By: Erin Fleming
This past Wednesday, I stood by my fellow KSMODA dreamies as we rallied outside of Senator Claire McCaskill’s office. I painfully listened as one mother shared her plight—a story all too familiar and yet never any less heartbreaking. She and her son are facing deportation, but she finds strength in speaking out, telling her story, hoping that it will encourage Senator McCaskill to take action in D.C.; A young high school student spoke out about the DREAM act, about its educational and moral imperative; and, countless religious and faith leaders reaffirmed their commitment and support to the immigrant community. We have right on our side. We don’t need pity. We need action. We must continue to tell our stories, to raise our voices, until we are heard and equality and justice prevail. This is part of my story, as a frustrated, heedful ally, who stands in solidarity with every single undocumented person who isn’t given the exact same benefits I receive as a citizen.
I was born in Miami, Florida. Latin Americans are my friends, family, and neighbors. I treasure the mutual and fluid interaction of cultures in South Florida. On Christmas Eve, my family gets together for a pig roast. For dessert, it’s flan. I’ve been drinking café con leche since I was eight, and I dance more easily to Carlos Gardel than Elvis Presley.
I am proud to be from the United States. I love my country—a love that drives me to speak up when I recognize its failings, a love that doesn’t stop at borders, or mutate depending on color. “I love America more than any other country in this world; and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually,†says James Baldwin. I follow his lead, I will never stop criticizing, nor will I stop mobilizing, until equality blankets every single one of my brothers and sister that know the U.S. as their home. I have heard the extremist propaganda—the claims that immigrants come to the U.S. to steal jobs and exploit the system. I’m here to tell you, and my experience allows me to do so, this is the furthest thing from the truth.
I went to high school in Southern California. It was hard to miss the roadside caution signs illustrating an immigrant family running across a highway. This image stays with me. I often find myself thinking of this representational, and yet all too real, family. It is only a silhouette, and yet the despair and fright are so evident. The idea that such signs are necessary is haunting. This family is fleeing, escaping, trying to get somewhere safe, with the misguided hope that America, land of the free, will be their haven. Years spent in upper class, conservative neighborhoods have told me otherwise. Former Sheriff Mike Carona once boasted that Orange County turned over the most inmates for deportation. This is where I lived. This was my sheriff. I could no longer stand by indifferent to how this country treats undocumented immigrants.
In January 2009, I spent my winter break volunteering on the U.S./Mexico border with No Más Muertes. We work under the premise that humanitarian aid is never a crime. We leave water, food, and medical supplies along migrant trails. I was stationed at a camp in Arivaca, Arizona—a tiny, isolated town in the middle of the Sonoran desert just north of Nogales. There was a time when border towns were vibrant and exciting places—varying foods, dialects, and traditions blended, creating a beautiful fusion of cultures. People from both countries crossed daily with ease. This is no longer the case. Now walls, fences, remote detection systems, drones, cameras, have taken up residence along the border. Immigrants wanting to cross are now forced into more remote and dangerous areas—areas where Border Patrol won’t go. Just as many immigrants cross, only with less success—this is the aim. Hundreds die every year. Hundreds of others simply go missing.
Where I was stationed, it was physically impossible to carry enough water to sustain yourself from the nearest drop-off point to the nearest pick-up point. Three full days and nights of walking is the best possible scenario. No Más Muertes is an environmentally mindful group—we always returned to drop sites to gather discarded jugs, food wrappers, and other items left by walkers. Often, we would return to find water jugs intentionally slashed or dotted with bullet holes. Far from their homes, in a state of complete vulnerability, and migrants are already granted a preview of how they will be accepted and treated in this country. They feel hated, unwanted, and without any opportunity to explain why they would subject themselves and their children to such hardship. I try to imagine the feeling of coming upon these drop sites, literally dying of thirst, only to find empty jugs lying in damp sand. Some come across cattle tanks and out of desperation drink the contaminated water. The relief lasts briefly. Severe illness quickly follows. Sickness slows them down; they are left behind—the possibility of death looms heavily.
Luis Alberto Urrea’s book, “The Devil’s Highwayâ€, documents the journey of 26 Mexican men across the desert—14 died. His description of the body’s response to dehydration physically pains me to read: “Proteins are peeling off your dying muscles. Chunks of cooked meat are falling out of your organs, to clog other organs. The system closes down in a series. Your kidneys, your bladder, your heart. They jam shut. Stop. Your brain sparks. Out. You’re gone.”
I cannot wrap my head around this idea that another person, fully knowing that these water jugs save lives, would deny another person this one helping. I have this image in my head of an old man sitting on a front porch rocker, binoculars in one hand, shot gun in the other, chuckling to the dog by his side. Unfair? Perhaps. I once dated the son of a Nevada rancher. He once said: “Hell, yeah, I’d fire at anyone on my land!†We broke up.
I drove into town one day with a couple of other volunteers; we thought ourselves deserving of something other than peanut butter sandwiches and cold canned beans. We stopped at a roadside stand called Grill ‘n’ Sweets. I started asking the owner about his experience with immigrants. He seemed apathetic and generally contented that immigrants were good for his business and didn’t feel one way or the other about border or immigration policy. I wanted to scream at him: “Take a stand, have an opinion, open up your eyes!â€Â He essentially chooses money as an excuse, or rationalization, for the indignities so many face.
One day we stumbled upon a simple white, wooden cross. This was where Josseline Janiletha Hernandez Quinteros was found dead from exposure. She had placed her feet in a shallow pool of water. Her red shoes were found by her side. She was only 14. Beneath the cross was a plaque: When you feel the road is hard and difficult, don’t give up, keep going, and look for the help of God. You will be in our hearts always.
Josseline was crossing the desert with her younger brother, trying to reunite with their parents in Los Angeles. They made it all the way from El Salvador. They were so close, but she wasn’t able to keep up with the group any longer and coyotes wait on no one. Her 10-year-old brother was forced to make a decision: leave his sister behind in the desert, or risk becoming lost along with her. He chose to go on. As soon as he was able, he alerted authorities. It was too late. I carry a picture of Josseline in my wallet—a constant reminder of what is at stake. The problem begins long before the border and persists long after you leave the border, but at every step there exists suffering.
Later this same day, we passed a tree covered in ripped underwear. Similar trees are found throughout the desert. They are referred to as rape trees, serving as a trophy of sorts for the coyotes who take advantage of women. Sometimes sex is traded for water. Other times it’s solely for amusement. Worse, these women are completely dependent on these men. Death is almost a certainty if you become separated from your group, so women must continue to follow their rapists. I stood before this tree and unwavering tears fell silently down my face. I dare anyone to not be moved by this reality, to come up with any excuse, rationalization, or argument that would make this okay.
The desert quieted us all. As we walked along migrant paths, we called out, “Somos Amigos!†but most of the time I was left to my thoughts. I began thinking about the absurdity of borders, how nature respects no boundaries. A sidewalk becomes a perfect example. It amazes me the ability of a single weed, seeking out nourishment, to weave its way through tons of concrete, burst through, and leave in its trail a sidewalk in disarray. This proves man’s attempt to control nature is laughable. Robert Frost writes of this same phenomenon in “Mending Wallsâ€:
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
Society draws lines and creates borders, imposing on the natural world, messy, inorganic constructs where there should be none. The idea of a wall is ridiculous, and a wall certainly won’t help the 12 million undocumented immigrants here in the U.S., living in a constant state of fear and worry. Opportunity, wealth, hunger, and love create within all of us the urge to venture out. A parent’s instinct is to protect and provide the best opportunities for their children—for so many, this is impossible in their home countries.
Migrants cross a non-existent line and suddenly their lives are radically defined for them. They are no longer considered people. They are stripped of their humanity and assigned terms such as “illegal†and “alienâ€. I’ve always wondered how any human being can be deemed illegal. The idea is ridiculous. If that’s the case, then I, too, am an illegal, then we are all illegal. I’ve broken laws, I drank before I was 21 and have far too many speeding tickets stuffed in my glove compartment. Words are a powerful tool and I’ll use mine to say over and over again until it finally sinks in that NO human being is illegal. I believe in this cause. I have taken it on as my own, because it is my own. There are times I am treated as an outsider. People constantly look at me with confusion. Why do you care? What do you have at stake?—these are the questions I must answer.
Just a few weeks ago in Washington D.C., as I stood in solidarity with over 200,000 people committed to just immigration reform, a woman walked past and snickered “but you’re not even Mexicanâ€. I responded, “What is your point?†Let me not even get started with the fact that this ignorant woman believes undocumented immigrants only come from Mexico. My point is that this is an issue that affects us all and we are all to benefit when the U.S. finally rectifies its misdoings by passing the DREAM act and passing immigration reform. There exists an unspoken privilege that distances me from my undocumented friends. I am always alert to what I say and how it translates to their realities. I hate the delicateness of these friendships—they are what I have a stake; they are why I fight so hard.
Many see the world in shades. We are not a colorblind society. No one likes to talk about it, but it’s the truth. Political correctness is demanded, and so we dance around the truths we like to pretend don’t exist. Other rationalizations are carefully constructed to disguise hate and racism. I wish this wasn’t so—the only want to confront hate, and work toward change is to find and call out the misguided ideologies. I view all undocumented immigrants as my equals. I fight for us to be treated as equals. But immigration policy makes us unequal. I hope this won’t always be the case and I will fight until it is no longer .
