma

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