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.