Initial Shock
I cannot sleep. It’s the night of July 7th. I will
be returning to the United States of America tomorrow after living in Mexico
for almost a year. I am neither excited nor sad. I am reflective. Maybe I’m
also numb. I do not want to sleep. I want to take in the moment. I stay up with
my volunteer friends who are working on blog posts or love notes to friends. This
is the end of a chapter in my life – probably the most formative chapter in my
life to date.
2:15AM arrives in the blink of an eye. The chime at the gate
of our hostel rings, and it is time for my friend Gracia and I to take our taxi
to the airport. The night lights of Mexico City loom above us as we drive. The
mega-city is so peaceful, beautiful at this hour.
Did I appreciate the
beauty in that moment?
I cannot remember. The
drive was surreal. Everything blurred together.
A few hours later, I board the plane that will take me to
San Antonio, Texas. Walking down the aisle, I am comforted by the fact that I
am the lone gringo. My white face is swaddled in a bath of brown faces. I am
comforted by the warm embrace of Mexico – its culture, its celebrations, its
love, its people – for a couple more hours.
As we near San Antonio, I look out the airplane window. I
love looking down from airplanes. Human life seems so small. Yet, so
intricately complex.
I see beautiful trees covering the city of San Antonio.
I also see suburban sprawl –
Thousands of cars covering roadways
Huge swathes of trees cleared for
new neighborhoods
Large quarries scarring the
countryside.
These sights are reflective of the city and country I am entering.
But more so, they are reflective of my heart. Mexico City also has traffic,
quarries and deforestation, but those things never bothered me as much as they do
now entering the U.S.
In this moment of change and vulnerability, being critical
of my home nation and those around me seems to be some sort of constant I can
depend on.
The first couple of days are strange. I would say bad, but
that’s not accurate. They are just uncomfortable.
I am prone to judge.
How can people pay $35 for a ball
cap, $300 for a Yeti drink cooler?
Did our lunch and coffee that first
day really total $50?
White faces. Everywhere.
White faces seem to slap me in the
face.
Did I look in the mirror during
those couple of days? I cannot remember. If I had, I might have noticed that my
face is white, too.
There are also plenty of moments where it is nice to be home
Birds
chirping, deer strolling, bunnies bounding
A sky full
of stars
Walking
bare foot
Swimming in
the Comal River
Running in
the Hill Country and eating breakfast tacos
I am happy, but also sad. I feel a bit of everything during
the first days and weeks.
I want to spend more time with my family. I want to sit
around the table with them for hours like I had done with my familia in Mexico.
But, I also cannot shake the US style of life that says go-go-go. I cannot say
no to spending time with friends. I have to be reminded that my aunts, uncles,
cousins and grandparents have schedules and plans of their own, too.
I feel more comfortable around latinos and people of color
than people that look like me. I want to seek out diversity. But, is this
wrong? Am I using my desire to be inclusive as a reason to spend time with
people? Am I loving people for the right reasons or just trying to fulfill a
white savior complex?
I pick up some of my old hobbies and activities: running,
swimming, visiting coffee shops, seeing old friends. I am bothered by the fact
that I see nearly exclusively white faces in these circles. I feel guilty.
Canada
Less than three weeks after arriving in Texas, I board a
plane for Canada to see my aunt, uncle and cousin. I have never been before. I
feel guilty to be traveling so soon after a year in Mexico. Nevertheless, I
embrace the opportunity, knowing that I will soon have a job, commitments and
responsibilities that will make travel much harder.
Canada is refreshing. It forces me to change my routine. It
forces me to process, to tell the stories that have shaped me over the previous
year. It also helps me to look forward. I explore, see new places and learn new
things. And I begin to dream.
My heart is warmed by the diversity of people I see in Hamilton,
Onatario
My family
transplanted from Texas
My Aunt’s Italian parents with their
two kitchens, and their pantry stocked full of homemade pasta sauces
Old European Immigrants playing
bocce ball at the Polish Club
Listening to my aunt’s mother
converse with other Italians in the mall, flip-flopping from Italian to English
and back to Italian
A family in the park from Syria,
who just immigrated as refugees a month before
The
kids ran around the jungle gym and through the sprinkles
The men sat and talked, drinking
tea, as they welcomed us into conversation and attempted to string some words
together in English. All the while, with smiles that radiated love
A Central
American market
Women wearing hijabs and full-body
coverings bobbing in the waves as they enjoye a day at the beach
A sea of
faces in the park next to the bay dancing Salsa on a Tuesday evening
While in Canada, I continue to have discussions with migrant
friends that challenge me to look at the world differently.
Enrique, from El Salvador, crossed
through Mexico in the Fall of 2015 and was deported from Atlanta in January. He
shared the struggles of life in El Salvador and worried over his 18-year old
son, who had been detained in the U.S. and would soon be deported back to the
country where gangs had threatened his life.
Jorge crossed through Mexico with
his dad Enrique, then spent 6-months working in a restaurant in Northern
Mexico, before crossing the border, being captured by Border patrol and
spending several months in a detention center. Now back in El Salvador, Jorge
shared that he was bored in rural El Salvador. He could not live in the city because
the gangs there threatened him. Jorge was looking for a job and trying to learn
English. He still hoped to get to the U.S., and he hoped to go to college one
day.
Fernando crossed through Mexico
from Honduras in May and June. He made it to Florida, where he now lives and
works. He hopes to speak with a lawyer about potential pathways to legal
status, but has not been able to get a day off of his construction job yet.
Carlos, from Honduras, spent the
spring in Mexico. He eventually crossed the dessert in Arizona and made it to
Los Angeles, where he moved in with two brothers and began working in a factory
making the Mexican dessert churros.
Seeing the U.S. with
New Eyes
After my time in Canada, I return to the US, where I take
time to see old friends, share my experience in Mexico with others, search for
a job, and adapt to seeing the world differently.
I come to realize that Mexico and the United States are not
so separate. The two overlap in a myriad of ways.
Jose Guadalupe Posada screen prints
on t-shirts and mugs in an over-priced outdoors store in San Antonio
Tacos and
Tamales
A dental hygienist with
grandparents from Mexico, who learned to speak Spanish to understand her
grandmother’s jokes
A Jesuit Priest wanting to learn
about migration and Mexico
Beers with a family friend, which brought
me back to evenings chatting and bonding with my Mexican co-workers at our
favorite local bar
Laughter with my friend John and
his parents as they recalled the time they unintentionally harbored an
undocumented Chinese immigrant in Chicago
Experiencing the warmth of Mexican
hospitality as my friend Antonio (originally from Guadalajara) invites me to go
salsa dancing
Dancing Salsa with Spanish-speaking
immigrant friends in downtown Denver at La Rumba
After a few weeks in seemingly-integrated Canada, I begin to
notice segregation in the US like never before
I had been reticent to return to
Colorado initially because it had always seemed very white and homogenous.
After returning, I begin taking Evans and Alameda from the suburbs of Lakewood
east into downtown, rather than taking the 6th Avenue highway. I see
neighborhoods that I have never seen before. I see taquerías, neverías, Mexican
restaurants, discotecas, taco stands. My heart is warmed at these reminders of
Mexico. I realize that Colorado is not as homogenous as I thought. Rather, it
is segregated and I had been living in a bubble during college. Between my time
in a private Christian university, gentrified parts of downtown and small
mountain towns, I had overlooked the large Latino population in the state, as
well as immigrants from other parts of the world and other people whose
backgrounds were different than mine.
I realize now that segregation is
real. It’s as simple as recognizing that I know to head to Federal to find good
Mexican or Asian food in West Denver. I know to head to E Colfax in Aurora to
find good Mexican, Central American and Ethiopian food. In New Braunfels, I
know to head to San Antonio St. for the best Mexican food.
I see storefronts for temporary
labor in Latino neighborhoods. It makes me aware of undocumented immigrants
that need under-the-table work. I can imagine the lives of immigrant families trying
to scrap together jobs, living paycheck to paycheck.
I talk to my middle and high
school’s Spanish classes and notice that the white non-native Spanish speakers
sit on one side of the room, and the Mexican-born native Spanish speakers sit
on the other.
My high school teacher informs me
that they are constantly re-organizing the seating chart to get students to
integrate, rather than sitting according to race, clique and economic status.
I’m embarrassed. I know that I was no different than these students. I sat next
to the people who looked most like me and were involved in the same activities
as me.
A middle school teacher informs me
that school lunches are the most segregated time of day. Each table denotes
status according to race, economic status, clique, and popularity.
I begin to hear a different perspective of life in the U.S.
I ref a soccer game with a young
man named Santos. Santos is clean-cut and very professional. Though a year
younger than me, Santos is several referee grades more advanced than I. Santos
has a huge smile and treats everyone with a loving admiration. I am caught off
guard by his kindness. His refereeing is flawless. During halftime, I come to
find out that Santos is a DACA recipient. He came to the U.S. when he was five.
He has grown up here, and now works and attends university here. He is super
bright, but has had to put his life on hold. The government delayed DACA
renewals in the run up to the presidential election. Without this renewal, Santos’
school and work visa expired. Now, he is just waiting.
After a year in Mexico, I can
finally understand Spanish radio in the U.S. Listening to 92.1 in Denver, I
hear –
Advertisements for legal services.
They are reminiscent of the “Texas Hammer” ads I heard as a kid for people that
have suffered car accidents and want to sue. These are different, though. Each
ad has a disclaimer that your immigration status does not matter – “no importa
tu estado migratorio…”
Political advertisements highlighting
that congressman Mike Coffman’s voted for laws benefitting immigrants. The ads
even shared that he learned Spanish to connect with his Spanish-speaking
constituents.
A post-election talk show that
discussed how parents can teach their kids the concepts of racism and
prejudice, how they can equip their kids to deal with situations in which they
may encounter racism and hatred.
Two friends, Karla and Bianca, invite
me to their home after the election. As I enter, they are preparing to serve
dinner. I am invited to eat with them. I am reminded of my time in Mexico where
every visit to someone’s house is accompanied by an offering of food. (“Borriga
llena, corazón contenta. Full stomach, happy heart.”) The conversation begins
with a recap of my background and experience in Mexico, which leads to talk of
migration and immigration. I learn that Karla has no documents and that Bianca
is a DACA recipient. The two speak of the affect the election will have on
them. They are planning for the worst and hoping for the best. They recognize
that there may be an increased risk of deportation under the coming
administration. If they are deported, their humble, but beautiful refurnished
and redecorated mobile home will be repossessed. Tens of thousands of dollars
would be lost. They are considering selling their home and squeezing into the
spare room of a friend. The election already holds serious consequences for
them. Like many Mexican natives, though, the two are able to joke despite the
seriousness of the situation. They recall the night of the election. The two
held a “Last Supper” with friends, in which they remembered their life in the
U.S. and prepared for a pretend deportation to Mexico. They also share that
they have joked with friends about getting married to acquire citizenship.
While they say they will never actually marry for citizenship status, (rather
than for love), people do actually do this.
As I read about injustices in the U.S. today, I hear the
experiences of people I never heard before.
As
I reflect on my time in Mexico, I am moved to do something to bring liberation
to marginalized people. I am moved to partake in some kind of social work,
community organization or law that leads to direct changes in systems. At the
same time, though, I still have other passions. I still love running and
coffee. I don’t know if these things fit with the new desires of mine to work
for justice, but I also cannot deny the vital role coffee and running have
played in my life.
I listen to a podcast by Krista Tippett interviewing
Michelle Alexander. Michelle Alexander shares that all kinds of people are
needed in the work for change: doctors, lawyers, janitors, coaches, etc.
It
seems to give me permission to think about more possibilities for work and
vocation. I think maybe I could look at the justice of international trade
through the lense of coffee. Maybe I could give activists and community
organizers a space to meet in a coffee shop. Maybe I could empower people
through the gift of running. Maybe coffee, running, community organizing,
public education, multiculturalism, immigrant rights work, and racial justice work
can intersect.
New Challenges
Some days, I think that I am beginning to understand the
world, its injustices and my role in working for justice. After all, I
understand the plight of people of color and immigrants better than I ever did
before. (Which, is not that I understand these things well.) But, then I am
slapped in the face with realities that say I still have much to learn.
I hear a podcast that shares that
lower-class whites are the only social group in the U.S. whose life expectancy
is declining. I am told that these people have been overlooked and neglected.
They believe Trump is the only person listening to them.
I travel to Texas for Thanksgiving
and hear a story from my cousin about how her application for food stamps was
denied. She was told, “Girl, we can’t help you. You white.”
I realize that maybe I overlooked
the pain, suffering and need among people the most like me – even those that
share my blood.
I realize that I am gracious in
extending forgiveness to the foreigner, Muslim or person of color, but quick to
judge the white conservative or the Christian.
“That is why
Donald Trump is essential. Because although we don’t agree with him, people
think that he is speaking to the pain that they are feeling. So, what is the
theologies? I don’t hear anyone speaking to the 45-year old person in
Appalachia, who is dying of a young age. Who feels like they’ve been eradicated
because whiteness is so much smaller today than it was yesterday. Where is the
theology that redefines to them what it means to be fully human? I don’t hear
any of that coming out of any place today. We’ve got a spiritual crisis in
white America. It’s a crisis of meaning. We talk a lot about black theologies,
but I want a liberating white theology. I want a theology that speaks to
Appalachia. I want a theology that begins to deepen people’s understanding
about their capacity to live fully human lives. To touch the goodness inside of
them, rather than call upon them the part of themselves that is not relational.
There is nothing wrong with being European-American. That’s not the problem.
It’s how you actualize a history and how you actualize a reality. It’s almost like
white people don’t believe that other white people are worthy of being
redeemed. And I don’t quite understand that. It must be more sexy to deal with
black folk than to deal with white folk if you are a white person. So, as a
black person, I want a theology that gives hope and meaning to people who are
struggling to have meaning in a world where they are no longer as essential to
whiteness as they once were.” –Ruby Sales
It’s not that I need to focus on obtaining justice for
lower-class whites instead of people of color, Native Americans, immigrants,…
Rather, I am made aware that the need for justice in the world is even bigger
than anticipated. I recognize that my own hypocrisies are greater than I
thought. I realize that there is more work to be done, and that the work for
justice must be done in community and with God.
A New Chapter
I now find myself working in a coffee shop in the Denver
Tech Center. The area is pretty suburban and largely consists of white upper
middle-class and upper-class professionals. I sometimes wonder what I am doing
here. How is this coffee job impacting
the world?
It’s because I am thinking these things that I know that I
am exactly where I need to be right now. This job may not feel as gratifying as
the work I was doing a year ago at La Sagrada Familia migrant shelter in
Apizaco, Tlaxcala, Mexico. I may not be feeding and providing rest and clothing
to people who are fleeing violence and poverty. I may not be listening to the
stories of people that have been beaten, raped and robbed. But, I am still working
with people and serving others. I am learning that the people I see at my job
are just as human as the migrants I met in Mexico, and are just as deserving of
love. Some days my perspective is hazy and I question my purpose, but then my
boss and friend Kimberly reminds me to see the god and each person. When I am
able to view the world with these eyes, my interaction with customers reminds
me of the value of each person and the need to be present with each moment. Here
are just a few of those interactions that have touched me deeply:
After our customer Suzy has ordered
a few coffee drinks, and still seems to be drained, I watch my boss Kimberly
take time to listen to Suzy and comfort her. I overhear Suzy’s struggles with a
severe medical condition and uncooperative insurance. I see her humanity, and I
admire the interaction that Kimberly has with her as she listens, and then the
two embrace.
Our regular customer Ashley, who is
a local middle school art teacher, enters one day looking very tired and down. I’m
not sure what’s up, but am moved to treat Ashley with extra warmth and leave a
note on her cup of coffee. A couple days later, I find out that her dad had
passed away that morning and that my note had been a little bright spot on a
dark day. Surely God had spoken to me.
Our regular customer Andrew gives
me music recommendations and then I return the favor. He asks me about my
weekend plans, and he immediately takes interests in the immigrant rights
training I will attend, mentioning that his awareness of the situation of
immigrants was peaked after watching “Sin Nombre.”
I make new friends in the coffee
industry and they share some of their passions and interests with me.
I ask customers about their accents
and learn the stories of Denver-residents that have immigrated here from
Australia, England, Germany, Mexico, Puerto Rico.
While I don’t know how exactly I am affecting others’ lives,
when I take the time to recall these interactions and so many more, I realize
that I am making an impact. I may not be reading as many articles about the
current status of the migrant trail or the abuse of people of color in the U.S.
justice system, but I am trying to spend more time being present with the
people around me. I am reminding myself that I will not change the world by
looking at society-wide trends if I forget to be present in the moment and love
those next to me. I feel that my gift rests in my ability to sit with others,
to listen and to love. Thus, by being present with the customer at my coffee
shop, I can actually do more to love others and make an impact on the world.
"I spent years trying to help the world while
letting my own inner world become a dark place of despair or a place of
confusion or a place unattended. When I realized that it actually worked in the
opposite direction that when I had inner peace I could be a deeper offering to
the world, everything changed." –Kimberly Allyse Johnson
I am still learning what it looks like to work for justice
and love and peace in the world. I am trying to figure out what it means to
advocate for Liberation Theology – giving a preferential option to the poor and
marginalized – while at the same time recognizing that the people that look
most like me are equally deserving of my love. At times I feel like I am moving
in the wrong direction and compromising my dreams. But then, I receive a moment
of clarity and realize that I am still on the journey – it’s just that the
journey is full of growth pains as I learn more about myself and others.
My prayer is that I will keep my ears open to hear those
around me. I pray that I will hear the voices of the poor on the margins, as
well as the pain of the privileged. I pray that I will listen to and love all
people, seeing the god within each person. I pray that I can be present with all whom I
encounter and all that I experience. If I can do these things, I believe I can
play a small part in this work of redemption, recreation and justice that is
taking part in our groaning world today.
Books
I read in the spring and summer of 2016 that I highly recommend:
Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow: Mass
Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness. Ta-Nehisi Coates’ Between
the World and Me. Alice Goffman’s On
the Run: Fugitive Life in an American City. Bryan Stevenson’s Just Mercy. Going back in time, Richard
Wright’s Black Boy.
