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Here I am, back in the U.S. After several years, I feel like a tourist in my own country. I appreciate that, as it offers me more opportunities to explore, learn and travel.
This weekend I went to DC to visit some friends. The growth of the immigrant population since I lived there a decade ago is very visible. In Annandale, we passed a very large house for sale, but instead of For Sale, it said Se Vende. I thought they were trying to attract a wealthy Hispanic family. “No,” my friend Larisa said. “They are going to get about 7-10 families together to buy the place and they will stuff everyone inside, breaking all housing laws.”
Since the northern Virginia area has the largest concentration of Bolivians in the U.S., as well as lots of other Hispanic immigrants, I asked if we could eat at a central American restaurant. It seemed we’d have a good chance of getting authentic food.
Larisa told us she’d take us to an area with a couple of places and we could choose one. We followed her and pulled up at a ratty El Salvadorian-Mexican place. Across the street was a much nicer looking place. However, this place had a couple of customers at the late hour of 3 p.m. Maybe the food was good.
We went in and the crowd of Hispanic men at the bar winked and smirked. There were two other pairs there, both Hispanic, seated at the plain tables. I didn’t get a good feeling, but at that point was too lazy to drive across the street. So we decided to stay, as long as we could sit far back, out of sight of the men at the bar.
Brightly colored El Salvadorian paintings lined the walls and the jukebox blared music in Spanish. We weren’t there five minutes before I started to notice regular traffic headed to the men’s room. Within a period of minutes, at least one male from every group had gone to the bathroom. There was something going on in there – we later theorized it was a drug drop site. Looking out the window, trying to ignore the men coming past us into the bathroom, I saw several stocky men loitering in front of the check cashing joint/Latino Laundromat across the street. We seemed to have showed up for lunch in gang central.
“This is the kind of place I can’t come and eat alone,” Larisa said.
I wondered why she brought us. Poor Mark was very uncomfortable. He’d just succeeded in getting me from South America to his own country. And within days, he was brought into a micro-El Salvador, right within the DC metropolitan area.
We paid a visit to a pleasant local park, took a riverboat cruise past the monuments, from one vibrant, café-filled area (Georgetown) to another (Old Town Alexandria), where the streets were filled with a variety of performances. And we paid a short visit to the Manassas National Battlefield, where we learned about the battle of July 21, 1862. Early in the war, it still attracted picnickers that came from Washington, DC to watch the fighting. However, over 6,000 soldiers died in what would eventually result as a Confederate victory. It was impressive to look out over the green hills, lined with trees, and imagine the people there on a hot summer day, dressed in woolen pants and long-sleeved jackets, marching miles upon miles, and fighting a battle for their lives.
Showing posts with label immigration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label immigration. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Urkupina dances and a conversation with an illegal immigrant
During my two-hour lunch break, I took a taxi to the neighboring town of Quillacollo, where today marked the beginning of the week-long festival of the Virgen de Urcupina. This is a major celebration, not just locally, but also attracting visitors from around the country. It was a bit hard for me to understand when I arrived why people got so excited about a virgin, why they took a whole week to celebration it, and why Thursday would be a local holiday, with people excused from work. But in the past few days, I’m understanding it as a combination of faith, hope, and an excuse to have a good time.
The story is that a peasant girl was feeding her sheep on this hill when she was approached by a woman with a boy in her arms. They had a long conversation and the woman promised to return. She did return to this child several other times. Though the girl thought this occurrence natural, when the elders in her community learned about it, they went to inform their neighbors in Quillacollo. They told the girl to tell them immediately the next time the woman appeared. The next time she appeared, the girl ran to tell her parents and they hurried to tell people in Quillacollo. When the people arrived at the indicated place, they saw the beautiful woman they knew was the virgin. As the virgin rose into the air from the place she was sitting, the girl pointed up at her and shouted “There is she, in the hill.”
People can ask the virgin for favors and they make promises as a sign of their faith. A common promise is to pledge to dance in the festival and/or make the pilgrimage for three years in a row. On the first full day of the celebration, all the dance groups, called fraternities, enter the town in a parade that lasts the entire day. Members have to pay for elaborate costumes, costing up to $300-400, and these may only be used for one year.
When I arrived, it was midday and the temperature reached 31 degrees Celsius. I walked along a street packed with people and filled with vendors – selling hats, sunglasses and drinks, as well as bras, sponges and mirrors. I breathed in the sweet smell of fried chicken, cotton candy, and sliced watermelon and pineapple.
One needs to arrive early, and pay, to get a seat in the bleachers. So I joined the others without the money or time for a good seat, and peered through the spaces in the bleachers. The dancers came by – men, women and children, young, middle-aged and elderly – in colorful costumes. Many of them were full length and heavy. My colleague Celia said they could weigh up to 50 kilograms. Some looked exhausted and drank water while sweat ran down their faces. Others ignored the suffering and shouted with enthusiasm, their suffering a welcome part of their sacrifice to the virgin.
The onlookers looked happy and upbeat, surrounded by music and food. I saw that no matter how seriously one took the virgin story, it was an excuse for the community to unite, to create something fun and beautiful.
On my way back to Cochabamba, I had a fascinating discussion with my taxi driver, Fernando. He spent two years in the U.S. as an illegal alien and just returned to Bolivia this past December. He lived in northern Virginia and worked at odd jobs, such as painting, or maintenance, for $7 an hour.
“It’s a difficult time now to be an illegal immigrant in the United States,” he said. “I felt my future is not there so I decided to come back.”
He told me about his difficult entry, how he paid $2500 to a coyote to take them across the border. He traveled in a group of ten, eight men and two women.
“We had to cross the river naked and carry our clothing over our heads. These women were so determined to get there that they didn’t even have any shame in removing all their clothing.”
He told me they walked for 1.5 days and had a single gallon of water to share among the 10 of us. I asked him what the relations were like among the group. “At the beginning, we tried to help each other, especially the women. They really slowed us down a lot. But at the end, we just didn’t have any strength left.”
He told me about the chaos at the border – the criminality, the drugs, the fear of being murdered and never seen again.
“I’d never seen drugs before in Bolivia,” he said. “I’d have no idea where to buy any. But once I got to the U.S. border, I was surrounded by them.”
He said that not many people cross through the desert, because they can be spotted too easily. He crossed in an area where, if planes were to fly over, they wouldn’t be able to see them. Once they reached a designated place, cars came to pick them up. They got to Houston. From there, he paid an additional $500 to be taken to northern Virginia.
The crossing experience was the worst of his life. “No one told me how bad it is,” he said. “They all lie. But I would never tell anyone it’s easy. I tell them to think about it very carefully, that you can be killed and never heard from again and no one will know about it.”
I asked how one could be killed.
“The Mexicans are rough,” he said. “They will murder someone just to get the $200 they are carrying.”
I asked how people bring their families, how do they get their spouses and children through.
“I wouldn’t risk it for anything in the world,” he said.
He proudly told me he received his driver’s license in the U.S., though he didn’t learn any English in his two years. “In Maryland,” he said. “One of the few states that will give a license without proof of documentation.”
But he had a harder time getting a false social security number, and without that, he had a hard time getting work. I asked who the people employing the illegal immigrants were.
“They are all Latinos,” he said. “The Americans are too scared. The penalties are harsh. The government can even close down a business.”
“But the Latinos aren’t scared?” I asked.
“No.”
He still has a Mexican visa, but has no plans to return. “One can make a living here if they are willing to work,” he said. “That was what I most learned in the U.S., was how to work hard.”
He returned home by air, and no one at the airport asked to see a visa or what he was doing in the U.S.
“I don’t understand why the U.S. doesn’t enforce more control over immigration,” he said. “Why don’t they just close the entire border? They certainly have the capacity to do it. But what the Latinos there are saying is that they are sending all their resources overseas, to Iraq, and that’s why the job opportunities aren’t as good now, and they aren’t able to take care of internal problems.”
He confirmed my impression that many of the Bolivians who migrate to Spain return, but not many return from the States. I found it a fascinating and a unique opportunity to talk to someone who gone through so much to get there, and had come home. I wonder if one reason for the low return rates is the difficult in getting there. If someone spends $2500 and risks his life to arrive in the U.S., I suppose he doesn’t want to risk it again by going home. Whereas, if there was a system in place by which one could come legally, workers could come and go based on their need to work and not remain only out of fear.
The story is that a peasant girl was feeding her sheep on this hill when she was approached by a woman with a boy in her arms. They had a long conversation and the woman promised to return. She did return to this child several other times. Though the girl thought this occurrence natural, when the elders in her community learned about it, they went to inform their neighbors in Quillacollo. They told the girl to tell them immediately the next time the woman appeared. The next time she appeared, the girl ran to tell her parents and they hurried to tell people in Quillacollo. When the people arrived at the indicated place, they saw the beautiful woman they knew was the virgin. As the virgin rose into the air from the place she was sitting, the girl pointed up at her and shouted “There is she, in the hill.”
People can ask the virgin for favors and they make promises as a sign of their faith. A common promise is to pledge to dance in the festival and/or make the pilgrimage for three years in a row. On the first full day of the celebration, all the dance groups, called fraternities, enter the town in a parade that lasts the entire day. Members have to pay for elaborate costumes, costing up to $300-400, and these may only be used for one year.
When I arrived, it was midday and the temperature reached 31 degrees Celsius. I walked along a street packed with people and filled with vendors – selling hats, sunglasses and drinks, as well as bras, sponges and mirrors. I breathed in the sweet smell of fried chicken, cotton candy, and sliced watermelon and pineapple.
One needs to arrive early, and pay, to get a seat in the bleachers. So I joined the others without the money or time for a good seat, and peered through the spaces in the bleachers. The dancers came by – men, women and children, young, middle-aged and elderly – in colorful costumes. Many of them were full length and heavy. My colleague Celia said they could weigh up to 50 kilograms. Some looked exhausted and drank water while sweat ran down their faces. Others ignored the suffering and shouted with enthusiasm, their suffering a welcome part of their sacrifice to the virgin.
The onlookers looked happy and upbeat, surrounded by music and food. I saw that no matter how seriously one took the virgin story, it was an excuse for the community to unite, to create something fun and beautiful.
On my way back to Cochabamba, I had a fascinating discussion with my taxi driver, Fernando. He spent two years in the U.S. as an illegal alien and just returned to Bolivia this past December. He lived in northern Virginia and worked at odd jobs, such as painting, or maintenance, for $7 an hour.
“It’s a difficult time now to be an illegal immigrant in the United States,” he said. “I felt my future is not there so I decided to come back.”
He told me about his difficult entry, how he paid $2500 to a coyote to take them across the border. He traveled in a group of ten, eight men and two women.
“We had to cross the river naked and carry our clothing over our heads. These women were so determined to get there that they didn’t even have any shame in removing all their clothing.”
He told me they walked for 1.5 days and had a single gallon of water to share among the 10 of us. I asked him what the relations were like among the group. “At the beginning, we tried to help each other, especially the women. They really slowed us down a lot. But at the end, we just didn’t have any strength left.”
He told me about the chaos at the border – the criminality, the drugs, the fear of being murdered and never seen again.
“I’d never seen drugs before in Bolivia,” he said. “I’d have no idea where to buy any. But once I got to the U.S. border, I was surrounded by them.”
He said that not many people cross through the desert, because they can be spotted too easily. He crossed in an area where, if planes were to fly over, they wouldn’t be able to see them. Once they reached a designated place, cars came to pick them up. They got to Houston. From there, he paid an additional $500 to be taken to northern Virginia.
The crossing experience was the worst of his life. “No one told me how bad it is,” he said. “They all lie. But I would never tell anyone it’s easy. I tell them to think about it very carefully, that you can be killed and never heard from again and no one will know about it.”
I asked how one could be killed.
“The Mexicans are rough,” he said. “They will murder someone just to get the $200 they are carrying.”
I asked how people bring their families, how do they get their spouses and children through.
“I wouldn’t risk it for anything in the world,” he said.
He proudly told me he received his driver’s license in the U.S., though he didn’t learn any English in his two years. “In Maryland,” he said. “One of the few states that will give a license without proof of documentation.”
But he had a harder time getting a false social security number, and without that, he had a hard time getting work. I asked who the people employing the illegal immigrants were.
“They are all Latinos,” he said. “The Americans are too scared. The penalties are harsh. The government can even close down a business.”
“But the Latinos aren’t scared?” I asked.
“No.”
He still has a Mexican visa, but has no plans to return. “One can make a living here if they are willing to work,” he said. “That was what I most learned in the U.S., was how to work hard.”
He returned home by air, and no one at the airport asked to see a visa or what he was doing in the U.S.
“I don’t understand why the U.S. doesn’t enforce more control over immigration,” he said. “Why don’t they just close the entire border? They certainly have the capacity to do it. But what the Latinos there are saying is that they are sending all their resources overseas, to Iraq, and that’s why the job opportunities aren’t as good now, and they aren’t able to take care of internal problems.”
He confirmed my impression that many of the Bolivians who migrate to Spain return, but not many return from the States. I found it a fascinating and a unique opportunity to talk to someone who gone through so much to get there, and had come home. I wonder if one reason for the low return rates is the difficult in getting there. If someone spends $2500 and risks his life to arrive in the U.S., I suppose he doesn’t want to risk it again by going home. Whereas, if there was a system in place by which one could come legally, workers could come and go based on their need to work and not remain only out of fear.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Last Arrival in Santa Cruz
After the week-long seminar, I stopped in the U.S. for a few days. There, in another quiet, upper-class area, I saw Mexicans lined up along the street early in the morning, apparently looking for work. By 9:30, most of them were gone. In the time I previously lived in that area, I’d never seen that. It seems to be a sign of how out of control the immigration situation is becoming – that in towns across America, immigrants stand out in the open looking for work. Yet they are relegated to remain separate, apart from the population and the culture as long as they don’t pay taxes and can’t legally integrate. It’s an issue that definitely needs addressing.
It was nice to enjoy a couple days of summertime as well as unpack boxes into what will be our new home. It’s old and uneven and the basement is full of dust, spiderwebs and even live spiders. But I love it. It full of the soft light of wooden floors, I find the small rooms cozy, and I love being within walking distance of cafes, shops and a library.
So when I flew into Santa Cruz last night, into the chilly late evening, I realized it would be the last time I’d be arriving, at least this year. Mark and I are expecting a child. So I’ll be staying here through the end of August, then will work remotely from our home until after the birth. After more than three years of overseas living, I’ll be based in the U.S. for the first time. That in itself will be quite an adjustment.
After years of being an overseas resident, I’m afraid I may be one of the people Samuel Huntington referred to in a 2004 article,
“Coming back to America from a foreign strand, they are not likely to be overwhelmed with deep feelings of commitment to their “native land.” Their attitudes and behavior contrast with the overwhelming patriotism and nationalistic identification of the rest of the American public. A major gap is growing in America between the dead or dying souls among its elites and its “Thank God for America” public.”
I don’t think it’s so much a lack of feeling or commitment for my country. But it’s a deep questioning of the popular mentality that comes from learning to look at the broader picture, to consider other perspectives, to not accept what one is fed by a single nationalist media, and to not believe in my country’s superiority without comparative proof.
While I’m seeing more and more the underside of my nation, the areas in which services are desperately needed – from improving healthcare to addressing immigration, from building workplaces and life structures that support community and balance to providing safety and a quality education to poor youth, these problems can seem vast – difficult for an individual to impact. Whereas it’s easier to find individuals and issues in other areas where smaller efforts can make a meaningful difference.
Upon exiting the airport in Santa Cruz, I hopped into a taxi outside the airport, shivering in my t-shirt. The driver wore a jacket, fingerless black gloves, and pulled his collar up around his neck, covering half his face. Unlike the kind old man I had as a driver last time, this one was young, the vehicle ratty and the streets dark and bare. I felt nervous to be alone and didn’t enjoy the ride to my apartment much. But luckily, all went well.
I’m satisfied with my new home in Santa Cruz. While it’s still cold, the wind is light, just a whistle outside my window. I have my own bedroom, bath, and walk-in closet. So even though I share the apartment with up to four others at a time, and cockroaches crawl through the kitchen, my room feels almost like an apartment of its own. For the times when I do emerge from my room, I enjoy having some company I can speak Spanish with.
I returned to work today, and to the routine I have adjusted to here in Santa Cruz. I work for a few hours in the morning, get a workout and something to eat during the lunch break, return to work refreshed for the afternoon, then have some time alone to myself in the evening. Only the weekends vary much. On short notice, I was able to quickly fill up my Saturday, leaving Sunday for some quiet time.
I always knew I wouldn’t stay very long in Bolivia. In fact, I’ve been here longer than the initial two to three months planned. However, now that I have my departure ticket for late August, I feel myself a temporary inhabitant more than ever. And I look upon my experiences with an air of finality, knowing I have only so much time to see what there is to see of this area.
It was nice to enjoy a couple days of summertime as well as unpack boxes into what will be our new home. It’s old and uneven and the basement is full of dust, spiderwebs and even live spiders. But I love it. It full of the soft light of wooden floors, I find the small rooms cozy, and I love being within walking distance of cafes, shops and a library.
So when I flew into Santa Cruz last night, into the chilly late evening, I realized it would be the last time I’d be arriving, at least this year. Mark and I are expecting a child. So I’ll be staying here through the end of August, then will work remotely from our home until after the birth. After more than three years of overseas living, I’ll be based in the U.S. for the first time. That in itself will be quite an adjustment.
After years of being an overseas resident, I’m afraid I may be one of the people Samuel Huntington referred to in a 2004 article,
“Coming back to America from a foreign strand, they are not likely to be overwhelmed with deep feelings of commitment to their “native land.” Their attitudes and behavior contrast with the overwhelming patriotism and nationalistic identification of the rest of the American public. A major gap is growing in America between the dead or dying souls among its elites and its “Thank God for America” public.”
I don’t think it’s so much a lack of feeling or commitment for my country. But it’s a deep questioning of the popular mentality that comes from learning to look at the broader picture, to consider other perspectives, to not accept what one is fed by a single nationalist media, and to not believe in my country’s superiority without comparative proof.
While I’m seeing more and more the underside of my nation, the areas in which services are desperately needed – from improving healthcare to addressing immigration, from building workplaces and life structures that support community and balance to providing safety and a quality education to poor youth, these problems can seem vast – difficult for an individual to impact. Whereas it’s easier to find individuals and issues in other areas where smaller efforts can make a meaningful difference.
Upon exiting the airport in Santa Cruz, I hopped into a taxi outside the airport, shivering in my t-shirt. The driver wore a jacket, fingerless black gloves, and pulled his collar up around his neck, covering half his face. Unlike the kind old man I had as a driver last time, this one was young, the vehicle ratty and the streets dark and bare. I felt nervous to be alone and didn’t enjoy the ride to my apartment much. But luckily, all went well.
I’m satisfied with my new home in Santa Cruz. While it’s still cold, the wind is light, just a whistle outside my window. I have my own bedroom, bath, and walk-in closet. So even though I share the apartment with up to four others at a time, and cockroaches crawl through the kitchen, my room feels almost like an apartment of its own. For the times when I do emerge from my room, I enjoy having some company I can speak Spanish with.
I returned to work today, and to the routine I have adjusted to here in Santa Cruz. I work for a few hours in the morning, get a workout and something to eat during the lunch break, return to work refreshed for the afternoon, then have some time alone to myself in the evening. Only the weekends vary much. On short notice, I was able to quickly fill up my Saturday, leaving Sunday for some quiet time.
I always knew I wouldn’t stay very long in Bolivia. In fact, I’ve been here longer than the initial two to three months planned. However, now that I have my departure ticket for late August, I feel myself a temporary inhabitant more than ever. And I look upon my experiences with an air of finality, knowing I have only so much time to see what there is to see of this area.
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