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The realization that I did not indeed have my passport came a little too late when I unboarded that bus at the Gibraltar border when we attempted to cross from that British overseas territory back to Spain. “What do you mean you don’t have your passport?!”My guidance teacher exclaimed right after I had built up the courage of a lifetime to tell her that my forgetful mind had once again played with my reputation as the forgetful one. Responsible but always forgetful. Reflecting back at the previous course of events before that incident, I was a star struck girl with a mere 17 years of age who couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that just a month ago was foreign to traveling to a new continent over the daunting Atlantic Ocean and had never even been more than a few hours away from her parents. Yet here she was now, eagerly reclining on the metal bars before her at a tip of Gibraltar with a ferocious wind hitting her face and a crashing deep blue colored body of water below her where she witnessed, I witnessed, one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. I was witnessing a tripoint. I could see with squinting, eager eyes the lands of Africa, Spain, and British territory. I was not forgetful at that moment in time, how could I be when I pondered over the sights that were a wonder to behold. That heightened state of mind didn’t last very long however. I was still reminded of the prejudices of the world as we awaited to pass by border control. Being the daughter of Mexican immigrants taught me to be brave against the prejudices of discrimation, but it also instilled a firm fear within me that my parents were to one day be deported and we would become separated by a wall that stood for so much more than just a simple division tool. I knew that I was a legal citizen, but the ability to share the same fears as my parents were inevitable. I didn’t want to completely forget my roots back in that trip, but the reality of borders all over the world unexpectedly returned that fear. I knew that if one day I ever thought I would be held at any border, it definitely wasn’t this one. “We’ll find a way to get you across, don’t worry” said my worried director who was obviously biting his lips and rubbing his fingers across his eyebrows. Their reassurances didn’t work, I actually maintained my composure as I looked at the rest of my friends passing through the border control center. “Anda, que esto puede solucionarse amigo, déjale pasar y ahí le demostramos su pasaporte” and “porfavor!” And a bunch of “como que no” filled the conversation between my determined tour director and a seemingly annoyed police patrol official. The attempt was unsuccessful, as expected. I stood there holding back tears that just wished to unveil themselves to the world as they usually do with any setback. But, I refused to let my vulnerabilities show in that stuffy, tension-filled office as I wanted for my teacher to frantically return from obtaining my passport. I just remember in that moment standing there and pondering over the irony of being held at the Gibraltar border control center, a territory I hadn’t even known of its existence till the trip began, instead of at the U.S-Mexico border. I knew that I had no reason to fear the border control, but the fear that my parents had to live by tormented my mind. I returned to a bus turned silent when I stepped foot on the steps to return to my seat, a somehow unexpectedly new person. Well, not a new person, but somehow inexplicably changed by an experience I wouldn’t have ever imagined to occur.