I recently received an email from the Illinois Coalition for Immigrant and Refugee Rights, in which Josh Hoyt shared the story of David, an undocumented student, and then proceeded to ask for funds to support the upcoming March in DC for comprehensive migrant reform. As one of the many song of migrants with papers I understand the privilege that this entails: a drivers license, financial aid, a sense of permanence, and the ability to travel south at will. Yet, I was troubled by David’s message, detailed below:
My name is David, and I am undocumented; I came to the United States at the age of three. I only remember a few things from where we came. I remember our red brick house. I remember being in my parents’ bedroom lying down in bed with the sunlight coming through the doorway. But these memories do not feel like they are mine. They don’t feel like mine because they are from a place that is completely strange to me.
“A place completely strange to me” struck me as extremely odd. Politically, it makes much sense to me. David was raised here, he belongs here, his place is here, he should not be send “back.” Yet, the idea of Mexico or Central America as being strange to David-or us, song/daughters of migrants, is this right? Raised in working class neighborhood by migrants, are we not some how connected to our parents country of origin? Futbol and tortas at Simons Jr High, the same ten banda songs playing at las quince de una amiga, speaking Spanish on a regular basis (or at least hearing it). A narrative that makes the land of our parents “strange” to us seems to bolster the idea of us and them: to fortify the border (cultural/physical). At least that’s my reading. Que piensan? And more importantly, how do we advocate a politics that both provides our neighbors/families with access and not reify citizenship-the nation-states definition of community.
Don Luis Gonzalez Gonzalez is often labeled one of Mexico’s greatest historians. At the young age of 12 he left his small town of San Jose de Gracia for the then sprawling city of Guadalajara. For migrants and son/daughters of migrants his experiences as a rural migrant to GDL resonate: he describes being made fun of for his attire and speech. He would go onto study with Fernand Braudel of the French Annal school and produce in the 1960s a history of a village that did not take part or benefit from the Mexican revolution: a slap in the face to the PRI and a much needed corrective to state narratives of the Revolution.
As an arrogant and naïve undergraduate at UCLA I often frowned upon the entrance of romanticism and nostalgia in academic works. Little did I realized that my entire academic pursuit is guided by both…
Below are two quotes from Gonzalez:
From the traditional microhistory spoken or sung by the old ones has evolved the microhistory written by numerous village enthusiasts. Mexico abounds in local histories by persons who do not see themselves as intellectuals. These are microhistorians unacquainted with universities but well acquired with community life. They are found in the cafes and bars rather than in classrooms. But beyond this, they are difficult to define; microhistory attracts people from widely disparate walks of life. Nevertheless, one general characteristic is notable among them—their romanticism.
To quote, “Sentiment, not reason, stimulates the study of microhistory. Microhistories most common flow from a love for one’s origins,” as from the love for a mother. “Unimpeded, the small world which nourishes and sustains us is transfigured into the image of mother….Thus, the so-called patria chica would be better called the matria, and the narrative which reconstructs its temporal dimension ca be known alternately as microhistory or as historia matria. The spontaneous microhistorian works “toward the clearly unhealthy goal of returning to a lost time, to his roots, to the illusory Eden, to the womb.”
Today, the United States began surveying the damage inflicted by a devastating earthquake in Haiti this week. In addition to providing immediate humanitarian assistance, the U.S. response to the tragic earthquake should address long-held concerns over the fragile political environment that exists in the region.
The U.S. government response should be bold and decisive. It must mobilize U.S. civilian and military capabilities for short-term rescue and relief and long-term recovery and reform. President Obama should tap high-level, bipartisan leadership. Clearly former President Clinton, who was already named as the U.N. envoy on Haiti, is a logical choice. President Obama should also reach out to a senior Republican figure, perhaps former President George W. Bush, to lead the bipartisan effort for the Republicans.
While on the ground in Haiti, the U.S. military can also interrupt the nightly flights of cocaine to Haiti and the Dominican Republic from the Venezuelan coast and counter the ongoing efforts of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez to destabilize the island of Hispaniola. This U.S. military presence, which should also include a large contingent of U.S. Coast Guard assets, can also prevent any large-scale movement by Haitians to take to the sea in dangerous and rickety watercraft to try to enter the U.S. illegally.
Meanwhile, the U.S. must be prepared to insist that the Haiti government work closely with the U.S. to insure that corruption does not infect the humanitarian assistance flowing to Haiti. Long-term reforms for Haitian democracy and its economy are also badly overdue. Congress should immediately begin work on a package of assistance, trade, and reconstruction efforts needed to put Haiti on its feet and open the way for deep and lasting democratic reforms.
The U.S. should implement a strong and vigorous public diplomacy effort to counter the negative propaganda certain to emanate from the Castro-Chavez camp. Such an effort will also demonstrate that the U.S.’s involvement in the Caribbean remains a powerful force for good in the Americas and around the globe.
It was a little past midnight. I couldn’t sleep, my stomach hurt and my mind was far from at ease. No movie, television show, or novel would do, I needed something else. Having worked on a bike the past few days I decided to take a midnight stroll through the hills of chino. I convinced my cousin and off we went. He rode my younger brother’s fixie and I an old, beat up mountain bike that we found in my tio’s backyard. We headed towards the golf course, the physical divide between new and old chino hills. After about 20 minutes I realized I had no clue where we were. We slowed our pace to look for familiar signs and conserve energy. Lost, cold, and tired I felt a strange calm. The dim street lights allowed the moon and stars to shine brightly. The wind hitting our sweaty skin took me pack to adolescents in hotels: jumping into a cold pool after some minutes in the jacuzzi. The absolute silence reminded me of kicking the ball into the home made soccer goal in the old Pomona house. We finally found a sign for the 71 and followed it, going under the freeway, into Chino, towards the state prison, and back up towards chino hills. While my chain feel and the mechanism that adjust the length of it got stuck in the spokes, making me carry the stupid bike up hill for about 200 yards it was a nice ride.
