I'm on a plane from Philadelphia to Houston. I feel strangely serene after a whirlwind adventure involving moving out of my house, surviving an earthquake and hurricane, and saying goodbye to the people I love for another year. A year to me now seems relatively short (my twenties are passing me by quicker than I know what to make of them), but for those sending me off, it may seem like a lengthier period of time. Especially for my poor mother who now has neither of her daughters in Pennsylvania, my sister having just relocated to the DC suburbs to start her first year of teaching.
Just over three weeks ago I was flying the other direction. Houston to Philadelphia to tie up loose ends and unfinished business. Coming back to pick up the life that I had left behind in a hurry on May 25th. The first night back in the 2020 house felt strange; I was a visitor in the home that had been my anchor through my year and a half in Philly. Everything was pristine; there were no dirty dishes in sight. And worst of all, the house felt like a ghost town as some housemates were gone for the summer and others were mostly not around due to their busy schedules. A lot different from the days when I would reconvene with my massage therapist/yoga instructing housemates mid-day for a brief chat or cup of coffee, our unconventional jobs allowing us to pop in and out during the daytime hours. Quickly however, despite the changes, I settled into a comfortable rhythm at 2020 during my three weeks home, scheduling time to see people for lunch or dinner and enjoying lazy mornings putzing around with my cat. The first two weeks especially felt extremely luxurious. I was explaining to my therapist how surprisingly invigorating it was to stroll the streets of my neighborhood in the summertime, to be in Philly without the crushing stress of my old job. She aptly noted that this carefree time was almost like my "honeymoon" with the city. The chance to fall in love again with a place that tends to embody the thin line between love and hate.
I leave Philadelphia feeling so grateful, not for the soulful grit of the city itself, but rather for the amazing people who are in my life, for my church community, and for the comfort of having a place to call my "home base," a place to come back to. I'm not sure that I've ever had that before. The time home has felt rejuvenating and grounding, full of reminders of the places where I come from and encouragement to embark on this next journey in Texas and whatever it may hold. I seem to be at one of those odd "full circle" junctures in life, bridging the past and future, holding on and letting go, feeling weak and strong, with a burden that is heavy and light. I am full of anxiety yet also not at all. I have the conviction that this is something that I have to do, whether now or in 20 years, that eventually the border would have pulled me there to do this work. It's a deep down, inexplicable, curious kind of pull. Like the way you know when you know about a new friend, that they are going to be someone important in your life. Like the way you know about something that's worth the hassle and the risk. An instinctive understanding that even if this experience turns me inside out and upside down, it's something that I want to live out.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
El Drama Humano
I remember sitting at my Ecuadorian mother's table, possibly one of my favorite places in the world, telling her about the stress of my job as a case manager earlier this year. It was late February, and I was visiting the host family that I had lived with while studying abroad in Ecuador my junior year of college. I was thrilled to see Diva, my host mother, four years after I had first come into her home. I have many memories of learning Spanish at her table, spending hours philosophizing about life, well, mostly listening to her philosophize. Diva Flor is a woman full of insights and anecdotes, a mix of mystical free-thinker and traditional Latina mother, well-spoken and honest and bold. I remember trying to explain that the stress of my job was mostly not due to my clients, who I thoroughly enjoyed, but rather due to the way the Intellectual DisAbilities system was set up in Pennsylvania: utterly archaic and deluged by pointless paperwork. She reminded me that my field of choice, social work, is and always would prove to be stressful due to el drama humano que sigue y sigue. The heart of social work involves encountering "unceasing human drama." The same problems we face today are the ones of yesterday and the problems that humanity will face thousands of years from now.
I am reminded of this simple truth, human drama, as I think about some of the crises that have unfolded in this house of 40-50 people, all attempting to coexist under the same roof. Last night was a landmark night as the ambulance came to our house twice and our director, who is currently recovering from knee surgery, was driven to our home at 11:00 PM to intervene in escalating drama between two of the families. One of my favorite families in our house right now is a family of seven. Due to issues of security and confidentiality, I cannot write as much I would like to about their story, but the gist is that they came to the US fleeing for their lives which were under serious threat.
I have come to completely adore this family. Despite the trauma of having their lives upended, they have settled into the fabric of our home, bringing so much good will and warmth and decency to this place. They are famously good cooks and have made themselves available to complete more than their fair share of household chores. To me, they represent a close-knit family unit in a home where so many families have been torn apart by violence or abuse. There are few fathers in this household of single women with multiple kids, and the fathers that we do have here not always shown themselves to be shining stars of virtue (last week's drama, for example, involved suspected cheating as one of my married guests was supposedly seen kissing another woman, and mother of three, on the roof). As I have met each week with the parents of this family, I have wanted to make sure that they feel safe and comfortable in the house. I have wanted so badly for them to feel some sense of stability here despite the uncertainties about what lies ahead. Unfortunately, in the last few weeks, things have begun slowly unraveling. The mother has shared that she feels that she cannot handle being here anymore, that despite not having any money saved, she wants to move out. She's bearing the emotional burden of the trauma that was having their lives threatened, of leaving behind her home and family and personal space and possessions.
"Todos aqui traemos una perdida," another guest once told me. All of us here are bearing the burden of great loss. On top of the trauma that each guest has personally experienced is the challenge of living in a home with many other traumatized people. The other family involved in last night's incidents were "Gustavo," "Marta," and their teenaged daughter, "Flor." Gustavo is a stereotypical Mexican macho man, a good-natured but almost entirely clueless cowboy. Marta is charming and motherly but also deeply manipulative, prone to both hysteria and hypochondria. Their poor daughter Flor is an adorable adolescent who should not be held responsible for her parents' dysfunction but is shaped by it nonetheless. They were also targets of arbitrary violence in Mexico.
These two families collided over issues that perhaps in less extreme circumstances would not have been so problematic. Marta thought that that other mother had been gossiping about her in the guest kitchen, calling her "la llorona," a ghost-woman from Mexican mythology that cries inconsolably. In fact, the mother and several other guests had simply been discussing the legend of la llorona, not describing anyone in the house by that name. Then Marta, perhaps in a vengeful move or perhaps because she actually believed it to be true, began to spread a rumor that the other mother's daughter had lice. This led to nasty notes being passed back and forth between the daughters, and it all came to a terrible head when everyone came down to the volunteers' office last night, scarcely able to talk because they were so upset. The ambulance was called when one of the children had a panic attack, followed by her brother who panicked simply from seeing his sister in that state. About an hour later Marta fainted. It was a mess. I embraced and consoled whoever I could, whispering that it was okay, that I had lived through panic attacks before and for as scary as they are, they do not kill you. Many hours and tears and raw emotions later, everyone went to bed. It was heartbreaking to see the children under such distress and then the parents under distress to see their children needlessly suffering, lying on the ground in the parking lot, breathing into oxygen masks. I have come to believe, from personal experience, that we are more susceptible to panic when we are in a heightened state of exhaustion. Fleeing violence, coming to a new country, and living as an undocumented person in a homeless shelter will exhaust you alright. The house coordinator mentioned to me that she has called 911 in this house more times than she can count. This year has been an incredible lesson in understanding the body's reaction to stress as well as coming to understand that there are so few things in life over which we have control. El drama humano sigue y sigue.
I am reminded of this simple truth, human drama, as I think about some of the crises that have unfolded in this house of 40-50 people, all attempting to coexist under the same roof. Last night was a landmark night as the ambulance came to our house twice and our director, who is currently recovering from knee surgery, was driven to our home at 11:00 PM to intervene in escalating drama between two of the families. One of my favorite families in our house right now is a family of seven. Due to issues of security and confidentiality, I cannot write as much I would like to about their story, but the gist is that they came to the US fleeing for their lives which were under serious threat.
I have come to completely adore this family. Despite the trauma of having their lives upended, they have settled into the fabric of our home, bringing so much good will and warmth and decency to this place. They are famously good cooks and have made themselves available to complete more than their fair share of household chores. To me, they represent a close-knit family unit in a home where so many families have been torn apart by violence or abuse. There are few fathers in this household of single women with multiple kids, and the fathers that we do have here not always shown themselves to be shining stars of virtue (last week's drama, for example, involved suspected cheating as one of my married guests was supposedly seen kissing another woman, and mother of three, on the roof). As I have met each week with the parents of this family, I have wanted to make sure that they feel safe and comfortable in the house. I have wanted so badly for them to feel some sense of stability here despite the uncertainties about what lies ahead. Unfortunately, in the last few weeks, things have begun slowly unraveling. The mother has shared that she feels that she cannot handle being here anymore, that despite not having any money saved, she wants to move out. She's bearing the emotional burden of the trauma that was having their lives threatened, of leaving behind her home and family and personal space and possessions.
"Todos aqui traemos una perdida," another guest once told me. All of us here are bearing the burden of great loss. On top of the trauma that each guest has personally experienced is the challenge of living in a home with many other traumatized people. The other family involved in last night's incidents were "Gustavo," "Marta," and their teenaged daughter, "Flor." Gustavo is a stereotypical Mexican macho man, a good-natured but almost entirely clueless cowboy. Marta is charming and motherly but also deeply manipulative, prone to both hysteria and hypochondria. Their poor daughter Flor is an adorable adolescent who should not be held responsible for her parents' dysfunction but is shaped by it nonetheless. They were also targets of arbitrary violence in Mexico.
These two families collided over issues that perhaps in less extreme circumstances would not have been so problematic. Marta thought that that other mother had been gossiping about her in the guest kitchen, calling her "la llorona," a ghost-woman from Mexican mythology that cries inconsolably. In fact, the mother and several other guests had simply been discussing the legend of la llorona, not describing anyone in the house by that name. Then Marta, perhaps in a vengeful move or perhaps because she actually believed it to be true, began to spread a rumor that the other mother's daughter had lice. This led to nasty notes being passed back and forth between the daughters, and it all came to a terrible head when everyone came down to the volunteers' office last night, scarcely able to talk because they were so upset. The ambulance was called when one of the children had a panic attack, followed by her brother who panicked simply from seeing his sister in that state. About an hour later Marta fainted. It was a mess. I embraced and consoled whoever I could, whispering that it was okay, that I had lived through panic attacks before and for as scary as they are, they do not kill you. Many hours and tears and raw emotions later, everyone went to bed. It was heartbreaking to see the children under such distress and then the parents under distress to see their children needlessly suffering, lying on the ground in the parking lot, breathing into oxygen masks. I have come to believe, from personal experience, that we are more susceptible to panic when we are in a heightened state of exhaustion. Fleeing violence, coming to a new country, and living as an undocumented person in a homeless shelter will exhaust you alright. The house coordinator mentioned to me that she has called 911 in this house more times than she can count. This year has been an incredible lesson in understanding the body's reaction to stress as well as coming to understand that there are so few things in life over which we have control. El drama humano sigue y sigue.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Church Hopping
Today I went to check out the El Paso Quaker meeting to continue my search for a church here in the westernmost corner of Texas. One of the most exciting parts of the experience was figuring out how to get there. Googlemaps informed me that the trip was a 2.9 mile bike ride which should take about 16 minutes. Realizing my propensity to get lost as well as my rusty biking skills, I decided to give myself a 15 minute cushion and left the house 30 minutes beforehand. To many, a mere three miles on bike would be no big deal. But for me, biking is a challenge that has nagged annoyingly at my conscience for the past year and a half. I've wanted to be a biker for the obvious reasons but have felt too intimidated to become a fearless Philly biker like so many of my friends. I took a big spill last year while going on a practice ride around my North Philly neighborhood and still have a raspberry colored scar on my knee to prove it. I am traditionally a klutz, so it is hard to imagine that I'd have the coordination and savvy to navigate the streets of a city where drivers blow through stop signs and honk with reckless abandon.
El Paso is a different story. Biking here has been so empowering! El Paso is not a bike-friendly city, per se, but there are two things about biking in the downtown area which fill my heart with joy: 1) Drivers don't seem to be in a hurry and 2) The streets are wide and mostly empty. It feels so freeing to pedal down these desert streets, soaking in the heat and the quiet, inviting houses colored in desert hues. I can just picture stoop sitting at one of these stuccoed homes, chatting on a lazy Sunday afternoon, watching day slide into night as the heat transforms into cool breeze. The biggest obstacle I encountered on my little journey was figuring out how to get to the other side of highway 10 which slices El Paso through the middle. It turns out that my Googlemaps directions had been slightly misleading, and that if I had in fact turned left on Piedras Street I would have proceeded onto a highway ramp where bicycles are prohibited. A few random twists and turns around some back alleys and railway road tracks later, and I found my way to the other side. I arrived at meeting exactly as it was about to start and was welcomed by a lovely older woman named Dee, from Pittsburgh.
As I had anticipated, there were six people present, probably all over age 60. Quakers are not, shall we say, the most populous of religious groups. Philadelphia is a Quaker hub, so the biggest, most diverse Quaker meetings that are in existence in the US are most likely found in Philadelphia. Even so, during my visits to the Quaker meetings in the city of brotherly love, I struggled to find others in my age demographic. In paying the El Pasoans a visit, I pretty much knew what to expect: some peaceful, quirky elderly folk who would be very excited to see me. I couldn't help but wonder if I would stumble upon a tall, young, handsome, glasses-wearing Friend who had relocated to El Paso to work on border issues. No such luck. Simply some Quaker prototypes with long hair and long flowing skirts and some contemplative silence. As I settled into the silence, I was at first overwhelmed by the randomness of my visit. What was I doing in this room with six strangers? How did I suddenly find myself so far from "home," from the Northeast, from my hippie church community where I blended fairly easily? I closed my eyes and felt a slow sense of peace as I began to picture my Quaker relatives sitting in the room with me, validating this crazy, somewhat solitary journey of mine. A young woman inexplicably curious, still, about Quaker faith. Maybe for family, maybe for tradition, maybe for simplicity, maybe for the mysterious pull of Quaker meditation. I found the silence to be heavy as I wrestled with questions, wondering how I could make myself a better, more willing volunteer at our house. Wondering how I could speak an encouraging rather than disparaging word, wondering how my response could be an unconditional "yes" to our guests and "yes" to this work of being present when often my instinct is to retreat. I felt comforted by the idea that God uses as as we are, that we are not asked to become perfect people before serving but rather to drop everything and follow him. God works in and through our brokenness.
I couldn't help but smile to compare this Quaker group with the Catholic church, Sagrado Corazon (Sacred Heart) which I had visited within a few weeks of arriving. Sagrado Corazon is a large Catholic church that mainly serves undocumented Latinos in the Segundo Barrio neighborhood of El Paso, one of the poorest in the country. I attended the first mass of my adult life there with my A-house roommate, kneeling and standing and reciting to the best of my ability. I was struck by the beauty of the service, by the reverence inherent in Catholic ritual. From decor to style to numbers to language, the Quaker meeting and the Catholic church I attended could not be more different. Quaker meeting seems exceedingly stripped down and individualist, Catholic mass seems steeped in tradition and the importance of communal confession of faith. For now I'm enjoying my freedom to be hybrid, to meditate with the Quakers and participate in liturgical worship with the Catholics. Next week I may just visit the Unitarian Universalists.
El Paso is a different story. Biking here has been so empowering! El Paso is not a bike-friendly city, per se, but there are two things about biking in the downtown area which fill my heart with joy: 1) Drivers don't seem to be in a hurry and 2) The streets are wide and mostly empty. It feels so freeing to pedal down these desert streets, soaking in the heat and the quiet, inviting houses colored in desert hues. I can just picture stoop sitting at one of these stuccoed homes, chatting on a lazy Sunday afternoon, watching day slide into night as the heat transforms into cool breeze. The biggest obstacle I encountered on my little journey was figuring out how to get to the other side of highway 10 which slices El Paso through the middle. It turns out that my Googlemaps directions had been slightly misleading, and that if I had in fact turned left on Piedras Street I would have proceeded onto a highway ramp where bicycles are prohibited. A few random twists and turns around some back alleys and railway road tracks later, and I found my way to the other side. I arrived at meeting exactly as it was about to start and was welcomed by a lovely older woman named Dee, from Pittsburgh.
As I had anticipated, there were six people present, probably all over age 60. Quakers are not, shall we say, the most populous of religious groups. Philadelphia is a Quaker hub, so the biggest, most diverse Quaker meetings that are in existence in the US are most likely found in Philadelphia. Even so, during my visits to the Quaker meetings in the city of brotherly love, I struggled to find others in my age demographic. In paying the El Pasoans a visit, I pretty much knew what to expect: some peaceful, quirky elderly folk who would be very excited to see me. I couldn't help but wonder if I would stumble upon a tall, young, handsome, glasses-wearing Friend who had relocated to El Paso to work on border issues. No such luck. Simply some Quaker prototypes with long hair and long flowing skirts and some contemplative silence. As I settled into the silence, I was at first overwhelmed by the randomness of my visit. What was I doing in this room with six strangers? How did I suddenly find myself so far from "home," from the Northeast, from my hippie church community where I blended fairly easily? I closed my eyes and felt a slow sense of peace as I began to picture my Quaker relatives sitting in the room with me, validating this crazy, somewhat solitary journey of mine. A young woman inexplicably curious, still, about Quaker faith. Maybe for family, maybe for tradition, maybe for simplicity, maybe for the mysterious pull of Quaker meditation. I found the silence to be heavy as I wrestled with questions, wondering how I could make myself a better, more willing volunteer at our house. Wondering how I could speak an encouraging rather than disparaging word, wondering how my response could be an unconditional "yes" to our guests and "yes" to this work of being present when often my instinct is to retreat. I felt comforted by the idea that God uses as as we are, that we are not asked to become perfect people before serving but rather to drop everything and follow him. God works in and through our brokenness.
I couldn't help but smile to compare this Quaker group with the Catholic church, Sagrado Corazon (Sacred Heart) which I had visited within a few weeks of arriving. Sagrado Corazon is a large Catholic church that mainly serves undocumented Latinos in the Segundo Barrio neighborhood of El Paso, one of the poorest in the country. I attended the first mass of my adult life there with my A-house roommate, kneeling and standing and reciting to the best of my ability. I was struck by the beauty of the service, by the reverence inherent in Catholic ritual. From decor to style to numbers to language, the Quaker meeting and the Catholic church I attended could not be more different. Quaker meeting seems exceedingly stripped down and individualist, Catholic mass seems steeped in tradition and the importance of communal confession of faith. For now I'm enjoying my freedom to be hybrid, to meditate with the Quakers and participate in liturgical worship with the Catholics. Next week I may just visit the Unitarian Universalists.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Grease Trap
(Disclaimer: This photo is not the actual grease trap I swam in. But it's pretty close.)
I've had to do some gross work-related things in my day, but cleaning the grease trap in the guest kitchen of Annunciation House has easily been my most stomach-turning assignment to date. I used to be a direct care staff in a group home- work that often involved bathing and toileting people and cleaning up accidents. This was certainly challenging at times, but somehow dealing with bodily fluids didn't phase me as much as dealing with food residue that's slinked down the drain. Being minimally technically skilled and minded, I had never imagined that something such as a "grease trap" could exist, a contraption which is like a holding cell for food grease. It turns out that here at A-house these grease traps prevent our tubes from getting clogged and leading to kitchen catastrophe, and they require regular weekly maintenance. There was a former guest named Mario who used to be in charge of grease trap maintenance. He cleaned it every week for two years. Now he's headed to Seattle, and we volunteers have been left to tackle this terrible beast ourselves.
Luckily for me, Mario, who now has achieved sainthood for his grease trap contribution, was around to guide me in my first go around. I dutifully donned the long purple gloves and carried the filthy bucket, pitcher, and scraper up to the guest kitchen where I was confronted with a teeming stew of what can only be described as diarreah. Nasty red, brown bubbling funk in layers that needed to be scooped and discarded. At first, it was oddly appealing for the sheer gruesomeness of the task, kind of a childlike fascination. Quickly it became a descent into hell as I discovered thick, eel-like slivers of fat that took on a life of their own as they dodged my scooper. I slowly filled up bucket after bucket of grease and lugged them downstairs to the dumpster across the parking lot. It seemed never-ending. Towards the bottom of the tank, I think I entered into delirium from the oily toxic fumes- everything that Mario said to me seemed absolutely hilarious. "This is why you read very carefully before signing a contract," he joked. "Remember, you don't need to get this thing so clean that you can eat cereal off it." "Now you have a reason to stick around here as a volunteer." By the time I was finished, I felt as if I paid penance for my sins of the last year.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Juarez
I don't want you all to worry about my safety. As I have told many of you, El Paso is actually one of the safest cities in the United States, probably much safer than my neighborhood in Philadelphia. That being said, I did make a trip to Juarez last week just to see it. I had to. If Mexico were the great love of your life and Mexico were ten blocks from your doorstep, you would have to see it too. If you had come to the border to see and experience and soak up the reality of border life, you would have to see it too. And finally if you were living with a houseful of people whose lives were shaped and split by la frontera and you felt called to accompany them, you would have to see it too. I went with the house coordinator of our sister house and three other summer interns to go pay the water bill on the vacant property that Annunciation House still owns in Juarez. After a brief stop to pay the bill, we had lunch near the downtown plaza and then did a little bit of exploring.
It was absolutely incredible to me how different Juarez felt from El Paso. As soon as we crossed that bridge by foot and stepped onto the other side, it was clear that we were in another country. El Paso is almost Mexico, but Juarez is unquestionably the real thing. The sounds, the smells, the storefronts, the colors... I was under my content Mexico spell once again. The tacos de carnitas and agua de limon that I had for lunch were bursting with flavor and color, Mexico all wrapped up in a corn tortilla, doused with neon green cilantro salsa, sweetened with too much sugar. As we made our way down bustling streets, I stopped and purchased a bag of fresh potato chips covered in valentina salsa, soy sauce, and lime juice... so odd, so Mexican. There was stand after stand of identical shoes, miniature tank tops, and bedazzled jeans; the informal economy bloated with vendors of commercially made crap. Store owners cleaning their store fronts, tossing buckets of water to the sidewalks and sweeping the water (yes sweeping the water) to the street with quick strokes of the broom. Music blasting, people staring, sun beaming down hot on our necks, everything alive with potential.
It was clear to me that we were in Juarez, not Mexico City (my previous home), for two reasons: the heat and the prevalence of police and armed guards. I am not sure to which entity the men in uniform belonged- were they the federales? the army? the municipal police?- only a more experienced hand would know. Their presence was felt, however, and it was a clear reminder that for as light and musical as Juarez seemed, the reality of this war-torn city was much darker and more unpredictable. In only a few hours, I caught the smallest glimpse of the longing the juarenses must feel for their city to be restored to its former beauty, to its former freedom from the horrendous tyranny of the narcotraffickers.
One of the most interesting parts of my brief experience in Mexico was the actual border crossing itself. Crossing from El Paso to Juarez included no bells and whistles whatsoever; you pay fifty cents and simply walk across, sin documento ninguno. Crossing from Juarez to El Paso gave me much more of a sense of what it's like crossing the most secure border in the world. As US citizens, me and the others in our group had to proceed through a much, much shorter line in order to reenter our country. In fact, we breezed by a line of Mexican citizens which seemed to stretch three quarters of the length of the entire bridge. With long strides we zoomed to the front, uncomfortable by the curious, perhaps resentful glances in the non-moving right lane as we realized again the privilege inherent in our blue passports. The mid-day heat was stifling, people were shifting their weight, our minds wondered about the stories of those who were crossing. Many of the guests at our houses have come to "present" at the bridge, asking for political asylum and protection from the violence they're fleeing in Mexico. If you are granted permission to cross, you are then either detained or paroled by immigration. If they don't believe you, you are sent back to where you came from.
Once we arrived at the front of the line, an unexpected curve ball came our way. One of the other summer interns did not have her passport, just a birth certificate. She had lived in El Paso her whole life and had never crossed into Juarez before in 21 years. The official guarding the entrance did not mince his words in saying that no passport meant a trip to the back of the line. Hot and dehydrated, we filled up our water bottles and made the walk of shame back across the arching yellow bridge. I was in some ways relieved. This was solidarity. There should only be one line anyway. One long, sweaty, roller coaster ride line that led us all to the same place. Fortunately, the breeze was strong, the walkway was shaded, and the line moved along at surprising speed. We arrived in front again within 30 minutes and this time encountered a new official who ushered our native El Pasoan to the left. She made it through immigration before any of us. Turns out that it's all arbitrary, passport or no passport, punished or rewarded, it's up to the discretion of the border official to decide your fate. When I passed through immigration, I was under interrogation:
"What were you doing in Juarez today, miss?"
Oh, just exploring... (No. Stupid, Heather, stupid. What gringo goes "exploring" in Juarez these days?) I mean, we had to pay a water bill. I work for an organization and we had to pay a water bill for a property we own in Juarez.
"What organization?"
It's called Annunciation House.
"And what do you do there?"
Ummm, it's a migrant house. (Crap, I should have said homeless shelter. I AM talking to immigration after all).
"It looks like you've traveled quite a bit. Ecuador. Mozambique. What were you doing in Mozambique?"
I switch to Spanish hoping to somehow improve my credibility and begin to wonder if my reentry into the US hinges upon what I did in Mozambique five years ago. Eventually, I'm given permission to pass. Small beans compared to what is happening in the next room where the Mexican residents are waiting for their number to be called.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Borderlands
"The U.S.-Mexican border es una herida abierta where the Third World grates against the first and bleeds. And before a scab forms it hemorrhages again, the lifeblood of two worlds merging to form a third country- a border culture. Borders are set up to define the places that are safe and unsafe, to distinguish us from them. A border is a dividing line, a narrow strip along a steep edge. A borderland is a vague and undetermined place created by the emotional residue of an unnatural boundary. It is in a constant state of transition. The prohibited and forbidden are its inhabitants."
-Gloria Anzaldua, "Borderlands/La Frontera," 1987
Monday, June 6, 2011
A Day In The Life
Lunes 6 de junio
12:30 AM: Night cover. I lay awake in the bedroom by the office, a space designated for volunteers who are assigned to answer the door and the phone and address any general commotion that might arise over night at A-house, from 10:00 PM to 6:00 AM. I realize that we've had a power outage and that the newly installed "swamp coolers" which have been blowing cool air throughout our household of 40 over the past few days have churned to a stop. The legal intern knocks on my door to let me know that the lights have gone out and that he thinks that he's seen the flashing red and blue of a police car. We circle the perimeter of the house to find to our relief that tonight there are no cops and no commotion, and that the power outage appears to have also affected the neighbors in our immediate vicinity. Power comes back at 12:45 AM. I probably don't fall asleep for yet another hour, as I listen to the creaking of the house, the opening and shutting of bathroom doors, the leaves blowing by. I am the world's lightest sleeper.
6:00 AM: The doorbell rings. It's one of our community volunteers, Tracy, who has come to work the Monday morning shift so that the rest of us can attend the weekly staff meeting. She seems bright and glowing for this hour of the day, I am sluggish at best after a night of a million creaks and coughs. I stumble out of bed to greet her at the door, sneak in fifteen more minutes of sleep, shower, and start loading a crate with breakfast supplies to bring over to Casa Theresa, our volunteer office. I walk four blocks down St. Vrain St. with a crate full of zucchini, avocados, bread, mangoes, apples and other randomly assorted fruits to meet up with two other interns at our office. My shoulder runs into a cactus along the way. We commence cooking our first volunteer breakfast- eggs, hash browns, a vegetable scramble, a fruit salad. After an hour of slicing and dicing and sauteing, it doesn't turn out half bad.
9:00 AM: Staff meeting. Our director arrives a little late with his characteristic gas station coffee in hand. He lets us know that the reason he's late is because of news that he had received that morning about a break in at the Centro de Derechos Humanos Paso del Norte in Juarez. Apparently the federales, agents from the Mexican federal police, ranshacked the office of the Human Rights Center in Juarez at 8:00 PM on June 5th. They did this while there was still daylight, blocking off streets in a manner so blatant that witnesses were able to take down the registration numbers of the federal vehicles. It is believed that this was an act of intimidation as the Centro de Derechos Humanos has been very involved in planning the Caravana por la Paz, a "caravan for peace" which is being led this week by Javier Sicilia, a Mexican poet who is attempting to mobilize Mexicans across the country to speak out about against the violence. Sicilia's 24 year old son was killed in March of this year due to drug-related violence in central Mexico. Ruben lets us know that there will be a press conference held later today at Casa Vides, A-House's sister house, and that representatives from 20 other human rights and activist organizations on the border will be expected to attend. The press conference will be held in order to publicly denounce the actions of the federales and to call for an explanation for this unprecedented break-in. A press conference? At one of our houses? I'm a little incredulous and cannot believe all that's transpired so far, still one day short of the two week mark.
1:00 PM: Laundry. I gather together a trash can full of dirty rags and sheets and wheel it down the block, on a jaunt back to Casa Theresa in the midday sun. I've been assigned laundry duties for the day and am met at the door to our laundry area by a blonde chihuahua pup, half sweetheart, half guard dog. He sniffs at my shins as I try to separate the lights from the darks. Hanging the towels on the clothes line feels satisfying, perhaps because I know that the strength of the desert sun will have them starch dry in under an hour, perhaps because it is more exhilarating than tossing them into a dryer in a musty basement.
3:00 PM: Press conference. I arrive at Casa Vides to find our counterparts, the other summer interns, scurrying around to hang signs and make final preparations for the press conference. There is a long table set up in front of the beautiful mural that is the pride of Casa Vides. It is dedicated to those who lost their lives during the dirty war in El Salvador in the 1980's, and two of the faces in the painting are the faces of the Vides family, a husband and wife who were murdered as human rights activists, leaving behind 6 children. Their faces stand out in the mural, strikingly handsome and strong. One of their children migrated north and ended up at the Annunciation House, where he and Ruben formed a close relationship. Ruben then traveled to El Salvador in search of his five siblings and adopted all six. Although Ruben never married, he now has six grown children and several grandchildren. Casa Vides is dedicated to their parents' namesake. The press conference goes off without a hitch; there are journalists and cameras and important players in the world of peace and social justice peace on the border. A big name lawyer makes a bold statement that the Mexican government is committing "genocide" against human rights activists, as 21 human rights defenders have been assassinated since March 2008. Despite the gravity of the situation, the overall message from Justicia Sin Fronteras (Justice Without Borders, the coalition of organizations present at the press conference) is: we will not be intimidated.
12:30 AM: Night cover. I lay awake in the bedroom by the office, a space designated for volunteers who are assigned to answer the door and the phone and address any general commotion that might arise over night at A-house, from 10:00 PM to 6:00 AM. I realize that we've had a power outage and that the newly installed "swamp coolers" which have been blowing cool air throughout our household of 40 over the past few days have churned to a stop. The legal intern knocks on my door to let me know that the lights have gone out and that he thinks that he's seen the flashing red and blue of a police car. We circle the perimeter of the house to find to our relief that tonight there are no cops and no commotion, and that the power outage appears to have also affected the neighbors in our immediate vicinity. Power comes back at 12:45 AM. I probably don't fall asleep for yet another hour, as I listen to the creaking of the house, the opening and shutting of bathroom doors, the leaves blowing by. I am the world's lightest sleeper.
6:00 AM: The doorbell rings. It's one of our community volunteers, Tracy, who has come to work the Monday morning shift so that the rest of us can attend the weekly staff meeting. She seems bright and glowing for this hour of the day, I am sluggish at best after a night of a million creaks and coughs. I stumble out of bed to greet her at the door, sneak in fifteen more minutes of sleep, shower, and start loading a crate with breakfast supplies to bring over to Casa Theresa, our volunteer office. I walk four blocks down St. Vrain St. with a crate full of zucchini, avocados, bread, mangoes, apples and other randomly assorted fruits to meet up with two other interns at our office. My shoulder runs into a cactus along the way. We commence cooking our first volunteer breakfast- eggs, hash browns, a vegetable scramble, a fruit salad. After an hour of slicing and dicing and sauteing, it doesn't turn out half bad.
9:00 AM: Staff meeting. Our director arrives a little late with his characteristic gas station coffee in hand. He lets us know that the reason he's late is because of news that he had received that morning about a break in at the Centro de Derechos Humanos Paso del Norte in Juarez. Apparently the federales, agents from the Mexican federal police, ranshacked the office of the Human Rights Center in Juarez at 8:00 PM on June 5th. They did this while there was still daylight, blocking off streets in a manner so blatant that witnesses were able to take down the registration numbers of the federal vehicles. It is believed that this was an act of intimidation as the Centro de Derechos Humanos has been very involved in planning the Caravana por la Paz, a "caravan for peace" which is being led this week by Javier Sicilia, a Mexican poet who is attempting to mobilize Mexicans across the country to speak out about against the violence. Sicilia's 24 year old son was killed in March of this year due to drug-related violence in central Mexico. Ruben lets us know that there will be a press conference held later today at Casa Vides, A-House's sister house, and that representatives from 20 other human rights and activist organizations on the border will be expected to attend. The press conference will be held in order to publicly denounce the actions of the federales and to call for an explanation for this unprecedented break-in. A press conference? At one of our houses? I'm a little incredulous and cannot believe all that's transpired so far, still one day short of the two week mark.
1:00 PM: Laundry. I gather together a trash can full of dirty rags and sheets and wheel it down the block, on a jaunt back to Casa Theresa in the midday sun. I've been assigned laundry duties for the day and am met at the door to our laundry area by a blonde chihuahua pup, half sweetheart, half guard dog. He sniffs at my shins as I try to separate the lights from the darks. Hanging the towels on the clothes line feels satisfying, perhaps because I know that the strength of the desert sun will have them starch dry in under an hour, perhaps because it is more exhilarating than tossing them into a dryer in a musty basement.
3:00 PM: Press conference. I arrive at Casa Vides to find our counterparts, the other summer interns, scurrying around to hang signs and make final preparations for the press conference. There is a long table set up in front of the beautiful mural that is the pride of Casa Vides. It is dedicated to those who lost their lives during the dirty war in El Salvador in the 1980's, and two of the faces in the painting are the faces of the Vides family, a husband and wife who were murdered as human rights activists, leaving behind 6 children. Their faces stand out in the mural, strikingly handsome and strong. One of their children migrated north and ended up at the Annunciation House, where he and Ruben formed a close relationship. Ruben then traveled to El Salvador in search of his five siblings and adopted all six. Although Ruben never married, he now has six grown children and several grandchildren. Casa Vides is dedicated to their parents' namesake. The press conference goes off without a hitch; there are journalists and cameras and important players in the world of peace and social justice peace on the border. A big name lawyer makes a bold statement that the Mexican government is committing "genocide" against human rights activists, as 21 human rights defenders have been assassinated since March 2008. Despite the gravity of the situation, the overall message from Justicia Sin Fronteras (Justice Without Borders, the coalition of organizations present at the press conference) is: we will not be intimidated.
4:30 - 6:30 PM: Nap.
8:00 PM: Inspection. At the close of our weekly meeting with all of the guests of Annunciation House, I am assigned an uncomfortable task: inspection. I must go around to all of the private rooms and dormitories and sift through peoples' things to look for any contraband items. The mens' dorm is lively and full of jokes about the drugs and weaponry that I am sure to uncover hidden in lockers and between piles of folded clothing. I come out with one bag of potato chips and an apple (there is no food allowed in the bedrooms, too tempting for the cucarachas). I find incense in one of the private rooms on the second floor, but to my relief, there's nothing more serious than the food and perfumed sticks. This brings me back to my senior year of college when, during a surprise inspection that happened over spring break, candles were discovered in our apartment and we were asked to write an essay about fire safety as punishment. I did so reluctantly and no longer hold this against Messiah College. I hope that our guests can extend the same forgiveness to me as a less than eager enforcer of house rules.
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