Families. Families are really important. Families are especially important to young people. Housing becomes home (or doesn't) based on the support and love created by a family.
Yesterday I was privileged to spend the morning at the White House Conference on LGBT Housing and Homelessness at Wayne State University (here in Detroit). As I sat and listened to the panels - first, a panel made up of four high-level members of the Obama Administration (HUD and HHS in particular) and the SE Michigan US Attorney; then the directors of three programs whose work focuses on providing housing and wrap-around services to homeless LGBT youth - I was struck by just how important it is that we meet not only the immediate needs for shelter among (in particular) young people, but also the emotional needs.
Queer youth make up about 7% of youth, nationally, yet a full 40% of homeless youth are LGBT-identified. At least half of those are homeless because they have been directly rejected by the very support network that is supposed to play a positive role in human development - family. Often, queer youth are further victimized within the systems that are set up to serve them, pushed into the adult shelter system at 18 or 21, frequently lacking, as the director of the Ali Forney Center attested, some of the developmental skills that a lot of us get more-or-less by osmosis. The trauma of rejection is compounded by having to navigate systems just to have needs met. I don't begin to know what this is like. Every family has internal dynamics, of course, but I never had to fill out paperwork to get face time with my folks or have an ID to be granted entry to my house at night. Nor have I ever been told that 40F isn't actually too cold to sleep outside, as is the case in many cities without cold weather laws.
And to be clear - for some youth, leaving home is life saving, preventing either further abuse or contemplation of suicide. But that lack of a supportive home space with people who love them (whether it starts at the point of leaving or long before) has long-lasting impact.
Fast forward to last night and the Grace in Action monthly immigration movie night. We watched Under the Same Moon (trailer), a movie that follows a mother and son who have been separated for four years, because the mom lives and works in LA and the son, Carlitos, lives in Mexico. They, too, are separated, albeit for different reasons than many LGBT youth are separated from their families. After the film, we had a small discussion of the situations presented. During the conversation, a woman I've spoken with a few times at other events spoke up: "Yo me identifico mucho con la mamá en la pelicula - tengo nueve años de no ver a mis tres hijos mayores." (I really identify with the mom in the movie - I haven't seen my three oldest children in nine years.) A ton of bricks doesn't begin to describe. And none of her kids is even my age - the oldest is just younger than Ella.
In talking with her and her husband afterward, I learned that they are from just a couple hours away from Suchitoto. We were talking, laughing, sharing memories and stories and she asked if, whenever I'm there next, I would visit her children. Another ton of bricks. I hope to be able to do this, but it made me once again SO aware of the privilege I have as a citizen of the US. I can come and go as I please, but she cannot nor can her husband. And so they are separated. And their older kids have three siblings here whom they have never met. Separation.
In the film, one of the older characters reminds Carlitos, in a moment of deep despair, that nobody chooses to live this way - everyone has a reason. Usually that reason is a child or a parent.
We have to start and keep having conversations about the situations that push people to make unbearable decisions and live in unbearable situations of separation. We have a role to play in remaking our immigration and housing systems. At the intersections of policy, faith, and community education, we need to plant ourselves and invite others into conversation about how deeply separation hurts individuals, families, and society.
La Misma Luna and the White House Conference did not, at the surface, seem to have a lot in common. Yet there was a common thread throughout the day of the damage done by rejection and family separation, and the important of building loving networks of support around those who, for whatever reason, have been separated from family. Let us continue to be about this as the seasons turn.
Showing posts with label immigration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label immigration. Show all posts
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Que te vaya bien
I am emotionally at sea. I found out yesterday morning that one of my former students left for the US. I had seen her in school on Monday afternoon, but didn't know she was leaving - didn't get to say goodbye.
She is a pillar in her community, a young woman of such strength and commitment that she inspires me every day. And her children - three of them - are some of the most wonderful, loving kids I know. Now they live with an aunt they hardly know in a different community, where I won't see them. I want so badly to visit them, to let them know that, in the midst of so much upheaval in their lives this week, there are constants, and one of those is that I love them.
There are so many worries swimming around in my head and heart that I don't even know where to begin. For one thing, dear heaven the journey is dangerous - often deadly. We are heading into the hottest part of the year, where dehydration claims probably (and this is just my guess) dozens of migrants' lives each day. On top of this, Central Americans face an especially long and arduous path, as Mexico is not known for being terribly welcoming of the people passing through. (And I say this, of course, not as any word against Mexico - it's simply the truth that things are especially dangerous for Central Americans migrating north.) There are more borders to cross, more unfamiliar territory, more opportunities to be attacked.
Traveling as a woman makes this exponentially more dangerous. She is traveling with a male relative, which I think played into the timing of her going, but still women are targeted infinitely more than men for sexually based attacks.
Then there is the question of her children. She has three kids between three and ten years old. They are all three wonderful, but her oldest is particularly special to me. We've gone on walks a couple of times and he taught me about all of the types of birds that are native in the area - with particular attention to how good a mama the torrogoz is. Púchica. The community they live in is not far away - it's actually between Suchi and El Barío on the bus line. But I'm not sure if my visiting them is appropriate. I have to figure that out, because this is killing me.
Just as the story of my teacher's sister and nephew was, this is one story of thousands. About 750 Salvadorans (Salvadorans alone) leave the country each DAY for the US. They are women and men with families and roots, just like the ones I described having myself a couple posts back. They have kids, lives, passions, and dreams. We have to ask ourselves WHY, what could possibly compel someone to leave those they love and undertake a journey and then a life of such danger? And you know what? All I can say is that I hate, I hate, I HATE the policies and trade agreements and big-bank-greed-based economic crises and gang violence that make leaving not only an option but a necessity.
At this moment, that hate is not quite all, but almost all that I have. I am wearing that hate, trying not to act out of it, but mostly I am filled with it. I think my love for her and her kids is what is keeping this from enveloping me more fully. And the love of my compañeros here. And the fact that I still have 50 other students that I love and need to teach well. So - surprise of surprises - I find that love is the only thing that can face off against and overcome hate.
Because she is one of the countless humans who will leave their homes this week to risk their lives in this way and for this end, please, please take a moment today, and tomorrow, and the next day to hold up their safety and well being - and that of their loved ones whom they leave at home or the loved ones who await their arrival. And in this situation in which no news is decidedly good news, pray for no news.
She is a pillar in her community, a young woman of such strength and commitment that she inspires me every day. And her children - three of them - are some of the most wonderful, loving kids I know. Now they live with an aunt they hardly know in a different community, where I won't see them. I want so badly to visit them, to let them know that, in the midst of so much upheaval in their lives this week, there are constants, and one of those is that I love them.
There are so many worries swimming around in my head and heart that I don't even know where to begin. For one thing, dear heaven the journey is dangerous - often deadly. We are heading into the hottest part of the year, where dehydration claims probably (and this is just my guess) dozens of migrants' lives each day. On top of this, Central Americans face an especially long and arduous path, as Mexico is not known for being terribly welcoming of the people passing through. (And I say this, of course, not as any word against Mexico - it's simply the truth that things are especially dangerous for Central Americans migrating north.) There are more borders to cross, more unfamiliar territory, more opportunities to be attacked.
Traveling as a woman makes this exponentially more dangerous. She is traveling with a male relative, which I think played into the timing of her going, but still women are targeted infinitely more than men for sexually based attacks.
Then there is the question of her children. She has three kids between three and ten years old. They are all three wonderful, but her oldest is particularly special to me. We've gone on walks a couple of times and he taught me about all of the types of birds that are native in the area - with particular attention to how good a mama the torrogoz is. Púchica. The community they live in is not far away - it's actually between Suchi and El Barío on the bus line. But I'm not sure if my visiting them is appropriate. I have to figure that out, because this is killing me.
Just as the story of my teacher's sister and nephew was, this is one story of thousands. About 750 Salvadorans (Salvadorans alone) leave the country each DAY for the US. They are women and men with families and roots, just like the ones I described having myself a couple posts back. They have kids, lives, passions, and dreams. We have to ask ourselves WHY, what could possibly compel someone to leave those they love and undertake a journey and then a life of such danger? And you know what? All I can say is that I hate, I hate, I HATE the policies and trade agreements and big-bank-greed-based economic crises and gang violence that make leaving not only an option but a necessity.
At this moment, that hate is not quite all, but almost all that I have. I am wearing that hate, trying not to act out of it, but mostly I am filled with it. I think my love for her and her kids is what is keeping this from enveloping me more fully. And the love of my compañeros here. And the fact that I still have 50 other students that I love and need to teach well. So - surprise of surprises - I find that love is the only thing that can face off against and overcome hate.
Because she is one of the countless humans who will leave their homes this week to risk their lives in this way and for this end, please, please take a moment today, and tomorrow, and the next day to hold up their safety and well being - and that of their loved ones whom they leave at home or the loved ones who await their arrival. And in this situation in which no news is decidedly good news, pray for no news.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Legality
I spent this morning in the capital getting my visa renewed. My 90 days of legal tourist status - which I got when I first arrived in Guatemala - come up on Friday the 3rd. I left Suchitoto at 8am and was back by 1pm. (And at least 3.5 of those 5 hours were spent in transit.)
I needed a few copies of documents, a letter from the Center, a passport-size photo, and $25.
I've sat here for about five minutes now trying to figure out a creative and/or deep/reasoned way of putting this, but I have nothing at the moment. What I really want to know is why it was the ridiculously easy for me to renew my visa and navigate the migration system here, but people die EVERY DAY trying to go to the US. And what sort of desperation could possibly move someone - much less thousands of someones - to take on the risk, the physical and psychological pain, and the expense of coming undocumented to the States? People take on these weights all the time. Why aren't we paying attention to the human side of that reality??
There are economic and political arguments that can be made (and even those I argue with), but I came across a quote this afternoon that resonated with me in this particular moment: "Rats and roaches live by competition under the laws of supply and demand; it is the privilege of human beings to live under the laws of justice and mercy." Wendell Berry
Last week there was a massacre of 72 migrants in Mexico on their way to the US, including 13 Salvadorans and 5 Guatemalans. (Obviously, the nationalities are far from important, but those two figures hit close right now.) I've heard varying things about how much US coverage there has been of this, but here it has its own few pages in the paper each day.
There aren't really words to describe how I feel about the massacre, largely because I think I'm not allowing myself to feel anything, for fear that I'll collapse under the scale of it. I'm letting the numbers get close to my skin because they are so much safer than the real stories. But on the bus on the way home today, I just sat there thinking, "That was so easy. Too easy? No - it should be that easy. Everywhere. For everyone, not just do-gooder from the US who can work a copy machine (sometimes) and a cash machine." Because an equally-equipped Salvadoran in the US would not receive the same treatment - from a migration official who remembered me from my first visit and chatted with me for half an hour.
Diana's (another volunteer here) folks were here during my second week in Suchitoto. At that point I was trying to figure out if I had an option like what I did this morning, rather than having to travel all the way to Mexico and come back in. Her dad half-jokingly invited me to simply "have an illegal experience, like so many in the US right now." I appreciated that reminder. The fear that this wouldn't work out to my most convenient advantage was already weighing on me, but was nothing compared to what would face me if I were living undocumented in the US. I'm not here for either economic or safety reasons; if I were to get sent back and never allowed to come back into Central America, I would be incredibly sad, but my life would continue without fear of violence or hunger.
This is (as my entries are tending to be these days) really just a jumble of thoughts. But there is something at work in there; I just can't tie it all together. I hope at least my general idea came across. It is just so frustrating. The paper today had a photo of the most recently-identified Salvadoran. She was 15. The same age as my teacher's nephew when he left last year, except his nephew survived (barely). She was younger than Ella by almost three years.
Those were really just more things I had swimming around to add to the pile. Still not concise, but there it is in spite of that.
I needed a few copies of documents, a letter from the Center, a passport-size photo, and $25.
I've sat here for about five minutes now trying to figure out a creative and/or deep/reasoned way of putting this, but I have nothing at the moment. What I really want to know is why it was the ridiculously easy for me to renew my visa and navigate the migration system here, but people die EVERY DAY trying to go to the US. And what sort of desperation could possibly move someone - much less thousands of someones - to take on the risk, the physical and psychological pain, and the expense of coming undocumented to the States? People take on these weights all the time. Why aren't we paying attention to the human side of that reality??
There are economic and political arguments that can be made (and even those I argue with), but I came across a quote this afternoon that resonated with me in this particular moment: "Rats and roaches live by competition under the laws of supply and demand; it is the privilege of human beings to live under the laws of justice and mercy." Wendell Berry
Last week there was a massacre of 72 migrants in Mexico on their way to the US, including 13 Salvadorans and 5 Guatemalans. (Obviously, the nationalities are far from important, but those two figures hit close right now.) I've heard varying things about how much US coverage there has been of this, but here it has its own few pages in the paper each day.
There aren't really words to describe how I feel about the massacre, largely because I think I'm not allowing myself to feel anything, for fear that I'll collapse under the scale of it. I'm letting the numbers get close to my skin because they are so much safer than the real stories. But on the bus on the way home today, I just sat there thinking, "That was so easy. Too easy? No - it should be that easy. Everywhere. For everyone, not just do-gooder from the US who can work a copy machine (sometimes) and a cash machine." Because an equally-equipped Salvadoran in the US would not receive the same treatment - from a migration official who remembered me from my first visit and chatted with me for half an hour.
Diana's (another volunteer here) folks were here during my second week in Suchitoto. At that point I was trying to figure out if I had an option like what I did this morning, rather than having to travel all the way to Mexico and come back in. Her dad half-jokingly invited me to simply "have an illegal experience, like so many in the US right now." I appreciated that reminder. The fear that this wouldn't work out to my most convenient advantage was already weighing on me, but was nothing compared to what would face me if I were living undocumented in the US. I'm not here for either economic or safety reasons; if I were to get sent back and never allowed to come back into Central America, I would be incredibly sad, but my life would continue without fear of violence or hunger.
This is (as my entries are tending to be these days) really just a jumble of thoughts. But there is something at work in there; I just can't tie it all together. I hope at least my general idea came across. It is just so frustrating. The paper today had a photo of the most recently-identified Salvadoran. She was 15. The same age as my teacher's nephew when he left last year, except his nephew survived (barely). She was younger than Ella by almost three years.
Those were really just more things I had swimming around to add to the pile. Still not concise, but there it is in spite of that.
Friday, July 9, 2010
New photos - Salcaja
These are the photos from Wednesday's trip to the town of Salcaja, about half an hour from Xela. We visited a "campo de textiles" (literally a textile field). The folks in Salcaja weave a very specific kind of cloth that does now pertain to any specific ethnic group in Guatemala - something of a national semi-indigenous (though based on some Spanish methods) weaving tradition. Very interesting. The gentleman in the first photos took time off from his day to show us a bit of the process. The woman in purple and I interpreted (ha!) for him. Daunting, but doable. (And no, my Spanish is not anywhere near the point where I should be interpreting things.) The field is the only place in town long enough to set up the process, so they weave outside in a community setting rather than in individual houses.
We then visited the oldest church in Central America, La Ermite de la Virgen de la Concepcion la Conquistadora (the Hermitage of the Virgin of the Conception the Conqueror). It was built in 1524 and the altar is original. (The kind of freaky Virgin doll is decidedly not, in my estimation.) It was incredibly interesting being there after having spent the last four years partly in a program looking at colonization and the last five weeks immersing myself in a highly colonized atmosphere (though not so much more than our own - perhaps less in some ways). There's a lot to repent, that's for sure.
Finally, we went to a home brew place where a very local drink called Caldo de Fruitas (Fruit Soup) is made. Not my favorite drink - very sweet and fruity, shocker. But the family is also involved in the weaving process, so the man in the later photos demonstrated for us for a couple minutes.
Yesterday, we had an incredible conference on migration and globalization. The presenter in an incredibly astute, savvy ex-immigrant who "deported himself" back to Guatemala a couple years ago in order to work with youth here who "think that the US is the best place in the world" - so that they know the full reality of what they take on if they leave. And more importantly, to try to develop programs for deportees and a form of alternative economy that could prevent so many people from having to leave in the first place. One of the communities he works with here is a place we visited when I was here with CGE and is well worth a plug: the community of Santa Anita la Union, made up of 36 families in which the parents are ex-guerrilla combatants. It is a truly special community and it was really a privilege to hear our presenter's story. I don't have my notes right this second and I want my post on the conference to do it justice, so it will have to wait, but it is coming.
I am going to be studying in PLQ another week as well, which I'm thrilled about.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Cruzando
I was talking with someone at school here today. He's a Guatemalteco and his sister is in the States. Somehow our discussion of reciprocal verbs morphed into a conversation about his sister's experience crossing the Mexico-Guatemala border, the entire country of Mexico, and then the US-Mexico border. It's a harrowing story and although I certainly wasn't taking notes, I want to retell it as best I can.
After deciding to leave, the sister and her son (16 years old) first had to cross the border into Mexico. Because I was planning to go into Mexico for a couple of weeks myself, and didn't because of the level of danger there, I know at least theoretically how many ways there are to get oneself hurt in that part of the journey. In Mexico, they found a coyote who would take them in a truck. The set-up was this: Think of the inside of a U-haul-sized truck with a false wall about a foot inside each real wall. It's in between these walls that they stood - for 24 hours, driving through a sweltering desert. Because another passenger's knee spent the whole time pressed against the son's knee, when they got out shortly before the US-Mexico border, his knee was the size of a small watermelon. And the next step was to walk through the rest of the desert and cross on foot.
They tried this at Juarez (the most dangerous city in the Western Hemisphere, especially for women) and were detained by La Migra (immigration) and taken back to Mexico City. From there they made the journey once again to a point just south of Juarez and tried again. Once again they were captured and this time detained in a prison along with narcotraffickers and gang members - as though they were violent criminals.
Once they got out, they tried again, but this time going into California. It was a 15-day walk through the desert, without shoes. At one point, the mother (ie, my friend's sister) fell off an 8-foot ledge and injured her own leg. So whereas she had been supporting the son, now they had to walk holding onto each other and each supporting the other. [As a side note: the Mexico trip I referred to last time included a trip 100 km into the desert on the Mexico side. It is utterly brutal and if you want any chance of escaping La Migra, you have to walk through literally a carpet of cactus.] Five days out from their crossing point, they ran out of water and had to drink water with mosquito larvae, filtered only through their shirts, and they got sick.
When they finally crossed into California, they were given $5 by their coyote to buy some food at McDonald's, but they couldn't keep it down, since they hadn't eaten in days. And the $5 might sounds kind, but in comparison to the Q60,000 ($8500) that they now owed to the coyote....
They had to spend several nights in a park in LA, waiting for family in Texas to drive and pick them up. My friend told me that before leaving, his nephew had been a weightlifter. Not a body builder, per se, but fit and strong. By the time they got to Texas, he was gaunt and had to stay in bed for 15 days just to recuperate his strength and heal his knee.
The mother and son now work together as janitors in two different establishments - a clothing retail shop and an apartment building. They work one job from 3am-8am, then the other from 2pm-10pm. (Notice that neither of those time slots offer quite enough time for a solid rest.) They hope that if they stay in the States another five years that they will be able to go home.
I offer this story (as something of a re-gift, as I feel privileged to have heard it the first time) as one of so, so many almost-identical stories of crossing. About 750 Salvadorans alone leave each day for the US and something like 400 are turned away or deported. The difference - the 350-ish people - don't all make it, though. The desert is littered with dead people who died in the attempt, starved, dehydrated, killed by gangs, etc. What would compel someone to do that? I am pretty sure it is not an interest in taking US jobs or getting rich and not paying taxes. (For the record, most folks in the States without papers never see a cent of the money that is taken out of their pay - they put in, but they don't receive anything in the form of social security and they aren't eligible for other welfare programs.)
So then a second thing: I miss my sister a whole lot. And I've only been gone two and a half weeks. My friend may, if they make enough, see his sister and nephew in five years, after a couple years already. What a context I come from that I can be upset about a one-year separation not even three weeks in! [Another side note: I just, while writing this, paused and had a conversation with another student here about different degrees of emotion and the fact that, while my experience of separation might exist within a completely different scale than my friend's, it is not less valid. In fact, trying to suppress it out of some sense of privilege-guilt tends to serve more to close dialogue than to open it.]
All of this is toward this point, I suppose: Next time the immigration situation in the US is frustrating, next time it seems that wages are being suppressed because of immigration, next time someone who gives you "reasonable suspicion" to doubt their status is frustrating on a personal level, please think about the situations that lead people to come here. Think on the separation of families and the debt and danger of crossing. Give people a story, even if it is your own fabrication, that is empathetic, understanding that we are all children of the same God and that God could care less about la frontera, except as it crosses and endangers the lives of Her children.
After deciding to leave, the sister and her son (16 years old) first had to cross the border into Mexico. Because I was planning to go into Mexico for a couple of weeks myself, and didn't because of the level of danger there, I know at least theoretically how many ways there are to get oneself hurt in that part of the journey. In Mexico, they found a coyote who would take them in a truck. The set-up was this: Think of the inside of a U-haul-sized truck with a false wall about a foot inside each real wall. It's in between these walls that they stood - for 24 hours, driving through a sweltering desert. Because another passenger's knee spent the whole time pressed against the son's knee, when they got out shortly before the US-Mexico border, his knee was the size of a small watermelon. And the next step was to walk through the rest of the desert and cross on foot.
They tried this at Juarez (the most dangerous city in the Western Hemisphere, especially for women) and were detained by La Migra (immigration) and taken back to Mexico City. From there they made the journey once again to a point just south of Juarez and tried again. Once again they were captured and this time detained in a prison along with narcotraffickers and gang members - as though they were violent criminals.
Once they got out, they tried again, but this time going into California. It was a 15-day walk through the desert, without shoes. At one point, the mother (ie, my friend's sister) fell off an 8-foot ledge and injured her own leg. So whereas she had been supporting the son, now they had to walk holding onto each other and each supporting the other. [As a side note: the Mexico trip I referred to last time included a trip 100 km into the desert on the Mexico side. It is utterly brutal and if you want any chance of escaping La Migra, you have to walk through literally a carpet of cactus.] Five days out from their crossing point, they ran out of water and had to drink water with mosquito larvae, filtered only through their shirts, and they got sick.
When they finally crossed into California, they were given $5 by their coyote to buy some food at McDonald's, but they couldn't keep it down, since they hadn't eaten in days. And the $5 might sounds kind, but in comparison to the Q60,000 ($8500) that they now owed to the coyote....
They had to spend several nights in a park in LA, waiting for family in Texas to drive and pick them up. My friend told me that before leaving, his nephew had been a weightlifter. Not a body builder, per se, but fit and strong. By the time they got to Texas, he was gaunt and had to stay in bed for 15 days just to recuperate his strength and heal his knee.
The mother and son now work together as janitors in two different establishments - a clothing retail shop and an apartment building. They work one job from 3am-8am, then the other from 2pm-10pm. (Notice that neither of those time slots offer quite enough time for a solid rest.) They hope that if they stay in the States another five years that they will be able to go home.
I offer this story (as something of a re-gift, as I feel privileged to have heard it the first time) as one of so, so many almost-identical stories of crossing. About 750 Salvadorans alone leave each day for the US and something like 400 are turned away or deported. The difference - the 350-ish people - don't all make it, though. The desert is littered with dead people who died in the attempt, starved, dehydrated, killed by gangs, etc. What would compel someone to do that? I am pretty sure it is not an interest in taking US jobs or getting rich and not paying taxes. (For the record, most folks in the States without papers never see a cent of the money that is taken out of their pay - they put in, but they don't receive anything in the form of social security and they aren't eligible for other welfare programs.)
So then a second thing: I miss my sister a whole lot. And I've only been gone two and a half weeks. My friend may, if they make enough, see his sister and nephew in five years, after a couple years already. What a context I come from that I can be upset about a one-year separation not even three weeks in! [Another side note: I just, while writing this, paused and had a conversation with another student here about different degrees of emotion and the fact that, while my experience of separation might exist within a completely different scale than my friend's, it is not less valid. In fact, trying to suppress it out of some sense of privilege-guilt tends to serve more to close dialogue than to open it.]
All of this is toward this point, I suppose: Next time the immigration situation in the US is frustrating, next time it seems that wages are being suppressed because of immigration, next time someone who gives you "reasonable suspicion" to doubt their status is frustrating on a personal level, please think about the situations that lead people to come here. Think on the separation of families and the debt and danger of crossing. Give people a story, even if it is your own fabrication, that is empathetic, understanding that we are all children of the same God and that God could care less about la frontera, except as it crosses and endangers the lives of Her children.
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