Ensenada, Baja, MX – "Leave a Little Room"

Finishing touches on the roof before sunset - Photo by Lisa Johnson

Three pairs of boxer shorts. Lime squeezer. Sunscreen. Two handkerchiefs.Practice using imperfecto and subjunctivo verbs. Headlamp and extra batteries. Real vanilla. Quesatortas con adobada. Toothbrush and toothpaste. Work gloves. At least ten minutes at the beach. Five houses.

A few years ago, when my over-packed suitcase returned from a Florida trip filled with crushed sand-dollars and mangled alligator heads (remnants of which still occasionally emerge from the crevices of my luggage), I vowed to henceforth always construct packing lists which accounted for those items not yet acquired. At first, the lists would simply remind me to leave space in my bag for a cuckoo clock and beer stein. Later, however, the list evolved into a panoptic survey of my needs and wants for the pending excursion.

Perhaps I set myself up to fail. I demand too much of my adventures. A weekend camping list may include “find peace within myself” or a brief visit home wants to “tell Mom and Dad that I see God differently than they do.”But at least now I know what to expect. It feels entirely ordinary to ask yourself “Will I really need a bathing suit or that second sweater?” but somehow awkward to inquire “Will I find true love or my death, or the best wine I’ve ever tasted?” Why not? In these brief preparations, I allow myself the guilty pleasure of making assumptions.

Ensenada, Mexico lies 110 km south of San Diego past the infamous border town Tijuana and all its risky excesses. I’m traveling with a Catholic church group from Denver to build homes for needy families. I fondly remember San Diego from childhood family vacations, but know very little of Mexico’s Baja peninsula beyond college buddy surfing stories and urban legends.

With the physical objects stowed away and crossed off my list I’m forced to contemplate the more esoterical items I’ve included. The entire premise of this excursion troubles me. Is this right? Should we as relatively wealthy Americans further impose ourselves upon the impoverished nations of the world? I cannot predict whether building a home for an anonymous family will provide them with the necessary means by which to significantly improve their lives or if I will be little more than an accomplish in the murder of their self-sufficiency. The welfare system in the United States—and the criminal justice system, for that matter—consistently fail to teach their recipients how to overcome financial dependency.

I am the quintessential definition of social dominance: American, white, male, heterosexual, college-educated, Protestant-raised. I know I speak from a position of privilege. I resolve myself of any guilt by reassuring that nagging voice inside my head that something must be done; some exchange of wealth must take place, and I am simply distributing my privileges to those who need it the most. It soothes me to imagine others like myself giving without any return demands.