INTERNSHIP: I am doing EXACTLY as I dreamed of doing

18 July 2009

My entries about Jorge Mujica and Marcos have been part of the incredible journey of writing my cover piece for StreetWise. It began with the vague statement from Suzanne that won my decision to join StreetWise staff—and we’d like to have a story on the immigrant homeless.

Suzanne’s initial idea was one about the Polish immigrant community. I expanded that—What about a series? I asked. One on each of the three largest immigrant groups in Chicago and how they deal with their homeless?

And Suzanne gave me the ok and I began researching the situation of homeless immigrants in the Latino, Polish and Indian immigrant communities in Chicago.

I have visited a shelter for Polish immigrants and it will be an amazing tale to tell. However, the story that has won my heart is the story on homelessness in the Latino community. Of course, those of you who know me know that I am already deeply involved in the immigration reform debates—a passion which began with my volunteer experience with undocumented migrants crossing the desert in Arizona. It was there that I decided on my idiosyncratic dream—to be a reporter coving issues of immigration.

For this story, I started with a discrepancy in numbers and facts. I began with a statistic—that the Chicago Coalition for the Homeless states that only 6% of the homeless in the city are Latino. This doesn’t mesh with other statistics. Chicago’s population is 25% Latino and studies show that both increased raids by border officials and the recession have impacted Latino families. Latino families are often poor and the parents are often working minimum-wage, low-skill jobs. So I was sure that there was something that the survey had missed.

Well, turns out, there are a lot of factors about the Latino community that the survey didn’t take into account. I learned these facts from my own observation and from talking to many people, many of them participants in the first forum on Latino homelessness entitled Todos Contamos, an under-noticed symposium held in April.

This is what I have learned. For the most part, Latinos in Chicago form a close-knit community that has learned to support each other when they can’t count on others. Often, when one family loses a home, instead of going to a homeless shelter, the family (or individual) simply moves in with another family. Though they are homeless, these displaced people aren’t counted in surveys. Homes across the community, however, are overcrowded by this “doubling up” causing safety hazards, increased stress, child abuse and increased domestic violence. And even if they are  out on the streets, most Latinos are mistrustful of government services—expecting that they do not qualify for aid, that the service will not have appropriate cultural and lingustic sensitivities and worst of all, terrified that they will be turned in. So instead, people are turning to churches and family members for help.

Chasing down this story has brought me to know the streets of Pilsen and Little Village, the Mexican communities of Chicago. Walking down them now involves waving to passersby and stopping in at my favorite places. I now know where ICE raids happened, where the activists hang out, and where gangs convene and where reform happens. The stories are being written with the help of an incredible cast of characters. Some are the angels who help the downtrodden in these communities and some are those who are homeless, struggling or losing their homes. Some are looking at the future with hope; others with trepidation. All of them have let me into their worlds.

I want to tell you there stories. In my article, they will be reduced to mere sentences or paragraphs. But here, in this forum, I can bring people to life.  I can introduce you to the dapper Puerto Rican who runs San Jose Obrero Mission or the quiet, yet radical priest from El Salvador who runs Our Lady of Guadelupe Anglican Catholic Mission on 26^th Street. I can introduce you to the people who are uncounted—the family with four children who have been receiving foreclosure notices and the man who loves America, yet lives in a downtown shelter. 

INTERNSHIP: Pilsen, through Jorge's eyes

 

A little fat boy comes to our table with candy, he is asking if we sell it. No, darling, he says.

No, I say, shaking my head.

I smile as Tubby walks away but Jorge leaps into a comment.

That’s child labor, he says. That kid must pay his dues to his family, pay his keep. It gets worse during the school holidays.

We watch him go from person to person, showing his pitiful ware, almost tripping on a step.

That’s horrible, I say, horrible.

Our eyes wander out the window when the little boy goes outside, no doubt to meet a padre watching from the corner.

The theater across the street is where we led the debates for the 1986 immigration reform bill (Which granted amnesty to thousands of undocumented, permanent across the county). But it was crap by the time it was done. We got that through and started working on the next one the next day. That was twenty-two years ago. And we’re still working. How old are you? A lifetime ago. A whole lifetime.

Obama came here, to this café, on his “Tour of a Latino Neighborhood”. We have  a picture. I met with him right here. 

INTERSHIP: Jorge's Community Anecdote

I’ll tell you a story, Jorge said. I’ll give you some numbers that will blow your mind.

Ok, so in 2007, there was a heat wave in Chicago. It was bad, real bad. In our neighborhood, we lost eight, nine hundred people. People dying in closed up apartments. So many that grocery stores were lending the morgues their refrigerated trucks. It was horrible. But, guess, out of those, how many would you guess were Latino?

No idea, I shook my head.

Two, he said. Two. Do you know why?

Something clicked. Yeah, I said, yeah. The people who died were white, elderly alone in their apartments.

Exactly, exactly, he said, excitedly. Because we don’t do that. For Latinos, our grandparents live with us. We take care of them. We say, m’ijo, go fan Grandma, ask her if she needs a glass of water. We don’t leave them like that. 

INTERNSHIP: Marcos

13 July 2009

Home Depot Lot, Little Village Chicago

Marcos was shy, but once he started talking his voice flowed forth. Though he never spoke rapidly, he never paused, acting as if the words were almost tumbling out. Sometimes, when people tell me their stories, I can hear the way they build themselves up as we go along. But with Marcos, I heard more and more truth and honesty the longer he spoke and I listened. Sometimes he looked away, sometimes I heard shame when he dropped his already quiet voice, but he kept talking.
We started by talking about his life.
He was from Houston, up here to work. He told me about the jobs, the occasional employers who fucked you over—giving you too little for difficult work. If that happened, he and his friends would leave, hiking back to the Home Depot lot to farm themselves out to someone with a little more integrity. If it got to 2 or 3 and he still hadn’t found work, he’d give up for the day: find a park and maybe drink (he indicated this to me with the shy hint of a hand motion, bottle to mouth but so subtle I might have missed it.)
Most employers are good though, he assured me. They offer you water; help you out a little.
Looking around at the others in the lot, he told me there were more guys than ever who had lost their jobs. He told me about how he at least had a skill—sometimes people who bring him along just to translate.
Where do you stay? I asked.
He stayed in the mission—a homeless shelter down town. He didn’t like it. They were too strict. And religion? Well, don’t get me wrong, he said. I love god. I do, I really do. But I get a note to say I am working so I don’t have to do that stuff. I like going to church, I do, I really do. But…their services…
They just don’t speak to you? I offered.
Yeah! You know.

*

Eventually, we wound around to the rest of his story, a part I was desperate to hear. By now, we had been chatting for a long time. The sun was hot. Cars drove in and out of the lot and the workers around us shifted as people took work and left it. Jorge was talking animatedly to the workers around, laughing and waving his hands. When a driver rolled down the window and asked for a plumber, Jorge took a break from talking to run around to clumps of workers, calling out for the plumber. Marcos and I continued to talk.

I made a lot of mistakes, he said. You know, when you’re young, you mess up.
He stopped looking at me except to glance. He rubbed the back of his sunburnt neck and twisted his arm behind his bag, still clutching the half eaten burger, poppyseeds on top.
He continued.
Marcos: My parents were from El Salvador. But I was born in Belize. They were refugees there. I was born there and two sisters were, too.
Me: How did they get over… to the US, I mean?
Marcos: They did what a lot of people did, they got into the country, then…it was different for El Salvadorans then because there was a war there. They did what Cubans do today.
Me: They applied for amnesty.
Marcos: Yeah…
Well, I was making a lot of poor decisions. I, he stopped, still pained at the closeness of it all. I had my green card pending.
It was new years and I went over the border with friends, to party. On new years, lots of people were coming back and forth, they were busy. But when it came my turn, I was.. I was intox… I was drunk and high on drugs.
He strung the last words together, barely audible, ashamed.
I was. And uh, I tried to cross the bridge but I was alone. I walked that long way alone, you know and not with a lot of people, so the lady asked me a lot of questions. And it was all cool until she asked for my card and I gave it to her and she put it in her computer and she said, you’re not in the system and then, they imprisoned me, detained me for seven months.
I was sent to Belize. I wasn’t from there. I hadn’t been there since I was six. Everybody heard the way I talked, said: ‘where you from, man?’
It was horrible. I am used to here where they say, ‘ah man, you want some water?’ There, they make you work, they mean. They drive you and the work is hard and you make no money. Nothing. Like twenty five cents. And then I lost my job. I lived there for a year and a half and I was like, ah man, I gotta get back.
Me: How did you do it?
Marcos: Well, Mexico’s got real strict borders, real strict you know. I got into Mexico because I speak Mexican Spanish—and Spanish from Belize. They are two different like dialects, you know? I grew my hair long, was all shaven. So I did that. And then, when I was North, I called my parents and they paid for me to cross the other border.
Me: How?
Marcos: By… uh… boat. They took me across the river.
I can’t complain, man. It was all, all was inside I could feel the fear inside me. But I’m lucky. He touched his round face. I never suffered, no one ever beat me. And then I come here and man, America is great. Man, I so lucky to be here man. So lucky. And all of that. It’s like a bad dream. Like a bad dream, seems so long ago. After seeing what it was like over there, I’m just happy to be here. It’s so much better.
I wasn’t sure what to say. Here was a shy and sweet man, living in a homeless shelter in Chicago, standing in a hot parking lot waiting for day labor jobs that aren’t coming and he is telling me America is great?
*

Oh man, I real shy.
Marcos looked bashfully at the ground and rocked from foot to foot. He didn’t want his picture taken until I convinced him that the reason I wanted his picture was because we talked. I could take a picture of any guest worker anywhere, but I wanted his because I knew his story, because he had shared it with me.
You do? He asked.
We compromised. A picture from the back was ok. He checked it out on my camera.
Me: Is Markos with a “c” or a “k”?
Marcos: With a “c”, but I like Mark.
Me: Can I ask you your last name? Do you feel comfortable…? I asked.
Marcos: Martinez. Yeah sure, and here. I’ll give you my cell phone number. I like what you do. A lot. I—how do you say it—uh, support what you doing, he said. I really do. Your helping all these people. That’s why I want to help.
His faith in my work was almost disconcerting. Who was I—this young kid, this girl— he had entrusted his story to?
Me: It’s people like you two who tell me your stories, I said.
He wrote his name on a receipt in blue ink. Tell me when it comes out, I’d like to see it.
It’ll be out August 7th, I said. You can get a copy… I stopped. Did he even have two dollars to spare? Why would I make him pay when I’d send a copy to someone I interviewed who had an address?
Absolutely, I said. I will give you a call. Absolutely.
It’s a promise I am not going to break.
*
You hit the golden nugget with that guy. Jorge says, as we get into the car. I am a little shocked.
Yeah, I say. I know.

INTERNSHIP: Jorge Mujica, community organizer and a journalist's best friend

13 July 2009

The Jumping Bean (Pilsen) to 26th Street (Little Village)

This is how I became famous during the immigration reform debates, Jorge Mujica said to me as we bumped along in his dilapidated greenish van, back windows curtain with moldy green curtains to match. I am always doing this kind of things for journalists. I may not be the person leading the press conference but they come to me, they say Jorge, what’s going on? And I tell them.

His hand holding the pipe was on the windowsill and the smell of sweet tobacco surrounded us as he continued: I used to be a reporter myself, so I understand, he said.

I was joining the ranks then, of journalists who couldn’t believe their luck at meeting Jorge Mujica. Himself a former undocumented immigrant, he has spent the past twenty years as a community leader in Latino Chicago and at the forefront of both Chicago and national immigration debates. He knew everything there is to know about the community and as we sat in a small Pilsen café over coffee and mint tea, he had to stop periodically to kiss old friends who wandered in and launch into jovial conversations in Spanish about their lives. He was just as friendly and open with me, his acquaintance of an hour- an intern who was questioning him about homelessness in the community for her StreetWise story. It was obvious why journalists loved him—he answered all my questions, peppering them with statistics and anecdotes. And he was willing to have an adventure like the one we were having right now.

Two minutes before, we had still been in that café. We were laughing, getting along well and talking about Obama’s visit to the same café on his “tour of a Chicago, Latino neighborhood”, when Jorge said, suddenly. What are you doing now? Want to go to 26^th street? C’mon, I’ll take you there.

Twenty-sixth Street, he told me, had the second largest economy in Chicago after Michigan Avenue and it was the Mexican shopping district of the Midwest. As we bumped along, he and I both knew why he was so popular with journalists. He didn’t just know about everyone and everything at the Jumping Bean; he also knew about everyone and everything in all of Pilsen and Little Village, Chicago’s Mexican areas.

We jolted down residential streets and talked about the labor unions he organized. He threw his slogan at me—We don’t want to be poor and documented any more than we want to be poor and undocumented. We need unions to fight for our rights.

As part of his community organizing, he had organized strikes against many of the buildings we passed. One was a tortilla factory. While striking there, he saw evidence of the huge market for the Mexican businesses in this area. We had trucks coming from all over: Iowa, Idaho, Ohio, he said. They could trust the tortillas in this factory and were buying them to bring them back to little Mexican restaurants and stores all over.

Shortly after our entrance through the historic Mexican arch that marked the beginning of 26^th Street commerce, I saw a tasty looking restaurant. Jorge casually said, oh we picketed that place for months.

Why? I asked.

They used a commercial Laundromat we were protesting, he said. They got so mad. We protested all these restaurants all over the city that used that service. One was Ditka's—a restaurant owned by the Bear’s manager. He was so mad—he was so mad I thought he’d shoot us.

He pointed out street vendors on every corner, peddling colorful wares. I thought them atmospheric.

We started seeing a bunch of them this last winter, he said. More and more. It’s a sign of how hard it is to find jobs. Used to be there’d be one every two or three blocks, now there are a couple selling things on every corner. Balloons, shaved ice, you name it.. what’s the word in English? You get the ice and put the stuff on top…

I think it’s SnoCone in English, I said, feeling a little ridiculous.

And right here, you see how the economy has hit this place. Two years ago, there was a waiting list to get a business here, maybe eighty business long. And now? Look—you see. He pointed out a particularly empty block. Three out of six stores stood vacant.

I know! he said.

Back to the vendors, he pointed at a cart selling hats and balloons outside of a barber shop.

You see, probably, that shop belongs to his cousin. And so he says, ok, ok, you can sell here. You see that all along. People selling everything—tamales, corn, shoes… look, there’s shoes.

He pointed to the man pushing a handcart with bells and ice cream. That’s more traditional, but there’s more of them, too, these days. 

We continued along the street until the small commerce ended—so no more prom dress stores, supermercados, or piñata-filled windows. We were in an industrial area. The pea green van squealed into a parking lot, to turn around, I assumed. But no, he turned in to home depot. Something clicked.

Is this the home depot where…? I began

Yes, he said. Look, over there.

We drove the ridiculous van straight towards a group of three men standing by a stop sign. It was hot, sun beating on them, their backpacks and their beers, though a cool breeze from the lake offered relief.

Are they waiting for work? I asked. But it’s so late in the day. It was already past four.

Jorge squealed up next to them and parked with a jolt.

How’s your Spanish? he asked.

Minimal, I said.

So, you speak like three words? he laughed his horsey laugh. Ola and amigo and…

… and gracias, I finished.

He laughed again and undeterred, he leapt out of the car speaking rapid and friendly Spanish, arms waving. He introduced me as the journalist--  ne habla espagnol.

Immediately a chubby man with a sweet, baby face switched to English, his language almost unaccented. I introduced myself.

I’m Brenna, I said.

Mark, he said. Marcos.