Watching Out

0894f-cross02“Look, but do not stare,” I tell myself, as our group was walked into a circle of hell.

There were about forty of us, advocates in different ways for the immigrants who have made their way to our country. Several of the organizations had been working for years to make the Border Patrol transparent and responsible for its policing actions. The quarterly meetings with Border Patrol leadership had resulted in scant change. Since 2010, at least forty-six people have died as the result of an encounter with US border agents. The discussions between the immigrant advocates and the Border Patrol typically take place in Washington, DC, but, this time the meeting was being held in McAllen, Texas.

The McAllen Border Patrol processing center achieved infamy for the shameful way thousands of Central American children were treated in the summer of 2014. The nation’s largest police agency, even with its extraordinary budget, had been overwhelmed by the children and families that had surrendered to them. Children had been packed into cement cells in conditions that inspired concentration camp type metaphors. The center, commonly known by immigrants as la hielera (“the icebox”) for the practice of keeping the temperatures a chilling 68 degrees, had since been revamped. The advocates had been invited to see the improvements that the border patrol had introduced since the summer of 2014.

As we walked through the security doors into the processing center, I sidled up to one of the advocates visiting from Arizona. I said to her, “I know we are here to observe, but I hate looking at the detainees.” “Yes,” she said, “It is the most frequent complaint we get—the fact that there is no privacy, that they are stared at, as if they were animals in the zoo. And that they are treated as criminals.”

The immigrants are not criminals. For all of the rhetoric in public about “illegal aliens,” most of the men, women, and children crossing into Texas from the south are refugees desperately fleeing horror. Many, many of them could make legitimate asylum claims. But first, they have to get to the US (applying for asylum in a Central American country doesn’t work), and the Border Patrol’s processing center is the alternative port of entry for the poorest and most desperate, for those who cannot get a visa.

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Dr Marsha Griffin with family at Sacred Heart Respite Center, McAllen, Tx (photo taken with permission)

The stories are distressingly similar. A gentle Honduran whom I had met at a refugee center just the day before our visit to the processing center had told me his story. “My wife was raped and scalped. I knew that my children would be next; I knew this, so I put them into the hands of God and headed north. I have a brother who lives in (he struggled to pronounce Silver Spring, Maryland), if I can just get there. We survived Mexico, but oh, how we prayed, oh how we had people praying with us. And then we crossed the Rio Bravo, and surrendered to the Border Patrol who took us to the hielera.”

As the group filed through the processing center, I continued to do my best not to stare. But there were so many children in that place. Their faces were pressed up against the smudged windows of the cell doors, their eyes wide open. They were staring at us. We were the only ones in the room not wearing either the green uniform of the Border Patrol, or the worn out uniform of the immigrant. Perhaps, to them, we represented hope.

The children were packed into their cells, and then there were the other cells, jammed with younger mothers. The moms seemed worn out, and distressed, their babies whimpering.

man with childThrough the window of another cell, I could see a man, lying face up on the concrete bench in the cell. He was asleep. On his chest, lying face down, slept a baby. The man’s arm was draped over the baby, creating a small safe place for his child. They were both lying there, quite still, and in that place of racket and fear, I was reminded of the tenderness of the Pieta. Only in case the child is alive; this child escaped crucifixion.

They had survived the journey across Mexico. And now they were resting.

The holding cells open out into a center space. Computers and screens were set out around a horseshoe-shaped desk. After the 2014 public relations disaster, the border patrol now aims to get the newly arrested immigrants processed and on their way within forty-eight hours. To facilitate the procedure, they had set up a remote screening process, so that agents from around the country could help. At one screen, I noticed a mother sitting sideways on a bench, her baby, a toddler, leaning up against her thin legs. On the computer monitor she was using, I could see another woman, dressed as a border patrol agent, taking notes. The two women seem to be about the same age.

This mother was sharing the bench with another woman, who was having her own interview on a screen set right next to the other monitor. There was no privacy, and, while the helpful agent conducting the tour assured us that the immigrants were only sharing biographical information, we knew that these people had been trafficked by human smugglers. The coyotes will do all they can to protect their dirty business. The traffickers know where the refugees’ families live in Central America, and use that threat to control their human cargo. No one is going to say much in front of others, who may be spies or traffickers themselves. I was told by an attorney that this initial interview is critical to the asylum claim, but the lack of privacy here undermines that claim from the beginning.

The immigrants had not bathed and their clothing was filthy. The center was filled with the cloying stench of wet tennis shoes, and another, subtle but disturbing odor.

One of the visitors said, “You can smell the fear in here.”

During the days prior to this tour, I had been reading Nadeem Aslam’s The Blind Man’s Garden. Aslam has a passage about the importance of seeing, of staring:

Father Mede stands up and crosses the room that has a pattern of black and white griffins on the floor. He comes to stand before the small painting on the wall that Sofia had made for him. The crucified Christ, and the weeping figures at the foot of the cross. They are his mother and his friends and they are weeping because this — the crucifixion — is taking place, and it is powerful because the suffering of the tortured man and the suffering of those watching him are in the same picture. Are in the same glance. Injustice is not occurring in a distant hidden pocket, and the grief of the victim’s relatives is not in a far removed place, disconnected from the crime. He will die, and those who love him are watching him — and all of it being watched by the viewer.

And so, as we came to the end of our tour, I stopped, and I took one last, long look at this place. I stared, aware now that I was not looking but watching, that I had accepted the responsibility that comes with having seen an injustice taking place in my midst.

This injustice was not created by the border patrol agents, but by my people, our people. As a nation, we have become disabled by our common fear of the stranger. This terror has expanded to include children and the innocent. That we as a nation suffer from that fear terrorizes me.

And yet I can’t think of a single person in my personal life, not even amongst the most socially conservative of them, that would turn their backs on even one of these innocents. Not if they could see them, not if they could speak with them, and then, speaking with them, come to know them, and, then, in very short order, not fear them.

At that point, perhaps, my fellow Americans would begin to watch out for them.

Resistance

7abfa-10sanfelipeskies2008I answered the quiet knock at the door. The very tall, very thin visitor was from Quebec, working on a Master’s thesis in geology. He had emailed me a couple of weeks before, wanting to discuss my experiences of living and working in a border region.

He had said, “I am interested in learning how people living in difficult circumstances organize themselves against oppression.”

I was glad to have that sort of discussion and invited him to our home for a talk.

One of the benefits of living alongside an international border is the number of academics who make their way here, anxious for a conversation, looking for an insight, and searching for a new notion about things they have invested a lot of time researching. They are students of public health and of public education. They are sociologists and anthropologists. Every now and again, they can seem arrogant, but most of the time, they are humble and gracious.

Before he met with me, the Québécois researcher had had a number of conversations with people from across south Texas. He had visited a lot of families and neighborhoods,  and our conversation was one of the last ones he would have before moving on.

I offered him some coffee. He said, “No thank you, just water, no ice.”

He sipped his water and leaned forward, with almost monk-like attention. He reminded me that his interest was in the different ways people fight injustice and oppression. He told me that he was disturbed with how little organization there seemed to be down here.

“I find that  people here are so disconnected, they are isolated and powerless,” he said, “I don’t understand why they don’t take to the streets and demand better lives.”

That was an observation I had heard before, and often. Good people, sensitive folks, make their way to the Rio Grande Valley, and run smack into the warmness and generosity of the people—as well as into the misery and horrors of poverty on a scale that is impossible to equate with the wealth of the state of Texas. A family flies a Dallas Cowboys pennant on the front porch of a house that is leaning into collapse. Other families drape their chainlink fences with second-hand clothing hung out on the chain link fences, flapping the breeze like flags signaling the presence of yet another hardworking, poor family.

The researchers go into these homes, and they hear the stories of early and unnecessary deaths, of wage-theft and poorly paying jobs. The students of human community come here from California, or Houston, or Dallas, or Canada and they have a deep sense of the degree of inequity at play here. They realize just how damned unfair and unnecessary the poverty in south Texas has become.

Why indeed don’t people throw off their shackles and rise up?

The sentiment is understandable, but the question reveals a deep naïveté about the nature of struggle. It is an insulting question as well, a back-handed dismissal of entire community’s history and sense of self.

I try to explain this to the student from Canada. I tell him that I believe that the resistance to oppression must take many forms, and that not every historical moment is a good one for just any sort of social action.

I tell him that the Valley community is composed of deeply courageous leaders who resist in ingenious ways. They know that there is a moment for taking to the street (as happened during the 2006 protests against anti-immigrant legislation), and that they will turn out, time and again, in public displays of protest against anything that would threaten to steal the future from their children.

I sense that he is doubtful about all of this, but I insist that our communities are in a moment of survival, and that our communities are quietly playing the system. Our families will not so easily surrender their livelihoods to someone else’s best new idea. They opt, instead, to play the long game. Parents focus on the education of their children. They seek, against all odds, to figure out a way to own a home, to fence in a space for their family, their things, and their pride.

The casual observer will miss this, distracted perhaps by the intimations of public corruption and the old, sour tunes of the national candidates who, casting their eyes to the south, talk about walls and roving patrols and torture.

The young man became quiet. He finished up some notes, and then asked me to capture my sense of the border community in two words.

I said, “Young.”

I said “Patient.”

He thanked me, and took his leave.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and the neighbor across the street had five families visiting. His yard streamed with children.

I shouted a hello at him and he crossed the street to greet me.

“My boys are doing really well in school”, he said to me, in Spanish. “All A-s.”

He nodded good-bye, finished his cigarette and headed back through the gate into his yard. A soccer ball careened toward him. He deftly trapped the ball, and then gently tapped it between two posts.

“!Gol!” he shouted.

“!Gol!” agreed his all-A’s sons.

The gods of  resistance smiled.

Conversations about Home

A poem by Warsaw Shire, 26 November 2012 (This poem was originally published in Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth’ (2011).

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Well, I think home spat me out, the blackouts and curfews like tongue against loose tooth. God, do you know how difficult it is, to talk about the day your own city dragged you by the hair, past the old prison, past the school gates, past the burning torsos erected on poles like flags? When I meet others like me I recognise the longing, the missing, the memory of ash on their faces. No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark. I’ve been carrying the old anthem in my mouth for so long that there’s no space for another song, another tongue or another language. I know a shame that shrouds, totally engulfs. I tore up and ate my own passport in an airport hotel. I’m bloated with language I can’t afford to forget.

They ask me how did you get here? Can’t you see it on my body? The Libyan desert red with immigrant bodies, the Gulf of Aden bloated, the city of Rome with no jacket. I hope the journey meant more than miles because all of my children are in the water. I thought the sea was safer than the land. I want to make love but my hair smells of war and running and running. I want to lay down, but these countries are like uncles who touch you when you’re young and asleep. Look at all these borders, foaming at the mouth with bodies broken and desperate. I’m the colour of hot sun on my face, my mother’s remains were never buried. I spent days and nights in the stomach of the truck, I did not come out the same. Sometimes it feels like someone else is wearing my body.

I know a few things to be true. I do not know where I am going, where I have come from is disappearing, I am unwelcome and my beauty is not beauty here. My body is burning with the shame of not belonging, my body is longing. I am the sin of memory and the absence of memory. I watch the news and my mouth becomes a sink full of blood. The lines, the forms, the people at the desks, the calling cards, the immigration officer, the looks on the street, the cold settling deep into my bones, the English classes at night, the distance I am from home. But Alhamdulilah all of this is better than the scent of a woman completely on fire, or a truckload of men who look like my father, pulling out my teeth and nails, or fourteen men between my legs, or a gun, or a promise, or a lie, or his name, or his manhood in my mouth.

I hear them say, go home, I hear them say, fucking immigrants, fucking refugees. Are they really this arrogant? Do they not know that stability is like a lover with a sweet mouth upon your body one second and the next you are a tremor lying on the floor covered in rubble and old currency waiting for its return. All I can say is, I was once like you, the apathy, the pity, the ungrateful placement and now my home is the mouth of a shark, now my home is the barrel of a gun. I’ll see you on the other side.

This poem was originally published in Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth’ (2011).

Our Children, Left Behind

How Are the Children?Last spring, the mother of an eighth grader living in a community just outside of Brownsville, Texas, went to the offices of her daughter’s school. A tall, strong and stern looking woman, the mother is a respectful, patient, and kind person. After three trips to the office, the mother finally got an appointment with the school’s guidance counselor.

During the meeting, the mother told the counselor that she was concerned that her daughter would not be able to get into a university upon high school graduation, and, to that end, that she wanted to be sure that her girl would be enrolled in an Algebra II class. “If she doesn’t take Algebra II, she can’t enroll in the university.”

According to the mother, the guidance counselor chuckled and said, “My dear, there are only 62 seats in the Algebra II course, and those are reserved for the very special students. You know that not all students are college material.”

Fortunately for her daughter, this mother was a member of a “Comunitario”, a community-based, family leadership group that leverages the collective wisdom of its members to create change in their children’s schools. The mother, like the others in the Comunitario, knew that her child had a right to equal treatment under the law. Her participation in the Comunitario, however, had helped the mom to understand that achieving equal treatment for her child would not happen magically. Indeed, getting her daughter “college ready” would require an extraordinary amount of effort that she was all too willing to do.

“The thing that concerns me more than anything, more than my job, more than even my health, is that my daughter get the best education there is,” commented the mother after having shared her story.

Ever since its 2008 Equal Voice for America’s Families Campaign, members of the Rio Grande Valley Equal Voice Network have continued to select education as a policy priority. Unfortunately for our region’s school children, the State of Texas has not been a willing partner in this effort. In 2011, Texas cut billions of dollars from public education programs, and, then in 2013, Texas Governor Rick Perry signed into law HB5, a mandate that exponentially cheapened high school graduation requirements, leaving many graduates unable to enter a university. With HB5, eighth graders (13 year olds) were expected to choose a career path, a decision that, if uninformed, could easily cripple any chance for them to escape poverty.

School districts in Texas have accommodated themselves in different ways to HB5. The bill’s requirement are so complicated that whether or not a child could enroll in an Algebra II course before graduation became the litmus test for the quality of her high school diploma. Offering Algebra II to all students is the expensive option, as it requires the school districts to hire the appropriate personnel. Most districts, in the end, made nice with the new tracking system.

One school superintendent told me that he thought it was great that the state was finally encouraging “shop” classes. “You know, so many of these kids have no business preparing for college. Being a welder is a great job, and brings in good money,” he told me.

I asked him, “Well, that may be the case, but how on earth can an 8th grader make that decision?”

“That’s the job of the parents!” he shot back.

Equal Voice leaders, however, were not so sure that parents were even aware of the choices that their 8th graders were being asked to make. With the help of the Intercultural Development Research Association (IDRA) out of San Antonio and with the deep collaboration of RGV-EV core organizations, a survey instrument was designed to measure just how much parents knew about the consequences of HB5. Throughout the spring of 2015, over 1,600 parents from across the region were questioned about HB5.

The results were disturbing. https://magic.piktochart.com/output/5884973-equal-voice-rgv-hb5-community-survey-infographic-english

nada en absoluto85% of those surveyed said they had little or no knowledge about the changes in Texas’ graduation plans. 80% said that they had little or no sense of the impact of HB5 on their children’s future. Two-thirds of the parents with children in middle school or high school said that they did not know which track their children were in.

The members of the Equal Voice comunitarios reflected on the results. One question that came up, again and again, was whether or not school officials were aware of just how far ranging the ignorance around HB5 was. The group decided to invite school superintendents, and local university and college officials to a regional round-table in August. A regional collective-impact group (RGV-Focus) offered their support, and plans were made.

03 Mesa Comunitaria Aug 201531The meeting was successful beyond expectations. Parents shared stories and school administrators shared frustrations. Both parents and school district officials talked about their personal dreams for the children of the region. At the end of the long morning, the stakeholders gathered with their peers and drew up a set of action plans designed to address, at least to a manageable degree, the great gap between what parents knew, and what they needed to know with regard to the children’s education.

The bigger issue is of course, school funding. The simple fact that there is a huge lack of school counselors will doom many of our children to a stunted educational career, simply because there was no one there to help them navigate this new way of creating a future.

In the light of this new future, there is no lack of Texans working on behalf of the children that will be left behind. A couple of weeks ago I was invited to Austin to share this experience with a group of researchers who were focused in on how to make the best out of HB5. I had gone up a day earlier to meet with a young woman who had grown up in Brownsville and was presently studying linguistics at the University of Texas. At the end of our breakfast together, I had asked her if there was anything that had happened recently that had caused her joy. She smiled, and said, “Yes! My counselor told me that my linguistics coursework could be set so that I could choose any language that I wanted. I choose Urdu!”

It is a very long way from Brownsville to the lands where Urdu is spoken, and it is a complicated path to negotiate. This young Texan, however, had had the advantage of someone helping her chart that route. What I have learned from our Comunitarios, is that some of the best navigators for children are often their parents—especially when they know the lay of the land.

Released, Alive.

Way of the cross and border patrol April 9 2004Last week I met with a writer who is thinking about moving to the area. He had been out and about, meeting people, visiting different places, getting a feel for the Rio Grande Valley. We met in a downtown Brownsville café.

This café is only a few blocks from the border wall, from the Rio Grande, and from Mexico. It is a much-needed space for art, and encourages young and old musicians alike to share their talent on the small stage. The hospitality of the owners of the cafe makes it a great place for conversation.

Although there is no altar or priest, I think that it is quite possibly the best church I have ever been in.

The writer and I had just settled into the back and forth of getting to know someone, when one of the owners sidled up to the table, introduced himself to the writer, and took a seat.

The conversation switched back and forth from English to Spanish, from national politics to the wonders of life in Mexico City.

We spoke about the challenges of living along the Texas/Mexico border, with the obscene violence of the drug cartels in Matamoros, Rio Bravo and Reynosa pressing us in from one side, and the institutionalized and complicated violence of immigration politics in Texas bearing down from the other.

At one point, the owner leaned forward and said,

“This is what it is like. My father is 92 years old. He is here on a tourist visa, so he can cross back and forth from Mexico. And he needs to go to Mexico, as he goes to the doctor, and buys his medicines over there. There is no way he could afford to do that in Brownsville. But here’s the thing—I am here on the sort of visa that does not allow me to go back to Mexico. And so my dad goes over there on his own. But what happens if he loses his way? What happens if he forgets his papers?”

Because this is still a small town, it turns out that I know one of the officers at the bridge, and write a name and a phone number down on a small piece of paper. I tell the owner, “Give this to your dad; should something happen, he needs to ask for the officer.”

Immigration policy these days sometimes seems to come down to notes handwritten on small pieces of paper, and tucked away against a very bad day.

Not a policy. Not just. Just necessary.

We move onto other stories—one about a family and a son who had been kidnapped by a drug cartel, and tortured and beaten. His mother finally quit taking phone calls from the gang at about 1am. When she awoke the next morning, she had 38 unanswered calls from the same number. Calls went out asking for advice; no one, no one seemed to have any good ideas. The whole episode is a diabolical extension of her son’s torture.

I turned to the writer and said, “You can see how complicated this becomes. We certainly worry about her son, but I have to ask myself—where does SHE go? Where does she take her anxiety? How does she not get sick?”

We talked about the Syrian refugees who were supposedly coming north to the Valley. We fretted over the Central American children who were being “rocket-docked” out of the United States, right back to the narco-violence that would consume them alive. We shared  embarrassment that the US refused to even discuss saving the lives of Mexican children, kids facing the very same violence as those from Honduras or El Salvador.

The writer looked up from his notes and asked, but why then live here?

And the owner of the cafe, in the end a philosopher and a poet, said, “But why not? What we are living here is an event of historical transcendence. In fifty years, in one hundred years, people will be discussing about how the US and Mexico worked out this border issue. Plus—it is our home. I have actually gotten to watch the young musicians who play here grow up over the years, and become, well, pretty damned good at what they do.”

The owner then smiled at us, stood up and took his farewell. The writer and I got up to leave as well. I hope he decides to stay, as he seemed intelligent and sensitive. And he seems to know how to listen.

As I left the café, I checked my text messages. Someone had written to say that the kidnapped boy, horribly beaten, had been released, alive.

No one could say why.

“We saw the star…”

00lights for xmasLast week while I sat in a chair at my dentist’s office, a very kind young woman stuck sharp things in my mouth and talked about her upcoming marriage. She was excited, somehow able to bounce on her feet and yet not poke holes in my mouth. “Ah, love,” I thought, and then, before she began spraying ice water on my poor teeth, I managed to ask her where the new couple was planning to go for their honeymoon.

“Paris,” she said.

Followed by silence. She turned off the machine, put down her instruments, crossed her arms, and looked down at the floor. She seemed at once defensive and thoughtful.

I myself have been thinking about what happened this past November 13th in Paris, and the over 130 folks who died while celebrating music, a soccer game, or a cup of tea in a corner café. The latest analysis of the event was that the terrorists intended to attack the very romance of Paris itself.

The soon-to-be-wed woman then said, “Yeah, well my family thinks that we are crazy, but I love that city, and, you know, we are all just going to have to learn how to live in this new world. I am not going to let them take my life away,” she concluded, and then she picked up her poking tools.

I thought for a while about who the “they” might be whom she felt were trying to take her life away. Surely the terrorists, but maybe, also the politicians who see Paris and the San Bernadino violence less as tragedies and more as opportunities to fly their particular hate and fear banners.  Or maybe the “they” are the folks in her life who love her and fear for her. Or maybe she is just in love and being stubborn about traveling to Paris with the man who captured her heart.

I carried these thoughts with me throughout the rest of the day. The news continues to be filled with reactions to the horrors in Paris, and San Bernadino, then came the calls to ban all Syrians—even five year olds— from seeking safety in our land. The irony of a nation refusing refuge to families from the Middle East at the behest of self-proclaimed Christian politicians—in the midst of preparations to celebrate the birth of a family seeking refuge—was ignored. I was saddened, not for the first time, by how Christians so easily accommodate their faith to be shaped by fear.

Evening fell, and the homeowners who managed to save a little money switched on their holiday lights. Christmas, with its themes of wandering royalty, homeless mothers, hospitality and revelation, seems to begin earlier and earlier each year. Our community does this bit of festive work quite well. It is hard to find a block in our neighborhood without multiple houses lit up with those bright lights that celebrate joy and hope to reflect  that once-upon-a-time a star coming to a standstill over a manger, a posada, an inn with some room (albeit in the back) for these middle-eastern refugees.

The celebration of human hope is ancient. It was surely part of the thoughts of those ancestors who long ago gathered around a fire both to warm themselves and to keep out the dark. Terror is nothing new, even if today it is more efficient, it still remains present—as it is our terror.

What can be different is our response to these forces of darkness. I, for one, do not think that all of us will surrender to fear.  I do worry, though, that there are many of us who continue to give into the spiral of violence. Those who stand to profit from the brutality of this violence are many, and, if shutting off the light of hope puts coins in their pockets, or lifts their cause to new heights, then they will dedicate themselves to frightening us.

That, too, is a form of terrorism.

Keep This Religion in Our Politics

CV-nJ4sVAAAM8AJIt was like any other gathering of church people, any other place on earth.  On the evening before an important feast day, mostly a middle-aged and older group of people, nearly all of them women, organized a prayer.

In this very Catholic part of the religious world, some of the women carried rosaries, and two of them had decorated an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe, the icon of the Mexican church, and whose feast day we were preparing to celebrate.

What was different about this particular religious gathering was the place and the timing. 

The place: we conducted our procession in the shadow of the wall the US had put up between the United States and Mexico. A wall the United States pierced through this land, scarcely 100 feet away, is a looming reminder of where we were.

And the timing—we were just weeks after the violence of Paris, Colorado Springs, and San Bernadino. The timing is important to note, for those who made this protest were domestic workers who live and work in the shadows of this American bordered community, some of the most vulnerable people in our area. They are indigenous people of color, who migrate only to become the undocumented scapegoats for a load of politicians taking advantage of people’s ignorance and fear.

These women, unprotected and exposed, are not naive. They are very aware of how politicians stoke American paranoia. They are wise women. Women who grapple with the quality of life that the more than 11 million immigrants in this country suffer, and this group of organizers decided to speak out. For them, the worst thing that could happen in these times is to remain silent in the face of the devastating aggression rolling across America’s unbalanced media.

The women are organized and created a community of domestic  workers across our region (Domesticas del Valle, a project with Fuerza del Valle Workers’ Center).

They are also women of faith, who on the eve of this significant feast day, needed to share the message of the Guadalupana: Be strong. Be unafraid. Be organized.

We waited a bit more for the local parish priest to show up, but after a while, our leader took the initiative and organized the procession. Those carrying the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe were placed in front, the rest of us walked three abreast, careful to stay on the shoulder of the roadway as we moved down the old Military Highway toward the parish church.

The organizer of the action had asked the sheriff’s department to send a patrol car, given the dangers of walking down the Military Highway. As we lined up for the procession, the deputy, eying one of the banners (“Stop the Deportations”), weCV_Xf_DUwAAHM9Int up to the organizer and said, “I thought that this was a religious event.” She very calmly (and correctly) assured him that it was. The deputy was confused—for there was in fact a lovely image of the Virgin, and the women were singing religious songs and carrying rosaries.

He thought for a moment, and then returned to his patrol care, having decided to offer his bit of sanctuary for this community.

The women were carrying much more than banners and images of the Virgin. They were bringing to public prayer their own experiences of deep suffering and pain. One woman was left with no recourse but to sleep in a family’s bathtub, another woman was subjected to bizarre and continual sexual exploitation, many have been separated from their own children and families for years, working in a strange land to feed and clothe their little ones.

They carried a powerful sense of solidarity. For all of the challenges facing them, however deep the shadows in which they lived out their lives, they are increasingly aware that there is much that connects them.

Two of the women, just a few months before, had joined hundreds of women who walked 100 miles to celebrate the arrival of Pope Francis to the United States, and to draw attention to the Pope’s message of dignity and respect for the immigrant.

In order to keep that experience alive, communities who face undocumentation from across the nation gather the 11th day of each month (in recognition of the 11 million unauthorized immigrants in the United States) and to walk, together, offering hope and the strength of solidarity to their fellow migrants. The action is intended to be sacrificial in nature, for the message is a serious one. The message is also beneficial in effect, standing in counterpoint to the hateful rhetoric searing the nation.

We arrived at the church, just as the sun was setting. There was some prayer, and some photos, and then, one by one, the marchers made their way back to their places of work, or, if they were lucky, to their families. 

The evening shadows lengthened, but somehow, on this evening, they did not seem as dark, or as threatening, an effect, I think, of the sense of not being out there, all alone.