a week in images 10/23-10/31

a bit surreal. really.

los hacelotodo. los vendelotodo. los comelotodo.

guanacos. from Miguel Gutierrez Jr on Vimeo.

suchitoto, el salvador

holy savior.

i haven't been writing much these last few days. it's not that i haven't met great people or listened to great stories, but in a way, i haven't felt entirely connected. i guess, in some way, it's similar to rhetoric. distant, in a way. there's a certain level of disconnect. tonight was different though. spontaneous. el salvador offered itself to me; it opened up. i walked to the gas station with my friend cassidy in search of some cigarettes, and ended up with stories from people who weren't prompted to share. offerings. there's alex, a man from new york. a salvadoran who lived in bushwick for a majority of his life, but is now back in el salvador. the product of a situation he didn't ask for. there's also guillermo, a 27 year old man from california, who was brought to the united states at three months of age. guillermo loves california. he knows it like the back of his hand; he knew it enough that he felt compelled to name the freeways for me. also, the american cities he loved and the ones he might never visit. completely unprompted. guillermo was deported three years ago from the only country that he has known. he now lives in el salvador. this is now his reality. his home. the product of a situation he didn't ask for. i can't imagine how i would react given the same circumstances, but guillermo took it with stride. it is what is, so he says. it is what it is.

tropicalisisimo

san salvador

i am in the capital of what is considered to be one of the most violent countries in the western hemisphere: el salvador. before my arrival, in the media, i heard many stories of gunfights, people burned alive in buses and of transit systems brought to a halt by gangs. from people, i have listened quietly to stories that describe san salvador as a place devoid of life, a city that is overrun by pollution, poverty and thieves. though there is truth in these narratives, it is not the only one that exists in san salvador, nor the one that deserves the most attention. after all, we are talking about humans here, and i have had the fortune of meeting great ones in my life. it is extremely simple to regard san salvador as a city full of negativity, one that is more or less in decay, but this does not serve visitors or the people of el salvador well. it is true, san salvador is not rome. it is not barcelona. nor is it paris. el salvador was born from a different context, one of colonialism and of dictatorships. eighteen years ago the country was ending its civil war. inequalities and scars run deep. these things need to be considered when describing a place, in order to fully understand why it is the way that it is. i refuse to believe that el salvador is only those narratives that i have heard. i refuse to believe that a place where people live is devoid of life. there is beauty here, but it is subtle. it requires attention and a careful eye. this is my attempt at attuning my eye to it. i am here, and though it is not easy, i would not be anywhere else in the world.

el salvador.

how strange it is to be anything at all.

chuitziribal, guatemala.

en las nubes.

my head was in the clouds. quite literally. for five days, i visited the community of chuitziribal, one that consists roughly of thirty houses, floating calmly at 8,100 feet above sea level. the air is cold and thin. clouds roll in gently over hills of corn. it's quiet in chuitziribal, with silence occasionally broken by a dog fight consisting of half the towns' dogs. other than that, it's rustling corn, an off key song or a neighing horse. i stayed with the familia tax, a family of three women, a girl and two boys. the women have the disposition of women that have held firm in times of adversity. true beauty. señor tax is in the united states, one of the countless immigrants that leave home in order to subsidize a better life; pictures of this distant life cover the walls of the bedroom. one of the little ones told me that the father was set to visit this christmas. i didn't have the heart to ask when it was that he saw him last. i've passed through chuitziribal and am passing through guatemala, but some aren't passing through. this country is their life. their reality. i've been privileged with a glimpse of it.

"yo en el volante, y..."

...dios adelante. from Miguel Gutierrez Jr on Vimeo.

camiones, derrumbes y un temerario.

el lago de atitlan

brighter skies

if one has heard any news about guatemala lately, it would be safe to infer that it hasn't been too sunny here. it was for a bit today and it was beautiful.

andando from Miguel Gutierrez Jr on Vimeo.

i don't even know where to begin. it's only been two days, but i have already seen a lot. it's all heavy, maybe a bit too heavy. i wish i could post pictures, but i haven't taken any. i can't get myself to. i visited communities of affluence today. $1,800 USD apartment complexes with extravagant patios. security guards. spas. fine dining. jaguars. twenty minutes later, i was in abject poverty. i visited a school that is situated next to a city dump. literally, right next to the city dump. i could hear the trucks. smell the fumes. saw children sorting garbage. the school is next to the city dump with the goal of educating children who work in the dump. the logic being, if children are going to work in the city dump, at least they can get an education on their down time. so far, the program has been working, but with limited success. guatemala city is big, and one program can only do so much. a few people can only do so much. the social worker of the program is a short guatemalan woman, about 50 years of age, with strong brown eyes. she possessed a motherly tenderness, one that is needed, given the circumstances. but she also spoke with conviction, with the air of someone who has witnessed their fair share of life. but i don't mean to focus on the negative stories. i don't want to victimize guatemala. cause pity. it's just that this is all very heavy right now and i've never been face to face with this before. in the same day, i listened to a story of hope. a story told by a man who lost his dad, his brothers and a sister to torture. to war. the story is of a 13 year old boy named enrique. enrique is a member of the ms-13. the central american gang with a vicious reputation. enrique was in his colonia, he was looking out of his window, when he noticed that the police had arrived. the police headed to the home of two individuals, dona mari and don jose. the couple was arrested and taken away. the police locked the door so no one could get in. i don't know if the police knew this or not, but a two month old was now locked in the building. alone. the son of dona mari and don jose. but enrique knew this and he came up with a plan. he'd break into the building through the roof. and so he did. during the day, enrique would go out and extort money from local businesses. threatening with death those who would resist to pay. enrique would set aside some of the money and would buy milk for the baby. enrique fed the baby, comforted the baby, slept next to the baby. for six months, enrique was a father. dona mari was eventually released. she hurried home, expecting to find her dead baby. instead, she found enrique holding the baby. he was burping him.

part two: guatemala

i made it. i'm in guatemala city and i've met up with my group. traveling through mexico was great, but i'm definitely ready to start the program. i made it across the border yesterday. barely, kind of. i ended up meeting five young gents from england in oaxaca, who were planning on heading to guatemala through tapachula, chiapas. we spoke of heading in this direction, but never set a plan to head out together. fortunately for them, they had enough foresight to buy their tickets ahead of time in mazunte. as for me, i decided to wait til the last minute. when i arrived to buy my ticket in huatulco, the tickets were sold out. i was out of luck. there was nothing left for me to do but to keep heading south. maybe my luck would turn. i decided to ride a second-class bus to juchitan, oaxaca, about 3 hours from huatulco. once there, i tried my luck again. directo a tapachula, por favor. i was in luck, two tickets were available. it was 4 pm and the bus headed for tapachula at midnight. all i needed to do was kill some time. midnight arrives, i board the bus with the ten hour overnight trip to tapachula being a breeze. nothing to do but sleep. i get off the bus in tapachula and i realize that the brits are on the same bus as i, but there are only 3 of them. one of them fell ill in oaxaca, and another stayed behind. fortunately for me, that's how two seats became available. more fortune, the brits spoke no spanish and i now had people with which to cross the border. symbiotic relationship. crossing the border was intense and i'm glad i didn't do it alone. first, we needed to sell our pesos and buy quetzales. we were promptly ripped off. second, we needed to cross the border. once again, a sleight of hand. there's not supposed to be an entrance fee. third, get to Malacatan, the closest place with buses heading to a major town. this third part was the most overwhelming. i clearly remember crossing a bridge in guatemala, looking over my shoulder and realizing that the brits and i had an entourage of ten guatemalans hovering around us. everyone was yelling at us. had something for us. wanted something from us.Taxi! Combi! Amigo! Cuanto?! Aqui! Vamos! We managed to complete our third objective unscathed. we opted for a combi, a minivan fitted for inter-town travel. it was the brits, 17 more souls and i. bienvenidos a guatemala.

part one: mexico

the mexico part of my trips feels a lot more like a vacation. not to say that i haven´t seen interesting things or haven´t encountered great people with great stories, but i think maybe i´m just taking it all a bit more with stride. i mean, it's hard not to on the beach, or in a bar putting back a few victorias. i did have a moment with my grandmother in guanajuato though. i showed her a picture of my father and for a second she had trouble recognizing him, and when she did, she wept a bit. she cried at the fact that my father is now an older man, who at one time left for the US as a teenager. my grandmother softly said "the united states took my son and there he became a man." it was sad to witness my grandmother at that moment, recognizing the few times she had seen my father since he parted for his new life, lamenting that she wasn´t by him when he was a young man. unfortunately, he wasn´t the only one. most of my aunts and uncles followed, with only one aunt remaining in mexico to make a life for herself, in a city a couple of hours away from home. it´s extremely sobering to listen to these stories from my family. it helps reveal how extremely fortunate i am. i have just recently arrived in guatemala, about to embark on another part of this trip and i don´t know if i can feel any luckier to be here. to travel because i want to and not because i have to.

Untitled from Miguel Gutierrez Jr on Vimeo.

no siempre se puede ir en linea recta hasta conseguir los fines, hay que dar rodeos. es verdad.

untitled

untitled from Miguel Gutierrez Jr on Vimeo.

ord>sfo>mex..

ord>sfo>mex from Miguel Gutierrez Jr on Vimeo.

guanajuato, guanajuato

chicago, il
san francisco, ca
mex df
san miguel de allende, gto
guanajuato, gto
la canada de caracheo, gto
morelia, mich
patzcuaro, mich
playa azul, mnich
zihuatanejo, gro
barra de potosi, gro
papanoa, gro
acapulco, gro
puerto escondido, oax
zipolite, oax
huatulco, oax
san cristobal de las casas, chi
abasolo, chi
guatemala, guatemala...

put the pink card in the mailbox...

leave the key in the old front door lock,
they will find it likely as not,
i'm sure there's somethin' we have forgot.

ode to franklin park.

ode to franklin park, illinois from Miguel Gutierrez Jr on Vimeo.

this is my first video and i shot it with my d90. i'm having trouble uploading the HD version, so this will have to do. growing up i hated franklin park. i was one of a handful of mexican-american kids at the junior high and spic at wetback were the words dujour. since then, i've grown to love franklin park. i spent most of my formidable years here. this is an ode to its gritty, working class, railroad town ways.

making note of all good wishes.

swan song.

it won't be long.

I'll be leaving Chicago in about eight days. The date is approaching quicker and quicker everyday. For the most part, everything is falling into place. My scholarships have gone through, I've finished most of my research and I even managed to sublet my apartment. I'm excited and I'm anxious. But mostly, I think I'm anxious. It's a good anxiousness. Like the anxiety I get when I climb the train bridge, as a cause of the heights. A fear of being out my comfort zone, but with the understanding that I will gain a better perspective because of it. This last semester has been a bit rough. It was my first semester at UIC and it was a lot of work. The last seven months have been nothing but academia. That's the part that has hampered my spirit the most. It's not that I don't like research or an academic environment, it actually seems to be the environment in which I thrive the most. I feel extremely fortunate to have been afforded the opportunity to work under a great professor, researching a subject that is important to me. But it's the times in which I'm with people who are challenging their struggles that I learn the most. In the last ten months I have been greatly inspired by the youth that I have met and their tenacity in advocating for their rights. In hindsight, I wish I could've been more helpful--but like I said before--I'm still learning. Learning. That is the exciting part of this trip. Once again, I will be able to speak and meet people who are working towards a better life. A better world. I'm privileged to be able to do so. I know it and I'm grateful for it. For the next four and half months my classroom will be Central America. It will be stories that are imparted. The experience that is gained. I'm excited and I'm anxious. But mostly, I'm anxious.

it don't pay to think too much....

on things you leave behind.

del otro lado.

raices

michocan.

Cruising.

otra rola de mi niñez.

May and June.

I had dinner with my father for fathers day. We met up with the rest of the family and had a small dinner. Nothing too fancy. Simple. The way my father is and will always be. After dinner, on the ride back to the city, I had a conversation with my father about immigrating to the United States. My father started talking about how much he used to dread this time of year: May and June. According to my father, this was the time of year when INS came up from the border states to conduct raids on factories and communities where immigrants had a strong presence. He dreaded this time of the year the most because of the heightened risk of a raid, the thought of being deported and losing me in the process. Making a difficult situation worst, my mother was also undocumented and worked in the same factory as my father. A double threat. This was also the time of year when INS would set up checkpoints off of the Kennedy expressway and request proof of citizenship. Fortunately, a raid was never conducted at the factory where my parents worked and they always managed to evade checkpoints. Unfortunately, others were not so lucky. My father recounted an instance where a friend of his was apprehended by INS while standing outside of a bank on Division and Ashland. These are the stories of my parents, of growing up undocumented in Chicago, in the 1980s.

for better or for worse.

I left Chicago on Feb 28, 2008. On that day I embarked on a trip to Mexico, ridding myself of possessions I considered trivial. Reflecting, I realize that I was restless and in search of something more than what I possessed in Chicago. This fact isn't something that I state with lament or regret, but with pride and joy. I was eight months into being 26 years old. At the time, I was more or less comfortable with my life; but there was something extremely discomforting about that. I didn't feel engaged. I didn't feel like I was on a path that promoted growth. I wasn't connected. I didn't know exactly what I wanted from that trip--or even less what to expect, but I knew exactly what I wanted to see. I wanted to see the way others lived; the way others experienced life. Existential dilemma? You bet. With that said, it was that much more difficult when--three months into my trip--I faced the harsh realization that I had to return. Reflecting, I couldn't have planned that trip any worse. Thinking about it even more, I couldn't have planned it any better. I say worse because, well, I became ill with typhoid and spent a lot of money on medicine and doctors visits. I spent a lot of time feeling sick, and feeling like I was being spit out. I returned home right before my 27th birthday, dejected and with a heavy question pressing in my head: now what? I say i couldn't have planned it any better because, well, a lot has changed since then and in ways that I would never have imagined. I just turned 29, I'm finishing school and I won some scholarships to embark on yet another trip. I'll be traveling to Guatemala, El Salvador and Nicaragua for four months to study with a program focused on social justice in Central America. When I returned from Mexico in 2008, I remember thinking how terrible it was to have been spit out. Now I realize, I was actually being swallowed.

Arizona-Sonora

The more I remove myself from my comfort zone--the more I place myself in positions that lend themselves to empathy--the more I realize how privileged I am. Of all of the places in the world to be born, I was born in one of the most developed and privileged nations on earth: The United States of America. Maybe it's luck. Maybe. But I don't really believe that it is. My parents immigrated to this country when they were both very young. From their sacrifice I have inherited privilege. In Nogales, Sonora, I met individuals who are vying for something close to the privilege that I possess. The privilege that I, and countless others, take for granted. In Nogales, Sonora, I met people who are in a position that my parents were 30 years ago: north bound. I met people who are willing to risk their lives for the chance of a better life for themselves and their children. As I sat at the Grupo Beta house in Nogales, Sonora, I wondered: How different would my life be if my parents were still undocumented? How different would my life be if I had been born in Mexico? A few blocks away from the Grupo Beta house, at the bus station, I met a woman who had been recently deported. She had been walking through the desert for 2 days and managed to sprain her ankle. The swelling was intense and showed no signs of abating soon. Two individuals from No More Deaths, who I had traveled with, suggested that she rest, keep her ankle elevated and drink fluids. The woman nodded in agreeance and replied "Ok". When pressed on what she planned to do, the woman candidly stated: "I'm going to walk, my group leaves soon." We tried reasoning with the woman, but she just sat there; silent. Shortly thereafter, the woman stood up, grabbed her belongings and limped to the bus that would drop her off by the border, where she would restart her journey through the desert. I'll never know what became of that woman, but I hope that her search for a better life carried her safely to her destination.

privilege

When I was about 8 years old, I found an ID on my parents kitchen table. The man pictured in the ID was my father, but the stated name was not his. I remember being confused, a bit scared. Why was my fathers’ name not on his ID? I knew that my parents were Mexican, but so was I, right? My name was on my ID. My parents migrated to the United States in the 1970s, and did so with the intentions that countless of immigrants have: the search for a better life. I remember my dad telling me stories of him walking through the beaches of Tijuana late at night– towards the United States–evading INS. I remember him telling me how he hid behind bushes. He was 16 and scared. 720 miles west of Tijuana, in Chihuahua, my mother was crossing into Texas. She was 14.

During dinner discussions of raids, checkpoints and micas chueqas, I eventually learned the truth behind the ID. The man pictured was indeed my father, but the name was his fathers’. My grandfather had worked for the United States during the Bracero program, one that sought Mexican labor during a time when the U.S. lacked it. My grandmother would later recount how as a little boy, my father would cry when his father would depart for the United States. From that point on, my father would wait anxiously on the steps of their modest home, in hopes of seeing his father approaching in the distance. Needless to say, most days were spent waiting in vain, as my grandfather would leave for months at a time–working the pisca in the U.S. southwest.

When my father embarked on his trip to Chicago, he used his fathers’ Bracero social security number to work—I had stumbled upon his mica chueqa. Unlike his father before him, my father didn’t leave for a few months at a time. Unbeknownst to my father, he was in the U.S to stay and would eventually become a citizen. It was in this context, and with these conversations, that I learned that my parents were at one point, undocumented immigrants, and that I had inherited a privilege from their journey. At the University, I’ve met peers who are undocumented and who can’t do many of the things that I, as a citizen, take for granted. They cannot file for financial aid, travel nor obtain a driver’s license. Some have yet to meet their grandparents, as some departed for the U.S. at an early age.

I’ve realized that citizenship gives me a voice that I can use to decry injustice and to stand along side with undocumented immigrants. Acknowledging this privilege, I have embarked on a journey. A journey that involves sharing my privilege as leverage for those who don’t possess the same privileges as I.

As you are reading this, I and other U.S. Citizens will risk being arrested outside of the Broadview Detention Center. We will sit in the street and block a bus that will be carrying fathers, sons, mothers and daughters to an airport, with the intent of sending them to another country, because our society regards them as “illegal”. In solidarity with undocumented immigrants, we utilize our privilege to risk arrest and other legal ramifications, in a call for social justice. Given my background, how I’ve inherited my privilege and what immigrants endure, as a U.S. citizen, it is the least I can do.

unafraid

en solidaridad.

apodos

el catarro,
el quema llanta,
la comadre,
el millones,
el dotor.

circa 1987

cruising slowly down "la baswer",
with strawberry freshened air,
windows open,
in tios 1985 cutlass supreme.