by Leslie Layton
It is 7 a.m. on a cold, grey day in early March at the border crossing that connects Tijuana, Mexico, with San Diego, Calif.
Some 25 migrants have gathered on the sidewalk below the port of entry. These are families on a waiting list, each with an assigned number in the 3,000 range. If any of their numbers are called today, they’ll get a turn to cross to the United States, and at some point — in what will probably be a very brief visit — a chance to make their case for asylum.
Newcomers are also arriving; one I notice immediately. She is a tall young woman with a toddler in tow who strides confidently toward us. She’s just arrived from Honduras, she says, slightly hunched from the weight of a framed backpack. She and her daughter are disheveled. Her large, dark eyes, tired. She is told to add her name to the wait list. Plan on a nine-month stay in Tijuana. Unwelcome news.
