Meet Your Neighbors 2: Understanding in a Car Crash

A friend of mine asked that I follow-up my last "Meet Your Neighbors" post with a little bit of information on what happened with "Alberto" and his Mixtopek speaking friend.

Sadly, I have no idea what happened. Which is pretty common. Actually, it's the norm. Which is hard.

To avoid talking more about that, I'm going to change the subject. Stay with me.

Sometimes when I am speaking with someone in Spanish I get this sense that I must be understanding the story wrong, that my language skills just aren't cutting it and I need to ask more questions to figure out what is going on.

When I was talking to Alberto the other day I kept coming back to one thing that I thought just HAD to be a misunderstanding. Alberto had told me that his friend, a man in his late thirties or early forties, spoke some Spanish, but his son did not. "That can't be right," I thought. "If he can speak both Spanish and Mixtopek, his son should be able to as well."

And so I asked him about the situation again, trying to clear up what was, to me, a glaring inconsistency.

"No," he said. "That's right. He can speak Spanish but his son never learned how."
"Why not?" I asked.
"When my friend and I were kids, our parents had enough money to send us to school. By the time we had our own kids, everyone was worse off."

Oh God.

A third man sitting in a chair and listening to the conversation, a migrant himself, spoke up.

"The whole country is going backwards."

What do you say exactly?

Meet Your Neighbors: I'm So Frustrated Edition

I'm annoyed.

So Mexico is a big country. A diverse country. This can be a problem as we tend to think of everyone who isn't American as pretty much being exactly the same.

Canadians? They say "eh" and have milk in a bag. I don't know, whatever Five Iron Frenzy said.

Australians? Pick from one of three funny stereotypes: The surfer guy, the outback guy, or...no, that's about it. The cute accent guy? I'm beat.

Iranians? Either ruthlessly oppressing people, or being ruthlessly oppressed. Pick your poison.

Obviously we don't all think this way, or at least not all of the time. But for the most part we do generalize people into categories and then we make assumptions about people, countries, ourselves, etc., all based on those categories.

Back to today.

Today I was at the Migrant Resource Center (something that I haven't gotten to do a lot of in the past two months or so...desk jockey/tour guide woot!). But I was there today, and I met a man who we'll call Alberto. Alberto was traveling with some friends and family from Mexico when they were arrested by the Border Patrol. Pretty typical.

But that's where the problems start. The reality (which became a problem) is that not everyone in Mexico speaks Spanish. There are, literally, hundreds of indigenous languages. And unfortunately for a guy from a small village, he's on his way back to...wait for it...El Salvador.

So what happened? Well, being that the Border Patrol agents couldn't speak his language, and he couldn't speak either Spanish or English, they assumed that he was from Central America. So they started asking him questions about that. And, being confused, he just sort of made some responses that they took to be agreement. When his dad figured out what was going on (his dad speaks a limited amount of Spanish), he tried to convince them that his son was in fact from Mexico. But that didn't work out so well because he was not carrying any identification with him.

So as of right now he's on his way to Tucson where he will be kept until they send him to El Salvador...for the first time ever...where they won't be able to understand him either.

I'm not saying that the Border Patrol is responsible for speaking every language in the known world. But this is the type of stuff that happens when you try to combine a major humanitarian crisis with a bureaucratic system.

I called the Mexican consulate but haven't heard back. I hope for his sake that they can prove he's a Mexican.

This post is for Rachel.

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I've got my hands up high, my feet down low...

Time lapse of the Migrant Resource Center, a story captured in moments.

Last Night- While trying to pour himself a cup of coffee a young man accidentally spilled the not-quite-hot-yet liquid all over his hand, where it dripped off to form a pool on the plastic table. I was heating up some burritos for his 25 companions just steps away. Seeing the coffee streaming off the table and onto the floor I began to laugh.

Turning to me the man said, in perfect English, "Do you think that's funny?"
"Yes," I replied, my laughter having sprung forth not from his misfortune, but from a deep well of appreciation for a coffee machine that defies logic in its dispensation of the aforementioned liquid.
"Well I don't think that's funny," he cut back, the tension rising in his voice.
"Lo siento, I'm sorry," I said, in the best accent I could muster. "Friends?"

My plea for peace went unanswered. Rebuffed. Setting down the cup, he turned his back and walked out the door into the April night.

Last Week- I arrived at the Center totally spent, bankrupt in every conceivable way. It soon became apparent that I wasn't going to be much good for conversation, less so in Spanish. Leaving my friends sitting at the desk I headed to the front door, setting up a post to await the "customers" that would undoubtedly pass by. My fatigue defeated my attempts at reading, and I soon found myself "waiting" under a blanket, flat on my back. From there I migrated over to a cot, a little metal bed that's tucked away in the space that used to house Viagra and Cialis back when the Center was a pharmacy for snowbirds in search of a deal. Three hours later I woke up. A more honest telling of the story would be that I was awoken. I had slept through the coffee, the burritos, the jokes, and all of the night's migrants.

Two weeks ago- My friend James and I sat behind the desk, fighting off the sleep that wooed us back towards pillows and sheets. Public policy, migration, education, and old times weighed heavily on our minds and spilled freely from our lips. Migrants passed by the open doors to the Center. I let them go, knowing only too well how few resources we had to give them. Sometimes it's better to save the burritos for the person hungry enough to come searching for them.

Three weeks ago- I was sitting at my desk, chatting up (I was hoping) the leader of a group of high school kids. Five migrants had come in about thirty minutes before, a group of cousins traveling together, all under the age of 17. All of a sudden I realized that both the visiting students and the migrants were standing in a big circle in the space by the door. Unexpectedly, the entire group burst into song. One by one the students stepped forward into the circle, each one in their turn taking up the mantle to cut the proverbial rug. An impromptu dance party. At first it was clear that the migrants had no idea what was going on, and even less idea of what they should do. But the mood was infectious. They started dancing. I started dancing. Everyone was singing. Before you knew it there were two lines and we had broken into a soul train. And just then it dawned on me: this is why I have come to the border. This is what the kingdom of God looks like. No border. No fence. No desert. Just some teenage kids and a dance party. And who doesn't love that?

Meet Your Neighbors: Agua Prieta Edition

Oscar Ruiz, along with his wife and niece, were attempting to migrate from the Mexican state of Puebla to the United States in order to look for work.

When they arrived in Agua Prieta, however, they were taken by their taxi driver to what they thought was a hotel. Inside the building they were detained against their will for what they think was between two and three weeks. After ten days they lost count.

While they were being detained they were robbed, fed very little, and never allowed to bathe or go outside. At the end of their stay they were taken to the desert, dropped off, and told which way to walk. Three days later they were picked up by Border Patrol.

On Monday I had the opportunity to meet Oscar and his family when they came in to the Migrant Resource Center after being deported. I couldn't help but be fascinated by the diverse reactions that they showed to experiencing so much trauma. Oscar's niece seemed very relieved to be safe and back in Mexico, but, or perhaps because of this, she would occasionally burst into tears. Oscar's wife had rolled her ankle in the desert and was clearly in pain, but never spoke a single word to anyone the entire time I was with her. Oscar himself seemed to be the most composed, but he was terrified of the taxi drivers and, understandably, wanted to avoid them at all costs.

Fortunately the Mexican consulate in Douglas has funds which are designated to help migrants, and we were able to buy them bus tickets back home to Puebla. Unfortunately the people who robbed them and held them captive are still here in Agua Prieta.

I love the migrants, but I hope I've never romanticized what they go through.

Meet Your Neighbors: Trains Now Scare Me Edition

Here's another edition of Meet Your Neighbors for all you cool kids living out in Los Angeles.

It is my great privilege to introduce you to a find young man named Junior. That's his nickname, so I'm pretty comfortable sharing it with you all.

I have been privileged to encounter some pretty exceptional people working down here, but Junior might get my vote for the most incredible person that I have met in the last six months. Why? Oh let me count the ways. For a start, Junior is from Honduras. If you've read the article from my last post, you'll have some idea why I am so impressed with migrants from anywhere south of Mexico. Junior is also traveling alone, quite a feat for anyone, but more so for someone not from Mexico. Not only is he traveling alone, unlike most migrants he has no one waiting for him in Los Angeles (family, friends, etc.), just the desire to look for work and send money back to his mother and siblings. This means that he has no support system at all. No one to send him money if/when he runs out or gets robbed (when I met him he had $19 and change. I gave him everything in my wallet, which was sadly only ten more). Junior also managed to first avoid, and later fool, both Mexican and U.S. immigration officials into thinking that he was not in fact from Honduras. Not an easy task. Finally, Junior rode the train all the way from Guatemala to Phoenix (where he was caught and deported). Again, an incredibly difficult, scary, and dangerous thing to do, especially alone.

All that, and he's really just an incredibly nice kid.

To be fair, in the immigration "game"* that takes place here on the border, there is no doubt that Central Americans are the underdogs. Everyone is gunning for them. Mexican migration wants to deport them. American migration wants to find them and ship them home as well. They take special pride in weeding them out and being able to differentiate them from Mexicans. Central Americans are also more likely to be assaulted, left for dead in the desert, cheated out of their money, and beaten up. The migration machine is mostly run by Mexicans, who I am sad to say often abuse one another. This is multiplied exponentially for someone coming from outside of Mexico.

It was tough watching Junior walk out the door. I like the kid, I wish he was sticking around. I also know that he was/is getting back on a train to cross into the U.S. I really don't want to read about him in the paper after he loses a leg, or possibly his life. And I know the meat grinder that is Los Angeles, and the exploitation that awaits him there.

*I say game not becuase I think that immigration as it now exists if fun, but because so many of the people that I know down here think of it that way. If a migrant gets caught by Border Patrol, they get returned to their country of origin, and get to try again. It makes the whole thing feel like a massive game of capture the flag. The problem is, if you lose you can die. And people lose a lot.

Meet Your Neighbors: Biloxi, Mississippi Edition

Attn: Becca Weaver

My new friend Salvador should be arriving in your neck of the woods before 2007. His journey was delayed yesterday after he almost broke his ankle jumping over the fence between the U.S. and Mexico, which now reaches over twenty feet in some places. Salvador has lived in Biloxi for the past 5 years and returned to Mexico recently to visit a sick relative. Now that he's injured he will have to stay in Agua Prieta until he recovers enough to make the much more dangerous crossing through the desert. He told me that he was excited to get back to the United States because he really liked the work he had been doing- rebuilding after "la Katrina."

Meet Your Neighbors Glendale Edition

Welcome to another great edition of meet your neighbors. This is a special edition meant for all of my Los Angeles area friends out there, and, due to the location, Ms. Beth Winton in particular.

Tonight I would like to introduce you to my new friend Samuel. Samuel is a 17 year old amigo hailing from Mexico City (or the D.F. as it is referred to here). I met him this afternoon along with three fellow travelers after they came into the Migrant Resource Center looking for some much needed food and rest. The four of them had crossed through the desert in New Mexico and had been walking for two days and nights when they were arrested by the Border Patrol. They told me that they plan to cross again tomorrow.

Samuel has been living in LA since May, but had to go home this month to take care of some things with his family. He´s anxious to get back to LA because he's a student at Belmont High School. He doesn´t like LA as much as Mexico City, but he likes learning English and playing on the soccer team. Keep your eyes out city of the angels, he's a determined and optimistic kid and I'm sure he'll arrive their very soon.