Immigration Papers by Jennifer M. Ortega

May 30, 2010

The Arizona Law SB 1070 requiring anyone to show their immigration
papers if stopped by police. Well, what if you don’t have any because
you were born in the U.S.?

I often leave my apartment in Greenwich Village to go on my morning
walk or to the deli to pick up some juice. I leave with twenty bucks
in my pocket, my iphone, and keys to my apartment. My exercise
clothes don’t have pockets, so I stuff the money into my bra, clip my
phone to my pants and carry my keys. I usually don’t take my drivers
license when I do these activates. Usually leaving my I.D. I can’t buy
liquor, get into a secured building, or risk being found in the Hudson
River and buried in potters field because no one can identify
decomposed body. It’s a risk I choose to take. However, lately I’ve
become a perturbed if I do not take my I.D. I might be shipped to a
deportation center and or harassed in general by the police. I know
this really kind of outlandish to be thinking coming from a MAP
(Mexican-American Princess) like myself, but it’s what crosses my mind
now when I prepare to leave my home.

Like I’ve said in previous postings I am brown, as brown as they come.
I love being a brown beauty, but it doesn’t stop me from being
identified as “other”. For example if I hangout with my niece and
nephews in the park, I usually am taken to their nanny. Last year
when I escorted my mother-in-law to a cocktail party at Pretty Brook
Tennis Club in Princeton where her parents were founding members, a
friend of hers Mr. Buck (who owns the Philadelphia Phillies) asked me
“how long, have you worked for Ms. McGraw?” I politely answered, “I
do not work for Ms. McGraw, she is my mother-in-law”. He said “Oh
yes, that’s right I went to your wedding”. I was somewhat daunted but
felt sorry for him because he didn’t remember me and embarrassed
himself by asking me if I was the hired help.

Three weeks ago I lost my wallet with my ID and credit cards. I had
to go to meeting in Irvington, NY. I decided to take the train, when
I could have taken our car on the twenty-six minute drive from
Manhattan because I didn’t have my license. This was a true
precautionary tactic, because I just didn’t want to have to explain to
an officer why I didn’t have my license. Fortunately, I live in New
York, but still, I carried my passport with me on the train just in
case I got asked to show my papers.

What a surprise! Someone nicely mailed back my wallet to me, of
course, after I ordered my replacement license online. What a relief,
I could drive again without feeling paranoid when I saw a cop. I
can’t tell you how freeing it was, to be free again. Now, when I
leave my apartment I take my license because you never know who will
ask you for your immigration papers.

Labor Concubines? Discussion

Some of the ethnic studies classes that Arizona looks down upon as divisive actually inform us that deportations of Mexicans have occurred for over a hundred years. It's a cyclical phenomena that occurs mostly when the economy is a recession or depression. It's got a lot to do with economics--cheap labor is good unless there's not enough money to ... support the workers who provide it. In some people's view, it is ostensibly better to get rid of the undocumented workers who are there now and get a new supply of workers from Mexico when they need them again later.

Naibe Reynoso--A reporter/producer and colleague from Los Angeles responds:

Celina indeed the US has the best of both worlds: cheap labor when needed without " long term" commitments to the immigrants that work long hard hours at low rates. Not giving them "papers" is the PERFECT way to criminalize a defenseless population. It's mind blowing that after all their blood sweat and tears they are still "the bad guys" and ...that they had the "audacity" to "commit a heinous crime" by crossing the border to allow themselves to be taken advantage of by business who use their cheap labor ... I have a blessed life and can afford to have dinners etc..Last night I went to lunch: valet guys Latinos, I went to an art show , guys serving wine and apps: latino, I went to have sushi: waiter AND kitchen staff: Latino... Now I'm sure they are all extremely talented and had to settle for those jobs because of life circumstances, it angers me that we see them as second class citizens and on top of that as criminals when we enjoy there services,,. I don't know if they were legal or not but what I do know is that by making a certain population illegal and unable to " move up" in the world, it's a guaranteed cheap labor force without long term promises... A kind of labor concubine...

Rant #2 By Jennifer M. Ortega NYC, May 10, 2010

My husband Curtis gives out grants through his family foundation, and occasionally he searches on the Internet to see where the foundation name comes up. Well, it came up the other day on the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation who reported RWJF and the Curtis W. McGraw Foundation both gave money to LATINA HEALTH PROJECT. Curtis couldn’t remember making the grant them but concluded the foundation gave the grant to Planned Parenthood and they re-granted the unrestricted gift to the Latina Health Project. It was just surprising to him, but not in a bad way, more like “oh, that’s were they applied the grant to, good”.

Then another family member says “I don’t know about Planned Parenthood anymore, on my last visit at the Hightstown clinic no one there spoke English, they all spoke Spanish.” I replied “well they’re suppose to able to speak English it’s a clinic in New Jersey” then my relative responded “Well, they don’t and when I told them I got woozy, when my blood is drawn, they didn’t understand me, so when I got dizzy, they scolded me and told me why didn’t I tell them, she replied I told you, I got woozy, then the aid, said oh that’s what woozy means it means dizzy” I remarked to my relative “you don’t speak spanglish?” “No” she replied indignantly

Then my relative said “well it doesn’t matter they closed down that clinc anyway.”
I had many feelings at once. What the hell they don’t speak English? Why are you going to a clinic in the first place? Umm you come from money. And of course it matters they closed the clinic, it served women and families for STD’s, Reproductive/Sex Education and other services women need to have a healthy life.

I am Chicano; I was born in South Texas, where my mother, grandparents, great-grandparents and great-great-grand- parents were born. I can even prove it. Well, when I was seventeen years old I moved to NYC. I wanted to be part of the big apple, it was nothing like Texas, when I got to NY, I got my mother to emancipate me (not file me on her tax returns), I worked a whole bunch of jobs, established my NY state residency and applied to Hunter College (another sort of immigrant). In the process I formed a relationship with my boyfriend Curtis. He lived in New Jersey and I in New York. It was sort of a long distance relationship, but it worked for me because I was busy and he was a single parent. I didn’t’ need to see him everyday. I traveled with my friends, or my boyfriend, got involved in theater, went to graduate school, produced theater and then married Curtis. I also want to mention my boyfriend comes from a small WASP family, whom many consider TOP SHELF. It never really registers with me, I guess that’s why we get along so well, I only see him as person first, and not this top shelf status.
We dated for a really long time because well, I really never wanted to get married until I hit my thirties, anyhow, our families also had to get used to each other and I guess we had to learn each other’s rules and customs. I mean I do come from a large Mexican/American Chicano family and he comes from a WASP-y one, very different worlds but same inter-personal relationship problems as everyone else.

WASP have rules of conduct and Chicanos or let’s say my family have different rules of conduct. One WASP rule is you always have to call before you visit a family, you can’t just stop by or a WASP has the right not to receive you or much worse think you are ill-mannered person. In Texas where we drive long distances and towns are spread apart, it’s customary to stop unannounced and say hello. My parents and grand parents would do this all the time and their friends did too. We always had unexpected company and it was always a greeted with joy. I stopped by unannounced a couple of times to Curtis’s parents and siblings and well they were off put shall we say. Another WASP rule is you can’t bring guest to a party you were invited to unless you call the host and ask permission. Most of the time you just don’t invite a guest unless it’s guest is from out of town. With a Chicano family, we don’t have that rule, I mean we all have big families and are always toting a cousin or two with us. I remember getting invitations in the mail for parties and weddings and they were addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Ortega and family. That’s how we rolled with family, ten of us in two-door Grand Prix. There are a whole lot more differences and similarities but that’s for later. My entire family and in-laws are a tri-racial family and we have assumptions and prejudice of each other, we still need to work on.
In the end my body language conveyed a message to my family member that said, “watch what you say, or I’m going to be all over you” and I believe she reconsidered what she said, but I don’t really know, because we dropped the subject, when she said, “they closed that clinic down anyhow”. I guess the problem was solved for her, but in the end there is a community of women who don’t have local healthcare clinic they can go to and I didn’t do a very good job defending them.

FOR THE "CAPITOL NINE" a poem by Francisco X. Alarcón

to the nine students who were arrested on April 19, 2010
at the Arizona State Capitol for protesting SB 1070

carnalitos
y carnalitas
brothers
and sisters:

from afar
we can hear
your heart beats

they are
the drums
of the Earth

our people
follow closely
your steps

as warriors
of justice
and peace

you take on
the Beast
of hatred

the unlawful
police enforcement
of discrimination

chain yourselves
to the doors
of the State Capitol

so that terror
will not leak out
to our streets

your voices
your actions
your courage

can’t be taken
away from us
and put in jail

you are nine
young warriors
like nine sky stars

you are the hope
the best dreams
of our nation

your faces
are radiant
as the Sun

they will break
this dark night
for a new day

yes, carnalitas
and carnalitos:
all our sisters
all our brothers

need no papers
to prove once
and for all

“we are humans
just like you are–
we are not criminals”

our plea comes to
“NO to criminalization!
YES to legalization!”

by Francisco X. Alarcón © 2010

Arizona Rant #1 by Jennifer Michelle Ortega, NYC

What the hell is this country coming to? I never in my life thought I
would say those words, perhaps because the shit beam of injustice
wasn’t on me. Or it hasn’t been for a long time and I filed it away
in my busy little head. The Arizona bill SB-1070 is insulting. Not
only is it insulting, it really doesn’t do any good to turn citizens
against one another with suspicion. I recently was in a restaurant;
I looked around and saw a lot of people who didn’t look like me. I
thought to myself “do all these people think I’m an illegal
immigrant?” As I looked at them, thinking what they “might” think of
me, that’s when it hit me how insidious the Arizona Immigration law
is. I think people who don’t look like me, may think I’m an illegal
immigrant because I am obviously of Mexican decent (though my
relatives have been in Texas for eons). Then I in return think
they’re racist. All these thoughts race inside my head and makes me
grumpy, resentful not only at myself because of my inner thoughts
conversation I’ve had in my head, but because my thoughts went there
in the first place; and all due to a law passed in Arizona that I had
no control over. I have no idea what the people in the restaurant
were thinking; no words, or glances were ever exchanged between anyone
and myself.
Fear of others judgment can really screw with my head and it makes me
feel unworthy, unequal, and like a second-class citizen in a country,
I’m indigenous to.

Poem--Celina Martinez

Seis Seis Cinco Harvard

Outside. Playing outside. The duplex on
Harvard where we lived. The front yard, other
kids weren’t there. I should’ve been inside. It
was time to eat but I didn’t want to
go in. A car parks at the curb, a blonde
woman appears, walking toward me, “come
here” she says. I barely understand her
but I know she wants to take me away,
“Come here, “ she repeats, pointing to the car
on my street. I don’t know her, but maybe,
she must be a teacher from school. She walks
to where I am and something quick happens
inside my skin that tells me that I won’t
see Harvard street again, never repeat
what my mother said in case I get lost.
The street doesn’t hear me. Cambodians
next door squat on the floor, their doors open,
as night’s falling, echoes of TV’s blare
the same channel, the same voice of a man
telling the news in Spanish. The woman
doesn’t look like one of those strangers my
mother says not to talk to, one of those
monsters that appear out of her mouth: if
you’re bad, someone will come get you, she says.
The woman wears a skirt and pantyhose.
There are circles of sweat like mouths open
under her arms. I back away till I’m
pressed against the concrete block of porch.
The woman takes my arm and pulls, fingers
digging. I’m cold. I pull away and run
toward the backhouse where the naked
Nemí, always guarding the door, stands
in diapers and my mother says, “No shame,”
because being naked is bad. I hear
bullfights and specials on dining room sets,
Matador Carabello’s commercial
repeats from the sky over my house
and other houses on the block, louder
than the man who tells the news. I try not
to hear the woman’s high heels click behind
me, crazy and hard like the beating
inside my chest. I run to the trashcans
on the side of Nemí’s porch and pick up
one of the lids and put it up like I
will hit her. But I can’t reach to her blouse
which is the color of cream my mother
puts on her face. A shadow shifts over
us. Matador Carabello says he
has good prices. My father took me to
his store and Matador wasn’t there,
only a big cardboard of him, with his
hat and belly and bullfighter suit.
I back into the trashcans, still holding
the lid. Metal and cement make a sound
like scraping. At nighttime they make no noise.

Not so Happy Cinco de Mayo

Tomorrow is Cinco de Mayo, the Mexican American version of St. Patrick's day, when liquor companies use the Battle of Puebla as an excuse to get people hammered. Well, I for one am not in the mood for nachos and margarita specials (and that's saying a lot, because I love nachos and margarita specials). But ever since the passage of Arizona's anti-immigrant bill, SB-1070, I've been more inclined to attend marches and rallies and write angry letters and go back to the history books and write lengthy treatises on how this bill is a prime example of history repeating itself.

Instead of trying to do this all myself, I'd like to open up discussion and a forum for other writers, academics, and artists to respond to what's going on in Arizona and in the country as a whole. This blog is a forum for us to respond to the anti-immigrant legislation recently passed in Arizona and to give a voice, a face, and a history to the people who are being silenced and treated as criminals. I'd like to create a community that returns the dignity, humanity, and history to our people.

This is also a place where people who have a respect and/or a connection to these issues and experiences to participate. I look forward to celebrating Cinco de Mayo by discussing the fate of Mexicans, Latinos, and all immigrants and people of color in the U.S.