I am La Migra

Wednesday, 22 July 2009

 

I find out, after returning to the mission that there have been ICE officials scanning the parking lot at Home Depot. Padre runs out there to take care of anyone he can. He returns later; thank god there were no arrests.

But the rest of the day, everyone is jumpy. A new woman comes into the mission and eyes me suspiciously. I overhear her question to the girl I am talking to—Is she the mirga? I am horrified. I never guessed people might look at me and see me as the oppressor.

Later that day, I am interviewing a man. He is homeless, I know, but he is giving me the runaround. I just stop by here, he said, waving at the camp. I have a girlfriend! A son! I live with them! I live with my son and my girlfriend! He repeats it over and over.

Surprisingly, despite his suspicions, he is still willing to talk to me, even if he is projecting an alter-persona. So I am asking him some questions when he stops.

You aren’t a reporter, are you? Are you? He accuses suddenly, like he is teasing it out of me—this great secret. You are la migra, huh? That’s it! You aren’t a reporter.

The muchacha is a reporter, my friends vouch for me, just as the girl did back at the mission.

But it stings all the same. 

A Girl like Me

Wednesday, 22 July, 2009

 

I’m sitting on the sticky leather couches of the mission, biding time until José is ready to go to the Factory with me. A girl who I have met before, but whose name I have forgotten, sits down next to me. We begin to chat.

I learn, during the conversation’s course, that the girl I am speaking to is my same age. That’s always interesting to consider—the parallel life that I could have. She is at college now, at a Catholic school, studying to be a teacher. Her father pushed her to enroll and though she was resistant at first (scared about her still shaky mastery of English), she is now glad that she is there. She isn’t a rough girl, doesn’t get into trouble or gangs and the people she has met at college are good, too.

Life is scary for her. Here, her neighborhood of little brick houses is the site of gang activity. She doesn’t go out at night. She used to love to return to Mexico, to stay with her Grandmother in the north of the country. But that area is scary now, too, since the drug ring gangs have started moving in to the area. 

Her eyes widen, big and fearful. Is anywhere safe to live? She asks.

 

INTERNSHIP: ARACELI, 2

Wednesday, 22 July 2009

*

When I walk into the Guerra-Gonzalez family home, I look at a picture of a tubby baby on the wall.

Is that you? I ask Jasmin, the oldest.

No, no, she says, None of the stuff on the walls out here can be ours. We can’t have anything here, it all has to be in our room. But come on! See the picture of our whole family—us and our dad!

I follow Jasim, 8, and her squealing siblings down the little hallway and we enter a door plastered with kids drawings. I poke my head into the tiny room, crammed full with a dresser, a TV, clothes and toys. Inside is one giant bed. Four out of five members of the Guerra-Gonzalez family now sleep in this bed—the mother; Araceli and the three children; Jasmin, 8, Anai, 6 and Carlos, 3. The one member missing, their father, Moses sleeps at Christian Country Prison. He awaits deportation.

Moses was arrested in December of last year. He had supported the entire family by working two jobs. Since his arrest, life has been hard. Araceli never had to work before, but now, she spends her days cleaning. The work is hard and she is forbidden from speaking Spanish in the workplace—which makes even communication exhausting. She has applied for work at a million other places; but no one is hiring. There is also another complication—she is undocumented and places like factories now ask any worker for papers.

But the hardest thing is sharing their home. Before, the family lived in the spacious upstairs and rented their basement to a family with two children. But after Moses left, Araceli realized the rent would be impossible—her husband used to make $700 a week; now she makes about $100 to $150 a week. She moved in with the family downstairs so she could rent up the upstairs to new tenants. Now, she and her three children live confined to their tiny bedroom. But the bedroom is not even their own—a tiny cot in the corner sleeps the daughter of the couple downstairs. It is, after all, her room. The Guerra-Gonzalez family are essentially; unwanted visitors in their own home.

Araceli stays strong by thinking about her husband. They met in Mexico when they were ten years old. By the time they were thirteen, they were boyfriend and girlfriend. The year they turned fifteen their families moved to the United States; Araceli’s to California and Moses’ to Chicago. They kept in contact that whole time and when Moses visited, he would try to convince Araceli to marry him. Finally, when they were seventeen; she agreed and he whisked her away to Chicago. They were married there and soon after; their three children were born. The separation now is worse than their brief separation as teenagers.

“I love him even more now than I ever did,” Araceli said. “For the first time in my life, I am alone.”

*

The kids are having a great time showing me the apartment they share. Even under less than ideal conditions; they are proud to be tour guides.

“Come, come! To the kitchen,” shouts little Carlos, leading the way. He climbs on a stool and shows me the ingredients for his favorite drink—leche. Then, he points out the microwave. “For leche!” he announces.

As I drink a glass of water with them in the kitchen; the kids clamor to show me “the rest of their house.”

“Are you coming upstairs?” Anai asks.

When Araceli gently reminds them that upstairs isn’t really their house any more that the kids’ faces fall and they decide, instead, to show me their bikes, stacked outside.

*

As we drive back, Araceli is tired, a little sad. She doesn’t like going home, even for a short visit.

“It is very small,” she says—expressing a lot with that one, simple phrase.

Carlos chirps from the back asking for the radio and Araceli gladly turns it on

Internship: Araceli I

Wednesday, 22 July, 2009

*

Before I enter the mission, I stop a few moments to talk business with the kids standing

outside. It is church fundraising season and the kids of the Mission are stationed behind a little table, peddling soda and candy, water and orange or grape drink. I ask them what is selling well, and the reports are mixed. In the past four hours, they have made about twenty-six dollars. Nicely done, I say, secretly wondering if their own parents or siblings contributed the most to that total.

*

It starts with a tap and a jump. I tap the glass storefront window of the mission and the little, round-faced boy at the other side hops back with fright. A second later, a huge grin spreads across his face. A tiny, balled fist taps back. We begin a game where I splay my fingers on one side and he mirrors me on the other. Soon, his two sisters join in and we are laughing and smacking the glass. I feel terrible about the greasy paw prints we are marking the window with, but the giggles are just too pure, the fun too extreme. We play for a long time, until finally I pry myself away. Embarassingly enough, my interviewee is inside, waiting for me. I am in the process of apologizing when the kids I had just played with crowd around her. I learn that my new friends are her children. They dart back and forth from me to their mother, smacking my hands. In winning their trust, I win their mother’s trust, who smiles a weary, appreciative smile at me.

 

Gilded Mixed Income Homes

The small woman holding court in the living room had invited us in to see her new home. But it wasn’t a typical house viewing. Firstly, the audience crammed into the freshly painted living room was a forty-odd tour group. Secondly, the woman showing us her new home wasn’t proud—she was angry.

She had lived her whole life in Chicago’s notorious public housing units. Her new home was in one of the novel, brand-new mixed income developments that had sprung up in the empty lots the demolished projects left behind. Politicians, like Bill Clinton, touted the replacement of public housing with mixed income communities a great idea. But the greatness of the idea, just like the greatness of the house, only went just past the surface.

“Everything that glitters isn’t gold,” she said.

The woman provided evidence. The dishwasher never worked, the thermostat falls off the wall. The poor light fixture design means that it is impossible to change the light bulbs without calling in a handy man with tools and a ladder. The cement under the floor was poured hastily—stocking-ed feet can feel the bumps and ridges. The fluffy carpet was placed directly on top of the floor, meaning that when it rains, water begins to seep through the corners.

Once they made up their minds to do it, politicians were in a hurry to knock down the homes and a hurry to throw the next set up. The woman sighs.

“You want things quick,” she said. “Sometimes it’s good to take things slow.”

This new, fool’s gold home replaced the woman’s public housing residence. IT’s strange to remember that when the projects were first built, they were supposed to be niceBut that residence was a place she felt comfortable.

“I’d rather go back to the homes,” she said. 

INTERNSHIP:Night Tour with the Padre

The factory didn’t work out. However, as we wove through the streets of Little Village, the Padre began to casually comment on our surroundings. Soon, my enthusiasm coupled with his knack for teaching morphed our late night drive into a tour of Little Village and Pilsen through the eyes of the Padre. It was all the more fitting and intense because it was night and all the places we passed were dimly lit. We passed the corner café in Pilsen where anarchists meet. We passed sites of the immigration raids: quiet neighborhoods and shopping centers, chilling in the dark.  The Padre described one night time raid, when ICE henchmen stormed 300 homes in the area and helicopters buzzed over head. We drove down 26^th Street; empty except for a few loiterers at the bus stop. A few years ago, Padre said, the area had boasted a busy night life. Now, policemen had started camping out down the street from clubs; waiting to pounce on late night revelers heading home. The Padre talked, too, about the gangs that plagued the neighborhood—the 26ers and the Latin Kings, among others.

We left Little Village, returning to Pilsen, where the Padre pointed out his favorite bars and restaurants, telling me a little bit about the management and cuisine of each. From there, we entered the newly gentrified lands of U of I- Chicago students: small art galleries, new condos and Starbucks.  Five years ago, it wasn’t like this, he said. I marveled once again at Chicago’s capacity for urban renewal, the rebuilding of spaces and the displacement of people.

The Padre drove me right to my doorstep. I thanked him, head still spinning from all that I had seen and heard.

INTERNSHIP:Waiting for the Padre

Thursday, 16 July, 2008

After the dinner, I changed from my fancy dress to leggings and a tee-shirt and sat outside of the Museum. I had finished up early, roughly 8.15, and the Padre wasn’t supposed to be here until nine. But I wasn’t worried at all. The air was cool and I had my book with me. I had just feasted on sumptious falafel, tomato salad and pita. My new acquaintances streamed past me, most asking if I needed a ride. I waved them on. The director came out, carrying a cardboard box and filling the air with the smell of fresh pita.

My thoughts drifted to what the Padre and I were about to do—visit a huge abandoned factory where he said that a bunch of men had been living for the past few months. We had tried to swing by one afternoon and no one had been there. We both agreed there was a better chance that the day-laborers would be home at night. So we had planned for him to pick me up after he finished his meeting and I finished my dinner. I trusted his word, but I hoped that the plan hadn’t changed. My phone had died. I checked my watch—9.15.

 

It got darker as I sat there, back against the wall. Joggers passed by me and we exchanged little hellos. Some junior high girls roller bladed past me. Several dogs sniffed my feet. An awkward little boy bounded over to me when his white terrier approached me. He and his dad had the same goofy grin. He launched into a speech about his terrier, named Brian, after family guy—did I watch that show? His dad bobbed his head and repeated in a strong Spanish accent asking me did I watch that show? I nodded I knew the show even though I hadn’t really ever sat and watched the show.

Oh! Said the little boy. What’s your name?

I was just alone enough that I decided to lie. “Sarah,” I said, then immediately felt crappy about it.

“That’s a pretty name!” he exclaimed. I smiled, wanting to tell him it was really my room mate’s name.

As he walked away, he almost tripped over awkward feet, turning around to yell back: “Have a nice night, Sarah! Take care, Sarah! Nice to meet you, Sarah!”

The newly named Sarah (me) glanced at her watch. It was inching ever later. But I was sure that the Padre would come.

I continued to read, back pressed against the wall, conscious of anyone around me the later it got. But my book was good and I soon lost track of time again.

Returned from his walk and going through his gate across the street from me, the little boy shouted: “Oh! Sarah—you’re still here! Well, have a nice night, Sarah! I’m going to bed now, Sarah! Oh! Sarah—this is my house.”

I waved.

“Aren’t you going to bed, too?”

“I’m waiting for a friend! Goodnight—sleep tight!”

“Goodnight, Sarah!” he hollered.

I checked my watch. It was ten to ten now. Damn my phone! I thought. I bet the tried to call me!

I decided to stay until ten. I felt pretty safe here, but I wasn’t about to take any chances. People were still jogging, still congregating on street corners, but I was starting to get jumpy. Cars were passing, but none of them were Padre’s. If they slowed down at all, I felt nervous.

Ten came, but I decided to finish up the section I was reading. At 10.15, I sadly decided that I had waited long enough. I packed up my bags and began walking to the train stop. It would be a long ride home.

I wasn’t mad in the least about it. I figured the Padre had some good excuse, even though I didn’t know him well. I trusted him.

I was walking around the corner when a car slowed. Someone called at me. I ignored them and kept walking.

“Brenna!” I heard. “Brenna!”

I stooped. Padre grinned up at me.

Whaddya know, I thought. But I am sure glad I waited this long.

*

Padre and I explained ourselves—I apologized for the death of my phone (“Oh,” he said, “I called you like five times!”) and he explained why he had been caught up (his meeting for the Anglican church on the matter of female bishops had run long.)

We were both relieved to see each other.

He began to drive slowly and we planned our adventure when I sat down. We agreed it was late and wondered aloud if it was safe to go to the factory. We agreed to stop by and at least see.

The Padre pulled up and we could see figures talking, laughing, drinking, silhouetted. He motioned for me to stay in the car. He called out to them in Spanish, through the fence. I opened the door and saw him give them his card.

 

INTERNSHIP: A Priestly Encounter

Today, I was blessed by a priest in a parking lot.

Overcome with my meeting with Father Dahm, I sat in the schoolyard of San Pius V. My butt was warmed by the sun-drenched asphalt, my back leaned against a pole in the chain link fence and my fingers flew across they key board when a round, portly man with a cane and a balding, head moved slowly in through a gap in the fence.

“Why, hello,” he said, voice gravelly. “Are you a student here? Or… no… a teacher?”

Oh, I’m a college student, I said, scrambling to my feet. Let me introduce myself.

Oh—you don’t have to do that, but I was up already, extending a hand. I’m Brenna, I said.

“Oh, he said. Oh. Well, i-- I am one of the the elder fathers here, he said. I am a Dominican priest. One of the old ones, about eighty-one, so you know, nearing my time, he said. His eyes wandered.

Do you like school?

I said, yes, indeed, I did I liked being a journalism major because I got to talk to people.

Oh yes, he said. You keep up on things.

Yes, I said. Have you been here long—what do you notice about here?

Well, let me tell you. I once did something. I was a teacher for many years here, see, and I once said to another Father, at one of the dinners—Well, what else can I do? I’m a priest. I didn’t mean it that way, of course, but that’s… wel, anyway, that’s what I am. And he said—well, why don’t you do hospital work. And so you know, for eighteen years now, I have been the chaplain at Holy Cross Hospital right over there. You see everything. Which, for a prieset is good. You need a little bit of reality—of real humanity—not just intellectual material. Not to be morbid or anything, but you need that reality, that human suffering. Makes you thankful for what you are, what you have. For me, I am a Dominican priest. Makes you thankful, that humanity. And so I did that for eighteen years.

“If you write a thesis one day, include that and, don’t cite me by name—I don’t mean anything by that—I’m Father Morris—but say, say I met this Dominican Father once. It’s something to carry with you. He paused.

Here, I’ll bless you. He made a cross on my forehead while I stood awkwardly, hoping not to break any rules, and then slowly walked away, disappearing as magically as he appeared.

 

INTERNSHIP: The Padre Needs to Sleep

Father Dahm was exhausted. As I spoke to him, his eyes closed, his mouth drooped open. He slouched in his chair. He shifted every few seconds, in an attempt to keep himself awake.

I kept expecting one of my questions to fall flat, for him to be snoring by the time it was his turn to speak. But somehow, he’d jolt awake and he’d answer one of my questions in a slow, careful voice. Worn out, but truthful.

His parish, one of the largest in Pilsen, is made up of a constituency that is 80% foreign-born. Of those, he estimates 50% are undocumented.  In Father Chuck’s twenty-three years as Parish Priest, he has built up a wealth of social services around the church. The church runs a thrift store, runs a food pantry, runs youth services. Human services are as big of a part of the church as religious services. But these days, the church is getting more pleas for assistance than it can deal with.

I guessed that that was what was exhausting Father Dahm—and I was partially right. He was also suffering from health problems which had left him weak. Still, he told me he had more and more people coming in, more and more people asking for help. And he just couldn’t provide that many people with assistance. The church has affordable housing, yes, but you need to make at least $20,000 to $22,000 a year to be able to qualify for the rent assistance. If you are making $250 a week, $1000 a month, there is no way you can afford rent like that. He talked about referring two or three men a week to a nearby men’s shelter—a shelter that has a waiting list, something Father Dahm called a joke—most of these men don’t even have phones.

I asked him what should be done and he just looked at me, sadly. I don’t know, he said, I don’t know. People need jobs, he said.

The more I talked to him, the more I realized that in these times, there were just too many people pleading for help from the church. People come, unable to find jobs, unable to pay their bills and he is powerless. Even if they get in to San Jose, they are soon out again. If they are looking for jobs, he tells them to make friends. What else can he do?

He was tired.