I remember the posters.

I grew up in central California, a heavily agricultural area, an area heavily populated by Latin@s. It has been a bit of a shock for me, as I moved on to other areas, that cities and towns would run into one another with nothing in between: in the central San Joaquin Valley, there was county land, with dense residential areas called towns, and it was usually a 10-15 minute drive through county land -- corn fields, grape fields, all varied sorts of orchards -- to reach the next town.

I did always wonder: where was your address, if your home was in that county land? And if something happened to you while you were there, who would come to your aid?

I remember the posters. I would see them posted on bulletin boards in grocery stores, fast food restaurants, secondary schools, county buildings. They were low quality copies, asking for my help, asking: have I seen this girl?

Almost always a girl. And there were other common features -- the eyes, the thick dark hair -- the shaded skin. And the name. Veronica. Consuelo. Yolanda. Maricela.

Nobody ever seemed to pay attention to these posters.

And I remember the signs on the highway, when we would drive down to Los Angeles to visit my doctor, or when Mom was being shunted around various hospitals for reasons I was too young to remember. They were the electronic types, set up over the road, the sort that would warn you of gusty winds on the Grapevine. They flashed messages of missing children. And I seem to remember different names in those messages.

And I remember the rationalizations. These low-class girls, in low-class families. Must be runaways. Won't be missed. What's another one? Turn your eyes, and in another few seconds all will be forgotten.

This is a systemic problem, with dirty roots reaching deep. From the casual observer to the detective whose job it is to do these searches, nobody seems to care. Nobody who matters, anyway.