Two things that I have realized about myself within the past three months are these: 1) I am extremely sensitive and emotional 2) I have a tendency to feel more guilt than the average person. I think that I have always been aware of these aspects of my personality (at least somewhat), but several experiences as of late have made them glaringly apparent. In Spanish, there's a word for someone who cries a lot: llorona (In Latin America, there also exists a legend by the same name). Today I cried at the Casa for perhaps the fifth time since I came here. It's embarrassing but comical all at once, and I think I'm coming to accept the fact that I wear my emotions on my sleeve. Maria says that at least tears let you know that you are alive, that you are really living and not just going through the motions.
For the past four days, we have been hosting a conference on migration that's been amazing. It's called "Por Un Mundo Sin Muros" (For a World Without Walls). I have brushed elbows with my fair share of important players in the world of migration, but I will write another post about that later. Right now I return to one of my normal themes: cultural/racial/national identity. By writing about this, I know that I run the risk of offending some as I have unconsciously done in the past. If you find yourself offended, just know that my aim is not to offend anyone but rather to work out some of these thoughts for myself. Today as I was sitting in on one of the workshops, I was overcome with emotion as I tried to reconcile what the speakers were saying with my unique situated-ness in this world (as a white, middle-class American). The presentations this morning were made by two indigenous activists: Eliza, from Guatemala, and Rufino, from Oaxaca, Mexico. Eliza is one of those people whose presence, as is often said in Spanish, calls one's attention. She possesses a simple, striking beauty with her long dark hair and elegant, embroidered clothing. Her words seemed measured and true, her dignified and graceful manner only amplifying their importance. She spoke about the situation of the indigenous peoples in Guatemala and how they have been oppressed left and right by political parties, religious groups, and International NGO's. She spoke about how indigenous people have been divided by the imposition of foreign and corrupt powers and how they have to unify, reclaiming their rich history and identity.
As Rufino commented about the challenges of maintaining one's indigenous language and culture in a powerfully homogenizing place like the United States (he lives and works in Fresno, California), I began to experience my usual feelings of cultural confusion and disconnect. From the messages of the indigenous presenters, to the commentaries from the audience about how Latinos might seek to mirror African American resistance to white American culture, to the overall tone of hate and hurt towards the government and culture of the US which have proved time and again so colonizing, I felt increasingly isolated as one of the three representatives of white America in the room. As anyone who knows me well knows, I have long desired to pertain to another ethic group: to be Latin, or black, or Indian, for example. I often feel as if I grew up without any real culture of my own, hence my desire to claim another cultural identity. As a product of the American suburbs, I consider myself to be from anywhere, USA: anywhere where the commercial culture built around trips to the mall and McDonalds, around television and swim team and SUV's, shapes the collective identity. With all of this talk of claiming one's cultural identity, what identity did I have to claim? My family, unlike some American families, is pretty far removed from our European ancestors and any traditions that they may have brought with them across the pond. And why was I sitting here in a room full of Latinos when my I don't have a drop of Latino blood in my body? What had brought me here, here to a place where I felt such solidarity with a foreign group of people and such a desire to belong? Why, I wondered for the thousandth time, why was I born with the abusive privilege of a white American? Why did I feel so guilty and so responsible for crimes which I had not committed, crimes of my government against Latin migrants, crimes of imperialism?
None of it really made sense as hot tears rolled down my face. I certainly couldn't put words to it, as I tried to explain to the well-intentioned Spanish man who asked me if I had anything that I would like to share with the group. It was simply my own identity crisis catching up with me again. Tears have not been an uncommon thing at this conference. People have been stirred to emotion by video clips and testimonies since day one, but I think that it was rather obvious that my tears were sparked by something else. I eventually had to get up and leave to collect myself, but I didn't make it out of the conference room before I was surrounded by people wanting to make sure that I was okay. Camilo and Theresa stopped me, two people who know a thing or two about the difficulty of reconciling American identity. Camilo is the organizer of the conference, a brilliant lawyer and professor who was born in the States to Colombian parents. Theresa has shared a little with me about the challenges of embodying a Chicana identity, a balancing act between two worlds where one is not completely accepted in either. They both strongly emphasized, "It is not your fault. It's not about where you come from, but where you're going. It's about what you choose to do with your life." I think I can recognize this on an intellectual level, but I am still in the process of reigning in my emotions, learning the point at which guilt becomes unhealthy and at which you come to peace with forces and factors that are beyond your control. As one of my best professors at college once wrote to me, "There is nothing inherently evil or shameful about being a white person. We share unavoidably in the privileges of whiteness and in the oppressions that such privileges depend on. On the other hand, we can also see our specific physical features and even our cultures as manifestations of God's goodness in the world. Our actions then, as white people, can be taken not out of shame but out of a sense that we want God's goodness to be made manifest rather than marred or obscured by the sins of racism."
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