11/25/2007
Nov. 25. Still feeling the Gratitude. And posting this one early--and short--because I'm leaving again. Just like that song my girlfriends sniffled over back in the dinosaur age--"I'm leavin' on a jet plane..." Don't want to go. I never want to go. But I'll be at UC Davis, and I'll be hooking up with Yuma's Sheriff Ogden. Let the bad guys try to get me now! Immigration. Hasn't it worn everybody out yet?
If you watch the CBS Sunday Morning Show, you saw a great immigration gratitude story today. If you missed it, go to www.cbs.com and hunt for the show buttons and punch it up. You will see the amazing story of Dr. Quinones--the superstar young brain surgeon at Johns Hopkins.
Dr. Quinones came to the US "illegally," and jumped the fenc in the southwest. He worked picking and "pulling weeds." Slept in a ruined little trailer. But he went to school. He got into Berkeley. He got a scholarship to Harvard. He became a US citizen and went to med school.
But he doesn't feel at peace with how he got here--though he knows he'd do it again. And now he's making amends for his entry into the country by dedicating himself to a life of service. To pay back the United States and to earn your forgiveness.
#
Along these lines, allow me to also offer you a great--the greatest--immigration story. Even Drudge, no friend of the undocumented, had to post it. It's too good.
It's the story of a terrible crash in the wilderness, and a dead mom, and a lost nine year old boy facing death by exposure. It's the story of an "illegal" making his way through the desert who found the boy and chose to keep him company. Built him a fire. Gave him his coat. And stayed with him until help found them--a move that would probably result in his being arrested. And cast out.
Who among us has stepped right out of the Bible? That guy. That good Samaritan. Who Would Jesus Deport? Not him, I'd wager. Here's the link:
www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=D8T3NC4G0&show_article=1
#
That's all I've got, and it's more than enough. Did you ever imagine the border is also about love and respect? Did you ever dream that immigration, even "illegal" immigration, could also be about gratitude and beauty? Is it possible that the scuttling wicked cockroach people we despise and defame have among them men and women we might--oh my God--admire? Hey, I'm stupid that way. I still believe in love. Not love beads or peace signs or tie-dyes or cuddly wuddly kittenz. Love. The kind of love that would die for you, or risk imprisonment for you, or save your life. I still believe in people, despite the ghastly evidence to the contrary in the world today.
Get out the nails and cross-beams, amigos--it's still the most revolutionary topic in town.
Give thanks. Offer praise. Do something. Get your hands dirty. Praying isn't enough.
See you in California.
Wish I could stay home...it's snowing.
L
El Tenksgeevee
If you watch the CBS Sunday Morning Show, you saw a great immigration gratitude story today. If you missed it, go to www.cbs.com and hunt for the show buttons and punch it up. You will see the amazing story of Dr. Quinones--the superstar young brain surgeon at Johns Hopkins.
Dr. Quinones came to the US "illegally," and jumped the fenc in the southwest. He worked picking and "pulling weeds." Slept in a ruined little trailer. But he went to school. He got into Berkeley. He got a scholarship to Harvard. He became a US citizen and went to med school.
But he doesn't feel at peace with how he got here--though he knows he'd do it again. And now he's making amends for his entry into the country by dedicating himself to a life of service. To pay back the United States and to earn your forgiveness.
#
Along these lines, allow me to also offer you a great--the greatest--immigration story. Even Drudge, no friend of the undocumented, had to post it. It's too good.
It's the story of a terrible crash in the wilderness, and a dead mom, and a lost nine year old boy facing death by exposure. It's the story of an "illegal" making his way through the desert who found the boy and chose to keep him company. Built him a fire. Gave him his coat. And stayed with him until help found them--a move that would probably result in his being arrested. And cast out.
Who among us has stepped right out of the Bible? That guy. That good Samaritan. Who Would Jesus Deport? Not him, I'd wager. Here's the link:
www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=D8T3NC4G0&show_article=1
#
That's all I've got, and it's more than enough. Did you ever imagine the border is also about love and respect? Did you ever dream that immigration, even "illegal" immigration, could also be about gratitude and beauty? Is it possible that the scuttling wicked cockroach people we despise and defame have among them men and women we might--oh my God--admire? Hey, I'm stupid that way. I still believe in love. Not love beads or peace signs or tie-dyes or cuddly wuddly kittenz. Love. The kind of love that would die for you, or risk imprisonment for you, or save your life. I still believe in people, despite the ghastly evidence to the contrary in the world today.
Get out the nails and cross-beams, amigos--it's still the most revolutionary topic in town.
Give thanks. Offer praise. Do something. Get your hands dirty. Praying isn't enough.
See you in California.
Wish I could stay home...it's snowing.
L
11/22/2007
Beloved, how do I greet you all?
Dear Frankie,
Dear Cesar,
Dear Rags,
Dear Cinder,
Dear Bonnie,
Dear Geoff,
Dear Grace,
Dear Clarke,
Dear White Eagle,
Dear Students,
Dear Fishtrap,
Dear Shawn Phillips,
Dear Janna,
Dear Warrior,
Dear Enrique,
Dear Eduardo,
Dear Spookie,
Dear Cheryl,
Dear Juan Sanchez,
Dear Prudence (won't you come out to play),
Dear Jennifer,
Dear Robert P,
Dear Nicole,
Dear Isabel,
Dear Olivas,
Dear Poage,
Dear Simon Joseph,
Dear Erika,
Dear Papa Byrd,
Dear Red Charlie,
Dear Janible,
Dear Dalia,
Dear Erika,
Dear Kali,
Dear Kikelomo,
Dear Kirill, Dear Ramos,
Dear Kyledeb,
Dear mommymuse,
Dear Michelle,
Dear Aaron,
Dear Librarians,
Dear Anonymous,
Dear Lurkers,
Dear Whoever has slipped temporarily off the list or out of my faltering old mind--
it is Thanksgiving Day. I never much liked this day or Christmas Day because there are so many dead scattered behind me. It makes me sad. And, frankly, the memories aren't so great from the days when they were alive. How do you save the past? How do you heal the cuts? Maybe you change the future and the past by having the best possible today. Be here now, they say.
We took the kids to see Phantom of the Opera last night. Then we bundles up and braved the Lake Michigan wind and the snow advisory and walked down to the Macy's/Marshall Fields store and watched the little lit-up figures in the windows dance. In Boston, in 1982, I would have been alone, astounded the world could be so cold, and I would have been older than I am today. You know how Dylan put it--"I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now."
In 1972 I would have been in my sad house, making believe my mom and the cats and I were living in Boston--painfully good manners in a house with no plumbing or heat or stove. My dad, off alone, sleeping on some friend's couch. Sad, sad, sad.
But today the house is warm. Everyone is happy. The only one cold is our wild turkey. Megan and Chayo are singing Phantom songs. Eric is drumming, again, damn it. Cinderella is cooking. Me? I'm walking around in swimming trunks for some reason, even though the birdbath froze solid and made a birdie skating rink.
I was hanging solar-snowman lights outside. You can feel the snow coming back. And above, lost in the layers of gray, lost in the snowy sky, came the migrating cranes. Big ghosty cranes, swirling and calling, shadows in the cold. Their voices so full of grace, so full of distance and hope. They never fly straight lines, those cranes. They seem to circle as they travel, looking down on us all and calling to us, endlessly calling:
"Give thanks. Give praise. Be alive. Be here."
I am here. I am alive. All praise. All thanks. I'll think of you today.
XXXOOOXXX,
L
Immigration Monday Thanksgiving Edition
Dear Frankie,
Dear Cesar,
Dear Rags,
Dear Cinder,
Dear Bonnie,
Dear Geoff,
Dear Grace,
Dear Clarke,
Dear White Eagle,
Dear Students,
Dear Fishtrap,
Dear Shawn Phillips,
Dear Janna,
Dear Warrior,
Dear Enrique,
Dear Eduardo,
Dear Spookie,
Dear Cheryl,
Dear Juan Sanchez,
Dear Prudence (won't you come out to play),
Dear Jennifer,
Dear Robert P,
Dear Nicole,
Dear Isabel,
Dear Olivas,
Dear Poage,
Dear Simon Joseph,
Dear Erika,
Dear Papa Byrd,
Dear Red Charlie,
Dear Janible,
Dear Dalia,
Dear Erika,
Dear Kali,
Dear Kikelomo,
Dear Kirill, Dear Ramos,
Dear Kyledeb,
Dear mommymuse,
Dear Michelle,
Dear Aaron,
Dear Librarians,
Dear Anonymous,
Dear Lurkers,
Dear Whoever has slipped temporarily off the list or out of my faltering old mind--
it is Thanksgiving Day. I never much liked this day or Christmas Day because there are so many dead scattered behind me. It makes me sad. And, frankly, the memories aren't so great from the days when they were alive. How do you save the past? How do you heal the cuts? Maybe you change the future and the past by having the best possible today. Be here now, they say.
We took the kids to see Phantom of the Opera last night. Then we bundles up and braved the Lake Michigan wind and the snow advisory and walked down to the Macy's/Marshall Fields store and watched the little lit-up figures in the windows dance. In Boston, in 1982, I would have been alone, astounded the world could be so cold, and I would have been older than I am today. You know how Dylan put it--"I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now."
In 1972 I would have been in my sad house, making believe my mom and the cats and I were living in Boston--painfully good manners in a house with no plumbing or heat or stove. My dad, off alone, sleeping on some friend's couch. Sad, sad, sad.
But today the house is warm. Everyone is happy. The only one cold is our wild turkey. Megan and Chayo are singing Phantom songs. Eric is drumming, again, damn it. Cinderella is cooking. Me? I'm walking around in swimming trunks for some reason, even though the birdbath froze solid and made a birdie skating rink.
I was hanging solar-snowman lights outside. You can feel the snow coming back. And above, lost in the layers of gray, lost in the snowy sky, came the migrating cranes. Big ghosty cranes, swirling and calling, shadows in the cold. Their voices so full of grace, so full of distance and hope. They never fly straight lines, those cranes. They seem to circle as they travel, looking down on us all and calling to us, endlessly calling:
"Give thanks. Give praise. Be alive. Be here."
I am here. I am alive. All praise. All thanks. I'll think of you today.
XXXOOOXXX,
L
11/19/2007
Immigration Monday Thanksgiving Edition
November 19, 2007.
“As long as the poor, who number about forty to one in our country (Mexico), do not enjoy accepted advantages, and cannot eat without heavy work, the fate of the nation shall be unsure and precarious.” – José Joaquín Fernández de Lizardi
#
A HOLIDAY IS A HOLY DAY, Part One.
Thanksgiving—what more American holiday is there? It’s easy to be cynical—after all, we’re famous for over-eating and then sleeping fatly in front of TV sets as athletes play football and then we go back to the groaning board again for seconds or thirds. But it is a strange kind of prayer, this day. Old pagan religions would have recognized a harvest celebration. Romans would have gorged and vomited so they could gorge again. We sing the earth and its bounty, we eat like bears for winter, we reconnect to our family before the dark and cold take some of them from us. We say grace, some of us, but we EAT grace as well. Our very gluttony is a ritual in these darkening hours of the year. Our guts sing praise to whatever God or Goddess or gods we revere.
Let’s see—turkey, “illegal immigrant”- provided: raised, slaughtered, plucked, packaged. Check. Green beans. Check. Sweet potatoes. Check. Mashed potatoes. Check. Fruit salad. Check. Wine? Grapes! Check. Asparagus. Check. Onions. Check. Tomatoes in the salad. Check. The salad! Check. Sugar. Check. Apples and pumpkins in the pie. Check. That most American treat, cranberries…check!
If you’re having Caesar salad, by the way, it was invented in Tijuana. Just thought you’d like to know. Corn came from Mexico. Potatoes came from South America. But the game’s on, dude, so have a Corona and chillax.
There are a lot of people talking smack about America today, and let’s face it, they have reason to be angry or critical. Still, it is important to think about what America means. What is it? To me, it’s the place where Borders bookstores ask us to spend an extra dollar so they can buy books for needy kids—and we do it! It’s the place where our upper middle-class high school adopts needy kids that hide their hunger from the rest of the school, and we make them baskets and buy them gift cards and the school secretly delivers Thanksgiving to these families so they are not outed or shamed. It’s the place where Southern California Americans, even though they are angry over immigration, provide Christmas for Mexicans in Tijuana. It’s the place where the headline in today’s CHICAGO TRIBUNE “Metro” section says: STUDY AIMS TO AID LATINO IMMIGRANTS. Sub-head: SUBURBS URGED TO INCREASE OUTREACH.
You won’t see headlines like that in Mexico very often.
Why do you think people come? It’s about the money. Right. But it’s about something deeper and more profound, my friends. It’s something more profoundly American. (What!?! The cynic cries. There aint nothing more American than money!) No. They come for Thanksgiving. Not the day—the act. To be able to give thanks.
You should kiss the ground every day and ask the earth what you can do to make your country greater.
I am thankful I am not in a desert gulley tonight, staring across the border and hoping to outrun the Border Patrol trucks. I am thankful I am not driving those trucks. I am thankful my family is not starving in a village no one cares about. I am thankful I am not responsible for writing laws to govern the border. I am thankful my daughters have not been taken from me and sold into sexual slavery.
Baby, it’s cold outside. Snow is coming. But here I am, safe, warm, writing. I am not digging ditches or picking tomatoes. I am not living five to an apartment, trading nights on the mattress so I can fry burgers. I am not in holding pens. I am not getting stomped by skinheads or hunted by Klansmen. I am not in prison. I am not hungry or afraid. No death squad will come down the street in Naperville, Illinois.
Still, Americans seem unhappy.
#
“If people want happiness so badly, why don’t they attempt to understand their false beliefs? First, because it never occurs to them to see them as false or even as beliefs. They see them as facts and reality, so deeply have they been programmed. Second, because they are scared to lose the only world they know: the world of desires, attachments, fears, social pressures, tensions, ambitions, worries, guilt, with flashes of the pleasure and relief and excitement which these things bring. Think of someone who is afraid to let go of a nightmare because, after all, that is the only world he knows. There you have a picture of yourself and of other people.”
--Anthony De Mello, THE WAY TO LOVE.
Can you release the nightmare? Did you go look at Pastor Von’s postings last week? Do you want to be grateful? Thankful?
I remember when ACROSS THE WIRE came out, some book sellers told me they kept it for clients who came in looking for self-help books. They’d tell them, “Read this.” How can you not be thankful, America?
I might get fire-bombed for this, but what if you tried, just once, being thankful for the invisible slaves of Gog and Magog who clean your stains out of your toilets, who sweat on your lettuce and tomatoes and chile peppers and oranges and apples and cherries and asparagus and cauliflower. What about that woman with the downcast eyes who strips your sheets off your motel bed, or the kid who beheads your chickens and cows, or the brown man who grinds up the slaughtered pigs to make the sausage in the pizza his cousin cooks for you?
That man you hate makes it possible for you not to pay $6 for a can of peas.
That family you fear keeps Mexico from exploding in armed conflict. Imagine your 2,000 mile border on fire. A shooting war. Revolution. Where will border security be then? Didn’t happen, did it?
Yet.
Wait till they get home.
Let us pray.
#
{WE PAUSE HERE FOR A DATA INTERMISSION!}
I. THE BORDER PATROL IS FULL OF SOFTIES:
You must find today’s (Nov.19, 2007) CHICAGO TRIBUNE. Big story, top of page 3. The USBP’s testing ground for border fences in San Diego is examined. I didn’t even know such a thing existed. Fence Lab. Look it up on the internet. “This is the only humane border fence being constructed” in the world. See why they say so. (You know I don’t love the fence, so you can imagine my delight in leaving some of my particular nightmare—see above.)
II. COYOTES VS. BORDER COPS:
here
www.washingtontimes.com/apps/pbcs.d11/article?AID=/20071115/NATION/111150077/1002
III. DON’T BUILD A FENCE, WIDEN THE RIVER!
here
www.news.aol.com/_a/texas-mayors-want-to-widen-rio-grande/2007111319090999001
IV. THAT DARNED TOM TANCREDO!
here
www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=D8STGUEO0&show_article=1
V. CAN’T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG?
AOL news reported today that hate crimes in the USA are up 7.8% this year. So far in 2007, there have been 7,722 hate crimes in our country.
#
A HOLIDAY IS A HOLY DAY, Part Two.
Americans are angry. Americans are worried. Americans are frustrated. Americans are afraid. Americans are at war. Americans are under attack. Americans are losing their retirements, their mortgages, their children, the value of their dollar. Americans are unpopular. Americans are confused. And in this sorry state, we gather to enjoy Thanksgiving. We take our day off and try to cobble our psyches and souls back together.
There has to be someone to blame for the state of the country. The Viet Cong are gone. The Soviets are gone. We’re trying to work up some juicy animosity with North Korea. Maybe Iran. Castro is almost dead. Damn it—that French president actually likes us, so we can’t be insulting to France anymore. There must be an Other we can focus on. There must be someone to blame! Someone who is foreign, non-white, sneaky, not Protestant, not English-speaking. Someone who wants SOMETHING FOR NOTHING! Unlike us, of course. We didn’t want a whole continent, right? We were legal—you hear it all the time. We came here legally! But, come to think of it, there are all those ILLEGALS. We can blame them.
Manifest Destiny is awesome when it’s pointed west, but it’s a bitch when it swings north.
When I lived in Boston, I enjoyed the freest and most invigoratingly American period of my life. I mean, traditional, Revolutionary, American. When was a Tijuana-born, San Diego raised, half Mexican son of poverty and despair going to go teach Expository Writing at Harvard and wander Bean-town’s streets with money in his pocket? Not gonna happen—but it did happen. I used to joke that I had been raised on frijoles, and now I was eating baked beans.
Can you imagine my profound shock and awe to go to Old North Church and see Paul Rever’s Lantern? Can you imagine what it was like to stand on the site of the Boston Massacre, or peer into the murky green/brown waters of the Boston Tea Party? To stand in Emerson’s house. To go down Tory Row and visit the Revolutionary homes there. To see Plymouth Rock. The Old North Bridge. Concord. Salem. To swim in Walden Pond.
Is there a more pure version of the American dream? I think not. Born in a small “clinic” above a drug store on the road to the dog racing track in downtown Tijuana. Raised in the ‘hood, in a little apartment block that passed for So Cal’s projects—ghetto with palm trees. Moved to a working class white neighborhood where we became lower middle class. First to go to college. Several years doing missionary work in Mex. Off to Harvard! And, oh yes, I seem to be a writer now with a couple of best-sellers. Movies about to happen. I live in the woodsy suburbs outside of Chicago in a big house with a big yard with big trees, three cars, two dogs, a cat, a parrot, three kids, and a big fancy fabulous bed where my wife and I can frolic. This is it: The American Dream.
Thanksgiving is not entirely a festival of gluttony and football for me. It’s actually, you know, time for thanks. Thanks for America.
The folks who don’t appreciate my “message,” whatever that message is—maybe, STOP BEING AN IDIOT—think I’m one of those America-haters. A traitor. Soft on security! (I always thought that was especially brilliant, since this is the Viagra age, and the men who can no longer muster an erection are very busy on the radio and TV searching out anybody who might be “soft.”) Even, Lordy, Jay-sus—irreligious! A sinner. Se-lah.
I can only ask one question: ARE YOU KIDDING? Because you must be kidding. If there is any American who kisses the soil of this nation, it’s me. Me, man. And you know what amazes me about this country? Liberty.
Maybe I’m a libertarian.
A libeanertarian.
Not serve God? Again, are you kidding? (Once, a good, kind and very smart atheist, after reading HUMMINGBIRD’S DAUGHTER, said to me, with real pain, “Please don’t make me believe.”) Man—I thank God every night and every morning. You see, unlike the pundits, I have smelled the stink of the Tijuana garbage dump wafting up off dead bodies of hopeless, helpless, oppressed human sacrifices to the true gods of the good Christian border—Moloch and Baal.
I said it here first: the Born-Again Molochians rule the border.
I have peered into human intestines ripped asunder by relentless poverty. I have buried people who died on the altar of NAFTA and border security and the Mexican Malaise and poverty. Unlike the good conservative media guardians of the USA, I don’t take drugs, I don’t have mansions, I don’t make millions (yet). And when I do make millions, it won’t be earned by insulting and attacking and cynically rising to power on the backs of those poor, huddled masse that bleeding heart liberal Statue of Liberty is always whining about. That would include American poor people.
Shee-it, that Statue of Liberty. She’s so castrating! No wonder we need Viagra and 32 hour erections! Women! Can you believe how soft women are? That freakin’ Statue and Hillary Clinton and Oprah and Mary Oliver and Nancy Pelosi and that stinkin’ blindfolded Justice chick at the courthouse! Thanks to the beaners we have to contend with the Virgin of Guadalupe now? (Well, at least they gave us Shakira—nudge-nudge, wink-wink!) They truly are un-patriotic. Thank God for Anne Coulter.
What we need is crop-dusters flying over the border, spraying pure Grade A testosterone on the desert—just pump the man-sauce all over the line and butch it up. C’mon, border—Man Up! Viagra-nauts unite! America’s real problem is Erectile Dysfuntion! When the atomic missiles went soft, the whole damned country started to droop. Get it up, boys!
#
Smite the soft.
How about we find a way to extract bio-fuel from illegals? Feed Latinos into grinders and extract bio-fuel from them. They keep having babies. What if we feed every other baby into the grinder? Hell, they could keep half of ‘em. We could utilize the old, too. To hell with social security—they are patriots, those old-timers. If you convinced them it would save America, they’d sacrifice themselves so we could keep driving.
Oh, sorry—I was having a Jonathan Swift moment.
You know I like the WWJD thing—Who Would Jesus Deport? How about this one I heard last week: WWJD—What Would Jesus Drive? That made me laugh. I want to be groovy and new age, but I’m American enough to admit I want Jesus to drive a Mustang Shelby 500 GT. But, you know, He’s the Lord—so he could make it a hybrid.
#
Give thanks for the USA. Give thanks for your life, even if it’s insufficient to your needs or your dreams. Mine was. You must give thanks because this is the place where you can change your circumstance and arrive at the level—or near it—of those dreams. You can’t tell me it’s not possible because I am testament that it is.
Imagine what strange psychological transformation would happen in Mexico if they had a Thanksgiving Day celebration.
You have a roof, you lucky dog. You have a floor. You have a table. You have a chair. You have a TV. You have a glass window. You have heat. You have a blanket. If you’re reading this, you have a computer, or access to a computer. You can read. You have electricity. You can’t (yet) be taken away by men in an SUV to a torture center for reading this.
You can do what you want, when you want. You can drive from here to Colorado and no troops will search you, shoot you, or bother you. You have food, and if you don’t have food, some soft Americans will be in church basements and community centers missing their football games so you can have food on “Turkey Day.”
You have lawns. You have toilets. You have free elections. You have TV. You have Brandon Flowers and The Killers. You have Brooooooooooooooce! You have my mighty fighting Illini and Juice Williams! Dude, you have The Undertaker and Ric Flair!
You have a peaceful border with no war or terrorism or snipers or sappers.
Tell me you don’t love Times Square. Tell me you don’t love Fenway Park. Tell me you don’t love Yellowstone. Tell me you don’t love Eudora Welty. Tell me you don’t love Dodge Challengers. Tell me you don’t love Crazy Horse. Tell me you don’t love Big Sur. Tell me you don’t love Shaker furniture. Tell me you don’t love the Badlands. Tell me you don’t love bison. Geysers. Clint Eastwood. Meryl Streep. John Steinbeck. Jack Kerouac. The Rocky Mountains. New Orleans. Geronimo. Wild Bill and Buffalo Bill. Tell me you don’t love Richard Pryor and Jimi Hendrix and the blues and jazz and rock and roll and Elvis. Come on, America! Can you add more? You know you can.
The only possible response to being American is on your knees. Just once a year. Even if you can’t possibly imagine a God out there. One token act of humilty among the pounds of turkey and ham and pie would be healthy. It is good for your heart.
Gratitude.
That is the true American Way.
Maybe we ought to go serve turkey to the Minutemen and the coyotes and then all of us just go home.
Please.
Let us start again.
L
Art to Heal Your Heart IV
November 19, 2007.
“As long as the poor, who number about forty to one in our country (Mexico), do not enjoy accepted advantages, and cannot eat without heavy work, the fate of the nation shall be unsure and precarious.” – José Joaquín Fernández de Lizardi
#
A HOLIDAY IS A HOLY DAY, Part One.
Thanksgiving—what more American holiday is there? It’s easy to be cynical—after all, we’re famous for over-eating and then sleeping fatly in front of TV sets as athletes play football and then we go back to the groaning board again for seconds or thirds. But it is a strange kind of prayer, this day. Old pagan religions would have recognized a harvest celebration. Romans would have gorged and vomited so they could gorge again. We sing the earth and its bounty, we eat like bears for winter, we reconnect to our family before the dark and cold take some of them from us. We say grace, some of us, but we EAT grace as well. Our very gluttony is a ritual in these darkening hours of the year. Our guts sing praise to whatever God or Goddess or gods we revere.
Let’s see—turkey, “illegal immigrant”- provided: raised, slaughtered, plucked, packaged. Check. Green beans. Check. Sweet potatoes. Check. Mashed potatoes. Check. Fruit salad. Check. Wine? Grapes! Check. Asparagus. Check. Onions. Check. Tomatoes in the salad. Check. The salad! Check. Sugar. Check. Apples and pumpkins in the pie. Check. That most American treat, cranberries…check!
If you’re having Caesar salad, by the way, it was invented in Tijuana. Just thought you’d like to know. Corn came from Mexico. Potatoes came from South America. But the game’s on, dude, so have a Corona and chillax.
There are a lot of people talking smack about America today, and let’s face it, they have reason to be angry or critical. Still, it is important to think about what America means. What is it? To me, it’s the place where Borders bookstores ask us to spend an extra dollar so they can buy books for needy kids—and we do it! It’s the place where our upper middle-class high school adopts needy kids that hide their hunger from the rest of the school, and we make them baskets and buy them gift cards and the school secretly delivers Thanksgiving to these families so they are not outed or shamed. It’s the place where Southern California Americans, even though they are angry over immigration, provide Christmas for Mexicans in Tijuana. It’s the place where the headline in today’s CHICAGO TRIBUNE “Metro” section says: STUDY AIMS TO AID LATINO IMMIGRANTS. Sub-head: SUBURBS URGED TO INCREASE OUTREACH.
You won’t see headlines like that in Mexico very often.
Why do you think people come? It’s about the money. Right. But it’s about something deeper and more profound, my friends. It’s something more profoundly American. (What!?! The cynic cries. There aint nothing more American than money!) No. They come for Thanksgiving. Not the day—the act. To be able to give thanks.
You should kiss the ground every day and ask the earth what you can do to make your country greater.
I am thankful I am not in a desert gulley tonight, staring across the border and hoping to outrun the Border Patrol trucks. I am thankful I am not driving those trucks. I am thankful my family is not starving in a village no one cares about. I am thankful I am not responsible for writing laws to govern the border. I am thankful my daughters have not been taken from me and sold into sexual slavery.
Baby, it’s cold outside. Snow is coming. But here I am, safe, warm, writing. I am not digging ditches or picking tomatoes. I am not living five to an apartment, trading nights on the mattress so I can fry burgers. I am not in holding pens. I am not getting stomped by skinheads or hunted by Klansmen. I am not in prison. I am not hungry or afraid. No death squad will come down the street in Naperville, Illinois.
Still, Americans seem unhappy.
#
“If people want happiness so badly, why don’t they attempt to understand their false beliefs? First, because it never occurs to them to see them as false or even as beliefs. They see them as facts and reality, so deeply have they been programmed. Second, because they are scared to lose the only world they know: the world of desires, attachments, fears, social pressures, tensions, ambitions, worries, guilt, with flashes of the pleasure and relief and excitement which these things bring. Think of someone who is afraid to let go of a nightmare because, after all, that is the only world he knows. There you have a picture of yourself and of other people.”
--Anthony De Mello, THE WAY TO LOVE.
Can you release the nightmare? Did you go look at Pastor Von’s postings last week? Do you want to be grateful? Thankful?
I remember when ACROSS THE WIRE came out, some book sellers told me they kept it for clients who came in looking for self-help books. They’d tell them, “Read this.” How can you not be thankful, America?
I might get fire-bombed for this, but what if you tried, just once, being thankful for the invisible slaves of Gog and Magog who clean your stains out of your toilets, who sweat on your lettuce and tomatoes and chile peppers and oranges and apples and cherries and asparagus and cauliflower. What about that woman with the downcast eyes who strips your sheets off your motel bed, or the kid who beheads your chickens and cows, or the brown man who grinds up the slaughtered pigs to make the sausage in the pizza his cousin cooks for you?
That man you hate makes it possible for you not to pay $6 for a can of peas.
That family you fear keeps Mexico from exploding in armed conflict. Imagine your 2,000 mile border on fire. A shooting war. Revolution. Where will border security be then? Didn’t happen, did it?
Yet.
Wait till they get home.
Let us pray.
#
{WE PAUSE HERE FOR A DATA INTERMISSION!}
I. THE BORDER PATROL IS FULL OF SOFTIES:
You must find today’s (Nov.19, 2007) CHICAGO TRIBUNE. Big story, top of page 3. The USBP’s testing ground for border fences in San Diego is examined. I didn’t even know such a thing existed. Fence Lab. Look it up on the internet. “This is the only humane border fence being constructed” in the world. See why they say so. (You know I don’t love the fence, so you can imagine my delight in leaving some of my particular nightmare—see above.)
II. COYOTES VS. BORDER COPS:
here
www.washingtontimes.com/apps/pbcs.d11/article?AID=/20071115/NATION/111150077/1002
III. DON’T BUILD A FENCE, WIDEN THE RIVER!
here
www.news.aol.com/_a/texas-mayors-want-to-widen-rio-grande/2007111319090999001
IV. THAT DARNED TOM TANCREDO!
here
www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=D8STGUEO0&show_article=1
V. CAN’T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG?
AOL news reported today that hate crimes in the USA are up 7.8% this year. So far in 2007, there have been 7,722 hate crimes in our country.
#
A HOLIDAY IS A HOLY DAY, Part Two.
Americans are angry. Americans are worried. Americans are frustrated. Americans are afraid. Americans are at war. Americans are under attack. Americans are losing their retirements, their mortgages, their children, the value of their dollar. Americans are unpopular. Americans are confused. And in this sorry state, we gather to enjoy Thanksgiving. We take our day off and try to cobble our psyches and souls back together.
There has to be someone to blame for the state of the country. The Viet Cong are gone. The Soviets are gone. We’re trying to work up some juicy animosity with North Korea. Maybe Iran. Castro is almost dead. Damn it—that French president actually likes us, so we can’t be insulting to France anymore. There must be an Other we can focus on. There must be someone to blame! Someone who is foreign, non-white, sneaky, not Protestant, not English-speaking. Someone who wants SOMETHING FOR NOTHING! Unlike us, of course. We didn’t want a whole continent, right? We were legal—you hear it all the time. We came here legally! But, come to think of it, there are all those ILLEGALS. We can blame them.
Manifest Destiny is awesome when it’s pointed west, but it’s a bitch when it swings north.
When I lived in Boston, I enjoyed the freest and most invigoratingly American period of my life. I mean, traditional, Revolutionary, American. When was a Tijuana-born, San Diego raised, half Mexican son of poverty and despair going to go teach Expository Writing at Harvard and wander Bean-town’s streets with money in his pocket? Not gonna happen—but it did happen. I used to joke that I had been raised on frijoles, and now I was eating baked beans.
Can you imagine my profound shock and awe to go to Old North Church and see Paul Rever’s Lantern? Can you imagine what it was like to stand on the site of the Boston Massacre, or peer into the murky green/brown waters of the Boston Tea Party? To stand in Emerson’s house. To go down Tory Row and visit the Revolutionary homes there. To see Plymouth Rock. The Old North Bridge. Concord. Salem. To swim in Walden Pond.
Is there a more pure version of the American dream? I think not. Born in a small “clinic” above a drug store on the road to the dog racing track in downtown Tijuana. Raised in the ‘hood, in a little apartment block that passed for So Cal’s projects—ghetto with palm trees. Moved to a working class white neighborhood where we became lower middle class. First to go to college. Several years doing missionary work in Mex. Off to Harvard! And, oh yes, I seem to be a writer now with a couple of best-sellers. Movies about to happen. I live in the woodsy suburbs outside of Chicago in a big house with a big yard with big trees, three cars, two dogs, a cat, a parrot, three kids, and a big fancy fabulous bed where my wife and I can frolic. This is it: The American Dream.
Thanksgiving is not entirely a festival of gluttony and football for me. It’s actually, you know, time for thanks. Thanks for America.
The folks who don’t appreciate my “message,” whatever that message is—maybe, STOP BEING AN IDIOT—think I’m one of those America-haters. A traitor. Soft on security! (I always thought that was especially brilliant, since this is the Viagra age, and the men who can no longer muster an erection are very busy on the radio and TV searching out anybody who might be “soft.”) Even, Lordy, Jay-sus—irreligious! A sinner. Se-lah.
I can only ask one question: ARE YOU KIDDING? Because you must be kidding. If there is any American who kisses the soil of this nation, it’s me. Me, man. And you know what amazes me about this country? Liberty.
Maybe I’m a libertarian.
A libeanertarian.
Not serve God? Again, are you kidding? (Once, a good, kind and very smart atheist, after reading HUMMINGBIRD’S DAUGHTER, said to me, with real pain, “Please don’t make me believe.”) Man—I thank God every night and every morning. You see, unlike the pundits, I have smelled the stink of the Tijuana garbage dump wafting up off dead bodies of hopeless, helpless, oppressed human sacrifices to the true gods of the good Christian border—Moloch and Baal.
I said it here first: the Born-Again Molochians rule the border.
I have peered into human intestines ripped asunder by relentless poverty. I have buried people who died on the altar of NAFTA and border security and the Mexican Malaise and poverty. Unlike the good conservative media guardians of the USA, I don’t take drugs, I don’t have mansions, I don’t make millions (yet). And when I do make millions, it won’t be earned by insulting and attacking and cynically rising to power on the backs of those poor, huddled masse that bleeding heart liberal Statue of Liberty is always whining about. That would include American poor people.
Shee-it, that Statue of Liberty. She’s so castrating! No wonder we need Viagra and 32 hour erections! Women! Can you believe how soft women are? That freakin’ Statue and Hillary Clinton and Oprah and Mary Oliver and Nancy Pelosi and that stinkin’ blindfolded Justice chick at the courthouse! Thanks to the beaners we have to contend with the Virgin of Guadalupe now? (Well, at least they gave us Shakira—nudge-nudge, wink-wink!) They truly are un-patriotic. Thank God for Anne Coulter.
What we need is crop-dusters flying over the border, spraying pure Grade A testosterone on the desert—just pump the man-sauce all over the line and butch it up. C’mon, border—Man Up! Viagra-nauts unite! America’s real problem is Erectile Dysfuntion! When the atomic missiles went soft, the whole damned country started to droop. Get it up, boys!
#
Smite the soft.
How about we find a way to extract bio-fuel from illegals? Feed Latinos into grinders and extract bio-fuel from them. They keep having babies. What if we feed every other baby into the grinder? Hell, they could keep half of ‘em. We could utilize the old, too. To hell with social security—they are patriots, those old-timers. If you convinced them it would save America, they’d sacrifice themselves so we could keep driving.
Oh, sorry—I was having a Jonathan Swift moment.
You know I like the WWJD thing—Who Would Jesus Deport? How about this one I heard last week: WWJD—What Would Jesus Drive? That made me laugh. I want to be groovy and new age, but I’m American enough to admit I want Jesus to drive a Mustang Shelby 500 GT. But, you know, He’s the Lord—so he could make it a hybrid.
#
Give thanks for the USA. Give thanks for your life, even if it’s insufficient to your needs or your dreams. Mine was. You must give thanks because this is the place where you can change your circumstance and arrive at the level—or near it—of those dreams. You can’t tell me it’s not possible because I am testament that it is.
Imagine what strange psychological transformation would happen in Mexico if they had a Thanksgiving Day celebration.
You have a roof, you lucky dog. You have a floor. You have a table. You have a chair. You have a TV. You have a glass window. You have heat. You have a blanket. If you’re reading this, you have a computer, or access to a computer. You can read. You have electricity. You can’t (yet) be taken away by men in an SUV to a torture center for reading this.
You can do what you want, when you want. You can drive from here to Colorado and no troops will search you, shoot you, or bother you. You have food, and if you don’t have food, some soft Americans will be in church basements and community centers missing their football games so you can have food on “Turkey Day.”
You have lawns. You have toilets. You have free elections. You have TV. You have Brandon Flowers and The Killers. You have Brooooooooooooooce! You have my mighty fighting Illini and Juice Williams! Dude, you have The Undertaker and Ric Flair!
You have a peaceful border with no war or terrorism or snipers or sappers.
Tell me you don’t love Times Square. Tell me you don’t love Fenway Park. Tell me you don’t love Yellowstone. Tell me you don’t love Eudora Welty. Tell me you don’t love Dodge Challengers. Tell me you don’t love Crazy Horse. Tell me you don’t love Big Sur. Tell me you don’t love Shaker furniture. Tell me you don’t love the Badlands. Tell me you don’t love bison. Geysers. Clint Eastwood. Meryl Streep. John Steinbeck. Jack Kerouac. The Rocky Mountains. New Orleans. Geronimo. Wild Bill and Buffalo Bill. Tell me you don’t love Richard Pryor and Jimi Hendrix and the blues and jazz and rock and roll and Elvis. Come on, America! Can you add more? You know you can.
The only possible response to being American is on your knees. Just once a year. Even if you can’t possibly imagine a God out there. One token act of humilty among the pounds of turkey and ham and pie would be healthy. It is good for your heart.
Gratitude.
That is the true American Way.
Maybe we ought to go serve turkey to the Minutemen and the coyotes and then all of us just go home.
Please.
Let us start again.
L
11/15/2007
I know I must seem like a blissed out granola type in these posts soemtimes. All my attention to spirit and soul and haiku and nature. Make no mistake--I am cranky and crusty and stagger in the morning and hate my coffee but guzzle it and hate my breakfast but eat it and hate feeding the animals but feed them and am not too sure about Oprah, but she's on and I stare at her with my hair standing on end. I don't shave enough. I'm mad at the world. And, though my nature-boy side would like you to think I spend all my days contemplating Basho and Thoreau, and listening to gentle Native American wooden flutes and Judy Collins, the truth is I read too much Charles Bukowski and listen to shrieking music more than tweedle music. I told you in the last posts of Art to Heal Etc. (art toe heel) how much I love "Local Hero." (Have you seen it yet? What are you waiting for!) I have seen "Bullitt" and "The Wild Bunch" and "Vanishing Point" many more times than I have seen "Local Hero." Am I a hypocrite? Maybe. But what I am is a real person. Still, all you need to do is come to our neighborhood and see why I feel like a freak--like Frodo or some twig-munching forest pixie. Not a lot of writers on my street. Not a lot of poetry. It is true about me that I have never had good porn in my bathrooms--I have always had stacks of poetry books. Whatever, he said with a shrug. Go with who you are and it works out.
You need a quiet moment. You need a healing break. If, like me, you turn off the Mastodon, Dir en grey, Fields of the Nephilim, Screaming Blue Messiahs, Blue Cheer, Nikki Sixx, Steve Vai, Joe Satriani, Black Sabbath, King Crimson once in a while, you will want to hear the trees and the wind. Be industrial! Be Nine Inch Nails and Ministry and Skinny Puppy! I often am! But mostly FRONT 242! YES! Like Whitman, we contain multitudes! But heal, heal, breathe y'all. Soul yoga. (I happen to think Front 242's most abrasive work is healing, but you know, it's not for everyone.)
Poetry does it.
Poems will lift you back off the floor.
Next Art Etc. posting will be a list of poetry books I promise you will heal your heart. I guarantee it. I woud buy these for you for Christmas. Except the academics, who loo down on most of the poets I will recommend.
Here's a book to make you love your liufe. Believe it. Get it. You won't be sorry. Put it by your toilet if you have to. Sometimes, toilet time is the closest we have to meditation. I think it works best if you place it by your bed.
Risking Everything: 110 Poems of Love and Revelation, edited by Roger Housden.
If you don't love at least 75% of this book, I will be shocked. If I could, I'd sneak into your room tonight, and before you fell asleep, I'd read you three poems.
As Mary Oliver asks in this fine fine anthology: Listen, are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?
I'm leaving for Bloomington, Indiana in the morning. NPR and a big reading. We bought a blue Ford Escape Hybrid this week. I feel sporty and superior. 34 mpg and 0.09% emissions compared to most new cars' 3.0%. It has Sirius radio built in, so we can listen to the Hair Metal cchannel or the Elvis channel or the BBC. I can go to Denver on a tank of gas. Ah.... My apocalypse car. I can flee the Chicago holocaust, when the zombies walk and the bombs go off, in my hybrid! I'll take Risking it All with me when I flee. The hybrid has a leaf on the side to let people know it's green. Even the interior materials are recycled. I'll be tooling along in the Escape--Chayo, in her inimitable way, has named it: The Ice Mountain. Leave it to the kid to make my SUV into a Han-shan poem.
Cars to Heal Your Heart. Healing comes in so many forms. You know how it heals? It makes you smile.
My car and my book are almost as good as my neighborhood turkey.
L
Immigration Irritation Monday
You need a quiet moment. You need a healing break. If, like me, you turn off the Mastodon, Dir en grey, Fields of the Nephilim, Screaming Blue Messiahs, Blue Cheer, Nikki Sixx, Steve Vai, Joe Satriani, Black Sabbath, King Crimson once in a while, you will want to hear the trees and the wind. Be industrial! Be Nine Inch Nails and Ministry and Skinny Puppy! I often am! But mostly FRONT 242! YES! Like Whitman, we contain multitudes! But heal, heal, breathe y'all. Soul yoga. (I happen to think Front 242's most abrasive work is healing, but you know, it's not for everyone.)
Poetry does it.
Poems will lift you back off the floor.
Next Art Etc. posting will be a list of poetry books I promise you will heal your heart. I guarantee it. I woud buy these for you for Christmas. Except the academics, who loo down on most of the poets I will recommend.
Here's a book to make you love your liufe. Believe it. Get it. You won't be sorry. Put it by your toilet if you have to. Sometimes, toilet time is the closest we have to meditation. I think it works best if you place it by your bed.
Risking Everything: 110 Poems of Love and Revelation, edited by Roger Housden.
If you don't love at least 75% of this book, I will be shocked. If I could, I'd sneak into your room tonight, and before you fell asleep, I'd read you three poems.
As Mary Oliver asks in this fine fine anthology: Listen, are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?
I'm leaving for Bloomington, Indiana in the morning. NPR and a big reading. We bought a blue Ford Escape Hybrid this week. I feel sporty and superior. 34 mpg and 0.09% emissions compared to most new cars' 3.0%. It has Sirius radio built in, so we can listen to the Hair Metal cchannel or the Elvis channel or the BBC. I can go to Denver on a tank of gas. Ah.... My apocalypse car. I can flee the Chicago holocaust, when the zombies walk and the bombs go off, in my hybrid! I'll take Risking it All with me when I flee. The hybrid has a leaf on the side to let people know it's green. Even the interior materials are recycled. I'll be tooling along in the Escape--Chayo, in her inimitable way, has named it: The Ice Mountain. Leave it to the kid to make my SUV into a Han-shan poem.
Cars to Heal Your Heart. Healing comes in so many forms. You know how it heals? It makes you smile.
My car and my book are almost as good as my neighborhood turkey.
L
11/13/2007
WWJD? Who Would Jesus Deport?
“Stop worshipping your opinions.” – Zen Saying
Let’s get to it, shall we?
#
IT PAYS TO POST “IMMIGRATION MONDAY” A DAY LATE:
I have been suggesting for a while that you get what you ask for.
You want the immigrants gone—well, they’re leaving. Now, we cannot whine when they leave that things are rough without them. That is so typical of this mincing little age of complaint. So buck up, America!
Your apple crops are in danger! Well, save some bees because you’ve convinced Mexican pickers to stay home. Your strawberry crops are in danger! Well, get the homeless out there to pick, because you’ve convinced the Mexican pickers to stay home. You can’t get maids or janitors in the northwest or the far west! You can’t get frycooks! You can’t get slaughterhouse workers or meat-processors! How about the town in New Jersey that passed stringent anti-immigrant laws and then went bankrupt? Now they’re rescinding the laws so they can make money. Money, after all, is God. All immigration sins are forgiven if you’ll just bring back the Holy Money!
Yes, well. Tuesday Nov. 13, 2007. The CHICAGO TRIBUNE, front page. The headline: “Illegal Residents Pass Up Mortgages: Deportation fears lead to big drop in applications.” If I had been the headliner, I would have headed the story: “DUH: No whining.”
Wait! Wait! Now the illegals are responsible for the mortgage crisis, too? Wait—they rebuilt New Orleans, so they were responsible form taking work from African Americans! There are 20% fewer apprehensions on the border this year. What are the Border Patrol and ICE agents supposed to do!!! Wait! Mexican truckers are driving in the US as they have done for over 20n years! Apocalypse! Oh shit—driver’s licenses for illegals! A communist plot! And now, since they are not applying for mortgages anymore, they are a major factor in the slow-down! Damn! Our enemy isn’t al-Qaeda! It’s El Pasiano!
When they go home, there will be headlines that say: “Thanks A Lot, Beaners – Where Oh Where Have Our Mexicans Gone: Wave of Illegal Alien Repatriation Responsible for Foreclosures and Abandoned Shit-Box Duplexes Thus Destroying the American Dream.”
They cannot be guilty of being here and not being here at the same time.
One last time, y’all: YOU GET WHAT YOU ASK FOR.
No whining.
#
DATA I:
Minimum number of new U.S. anti-immigrant groups formed since January 2005: 350.
(Harper’s Magazine, “Harper’s Index,” p. 13, May 2007.)
DATA II:
Border Fence is a Joke—You Heard it Here First:
www.Briebart.com/article.php?id=D8SPLULGO&show_article=1
DATA III:
What’s up in Texas? Operation Streamline!
www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/headline/metro/5247361.html
#
QUOTE OF THE WEEK:
In the twenties and thirties, Anglo-Saxon superiority was virtually taken for granted not only in literature but in daily life. And nowhere was this belief more pronounced than in New England. Here the D.A.R. held sway, and the inhabitants of the self-styled Shrine of Liberty shuddered as their communities were invaded by immigrants. Ignoring the fact that most of these “foreigners” had been imported by blue-blooded, 100 percent Americans to provide cheap labor for their factories, they watched in dismay as cities became crowded, old landmarks gave way to new construction, and their political, economic and social control gradually vanished.
(Robert Bloch, introduction to THE BEST OF H.P. LOVECRAFT.)
The twenties and the thirties? It sounds like 2007. HP Lovecraft! How appropriate—it’s a true horror story.
#
GOD CALLING:
Check out the Real Deal. Readers of ACROSS THE WIRE and of BY THE LAKE OF SLEEPING CHILDREN already know Pastor Von, or as the generations of needy Mexican kids have always called him, “Hermano Bon.” If you want to see for yourself what it means to save the world, look here.
www.pastorvon.com.
If you want to read Von’s stories, dispatches, and prayer letters (and see his pictures) go to:
www.spectrumministries.com
Request “special stories” or “Von’s stories.” See what happens.
If you are a Believer or a bleeding heart or a person who wishes to make a difference, I can attest that if you send $$$ to Spectrum Ministries Inc., it will go directly to the garbage dumps, orphanages, street gangs, hookers, abandoned moms, adulteresses, junkies, winos, street scum, beggars, lepers, insane, criminals, jailbirds, hungry, filthy, huddled masses. All those vermin Jesus Christ was always entertaining.
I will give you your money back if Von doesn’t do EXACTLY WHAT HE SAYS HE WILL with it. I dare you—save the world.
#
THE HORROR, THE HORROR:
OMG—I am on YouTube. Gack! But if you want to subject yourself to it, go there and enter my name in the Search Engine. Hey—87 people have gone there, so you know it’s a MASSIVE HIT. Watch out, Justin Timberlake. Me, on the front steps of Teresita Urrea’s house in El Paso. Trying to keep the city council from tearing it down to make a parking lot. OMG? How about, WTF!
#
YEAH, BUT YOU’RE BEANERS AND WE DON’T TRUST YOU:
Notre Dame University’s Institute for Latino Studies has done an amazing body ofm work this year on the topics of which we speak. They publish the policy-wonk journal, LATINO RESEARCH. In it, you will find data from their tireless surveys and polls, interviews and field work.
www.nd.edu/~latino/ils_publications.htm
Here are some of their findings.
Are Immigrants from Latin America making ths situation in Illinois better, or worse, or not having much effect?
Food, music arts:
Whites—66% Better; Little effect—29%; Worse
Blacks—57% Better; 37% Little Effect; 6% Worse.
Economy:
Whites—32% Better; Little Effect-- 29% ; Worse--40%
Blacks—Better—19%; Little Effect—47%; Worse—35%.
Quality of Life:
Whites—32%Better; 43%--little effect; 25% worse
Blacks—19% Better; 65% little effect; 16% worse.
Social and moral values:
Whites—35% Better; 42% little effect; 22% worse
Blacks—13% Better; 71 % little effect; 16% worse.
Quality of public schools:
Whites—16% Better; 33% little effect; 52% Worse
Blacks-- 19% Better; 65% little effect; 16% worse.
Opportunities for you and your family:
Whites—7% Better; 62% little effect; 32% Worse
Blacks-- 8% Better; 49% little effect; 52% Worse.
Taxes:
Whites—12% Better; 42% little effect; 32% Worse
Blacks—5% Better; 43% little effect; 52% Worse.
Crime:
Whites—12% Better; 42% little effect; 67% Worse
Blacks-- 4% Better; 28% little effect; 68% Worse.
Mixed results—though it’s interesting that whites are far more certain that Latinos lower school standards than Blacks are. Is this a burb/city dynamic? I don’t know.
Here’s another interesting table:
“Please tell me if you agree strongly, agree somewhat, disagree somewhat, or disagree strongly with each of these statements: Immigrants from Mexico…”
Fill jobs that are otherwise hard to fill:
Whites-- Strongly Agree/Agree: 74%; Strongly disagree/Disagree: 26%
Blacks-- Strongly Agree/Agree: 76%; Strongly Disagree/Disagree: 24%.
Are hard working and talented:
Whites—SA/A: 70%; SD/D: 30%
Blacks—SA/A: 45%; SD/D: 55%.
Have strong family values:
Whites—SA/A: 90%; SD/D:10%
Blacks-- SA/A: 86%; SD/D: 14%.
Are productive citizens:
Whites—SA/A: 68%; SD/D: 20%
Blacks-- SA/A: 42%; SD/D: 58%.
Start new businesses:
Whites—SA/A: 80%; SD/D: 20%;
Blacks—SA/A: 85%; SD/D: 15%.
Help the economy by providing low-cost labor:
Whites—SA/A: 55%; SD/D: 45%
Blacks—SA/A: 35%; SD/D: 65%.
On the negative front, there’s a fascinating flow. 57% White and 70% Black think Mexican immigrants drain government services. 30% W and 70% B (!) think they are too pushy in their demands forr equal rights. 42% W and 75% B believe they drive wages down. 48% W and 77% B believe they take jobs from Americans. 12% W and 20% B think they threaten US security. 45% W and 78% B think they cause higher unemployment. 30% W and 30% B believe they divide the country.
BUT WAIT! THAT’S NOT ALL!
In 2006, Latino in North Carolina paid $756 million in state taxes. In Texas, a study showed that if the 1.4 million undocumented immigrants in TX were to vanish, it would cost the state $17.7 billion in gross state revenues.
(Vol. 4, No. 6, July 2007.)
#
I TOLD YOU SO:
Earlier, I suggested in one of these blogs that remittance money was vanishing. That is, money going back to Mex and Latin America. Many theories abound, but some of the most interesting theories are from The World Bank and its associates. See for yourself:
www.iadb.org
Type in “remittances.”
#
Ah, yes—Who Would Jesus Deport?
Who Would Pastor Von Deport?
Who Would The World Bank Deport?
I have piles of stuff here for you. Maybe next week.
THE FOOLISH DISCOUNT WHAT THEY SEE; THE WISE DISCOUNT WHAT THEY THINK.
Transformed, by the renewing of our minds! (Romans 12:2.)
Adios, amigos!
Luis…er, I mean LEWIS
Nature-Boy
“Stop worshipping your opinions.” – Zen Saying
Let’s get to it, shall we?
#
IT PAYS TO POST “IMMIGRATION MONDAY” A DAY LATE:
I have been suggesting for a while that you get what you ask for.
You want the immigrants gone—well, they’re leaving. Now, we cannot whine when they leave that things are rough without them. That is so typical of this mincing little age of complaint. So buck up, America!
Your apple crops are in danger! Well, save some bees because you’ve convinced Mexican pickers to stay home. Your strawberry crops are in danger! Well, get the homeless out there to pick, because you’ve convinced the Mexican pickers to stay home. You can’t get maids or janitors in the northwest or the far west! You can’t get frycooks! You can’t get slaughterhouse workers or meat-processors! How about the town in New Jersey that passed stringent anti-immigrant laws and then went bankrupt? Now they’re rescinding the laws so they can make money. Money, after all, is God. All immigration sins are forgiven if you’ll just bring back the Holy Money!
Yes, well. Tuesday Nov. 13, 2007. The CHICAGO TRIBUNE, front page. The headline: “Illegal Residents Pass Up Mortgages: Deportation fears lead to big drop in applications.” If I had been the headliner, I would have headed the story: “DUH: No whining.”
Wait! Wait! Now the illegals are responsible for the mortgage crisis, too? Wait—they rebuilt New Orleans, so they were responsible form taking work from African Americans! There are 20% fewer apprehensions on the border this year. What are the Border Patrol and ICE agents supposed to do!!! Wait! Mexican truckers are driving in the US as they have done for over 20n years! Apocalypse! Oh shit—driver’s licenses for illegals! A communist plot! And now, since they are not applying for mortgages anymore, they are a major factor in the slow-down! Damn! Our enemy isn’t al-Qaeda! It’s El Pasiano!
When they go home, there will be headlines that say: “Thanks A Lot, Beaners – Where Oh Where Have Our Mexicans Gone: Wave of Illegal Alien Repatriation Responsible for Foreclosures and Abandoned Shit-Box Duplexes Thus Destroying the American Dream.”
They cannot be guilty of being here and not being here at the same time.
One last time, y’all: YOU GET WHAT YOU ASK FOR.
No whining.
#
DATA I:
Minimum number of new U.S. anti-immigrant groups formed since January 2005: 350.
(Harper’s Magazine, “Harper’s Index,” p. 13, May 2007.)
DATA II:
Border Fence is a Joke—You Heard it Here First:
www.Briebart.com/article.php?id=D8SPLULGO&show_article=1
DATA III:
What’s up in Texas? Operation Streamline!
www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/headline/metro/5247361.html
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QUOTE OF THE WEEK:
In the twenties and thirties, Anglo-Saxon superiority was virtually taken for granted not only in literature but in daily life. And nowhere was this belief more pronounced than in New England. Here the D.A.R. held sway, and the inhabitants of the self-styled Shrine of Liberty shuddered as their communities were invaded by immigrants. Ignoring the fact that most of these “foreigners” had been imported by blue-blooded, 100 percent Americans to provide cheap labor for their factories, they watched in dismay as cities became crowded, old landmarks gave way to new construction, and their political, economic and social control gradually vanished.
(Robert Bloch, introduction to THE BEST OF H.P. LOVECRAFT.)
The twenties and the thirties? It sounds like 2007. HP Lovecraft! How appropriate—it’s a true horror story.
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GOD CALLING:
Check out the Real Deal. Readers of ACROSS THE WIRE and of BY THE LAKE OF SLEEPING CHILDREN already know Pastor Von, or as the generations of needy Mexican kids have always called him, “Hermano Bon.” If you want to see for yourself what it means to save the world, look here.
www.pastorvon.com.
If you want to read Von’s stories, dispatches, and prayer letters (and see his pictures) go to:
www.spectrumministries.com
Request “special stories” or “Von’s stories.” See what happens.
If you are a Believer or a bleeding heart or a person who wishes to make a difference, I can attest that if you send $$$ to Spectrum Ministries Inc., it will go directly to the garbage dumps, orphanages, street gangs, hookers, abandoned moms, adulteresses, junkies, winos, street scum, beggars, lepers, insane, criminals, jailbirds, hungry, filthy, huddled masses. All those vermin Jesus Christ was always entertaining.
I will give you your money back if Von doesn’t do EXACTLY WHAT HE SAYS HE WILL with it. I dare you—save the world.
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THE HORROR, THE HORROR:
OMG—I am on YouTube. Gack! But if you want to subject yourself to it, go there and enter my name in the Search Engine. Hey—87 people have gone there, so you know it’s a MASSIVE HIT. Watch out, Justin Timberlake. Me, on the front steps of Teresita Urrea’s house in El Paso. Trying to keep the city council from tearing it down to make a parking lot. OMG? How about, WTF!
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YEAH, BUT YOU’RE BEANERS AND WE DON’T TRUST YOU:
Notre Dame University’s Institute for Latino Studies has done an amazing body ofm work this year on the topics of which we speak. They publish the policy-wonk journal, LATINO RESEARCH. In it, you will find data from their tireless surveys and polls, interviews and field work.
www.nd.edu/~latino/ils_publications.htm
Here are some of their findings.
Are Immigrants from Latin America making ths situation in Illinois better, or worse, or not having much effect?
Food, music arts:
Whites—66% Better; Little effect—29%; Worse
Blacks—57% Better; 37% Little Effect; 6% Worse.
Economy:
Whites—32% Better; Little Effect-- 29% ; Worse--40%
Blacks—Better—19%; Little Effect—47%; Worse—35%.
Quality of Life:
Whites—32%Better; 43%--little effect; 25% worse
Blacks—19% Better; 65% little effect; 16% worse.
Social and moral values:
Whites—35% Better; 42% little effect; 22% worse
Blacks—13% Better; 71 % little effect; 16% worse.
Quality of public schools:
Whites—16% Better; 33% little effect; 52% Worse
Blacks-- 19% Better; 65% little effect; 16% worse.
Opportunities for you and your family:
Whites—7% Better; 62% little effect; 32% Worse
Blacks-- 8% Better; 49% little effect; 52% Worse.
Taxes:
Whites—12% Better; 42% little effect; 32% Worse
Blacks—5% Better; 43% little effect; 52% Worse.
Crime:
Whites—12% Better; 42% little effect; 67% Worse
Blacks-- 4% Better; 28% little effect; 68% Worse.
Mixed results—though it’s interesting that whites are far more certain that Latinos lower school standards than Blacks are. Is this a burb/city dynamic? I don’t know.
Here’s another interesting table:
“Please tell me if you agree strongly, agree somewhat, disagree somewhat, or disagree strongly with each of these statements: Immigrants from Mexico…”
Fill jobs that are otherwise hard to fill:
Whites-- Strongly Agree/Agree: 74%; Strongly disagree/Disagree: 26%
Blacks-- Strongly Agree/Agree: 76%; Strongly Disagree/Disagree: 24%.
Are hard working and talented:
Whites—SA/A: 70%; SD/D: 30%
Blacks—SA/A: 45%; SD/D: 55%.
Have strong family values:
Whites—SA/A: 90%; SD/D:10%
Blacks-- SA/A: 86%; SD/D: 14%.
Are productive citizens:
Whites—SA/A: 68%; SD/D: 20%
Blacks-- SA/A: 42%; SD/D: 58%.
Start new businesses:
Whites—SA/A: 80%; SD/D: 20%;
Blacks—SA/A: 85%; SD/D: 15%.
Help the economy by providing low-cost labor:
Whites—SA/A: 55%; SD/D: 45%
Blacks—SA/A: 35%; SD/D: 65%.
On the negative front, there’s a fascinating flow. 57% White and 70% Black think Mexican immigrants drain government services. 30% W and 70% B (!) think they are too pushy in their demands forr equal rights. 42% W and 75% B believe they drive wages down. 48% W and 77% B believe they take jobs from Americans. 12% W and 20% B think they threaten US security. 45% W and 78% B think they cause higher unemployment. 30% W and 30% B believe they divide the country.
BUT WAIT! THAT’S NOT ALL!
In 2006, Latino in North Carolina paid $756 million in state taxes. In Texas, a study showed that if the 1.4 million undocumented immigrants in TX were to vanish, it would cost the state $17.7 billion in gross state revenues.
(Vol. 4, No. 6, July 2007.)
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I TOLD YOU SO:
Earlier, I suggested in one of these blogs that remittance money was vanishing. That is, money going back to Mex and Latin America. Many theories abound, but some of the most interesting theories are from The World Bank and its associates. See for yourself:
www.iadb.org
Type in “remittances.”
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Ah, yes—Who Would Jesus Deport?
Who Would Pastor Von Deport?
Who Would The World Bank Deport?
I have piles of stuff here for you. Maybe next week.
THE FOOLISH DISCOUNT WHAT THEY SEE; THE WISE DISCOUNT WHAT THEY THINK.
Transformed, by the renewing of our minds! (Romans 12:2.)
Adios, amigos!
Luis…er, I mean LEWIS
11/08/2007
It's trying to get cold around here. There were flurries north of Chi. If you know me, you know I'm the ice-man. I wear shorts all winter, but even I am cold and have the heat on as I work on the new book. But now that the weather is about to turn, the ol' lonesome neighborhood turkey is looking more worried than usual. And now he has developed a bizarre relationship with me. You knew that was coming, right? I can't help it. I have embraced the pathetic fallacy.
The turk comes to the front of the house and starts to yell. He does this weird yelp-and-pip holler. It means: LUIS! COME OUT HERE NOW! I come out and he comes running. he follows me around, but if I turn around, he strides away as if the bushes in front of the window are really interesting. But I turn my back, and he sneaks up on me, murmuring purring little turkey quips. Damn, I hope he doesn't try to mate with me. But mostly, he's saying, GOT ANY FOOD?
I'm used to freeloaders. In a writer's life, there are many odd hangers-on. I have a long history of freakish beasts and humans hanging around with their hands (beaks) out. The biker who sleeps on the couch and can't figure out why the house smells like fried eggs when we get up--though there's a freshly washed skillet in the sink and all the eggs are gone! So my feathered homeboy here has developed a taste for my wild bird seed (I put out the fruity cardinal mix, with raisins and cherries in it). So I go to the garage--I tell him to wait, and he waits. He may be cussing me, I'm not sure. "Fibble-dee-hibble," he suggests. "Peeple-freeple-PIP!-PIP!" I say, "Yeah, yeah--whatever."
I'm 2/3 of the way through Nayeli's Seven, my wild new novel. It is odd for me to have film-makers trying to get a peek at it before it's done. They want to know when Hummingbird II will be erady, too--since the movie's coming out in '09, and they'll want the sequel ready by then.
Just got to focus on the keyboard. This is my subversive, commercial novel. It feels good to write it. It feels lively. I hope you find it surprising.
I hope you buy a billion of them, like hamburgers, like hybrid SUVs.
Ah. The turkey is full. He shakes his tail feathers for me and my daughter. He regards his reflection in the side of our van and seems to find himself quite handsome. He peeps, "See ya, sucker!" and strides across the street.
I'm going to make coffee and go back upstairs. I'll pour you a cup. Back to work.
"Hey Dad!" Chayo keeps yelling. "Hey Dad! Hey Dad!" WHAAAAAT!!!!???? I scream, sounding like Hunter Thompson shrieking through a benzedrine melt-down. "Hey Dad!" She wants Halloween candy. Oh crap--the turkey's in the back yard now! He's looking in our windows! I don't know which of us attracted him--Chayo or me. We both sound like peacocks raising hell in here. He's at the back door! Quick--act like nobody's home! Turn off the lights! Hide in the back room! No! Nooooooooooooooooooooooo....
Immigration Monday -- Consular Edition
The turk comes to the front of the house and starts to yell. He does this weird yelp-and-pip holler. It means: LUIS! COME OUT HERE NOW! I come out and he comes running. he follows me around, but if I turn around, he strides away as if the bushes in front of the window are really interesting. But I turn my back, and he sneaks up on me, murmuring purring little turkey quips. Damn, I hope he doesn't try to mate with me. But mostly, he's saying, GOT ANY FOOD?
I'm used to freeloaders. In a writer's life, there are many odd hangers-on. I have a long history of freakish beasts and humans hanging around with their hands (beaks) out. The biker who sleeps on the couch and can't figure out why the house smells like fried eggs when we get up--though there's a freshly washed skillet in the sink and all the eggs are gone! So my feathered homeboy here has developed a taste for my wild bird seed (I put out the fruity cardinal mix, with raisins and cherries in it). So I go to the garage--I tell him to wait, and he waits. He may be cussing me, I'm not sure. "Fibble-dee-hibble," he suggests. "Peeple-freeple-PIP!-PIP!" I say, "Yeah, yeah--whatever."
I'm 2/3 of the way through Nayeli's Seven, my wild new novel. It is odd for me to have film-makers trying to get a peek at it before it's done. They want to know when Hummingbird II will be erady, too--since the movie's coming out in '09, and they'll want the sequel ready by then.
Just got to focus on the keyboard. This is my subversive, commercial novel. It feels good to write it. It feels lively. I hope you find it surprising.
I hope you buy a billion of them, like hamburgers, like hybrid SUVs.
Ah. The turkey is full. He shakes his tail feathers for me and my daughter. He regards his reflection in the side of our van and seems to find himself quite handsome. He peeps, "See ya, sucker!" and strides across the street.
I'm going to make coffee and go back upstairs. I'll pour you a cup. Back to work.
"Hey Dad!" Chayo keeps yelling. "Hey Dad! Hey Dad!" WHAAAAAT!!!!???? I scream, sounding like Hunter Thompson shrieking through a benzedrine melt-down. "Hey Dad!" She wants Halloween candy. Oh crap--the turkey's in the back yard now! He's looking in our windows! I don't know which of us attracted him--Chayo or me. We both sound like peacocks raising hell in here. He's at the back door! Quick--act like nobody's home! Turn off the lights! Hide in the back room! No! Nooooooooooooooooooooooo....
11/06/2007
NOTE: The following essay is offered in both English and Spanish. It was written for us by Mexico's Consul General, Enrique Hubbard Urrea. Fans of The Hummingbird's Daughter might note that Enrique did the Spanish translation for the Mexican edition. He is my first cousin. He is also one of the foremost experts on immigration and border issues in the Mexican government. I know you will enjoy his insights.
L
Whenever life becomes difficult at the place of residence, people move out. Humanity has always walked away from poor conditions and searched for better ones, sometimes in places as far away as another continent.
Mexican immigration to the United States is no different.
The current population of Mexican origin includes a number of people who never crossed the border, but rather the border crossed them. When the United States acquired the territories that are now Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California, and parts of Colorado; thousands woke up one day in another Country.
Perhaps that is why a friend of mine remarks that true Texans can only claim five generations. More than that, he says, they would be Mexicans.
People began crossing the border right after the 1847 war. Family members looking for relatives left at the wrong side of the river were the first migrants. All they had to do was pay a fee in order to enter. Construction of railroads attracted a new flow of Mexicans after that, and thousands flew to the safety of the northern neighbor when the Mexican Revolution displaced them.
Two World Wars created an urgent need for imported labor, and thus the first communities away from the border were born, among them Chicago. Later we had the controversial Bracero program, the first intent at regulating the need for imported workers, at the time almost all of them destined for agriculture duties.
I started studying this subject in the seventies, when I was a rookie Vice Consul at our Consulate in Chicago. Although I learned very little about undocumented population, I did find out that the immense majority of Mexicans journey up north with the idea of making some money and then return to the homeland. I was able to establish that the inflow of workers reversed itself when Christmas or mother’s day approached.
I’m not talking only of migrant workers; I’m referring to almost all Mexican migration. So the rule had been ever since, at least until new security measures at the border made it increasingly difficult to get across, so workers remained here instead of going back to Mexico periodically, and thus the number of undocumented aliens swelled up.
Illegal immigration is a complex and seldom understood issue; one I hesitate to call a problem. The real problem lies in the management of information and the repetition of lies until they begin to be taken for truths.
Today, it is again very fashionable to blame everything that is wrong on so-called “illegals”, those despised “law breakers” that take jobs from Americans and erode the social fiber of every community. In the past it has been like that for many newcomers, weather it was the Irish, the Italians or the Polish.
Notice how cleverly I mention only catholic nationalities.
But Mexicans have come to epitomize that amorphous mass known as “Illegal Aliens”. Look at any TV newscast and you will notice that scenes of the Mexican border usually color coverage of Immigration news, thus perpetuating the myth that all “illegals” come from the south, across the boundary with Mexico, and that an illegal alien looks like a Mexican.
People send angry letters to the newspapers pointing fingers and demanding action against illegal aliens, implying they can tell who these people are by sight.
Nothing could be farther from the truth.
First of all let’s get something clear, human beings are not legal or illegal, their conducts are! You can’t call someone an “Illegal”, even if he or she committed a crime. Actions can be deemed illegal or even criminal, never the individual.
The enormous mass that crosses the border from Mexico to the United States is composed of several kinds of people. First there’s a vast crowd crossing to the US every day for the simple purpose of shopping. These form by far the largest group. They are the bloodline of almost all commerce establishments along the US border, and without them there would surely be a crisis of very serious proportions in places like El Paso, Laredo, McAllen or Brownsville.
There is also a sizeable number of Mexicans coming to this country as students, businessmen, or as professionals filling a gap left out by the difference in legal systems. This group stays here for extended periods and is an undeniable asset to the economy.
What has that got to do with undocumented immigration you ask? I’m trying to tell you that if you run on the street into a “Mexican looking person”, it could be one of those border-crossing shoppers, or a student, or a technician or a migrant. I’m trying to draw a picture of the multifaceted nature of the immigration phenomena, and at the same time I’m telling you how bias most of the opposition to immigration really is.
Opponents to the “illegals invasion” think they can tell who’s here legally and who is not. They are also convinced those aliens take jobs from Americans, test social services, live on welfare, avoid paying taxes, and are responsible for every other shortfall known to man, except probably the defeat of the US basketball team.
Of course they are also terrible for the economy.
But undocumented population can come in all shapes and forms. Let’s see some examples.
Of course there are undocumented migrants from all over the world, not just from Latin America. I doubt any of those angry Americans that cry foul in those popular radio talk shows, would identify an illegal alien from Poland, or would suspect a person from Bulgaria as a possible “illegal”.
Furthermore, recent studies show a marked tendency of migrants to be better educated and of urban origins than ever before. The man who fixed my thermostat the other day is a graduate engineer who left a teaching job to move north. On the other hand, my study of migrant farm workers in Redland, Florida, showed the majority of the laborers there were born in such Mexican towns as Mercedes, Falfurrias or Mission, Texas.
In other words, the well dress man who speaks good English is an “Illegal”, while the Spanish speaking laborer is an American citizen. How can you equal the gardener in Highland Park with the Mixteco speaking fruit picking worker in the San Joaquin Valley? or the Vietnamese fisherman in Seattle? What about the English speaking Filipino nurse in Oregon?
Did you know that the number of Mexican indigenous people working undocumented at any given time in California, Washington, Alaska or even Hawaii, can be of up to one hundred thousand, mainly Mixtecos, Zapotecos and Purepechas? Companies like “Alaska Wild Life” pick up workers in Mexican ports and lead them to jobs in Anchorage, Ketchican, Sitka, Kodiak or Juneau.
Are those the “illegals” people refer to in all those letters to the publisher?
I believe the true nature of the problem lies elsewhere; those who want “illegals” out of their neighborhood are really referring to poor people.
Let me address another myth.
Immigration policy is a central issue in this fall's congressional elections. Supporters of stricter immigration laws often voice the idea that foreign workers depress wages and take jobs from American workers, especially those with less education and fewer skills.
Well, the Pew Hispanic Center analyzed immigration state by state, using US Census data, evaluating it against unemployment levels. No clear correlation between the two could be found. Other factors, such as economic growth, have likely played a larger role in influencing the American job market, according to Rakesh Kochhar, principal author of the report and an economist at the Pew Hispanic Center.
What about the myth of the undocumented population not paying taxes?
According to Wayne Cornelius, undocumented workers spend from 60 to 70% of their income in taxes, be it indirect ones like sales tax, or Social Security payments to a number often borrowed or bought, and therefore received by the Social Security Administration without giving anything in return. One million undocumented workers pay over a period of one year more than a billion dollars in fiscal responsibilities, with no corresponding benefits.
Are they really bad for the economy? According to a study of the University of California in San Diego, undocumented workers produce profits of over one hundred and twenty billion dollars a year for many U.S. businesses, with California Agriculture as the main beneficiary, since 90% of farm workers are Mexican and up to 60% of those are undocumented.
It is safe to say that a good number of areas of the US economy survive only because of the work of new migrants, and the undocumented laborers constitute a majority of those.
The tragedy lies upon the impossibility of hiring those vital hands through a legal and orderly fashion.
I am willing to accept that some employers seek undocumented workers in order to exploit them, it would be naïve to deny that, but I am also willing to bet the absolute majority hire the available worker, one that as a plus shows a positive attitude, works hard without complaining, is always willing to work extra hours and saves dutifully in order to provide for his family.
What could be more American that that?
We are not trying to teach our northern cousins how to keep their home safe, we understand you consider immigration as an internal matter and we respect that. We also want a safe and secure border, both of them in fact; we want to work with you to achieve that, security in our common boundaries is a common problem.
But facts are stubborn things, they are out there; ignoring them is not going to make them go away. No Mexicans would risk death in the desert if no jobs were available. The salary differential is still so large that attraction works in favor of migration. If our people were able to go back to old traditions, they wouldn’t stay so long, they could go back home periodically and thus their families would stay behind.
Many Americans cringe at the mere mention of an amnesty, but few realize we don’t like it either. An amnesty is supposed to be given in order to pardon a crime, and our workers are not criminals. They respond to the wage disparity and they fill a void created by demographics: the American population is aging fast.
It is truly embarrassing for us that so many compatriots chose to move up north, we would like nothing more than to be able to provide decent paying jobs for all our citizens; we are working at it, in time the flow will diminish both because we will create those jobs, as well as because our own population will age.
That is my perspective.
Thank you for your patience.
L A M I G R A C I Ó N: U N A P E R S P E C T I V A D I S T I N T A
Ha través de la historia, siempre que las condiciones de vida de un grupo humano han sufrido deterioro, las superficiales raíces no han sido obstáculo para partir en busca de mejores horizontes. En ocasiones el detonador ha sido la falta de agua, en otras la búsqueda de mejores cotos de caza, pero sea cual fuere la circunstancia, la migración ha sido constante compañera del hombre.
Con el paso del tiempo esos movimientos de seres humanos han ido abarcando mayores distancias, a veces incluso allende los mares, hasta otro continente.
La migración mexicana se inserta en esos patrones, pero ha está condicionada por factores diversos, no siempre bien comprendidos, sobre todo en el territorio donde se asienta hoy por hoy la inmensa mayoría de nuestra diáspora, es decir, en los Estados Unidos.
La población de mexicana y de origen mexicano actualmente ubicada en el vecino país del norte, tiene orígenes muy variados, empezando por aquellos que nunca cruzaron la frontera, sino que la frontera los cruzó. Como resultado de la guerra de Texas, así como a raíz de la conflagración de 1847, México perdió territorios que contaban con numerosos asentamientos de compatriotas, mismos que un día se despertaron en un país distinto.
Tal vez por eso mi amigo texano dice que él es auténtico, pues puede identificar cinco generaciones de ancestros nativos de Texas; más que eso sólo podría explicarse si fuera mexicano.
Los mexicanos empezaron a cruzar esa nueva frontera poco después de la guerra, en un afán por reencontrarse con familiares separados de ellos cuando la línea se desplazó al sur. El viaje era azaroso, pero el cruce mismo no implicaba más que el pago de una cuota de veinticinco centavos de dólar.
La frenética construcción de vías férreas atrajo a un buen número de obreros; luego nuestra revolución desplazó a muchas familias. El flujo era ya constante y el caudal creciente. Más tarde sobrevinieron dos guerras mundiales durante las cuales Estados Unidos necesitó importar mano de obra que reemplazara a los jóvenes soldados enviados a los campos de Flandes y a los mares del sur, y allí se hizo presente una vez más la fuerza laboral mexicana.
Así se dio la génesis de varias comunidades mexicanas en el interior del territorio norteamericano, caso de Chicago, Detroit, Kansas City, etc.
El controvertido tratado de braceros abrió un nuevo capítulo en el estudio de la migración mexicana, como primer intento formal de regular el tránsito de trabajadores, casi todos agrícolas, hacia el mercado de Norteamérica, reconociendo de manera implícita lo que siempre hemos argumentado: Que existen factores de atracción que se combinan con los de expulsión y dan como resultado un flujo natural de mano de obra hacia el norte.
Mi participación como observador interesado en este complejo fenómeno se da hacia la década de los setenta, como novel Vicecónsul en el Consulado General de México en Chicago. Por razones obvias es muy difícil encontrar información fidedigna sobre esa masa amorfa llamada genéricamente “los indocumentados”, y en aquellos años el acceso era aún más restringido; pero sí fue posible aprender algunas cosas.
Descubrimos que la absoluta mayoría de nuestros trabajadores viajaba al norte con el fin de hacerse de unos ahorros y luego regresar al terruño. Pocos salían dispuestos a quedarse a vivir en el otro país.
Así, el flujo rumbo al norte se revertía en ciertas épocas del año, sobre todo al acercarse el día de las madres y la navidad. En esas fechas, los mexicanos partían de regreso ya programados para volver a trabajar la siguiente temporada, o cuando pasara el invierno, que en algunas regiones vuelve tortura trabajar en la construcción.
No se habla aquí exclusivamente de trabajadores migratorios, por definición móviles y temporales; no, prácticamente TODA la migración de México, por lo menos la no documentada, seguía esos patrones ya inveterados.
El ir y venir continuó por lo menos hasta que ciertas medidas de seguridad en la frontera estrangularon el movimiento y obligaron a miles de trabajadores a abstenerse de intentar un segundo o tercer cruce. En buena medida eso ha inflado las cifras de indocumentados, pues además ahora sus familias los siguen, al percatarse de que no habrá viaje de “visita” en diciembre.
El fenómeno de la migración indocumentada es un asunto complejo, multifacético, muy pocas veces apreciado en su justa dimensión. Ni siquiera me atrevería a llamarle “problema”, cuando el verdadero problema radica en la repetición continua de mentiras que con el paso del tiempo van adquiriendo visos de verdad.
En los tiempos actuales se ha vuelto a poner de moda culpar de todos los males a los “ilegales”, esos irresponsables maleantes que se roban empleos de los norteamericanos, sin pagar impuestos y disfrutando de todos los servicios sociales disponibles. Esto no es nuevo, cada nueva oleada de inmigrantes ha sido objeto de los mismos ataques, prueba de lo cual es la población irlandesa, italiana y polaca.
Nótese cuán astutamente pongo de ejemplo sólo a naciones católicas.
Pero a despecho de similitudes históricas los mexicanos hemos llegado a constituir el prototipo del “ilegal”. En cualquier noticiero televisivo de Estados Unidos pueden constatar que la ilustración de una noticia sobre migración, lleva como fondo imágenes del Río Bravo, o de la cerca fronteriza. El mensaje subliminal es que TODA la migración indocumentada viene de México y cruza por la frontera.
Esas rabiosas llamadas a ciertos programas de radio o cartas a la redacción de los periódicos, en las que se denuncia la nefasta presencia de los “illegals”, demuestran que el estereotipo llega hasta a crear una imagen: Un “ilegal” es fácil de reconocer, tiene aspecto de mexicano.... pobre.
Vamos empezando por el principio. Una persona no puede ser legal o ilegal, son las conductas las que pueden infringir la ley. Incluso si alguien comete un delito, son sus actos los que pueden llevar a una sanción judicial, pero además existe una presunción de inocencia hasta que esa conducta sea considerada como delito por un tribunal judicial, antes ni siquiera se le puede llamar delincuente.
Una persona detenida por haberse internado a Estados Unidos sin inspección no ha cometido delito alguno, se le puede acusar de una falta administrativa y aún así tendría derecho a defenderse ante un juez de migración antes de que se le expulse.
La enorme masa de connacionales que se interna en territorio norteamericano cada día, lo hace por muy diversos motivos y por variados conductos. Cabe hacer esta distinción pues se da cada vez más la tendencia a confundir migración con seguridad, pues se repite la mentira de que toda la inmigración se interna por la frontera, como si no existieran los aeropuertos.
Incluso esa verdadera invasión cotidiana que se observa en la frontera está compuesta mayoritariamente por visitantes legales, usualmente compradores sin cuya aportación dejarían de existir ciudades como Laredo, McAllen o Brownsville. También cruzan por ahí estudiantes, empresarios, profesionistas y otras categorías de visitantes igualmente legales, muchos de ellos destinados a permanecer en territorio norteamericano por largos periodos.
¿Qué tiene todo eso que ver con la migración indocumentada, pregunta usted? Trato de hacerle ver que el fenómeno migratorio es complejo, multifacético; trato de ilustrar el hecho de que esas personas de aspecto mexicano que caminan por las calles de Dallas no son necesariamente indocumentados, es más probable que se trate de alguno de esos millones de visitantes legales que cruzan la frontera en viaje de compras o recreo, puede ser un estudiante, un empresario, incluso un ciudadano norteamericano de origen mexicano. Trato de hacerle ver que los opositores a la migración están mal informados y tienen opiniones marcadamente racistas.
Esos que creen poder identificar a un indocumentado a simple vista están al mismo tiempo convencidos de que la “invasión silenciosa” trae a sus puertas a maleantes, que no pagan impuestos, que les quitan los empleos a los norteamericanos, en pocas palabras que son responsables por cada falla presente en su entorno social, excepto tal vez la derrota del equipo de Baloncesto de Estados Unidos a manos de Grecia.
Obviamente también están convencidos de que los trabajadores importados son un factor negativo para la economía.
Lo que ignoran o se niegan a ver es que la migración no documentada viene en paquetes diversos, de gran variedad cromática, así como tamaño y forma. Veamos algunos ejemplos.
En primer lugar hay inmigrantes indocumentados provenientes de todo el mundo, no sólo de México y Centroamérica. Dudo mucho que esos furiosos norteamericanos que llaman a las estaciones de radio sean capaces de reconocer a una persona de Bulgaria como indocumentado, o puedan siquiera sospechar que ese señor polaco es realmente “ilegal”.
Por otra parte, estudios recientes muestran que la migración no documentada tiende a ser más educada y de origen urbano, a diferencia del estereotipo usual. Por ejemplo, el señor que me arregló el termostato de mi oficina el otro día es un ingeniero mexicano que dejó su trabajo como profesor y emigró, con visa de turista, para poner un negocio en este país; mientras que mis estudios en un enorme campamento de trabajadores migratorios del sur de la Florida mostró que casi todos eran “mexicanos” nacidos en Mercedes, Falfurrias o Misión, Texas.
En otras palabras, ese bien vestido señor que se expresa correctamente en inglés es un “ilegal”; mientras que esos trabajadores del campo, pobres, mal vestidos, prácticamente sin hablar inglés, no sólo no son “ilegales”, sino que son norteamericanos. ¿Cómo se puede igualar a un jardinero que trabaja en el elegante barrio de Highland Park ,con un indígena que sólo habla mixteco y es pizcador en California? ¿Puede uno u otro ser confundido con el pescador vietnamita del área de Seattle? ¿Qué me dicen de todas esas enfermeras filipinas a las que nadie les pregunta si tienen o no la visa apropiada porque hablan inglés?
¿Sabía usted que el número de trabajadores mexicanos de origen indígena que se encuentran laborando sin papeles en California, Washington, Alaska o hasta Hawaii, suman más de cien mil? Compañías como la “Alaska Wild Life” reclutan a mixtecos, zapotecos y purépechas y los llevan a trabajar en lugares tan remotos como Anchorage, Ketchican, Sitka, Kodiak o Juneau.
¿Son ésos los “ilegales” a los que se refieren las frecuentes cartas a la redacción de los diarios de mayor circulación?
Me temo que el problema tiene otra explicación, toda esa gente que protesta contra los “ilegales” en realidad se niega a aceptar en sus barrios a la gente pobre.
Permítanme comentar otro mito.
La migración se encuentra en el centro de los debates durante esta temporada electoral. Si no lo ha percibido, seguramente ha estado usted viviendo en una isla desierta. Los promotores de leyes más estrictas en materia migratoria basan sus argumentos en el hecho de que los trabajadores extranjeros producen salarios menores y les quitan empleos a los norteamericanos.
No hay tal. El Centro “Pew Hispano” analizó la inmigración, estado por estado, a fin de determinar si tenía algún impacto en los niveles de empleo. No encontraron correlación entre una cosa y la otra. Hay otros factores que impactan negativamente el mercado laboral, tales como el crecimiento económico regional, según señala Rakesh Kochhar, autor del estudio.
En cuanto al mito de que los trabajadores indocumentados no pagan impuestos, el respetado Wayne Cornelius descubrió que en realidad gastan en contribuciones del 60% al 70% de sus ingresos, sean directas, indirectas o aportaciones al Seguro Social (SS). Dado que el número de SS es muchas veces ajeno, prestado, rentado o comprado; nada se obtiene como contraprestación, pero los descuentos van a dar a la Administración del SS, que los contabiliza como “otros ingresos”. Un millón de trabajadores no documentados pagaría cerca de mil millones de dólares al año, prácticamente sin beneficios directos.
Ahora bien, ¿en verdad causan perjuicio a la economía? Un estudio de la Universidad de California en San Diego demostró que la mano de obra indocumentada deja ganancias de más de ciento veinte mil millones de dólares anuales, sobre todo a la agricultura de California, donde el 90% de los trabajadores agrícolas son mexicanos y de estos casi el 60% son indocumentados.
Es posible asegurar que varios sectores de la economía norteamericana subsisten gracias al trabajo de los inmigrantes, de cuya masa la inmensa mayoría trabajan sin documentos.
Lo verdaderamente trágico es que sea imposible emplear a esa mano de obra vital, de manera legal y ordenada.
No puedo negar que algunos patrones buscan trabajadores indocumentados exclusivamente porque pueden explotarlos, sería ingenuo desconocer esto, pero tampoco puedo ignorar que la inmensa mayoría los emplea porque no tienen otra opción. Contratan al trabajador disponible, al que está dispuesto a trabajar sin quejas ni excusas, al que se ofrece para acumular horas extra y ahorra religiosamente con la finalidad de mantener a su familia.
Esa actitud, esos valores, ¿no le suenan parecidos al “sueño americano”?
No se trata de dar lecciones de seguridad a nuestros primos del norte, entendemos que para ellos la migración es un asunto interno y respetamos su decisión. También nosotros queremos una frontera segura, de hecho deseamos que todas las fronteras sean seguras. La seguridad en nuestras fronteras comunes es un problema compartido, las soluciones deben serlo también.
Pero los hechos son muy tercos e ignorarlos no va a hacerlos desaparecer. Ningún mexicano arriesgaría su vida en el desierto si no hubiera empleos disponibles. La diferencia en salarios es tan grande que el factor de atracción es evidente. Si nuestra gente pudiera seguir con sus usos y costumbres no se quedarían en territorio norteamericano todo el año, volverían a casa periódicamente y sus familias no tendrían que cruzar la frontera.
Entendemos que a numerosos estadounidenses les aterra hablar de “amnistía”, pero pocos se dan cuenta de que tampoco a nosotros nos gusta el término, con sus connotaciones de criminalidad que recibe el perdón. Nuestros trabajadores no son criminales, responden a una necesidad, llenan un vacío dejado por condiciones demográficas: La población de los Estados Unidos se está haciendo vieja.
Termino comentando que para los mexicanos es verdaderamente vergonzoso que tantos compatriotas tengan que emigrar al norte, nada nos gustaría tanto como poder crear empleos bien pagados para todos. Lo estamos intentando, llevará tiempo, pero hacia allá nos encaminamos. En última instancia el problema es temporal, el flujo disminuirá porque la tendencia demográfica no es favorable, en poco tiempo la población mexicana empezará también a envejecer.
Sunday: Church for a Writer's Soul In Session
L
A different take on immigration
Whenever life becomes difficult at the place of residence, people move out. Humanity has always walked away from poor conditions and searched for better ones, sometimes in places as far away as another continent.
Mexican immigration to the United States is no different.
The current population of Mexican origin includes a number of people who never crossed the border, but rather the border crossed them. When the United States acquired the territories that are now Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California, and parts of Colorado; thousands woke up one day in another Country.
Perhaps that is why a friend of mine remarks that true Texans can only claim five generations. More than that, he says, they would be Mexicans.
People began crossing the border right after the 1847 war. Family members looking for relatives left at the wrong side of the river were the first migrants. All they had to do was pay a fee in order to enter. Construction of railroads attracted a new flow of Mexicans after that, and thousands flew to the safety of the northern neighbor when the Mexican Revolution displaced them.
Two World Wars created an urgent need for imported labor, and thus the first communities away from the border were born, among them Chicago. Later we had the controversial Bracero program, the first intent at regulating the need for imported workers, at the time almost all of them destined for agriculture duties.
I started studying this subject in the seventies, when I was a rookie Vice Consul at our Consulate in Chicago. Although I learned very little about undocumented population, I did find out that the immense majority of Mexicans journey up north with the idea of making some money and then return to the homeland. I was able to establish that the inflow of workers reversed itself when Christmas or mother’s day approached.
I’m not talking only of migrant workers; I’m referring to almost all Mexican migration. So the rule had been ever since, at least until new security measures at the border made it increasingly difficult to get across, so workers remained here instead of going back to Mexico periodically, and thus the number of undocumented aliens swelled up.
Illegal immigration is a complex and seldom understood issue; one I hesitate to call a problem. The real problem lies in the management of information and the repetition of lies until they begin to be taken for truths.
Today, it is again very fashionable to blame everything that is wrong on so-called “illegals”, those despised “law breakers” that take jobs from Americans and erode the social fiber of every community. In the past it has been like that for many newcomers, weather it was the Irish, the Italians or the Polish.
Notice how cleverly I mention only catholic nationalities.
But Mexicans have come to epitomize that amorphous mass known as “Illegal Aliens”. Look at any TV newscast and you will notice that scenes of the Mexican border usually color coverage of Immigration news, thus perpetuating the myth that all “illegals” come from the south, across the boundary with Mexico, and that an illegal alien looks like a Mexican.
People send angry letters to the newspapers pointing fingers and demanding action against illegal aliens, implying they can tell who these people are by sight.
Nothing could be farther from the truth.
First of all let’s get something clear, human beings are not legal or illegal, their conducts are! You can’t call someone an “Illegal”, even if he or she committed a crime. Actions can be deemed illegal or even criminal, never the individual.
The enormous mass that crosses the border from Mexico to the United States is composed of several kinds of people. First there’s a vast crowd crossing to the US every day for the simple purpose of shopping. These form by far the largest group. They are the bloodline of almost all commerce establishments along the US border, and without them there would surely be a crisis of very serious proportions in places like El Paso, Laredo, McAllen or Brownsville.
There is also a sizeable number of Mexicans coming to this country as students, businessmen, or as professionals filling a gap left out by the difference in legal systems. This group stays here for extended periods and is an undeniable asset to the economy.
What has that got to do with undocumented immigration you ask? I’m trying to tell you that if you run on the street into a “Mexican looking person”, it could be one of those border-crossing shoppers, or a student, or a technician or a migrant. I’m trying to draw a picture of the multifaceted nature of the immigration phenomena, and at the same time I’m telling you how bias most of the opposition to immigration really is.
Opponents to the “illegals invasion” think they can tell who’s here legally and who is not. They are also convinced those aliens take jobs from Americans, test social services, live on welfare, avoid paying taxes, and are responsible for every other shortfall known to man, except probably the defeat of the US basketball team.
Of course they are also terrible for the economy.
But undocumented population can come in all shapes and forms. Let’s see some examples.
Of course there are undocumented migrants from all over the world, not just from Latin America. I doubt any of those angry Americans that cry foul in those popular radio talk shows, would identify an illegal alien from Poland, or would suspect a person from Bulgaria as a possible “illegal”.
Furthermore, recent studies show a marked tendency of migrants to be better educated and of urban origins than ever before. The man who fixed my thermostat the other day is a graduate engineer who left a teaching job to move north. On the other hand, my study of migrant farm workers in Redland, Florida, showed the majority of the laborers there were born in such Mexican towns as Mercedes, Falfurrias or Mission, Texas.
In other words, the well dress man who speaks good English is an “Illegal”, while the Spanish speaking laborer is an American citizen. How can you equal the gardener in Highland Park with the Mixteco speaking fruit picking worker in the San Joaquin Valley? or the Vietnamese fisherman in Seattle? What about the English speaking Filipino nurse in Oregon?
Did you know that the number of Mexican indigenous people working undocumented at any given time in California, Washington, Alaska or even Hawaii, can be of up to one hundred thousand, mainly Mixtecos, Zapotecos and Purepechas? Companies like “Alaska Wild Life” pick up workers in Mexican ports and lead them to jobs in Anchorage, Ketchican, Sitka, Kodiak or Juneau.
Are those the “illegals” people refer to in all those letters to the publisher?
I believe the true nature of the problem lies elsewhere; those who want “illegals” out of their neighborhood are really referring to poor people.
Let me address another myth.
Immigration policy is a central issue in this fall's congressional elections. Supporters of stricter immigration laws often voice the idea that foreign workers depress wages and take jobs from American workers, especially those with less education and fewer skills.
Well, the Pew Hispanic Center analyzed immigration state by state, using US Census data, evaluating it against unemployment levels. No clear correlation between the two could be found. Other factors, such as economic growth, have likely played a larger role in influencing the American job market, according to Rakesh Kochhar, principal author of the report and an economist at the Pew Hispanic Center.
What about the myth of the undocumented population not paying taxes?
According to Wayne Cornelius, undocumented workers spend from 60 to 70% of their income in taxes, be it indirect ones like sales tax, or Social Security payments to a number often borrowed or bought, and therefore received by the Social Security Administration without giving anything in return. One million undocumented workers pay over a period of one year more than a billion dollars in fiscal responsibilities, with no corresponding benefits.
Are they really bad for the economy? According to a study of the University of California in San Diego, undocumented workers produce profits of over one hundred and twenty billion dollars a year for many U.S. businesses, with California Agriculture as the main beneficiary, since 90% of farm workers are Mexican and up to 60% of those are undocumented.
It is safe to say that a good number of areas of the US economy survive only because of the work of new migrants, and the undocumented laborers constitute a majority of those.
The tragedy lies upon the impossibility of hiring those vital hands through a legal and orderly fashion.
I am willing to accept that some employers seek undocumented workers in order to exploit them, it would be naïve to deny that, but I am also willing to bet the absolute majority hire the available worker, one that as a plus shows a positive attitude, works hard without complaining, is always willing to work extra hours and saves dutifully in order to provide for his family.
What could be more American that that?
We are not trying to teach our northern cousins how to keep their home safe, we understand you consider immigration as an internal matter and we respect that. We also want a safe and secure border, both of them in fact; we want to work with you to achieve that, security in our common boundaries is a common problem.
But facts are stubborn things, they are out there; ignoring them is not going to make them go away. No Mexicans would risk death in the desert if no jobs were available. The salary differential is still so large that attraction works in favor of migration. If our people were able to go back to old traditions, they wouldn’t stay so long, they could go back home periodically and thus their families would stay behind.
Many Americans cringe at the mere mention of an amnesty, but few realize we don’t like it either. An amnesty is supposed to be given in order to pardon a crime, and our workers are not criminals. They respond to the wage disparity and they fill a void created by demographics: the American population is aging fast.
It is truly embarrassing for us that so many compatriots chose to move up north, we would like nothing more than to be able to provide decent paying jobs for all our citizens; we are working at it, in time the flow will diminish both because we will create those jobs, as well as because our own population will age.
That is my perspective.
Thank you for your patience.
L A M I G R A C I Ó N: U N A P E R S P E C T I V A D I S T I N T A
Ha través de la historia, siempre que las condiciones de vida de un grupo humano han sufrido deterioro, las superficiales raíces no han sido obstáculo para partir en busca de mejores horizontes. En ocasiones el detonador ha sido la falta de agua, en otras la búsqueda de mejores cotos de caza, pero sea cual fuere la circunstancia, la migración ha sido constante compañera del hombre.
Con el paso del tiempo esos movimientos de seres humanos han ido abarcando mayores distancias, a veces incluso allende los mares, hasta otro continente.
La migración mexicana se inserta en esos patrones, pero ha está condicionada por factores diversos, no siempre bien comprendidos, sobre todo en el territorio donde se asienta hoy por hoy la inmensa mayoría de nuestra diáspora, es decir, en los Estados Unidos.
La población de mexicana y de origen mexicano actualmente ubicada en el vecino país del norte, tiene orígenes muy variados, empezando por aquellos que nunca cruzaron la frontera, sino que la frontera los cruzó. Como resultado de la guerra de Texas, así como a raíz de la conflagración de 1847, México perdió territorios que contaban con numerosos asentamientos de compatriotas, mismos que un día se despertaron en un país distinto.
Tal vez por eso mi amigo texano dice que él es auténtico, pues puede identificar cinco generaciones de ancestros nativos de Texas; más que eso sólo podría explicarse si fuera mexicano.
Los mexicanos empezaron a cruzar esa nueva frontera poco después de la guerra, en un afán por reencontrarse con familiares separados de ellos cuando la línea se desplazó al sur. El viaje era azaroso, pero el cruce mismo no implicaba más que el pago de una cuota de veinticinco centavos de dólar.
La frenética construcción de vías férreas atrajo a un buen número de obreros; luego nuestra revolución desplazó a muchas familias. El flujo era ya constante y el caudal creciente. Más tarde sobrevinieron dos guerras mundiales durante las cuales Estados Unidos necesitó importar mano de obra que reemplazara a los jóvenes soldados enviados a los campos de Flandes y a los mares del sur, y allí se hizo presente una vez más la fuerza laboral mexicana.
Así se dio la génesis de varias comunidades mexicanas en el interior del territorio norteamericano, caso de Chicago, Detroit, Kansas City, etc.
El controvertido tratado de braceros abrió un nuevo capítulo en el estudio de la migración mexicana, como primer intento formal de regular el tránsito de trabajadores, casi todos agrícolas, hacia el mercado de Norteamérica, reconociendo de manera implícita lo que siempre hemos argumentado: Que existen factores de atracción que se combinan con los de expulsión y dan como resultado un flujo natural de mano de obra hacia el norte.
Mi participación como observador interesado en este complejo fenómeno se da hacia la década de los setenta, como novel Vicecónsul en el Consulado General de México en Chicago. Por razones obvias es muy difícil encontrar información fidedigna sobre esa masa amorfa llamada genéricamente “los indocumentados”, y en aquellos años el acceso era aún más restringido; pero sí fue posible aprender algunas cosas.
Descubrimos que la absoluta mayoría de nuestros trabajadores viajaba al norte con el fin de hacerse de unos ahorros y luego regresar al terruño. Pocos salían dispuestos a quedarse a vivir en el otro país.
Así, el flujo rumbo al norte se revertía en ciertas épocas del año, sobre todo al acercarse el día de las madres y la navidad. En esas fechas, los mexicanos partían de regreso ya programados para volver a trabajar la siguiente temporada, o cuando pasara el invierno, que en algunas regiones vuelve tortura trabajar en la construcción.
No se habla aquí exclusivamente de trabajadores migratorios, por definición móviles y temporales; no, prácticamente TODA la migración de México, por lo menos la no documentada, seguía esos patrones ya inveterados.
El ir y venir continuó por lo menos hasta que ciertas medidas de seguridad en la frontera estrangularon el movimiento y obligaron a miles de trabajadores a abstenerse de intentar un segundo o tercer cruce. En buena medida eso ha inflado las cifras de indocumentados, pues además ahora sus familias los siguen, al percatarse de que no habrá viaje de “visita” en diciembre.
El fenómeno de la migración indocumentada es un asunto complejo, multifacético, muy pocas veces apreciado en su justa dimensión. Ni siquiera me atrevería a llamarle “problema”, cuando el verdadero problema radica en la repetición continua de mentiras que con el paso del tiempo van adquiriendo visos de verdad.
En los tiempos actuales se ha vuelto a poner de moda culpar de todos los males a los “ilegales”, esos irresponsables maleantes que se roban empleos de los norteamericanos, sin pagar impuestos y disfrutando de todos los servicios sociales disponibles. Esto no es nuevo, cada nueva oleada de inmigrantes ha sido objeto de los mismos ataques, prueba de lo cual es la población irlandesa, italiana y polaca.
Nótese cuán astutamente pongo de ejemplo sólo a naciones católicas.
Pero a despecho de similitudes históricas los mexicanos hemos llegado a constituir el prototipo del “ilegal”. En cualquier noticiero televisivo de Estados Unidos pueden constatar que la ilustración de una noticia sobre migración, lleva como fondo imágenes del Río Bravo, o de la cerca fronteriza. El mensaje subliminal es que TODA la migración indocumentada viene de México y cruza por la frontera.
Esas rabiosas llamadas a ciertos programas de radio o cartas a la redacción de los periódicos, en las que se denuncia la nefasta presencia de los “illegals”, demuestran que el estereotipo llega hasta a crear una imagen: Un “ilegal” es fácil de reconocer, tiene aspecto de mexicano.... pobre.
Vamos empezando por el principio. Una persona no puede ser legal o ilegal, son las conductas las que pueden infringir la ley. Incluso si alguien comete un delito, son sus actos los que pueden llevar a una sanción judicial, pero además existe una presunción de inocencia hasta que esa conducta sea considerada como delito por un tribunal judicial, antes ni siquiera se le puede llamar delincuente.
Una persona detenida por haberse internado a Estados Unidos sin inspección no ha cometido delito alguno, se le puede acusar de una falta administrativa y aún así tendría derecho a defenderse ante un juez de migración antes de que se le expulse.
La enorme masa de connacionales que se interna en territorio norteamericano cada día, lo hace por muy diversos motivos y por variados conductos. Cabe hacer esta distinción pues se da cada vez más la tendencia a confundir migración con seguridad, pues se repite la mentira de que toda la inmigración se interna por la frontera, como si no existieran los aeropuertos.
Incluso esa verdadera invasión cotidiana que se observa en la frontera está compuesta mayoritariamente por visitantes legales, usualmente compradores sin cuya aportación dejarían de existir ciudades como Laredo, McAllen o Brownsville. También cruzan por ahí estudiantes, empresarios, profesionistas y otras categorías de visitantes igualmente legales, muchos de ellos destinados a permanecer en territorio norteamericano por largos periodos.
¿Qué tiene todo eso que ver con la migración indocumentada, pregunta usted? Trato de hacerle ver que el fenómeno migratorio es complejo, multifacético; trato de ilustrar el hecho de que esas personas de aspecto mexicano que caminan por las calles de Dallas no son necesariamente indocumentados, es más probable que se trate de alguno de esos millones de visitantes legales que cruzan la frontera en viaje de compras o recreo, puede ser un estudiante, un empresario, incluso un ciudadano norteamericano de origen mexicano. Trato de hacerle ver que los opositores a la migración están mal informados y tienen opiniones marcadamente racistas.
Esos que creen poder identificar a un indocumentado a simple vista están al mismo tiempo convencidos de que la “invasión silenciosa” trae a sus puertas a maleantes, que no pagan impuestos, que les quitan los empleos a los norteamericanos, en pocas palabras que son responsables por cada falla presente en su entorno social, excepto tal vez la derrota del equipo de Baloncesto de Estados Unidos a manos de Grecia.
Obviamente también están convencidos de que los trabajadores importados son un factor negativo para la economía.
Lo que ignoran o se niegan a ver es que la migración no documentada viene en paquetes diversos, de gran variedad cromática, así como tamaño y forma. Veamos algunos ejemplos.
En primer lugar hay inmigrantes indocumentados provenientes de todo el mundo, no sólo de México y Centroamérica. Dudo mucho que esos furiosos norteamericanos que llaman a las estaciones de radio sean capaces de reconocer a una persona de Bulgaria como indocumentado, o puedan siquiera sospechar que ese señor polaco es realmente “ilegal”.
Por otra parte, estudios recientes muestran que la migración no documentada tiende a ser más educada y de origen urbano, a diferencia del estereotipo usual. Por ejemplo, el señor que me arregló el termostato de mi oficina el otro día es un ingeniero mexicano que dejó su trabajo como profesor y emigró, con visa de turista, para poner un negocio en este país; mientras que mis estudios en un enorme campamento de trabajadores migratorios del sur de la Florida mostró que casi todos eran “mexicanos” nacidos en Mercedes, Falfurrias o Misión, Texas.
En otras palabras, ese bien vestido señor que se expresa correctamente en inglés es un “ilegal”; mientras que esos trabajadores del campo, pobres, mal vestidos, prácticamente sin hablar inglés, no sólo no son “ilegales”, sino que son norteamericanos. ¿Cómo se puede igualar a un jardinero que trabaja en el elegante barrio de Highland Park ,con un indígena que sólo habla mixteco y es pizcador en California? ¿Puede uno u otro ser confundido con el pescador vietnamita del área de Seattle? ¿Qué me dicen de todas esas enfermeras filipinas a las que nadie les pregunta si tienen o no la visa apropiada porque hablan inglés?
¿Sabía usted que el número de trabajadores mexicanos de origen indígena que se encuentran laborando sin papeles en California, Washington, Alaska o hasta Hawaii, suman más de cien mil? Compañías como la “Alaska Wild Life” reclutan a mixtecos, zapotecos y purépechas y los llevan a trabajar en lugares tan remotos como Anchorage, Ketchican, Sitka, Kodiak o Juneau.
¿Son ésos los “ilegales” a los que se refieren las frecuentes cartas a la redacción de los diarios de mayor circulación?
Me temo que el problema tiene otra explicación, toda esa gente que protesta contra los “ilegales” en realidad se niega a aceptar en sus barrios a la gente pobre.
Permítanme comentar otro mito.
La migración se encuentra en el centro de los debates durante esta temporada electoral. Si no lo ha percibido, seguramente ha estado usted viviendo en una isla desierta. Los promotores de leyes más estrictas en materia migratoria basan sus argumentos en el hecho de que los trabajadores extranjeros producen salarios menores y les quitan empleos a los norteamericanos.
No hay tal. El Centro “Pew Hispano” analizó la inmigración, estado por estado, a fin de determinar si tenía algún impacto en los niveles de empleo. No encontraron correlación entre una cosa y la otra. Hay otros factores que impactan negativamente el mercado laboral, tales como el crecimiento económico regional, según señala Rakesh Kochhar, autor del estudio.
En cuanto al mito de que los trabajadores indocumentados no pagan impuestos, el respetado Wayne Cornelius descubrió que en realidad gastan en contribuciones del 60% al 70% de sus ingresos, sean directas, indirectas o aportaciones al Seguro Social (SS). Dado que el número de SS es muchas veces ajeno, prestado, rentado o comprado; nada se obtiene como contraprestación, pero los descuentos van a dar a la Administración del SS, que los contabiliza como “otros ingresos”. Un millón de trabajadores no documentados pagaría cerca de mil millones de dólares al año, prácticamente sin beneficios directos.
Ahora bien, ¿en verdad causan perjuicio a la economía? Un estudio de la Universidad de California en San Diego demostró que la mano de obra indocumentada deja ganancias de más de ciento veinte mil millones de dólares anuales, sobre todo a la agricultura de California, donde el 90% de los trabajadores agrícolas son mexicanos y de estos casi el 60% son indocumentados.
Es posible asegurar que varios sectores de la economía norteamericana subsisten gracias al trabajo de los inmigrantes, de cuya masa la inmensa mayoría trabajan sin documentos.
Lo verdaderamente trágico es que sea imposible emplear a esa mano de obra vital, de manera legal y ordenada.
No puedo negar que algunos patrones buscan trabajadores indocumentados exclusivamente porque pueden explotarlos, sería ingenuo desconocer esto, pero tampoco puedo ignorar que la inmensa mayoría los emplea porque no tienen otra opción. Contratan al trabajador disponible, al que está dispuesto a trabajar sin quejas ni excusas, al que se ofrece para acumular horas extra y ahorra religiosamente con la finalidad de mantener a su familia.
Esa actitud, esos valores, ¿no le suenan parecidos al “sueño americano”?
No se trata de dar lecciones de seguridad a nuestros primos del norte, entendemos que para ellos la migración es un asunto interno y respetamos su decisión. También nosotros queremos una frontera segura, de hecho deseamos que todas las fronteras sean seguras. La seguridad en nuestras fronteras comunes es un problema compartido, las soluciones deben serlo también.
Pero los hechos son muy tercos e ignorarlos no va a hacerlos desaparecer. Ningún mexicano arriesgaría su vida en el desierto si no hubiera empleos disponibles. La diferencia en salarios es tan grande que el factor de atracción es evidente. Si nuestra gente pudiera seguir con sus usos y costumbres no se quedarían en territorio norteamericano todo el año, volverían a casa periódicamente y sus familias no tendrían que cruzar la frontera.
Entendemos que a numerosos estadounidenses les aterra hablar de “amnistía”, pero pocos se dan cuenta de que tampoco a nosotros nos gusta el término, con sus connotaciones de criminalidad que recibe el perdón. Nuestros trabajadores no son criminales, responden a una necesidad, llenan un vacío dejado por condiciones demográficas: La población de los Estados Unidos se está haciendo vieja.
Termino comentando que para los mexicanos es verdaderamente vergonzoso que tantos compatriotas tengan que emigrar al norte, nada nos gustaría tanto como poder crear empleos bien pagados para todos. Lo estamos intentando, llevará tiempo, pero hacia allá nos encaminamos. En última instancia el problema es temporal, el flujo disminuirá porque la tendencia demográfica no es favorable, en poco tiempo la población mexicana empezará también a envejecer.
11/04/2007
We seem to have a western theme around here. We have a cat named Annie Oakley, and we have a dog named Calamity Jane. Both seem exceptionally well-named. CJ is calamitous. And Annie, well. She's an accentric cowgirl/pistolera for sure. She walks Chayo to the school bus in the morning and waits till she gets on the bus, then walks home. She helps me garden. At night, if I go downstairs to use the bathroom, she comes down and hollers at me through the door, then leads me back up to bed. Once, in our other, more ghetto neighborhood on the far west side of Chicago, she not only got shot in the side by some evil-doer, but she caught a full-grown rabbit, climbed a tree with it in her mouth, jumped in an upstairs window, and let the rabbit go in our apartment. Big fun. She used to stalk Megan all over the house and leap out at her from behind furniture, counting coup and apparently hoping to kill and eat her. And when she's bored, she likes to play fetch. We named her Annie Oakley because we had once been stranded in Oakley, KS, after I locked our keys in the car in a Sunday. We were at a snake farm. The owner asked the kids, "Ya know what cows do on weekends?" No, they said. "They go to the moo-vies!" he said. Then he banged on his rattlesnake pens with a stick so they'd rattle at Eric. He sold dried animal poo with little wiggly eyeballs glued on them, and he called them Turdie Birdies. They played golf. How could you not name your cat after that? Still--leave it to us to have a cat that seems to have jumped out of a storybook.
I was looking at a quote from Susan Sontag. She was in a wise woman moment: "Fewer and fewer Americans possess objects that have a patina, old furniture, grandparents' pots and pans
--the used things, warm with generations of human touch...essential to a human landscape."
This really caught my eye, because it had been one of my writing prompts/stunts at workshops when I feel inspired or prepared. I am not often prepared anymore--I am so busy doing nothing that actual tasks fall on me like attacks from above. Workshops hit me like a hunting owl on Annie's rabbit, and I often look up from my notebook or my laptop and say, HUH? WHA? But some folks will recall my basic fascination with old crap.
At Fishtrap, I sometimes give my writers strange pictures. Strange, not becaus ethey're post-cards of thirty foot catfich or cowgirls riding giant rabbits, but strange because pictures of strangers are always strange. We humans are strange. And, as Rod Stewart so halpfully pointed out, "Every picture tells a story...." Who is that crew-cut skinny boy in front of the scraggly Xmas tree in 1966? Beats me. But he looks either happy or horribly haunted, and I can't tell which. My favorites are a series of pictures I discovered in my mom's photo album after she died. They're pictures of fine ladies in the 30's with nice dresses and fancy hats, and they're all trying to lead cows around with leashes. WHA?
So you deal out these cards to the writers and ask them to tell the story of the image.
The other one I liked to do when I was young and dashing was The Picnic Basket of Destiny. It was, yes, a picnic basket! Full of crap! Covered with a towel! Students had to reach in and grab the first thing their fingers touched, and they had to write a story about whatever they pulled out! Toys! Old shoes! A pocket of buttons! Music boxes! An ancient ornament! A watch!
All alive and fuming with human vibes.
The poet, Levi Romero, a low-rider shaman of New Mexico, once gave me the coolest gift. He gave me a filthy, rusted, mis-shapen old tobacco tin. He had walked up an arroyo outside of Albuquerque somewhere, and had pried it out of the dirt. I have it with me still. You can imagine the old-timers rolling their smokes. You can hear their laughter and gossip. The dirt and the rust make you feel the years rushing down that arroyo like the rain water in monsoon season. It's a haunting.
I think, as writers, we go out like Annie Oakley, and we hunt. Don't we? We look for story, we listen for angels or devils, we bask and we fret and we prowl. We bring stuff back.
If you want to write something cool, go to a used clothes shop or a Goodwill or a church thrift store. A cheap one. In the shadowy part of town. And walk until something hisses at you. Maybe it's that tacky one-eyed doll. Maybe it's those sad orthopedic shoes. A hat. A dress. Maybe it's something you didn't know you were looking for. Maybe it was looking for you. Maybe it doesn't want to be forgotten.
Maybe it needs you to write its story.
Somebody touched it.
Somebody used it.
Somebody might have loved it.
And now they're gone.
How can you fail to explode in song?
Embrace the Pathetic Fallacy, y'all.
I'm cooking chili right now--man, you ought to taste it. It's just like writing a good poem. Annie's asleep on my bed, and Calamity Jane is snoring like a tractor. See you on Immigration Monday.
XXXOOOXXX,
Luigi
I was looking at a quote from Susan Sontag. She was in a wise woman moment: "Fewer and fewer Americans possess objects that have a patina, old furniture, grandparents' pots and pans
--the used things, warm with generations of human touch...essential to a human landscape."
This really caught my eye, because it had been one of my writing prompts/stunts at workshops when I feel inspired or prepared. I am not often prepared anymore--I am so busy doing nothing that actual tasks fall on me like attacks from above. Workshops hit me like a hunting owl on Annie's rabbit, and I often look up from my notebook or my laptop and say, HUH? WHA? But some folks will recall my basic fascination with old crap.
At Fishtrap, I sometimes give my writers strange pictures. Strange, not becaus ethey're post-cards of thirty foot catfich or cowgirls riding giant rabbits, but strange because pictures of strangers are always strange. We humans are strange. And, as Rod Stewart so halpfully pointed out, "Every picture tells a story...." Who is that crew-cut skinny boy in front of the scraggly Xmas tree in 1966? Beats me. But he looks either happy or horribly haunted, and I can't tell which. My favorites are a series of pictures I discovered in my mom's photo album after she died. They're pictures of fine ladies in the 30's with nice dresses and fancy hats, and they're all trying to lead cows around with leashes. WHA?
So you deal out these cards to the writers and ask them to tell the story of the image.
The other one I liked to do when I was young and dashing was The Picnic Basket of Destiny. It was, yes, a picnic basket! Full of crap! Covered with a towel! Students had to reach in and grab the first thing their fingers touched, and they had to write a story about whatever they pulled out! Toys! Old shoes! A pocket of buttons! Music boxes! An ancient ornament! A watch!
All alive and fuming with human vibes.
The poet, Levi Romero, a low-rider shaman of New Mexico, once gave me the coolest gift. He gave me a filthy, rusted, mis-shapen old tobacco tin. He had walked up an arroyo outside of Albuquerque somewhere, and had pried it out of the dirt. I have it with me still. You can imagine the old-timers rolling their smokes. You can hear their laughter and gossip. The dirt and the rust make you feel the years rushing down that arroyo like the rain water in monsoon season. It's a haunting.
I think, as writers, we go out like Annie Oakley, and we hunt. Don't we? We look for story, we listen for angels or devils, we bask and we fret and we prowl. We bring stuff back.
If you want to write something cool, go to a used clothes shop or a Goodwill or a church thrift store. A cheap one. In the shadowy part of town. And walk until something hisses at you. Maybe it's that tacky one-eyed doll. Maybe it's those sad orthopedic shoes. A hat. A dress. Maybe it's something you didn't know you were looking for. Maybe it was looking for you. Maybe it doesn't want to be forgotten.
Maybe it needs you to write its story.
Somebody touched it.
Somebody used it.
Somebody might have loved it.
And now they're gone.
How can you fail to explode in song?
Embrace the Pathetic Fallacy, y'all.
I'm cooking chili right now--man, you ought to taste it. It's just like writing a good poem. Annie's asleep on my bed, and Calamity Jane is snoring like a tractor. See you on Immigration Monday.
XXXOOOXXX,
Luigi
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