Asignado

Growing up, there was always one sound that held precedent above all else. My dad's whistle. He has several of them. One means, 'come here right now.' Another is, 'stop doing whatever it is you're doing right now.' Another one, 'I heard you, but it'll be a minute.' Yet another, 'yes, finally, you got it right.' That one is usually proceeded by clapping. If you ever hear this, whatever you do, do not blush. It only fuels the fire.

To this day, I turn my head when I hear something similar to any of those sounds. But there's something distinct and incomparable about the piercing whistle that comes from my father's lips. When I was 7, he told us that he'd give 5 dollars to every kid who learned how to whistle like he does. The eldest of us children is still the only one who ever received those 5 dollars. The rest of us are still hoping.

When my dad calls, dropping everything and running in whatever direction the sound is coming from has always been our initial reaction. We have a few stories about lives being saved because of the almost animal-like instincts we take on when our father whistles.

My point is, when my father asks, his children act. Which is why it wasn't even an hour after I hung up the phone that I had my bus ticket purchased and my backpack filled with granola bars. Less than 24 hours later, I was on my way to Mexico, documents in hand.

It took over 15 hours to settle everything. Which isn't all that much, when you're talking Mexican immigration. But the lady behind the counter took the only proof I had that I was allowed to be in the country. She gave me a piece of paper with numbers on it. It wasn't even *stamped*.

The next day, the border patrol man acted like I made the whole 'permanent residency' thing up. I showed him. Scans of my documents, that is. I don't even remember what language we were speaking. I couldn't find my glasses until halfway through, so I don't know what he looked like, either. Just that he was big. And waiting impatiently for me to stop fumbling with the zipper on my bag and show him proof that I was allowed to be setting foot in his country.

This morning, my grandfather teared up when I told him all that had happened over the past few days. How my father had called and asked me if I could make it down to Central Mexico by the next day. How he returned from his board meeting several hours after I arrived on site. How we waiting 5 hours to even get to the counter at INM. How we got the lady dad said would probably be one of the only ones who'd let my paperwork go through. How, even with a mistake in my name, I got a green light, penning in the corrections right there at the counter. How my energy level stayed so perfectly balanced until the very last minute. I told him how I got back on the exact same bus I had traveled down in. How there wasn't 5 minutes during the whole 5 day trip that I had any time to waste. And how I walked in the door last night, just in time for a few hours of sleep and some packing before my next bus leaves. I told him how it really didn't seem possible that the timing could have worked out so well with so little planning. How it's pretty cool I get to go on to Ireland this summer, despite a hiccup in my legal paperwork.

He told me that God sure must have His hand on me pretty tightly, because everything just sort of settles into place after I come through like a hurricane. I love my grandfather. I love him even more when he's right.