It's been a long time since I've written. Too long, not only because so much is going on but also because writing is an outlet and way to try and deal with so many painful issues that arise when working with the immigrant community. I'm finding it hard to sit with the stories my life intersects with. There is so much pain out there and I don't know how immigrants can deal with everything that comes their way without being crushed by the immensity of it all. It's hard for me and it's not even my life.

Today, I helped a man who is trying to get custody of his 15 year old son who was detained while crossing the border in Arizona. I don't know the circumstances of his detention nor whether he was snagged by Joe Arpaio or some other crazy Minuteman militia-type but I do know that he ended up in temporary custody of an organization which takes responsibility for juveniles who have been detained by ICE.

My client, let's call him Marcelo, got my number from someone who knows me at Head Start. How he got to them, I don't know. He is new to Springfield and I can imagine him wandering around the city looking for help, unable to speak English. Head Start had been helping him through the process of trying to get custody of his son, his oldest. Marcelo has five children, and he entered the US by crossing the border in 2008. He initially went to Los Angeles then to Florida and recently came here. He couldn't find more than a few days work in Florida so with his brothers-in-law he came up here. But, he hasn't had much more luck here and after asking me if I wanted to buy a new electric typewriter that he had, I realized that he was low on cash and probably needed food. I took him to the church where we store our food and gave him a lot of rice, beans, tomatoes and maseca hoping to tide him over for a month or so in case work doesn't pick up.

After Marcelo called me I went to his house to talk to him. He had a pile of papers from the agency in Arizona who has temporary custody of his son. One of the papers was a Affidavit of Support from USCIS which required him to attest to his legal status and another was a set of blank fingerprint forms. He was asked for his address and where he worked and all sorts of other personal information. I told him that I didn't think it was a good idea to fill out these papers or turn in his fingerprints because he would basically be outing himself to ICE and they might just come on over to snatch him. But, I told him I would call the social worker in Arizona to see what this was all about.

I talked to (let's call her) Luisa and she said not to worry because all this paperwork would stay with them and they would not share it with USCIS. They just need to comply with state rules about releasing a minor into custody of a parent or guardian and we didn't need to attest to anything that isn't true. We could just leave portions of the paperwork blank.

OK. We did that. We filled out what we could. Then I took him down to the police station to be fingerprinted. I could tell that Marcelo was extremely nervous about this and I assured him that I had come to the station many times with immigrants and that nothing had ever happened. After paying the cost of the fingerprints we waited until the fingerprinting guy called us in. I asked Marcelo what part of Guatemala he was from. He said a town south of the capital, which is quite far from where most of the Guatemalans in Springfield are from. This peaked my curiosity so I asked him whether his family had been at all affected by the civil war. He said that his mother and four sisters were all killed in the war when he was around nine years old. I didn't ask the circumstances but I knew that this meant that they probably had all been raped before being killed and that their killing was probably horrific and cruel. He said that many other family members had been killed, too, and that in his little town over 50 people were killed during one day. He told me that from that time whenever he sees someone in an army or police uniform he becomes agitated and afraid.

This information came on the heels of a meeting I had with another client on Monday who also was from Guatemala and told me that his two grandfathers and his father had been killed during the war there. This man had recently been assaulted here in Springfield and I was taking him to the police station to follow up on his case.

Marcelo told me that his family has a little land to grow food but because it is raining so much the seeds they plant are often just washed away and they reap nothing from their work.

Juan told me that he always blamed the war for his not being able to finish school because after his father was killed he had to quit school to support his family.

Both of these men were so polite, gracious, grateful and kind to me. Which really astounds and shames me. When I think of what they've been through during their entire lives; living in poverty, scrambling to earn a living to feed their families, making the long, long journey here in hopes of finding some job, any job, to feed their children and their parents, I can only feel shame for what my country's policies have meant to people like them. How the blindness of our population, so content with a middle class lifestyle that has allowed them to furnish their homes with luxuries, send their children to school and believe that nothing can touch their upward progress has led them to ignore how our leaders' support of the exploitation of others around the world has directly contributed to the misery and suffering of these two men and so many more. We've ignored the consequences of our irresponsible vote all the way back to the coup in Guatemala in 1954 when democracy had a chance to possibly address the horrible poverty of the people there to today when our leaders ignore climate change in favor of the bottom line. (And, of course, our government has been screwing over Central America for centuries now in the name of big business and cheap food for our own country.)

And, when I think about how on top of these cruel policies meant to fatten us up we now tolerate immigration policies which further punish the victims of these policies and treat these suffering people as animals who should labor in the fields silently regardless of whether their racist bosses pay them or not, I wish I believed in heaven and hell so that I could be sure that those whose greed let's them live comfortably and walk around in beautifully tailored suits thinking they deserve respect and deference will one day get the justice they deserve for their callous cruelty and for profiting from the labor of these two kind men and so many more.

Marcelo and I got all his paperwork filled out. I faxed and mailed it all to Luisa who told me that Marcelo's son will soon be joining his father. Of course, the son has no defense to his deportation and will have to keep his court appointments. She will have the court change the venue to Massachusetts and Marcelo will get a letter from them about his son's next court date. I told him that if his son does not present himself to the court an order of deportation will issue and they will come looking for him at the address where he now lives. So, yes, Marcelo will get his son back and his son will have some time to look for work and try to help keep his family eating in Guatemala. But, if he defies ICE they will come looking for him and if they move away ICE will take the others who live with Marcelo (if they don't move, too). The house is now on ICE's radar.

But, family comes first.

So, when Marcelo thanked me for my kindness I only felt the bitterness of my own complicity in his suffering. I told him that it was the least I could do in light of the fact that my own country was responsible for so much of his own difficulties. I was happy I could help him but I really felt like going out and hurting someone to shake off the pain settling in my own heart. And, that's why he's a better person than I.

Gallinas de rancho

Yesterday we picked up 60 live hens from Intervale Farm in Westhampton. We brought them down to Springfield and sold them to local immigrants for $4 each. Many immigrants buy live hens at a farm in Westfield for $16 each and make the most delicious chicken soup you have ever eaten. We paid $2 each for these hens and with the agreement of our group we will use the profit to buy more local products in bulk for our group. The beginning of our humble little co-op.

Viva la vida

Luz Pena, from Brightwood Health Center, called me yesterday saying that this man had just been discharged from the hospital and him and his wife had no food or work. Luis and I went to visit them this afternoon and brought them some masa harina, beans and rice. After bringing them this stuff, we went to Stop and Shop and bought them more food. Fruit, yogurt, a barbecued chicken, cheese, a bottle of water, some blueberry pie (because man, and women, do not live by bread alone) and a few more items. The man had just had surgery to repair a perforated kidney and his wife had just had surgery to remove part of her uterus. She was so worried and said, I don't know what we'll do. Neither of them can work and all they have is $200 from Angel's last paycheck and their rent of $300 was due yesterday on October 1st. They got here about 4 months ago after spending about a month in Virginia, which obviously hadn't gone well. They came here from Guatemala. Their house had no furniture except for a love seat that folds out to a single bed and one low table. Nothing else. Luis and I decided we need to help them raise a little money to carry them through this month, and perhaps beyond. $200 would be good and if we raise a little more we're going to save it for this type of emergency.

Every month when we give away food we ask immigrants to contribute a dollar or two, if they have it, so that we can put it back into the food fund. We've decided that when we start the food distribution in November we'll going to ask for this contribution again but we're going to save it so that we can help people when they are in a bad situation. We'll create a little revolving fund. We'll ask people to pay us back when they are back on their feet so that the fund will continue to help others. We just can't sit by while our neighbors starve and suffer this way. I don't even want to think how people are going to get through the winter.

Can you help with a small donation? If so, please email me at

maria.cuerda@gmail.com

I'll keep you posted on our efforts. Please feel free to distribute this to your friends and neighbors.

Thanks.

Dreams

Last night I dreamt that Luis's brother, Juan, was murdered. In the dream, I was in a house and Juan went outside after being lured there by two men. I saw them digging a grave and he never came back in. I somehow knew that these men had killed him and might kill us, too. I went upstairs to tell Luis. Then, I woke up. The next morning I wondered if I should tell Luis about this. Just in case, I did. He immediately checked his cell phone to be sure he hadn't received any calls the night before. I told Luis that I was sorry to be telling him this dream because I didn't want him to worry. He said that it was OK because his father had told him that a dream where someone is murdered actually means that the person in the dream will live a long, healthy life.

Luis believes that dreams tell the future. During his lifetime he has had a number of dreams which have later come true involving friends who were killed or were almost killed. His father passed along to him the tools to interpret the symbols from his dreams and Luis does not doubt the veracity of these interpretations for one second.

For example, if you are bitten by a dog, you'll be bitten by a snake. If you dream that you are fishing and you catch a lot of live fish, this means you'll have good luck with money. If you step on human feces, you'll have serious problems. Fire means illness, fever or that people are speaking ill of you. If you dream you are flying, it means long life. If you dream of a car or planes, you will witness death. If in your dream you are carrying weapons, the children you will have will be boys. Dreams where your father appears means you are safe. Dreams that you are poor or that you live in a very humble home means that, in reality, you will won't be poor. All sorts of things symbolize death. If a tooth falls out and it hurts, someone in your immediate family might die. If the tooth falls out but doesn't hurt, it means that someone that you know will die. If you are at a party with dancing and music, someone is going to die. If you are at a wedding and people are dressed in white, you will witness a death. The appearance of cliffs or a precipice symbolize a tomb. Dirty water means illness or problems. Clean water means good health. Black water is death.

I can't say that I've always bought these interpretations especially since so many of Luis' dreams seem to involve my betrayal of him. I'm skeptical, as always, and I have a hard time getting Luis to agree that his dreams might be the result of his anxieties rather than portents of what may come to pass. But, what is undeniable is that Luis' father passed down to him widely-held beliefs that traveled through the generations which are still used as tools to understand their world.

Is it possible that these beliefs and symbols exist between cultures? I don't necessarily agree that all people and cultures are similar and that their symbolism is somehow linked, like Jung thought, with a universal unconscious. Still, I wondered whether there might be some common ground regarding the symbols of different cultures and traditions.

In Elizabeth Gilbert's book "Eat Pray Love" she wrote that in Eastern religions dreams of snakes are spiritually auspicious and Saint Ignatius had serpent visions. The Australian aborigines describe their mystical experiences as a serpent in the sky who embodies a medicine man and gives him an intense, other-worldly power. Christians might call this the "holy spirit." Kalahari holy men describe this energy force as a snakelike power that ascends the spine and blows a hole in the head through which the the gods then can enter. And, Hinduism teaches that enlightenment consists of the release of energy in the form of a snake coiled at the base of the spine whose power is released then travels through seven chakras and finally to the head where it explodes where it literally blows your mind.

So, I asked Luis what his father had told him about dreams involving snakes. He said that dreams of snakes are auspicious and mean good luck in the form of material wealth.

Hmmm...

Old Night

Old night is what spanish speaking peoples call New Year's Eve. Maybe that's because it's often the longest night of the year as people tend to stay up until the next day. Or, maybe it's because by the end of the night one feels pretty damn old. I would guess that in most cultures New Year's Eve is a night when one contemplates the passing of time and the possibilities, both good and bad, ahead of us.

Either way, I was feeling old even before the night began and I wondered how on earth I'd make it to midnight. I was sure Luis would share my doubts since he'd worked that day from 3 am to 6 pm clearing snow. But, the thought of not partying the night away didn't even seem to enter his mind. I began to suspect that even contemplating not staying up to celebrate was akin to insulting one's own mother, the biggest no-no that seems to exist in Mexican culture. (It's perhaps not odd that the adoration of one's sainted mother shares such a huge cultural space with a range of insults based on the word "madre." But, I'll save that subject for another day.)

Alejandra had prepared a huge quantity of food for her guests along with about a 5 gallon pot of caliente, a hot drink made of fruit cooked with spices to be drunk with rum or without (for the abstaining women). Every 20 minutes or so Juan would circulate asking each person individually if they needed another drink and the beer flowed and flowed without the slightest thought of how people would drive home later that night. We danced to blaring cumbias, tried to avoid trampling the 5 children playing amongst us, wiped the sweat from our brows, and for the first time in weeks turned the heat down.

After Juan made his fourth or fifth round I told him that he was a very gracious host and thanked him for taking such good care of us. He said that when people come to his home he takes pride in being sure that his guests feel welcomed and happy to be there. He also told me that I should consider this my home, too, and if I was ever alone or lonely I should feel free to to come over. This gesture of hospitality and of welcoming me into their family touched me and I thanked him. But, as usual, I wondered if I was reciprocating in an appropriate way and not missing some cue unseen to me.

Later, I wondered whether Juan's welcome and offer of refuge to me was a recognition of a painful reality most couples and all families here face, the dual specters of separation and return. Juan's acknowledgement of a possible time when I might be alone articulated what him and I had never spoken of, the possibility that Luis would have to go home and leave me behind. The same way people had left behind their spouses, parents, children and their dear friends in Mexico.

Drink summons the barely-hidden sentimentality behind even the most macho of these Mexican men. The thought of one's elderly parents or a beloved compadre living a universe away, separated by a border that takes many thousands of dollars to even hope to cross, will cause the tears to flow after downing a few beers. But, there were no tears tonight.

Although clearly exhausted Luis danced for hours reminding me a little of my grandmother who used to embarrass my brother and I at parties by dancing flamenco, chin held high with a proud, defiant smile daring anyone to make her day. But, I also thought about the way my mother often said that American parties were so boring because nobody danced and had a good time the way they did in the culture of her youth. Luis held his chin high, too, and danced with the bravado and grace of one who'd clearly done his share of partying throughout the years. When two-year old Edwin joined us to dance woodenly, with an endurance that astonished me, Luis cheered him on until two in the morning, surely pleased to be baptising him into the ritual playing itself out.

Chicken soup with Tio Agosto

Yesterday we celebrated the holiday listening to Vicente Fernandez and with a couple of beers. But, the beers ran out and we wanted more. We looked for an open liquor store but, of course, none were open on Christmas Day. So, Luis called Tio Agosto, who sells beer every day of the week. We got dressed and drove over there.

A party was in progress and the guy who answered the door didn't seem very welcoming. He'd been celebrating for a while and the sight of a Mexican man and a gringa at the door didn't strike him as quite right. He went to get Tio Agosto who asked us in.

A group of young men were sprawled on sofas and chairs watching TV and drinking beer. I recognized Apolonia and her son and said hi. Tio Agosto welcomed us and we said hello to his wife, Alejandra. It made Luis happy to see Tio Agosto, who isn't really his uncle. He just calls him that to be affectionate. They work together and share in Luis' passion for double entendres, funny stories and goofing around. Tio Agosto has a kind face and happily goes along with Luis' silliness. They offered Luis a beer. Luis passed it to me and they gave him another. I've noticed that I'm usually the only woman who drinks and I wonder if they think I have a bad moral character.

After about 1/2 hour of small talk, Tio Agosto cleared off the dining table. I told Luis that we shouldn't stay to eat because I had a leg of lamb at home waiting to be cooked for our dinner. Tio Agosto took Luis aside. When Luis came back he said they had cleared the table for us and he asked if I wanted to eat something. I said OK having learned that when food or drinks are offered one must not refuse or else your host will be offended and you will be seen as rude and disrespectful. I've probably offended quite a few people over the past few years by just being honest or not wanting to take food, drink or gifts thinking that they shouldn't spend their meager resources on me. This reminds me of when I lived in Spain and my then husband, Joaquin, and I went to visit a gypsy family he knew. They offered us some food but I told Joaquin that I had to get back as my mother was expecting me for dinner and there was no phone or way to let her know that I'd be late. He said we could not refuse so we stayed and ate fried eggs and potatoes.

Alejandra brought us bowls of chicken soup with rice and tortillas. Luis has taught me to make this staple of mexican comfort food but this was amazingly fragrant and flavorful. It turned out that the chicken was a free range hen from a local farm and Alejandra had bought it live and killed it at home. The leg in my bowl was almost 5 inches long. We complimented her on her delicious soup and I asked where she had bought the hen. She told me the general location and said she'd take me there sometime, if I liked. I gratefully accepted this offer.

The jokes and laughter continued as we ate with Apolonia, her husband and their son who refused to eat. Apolonia said he didn't like tortillas or chicken soup because his day care provider was Puerto Rican and he had gotten used to their food. As we were finishing, I noticed an extremely drunk man was watching us from the other room. He was trying to hide behind a wall but half of his face was visible. He stood there for a long time watching us. Luis noticed and was not pleased. The man noticed that Luis had seen him and approached and offered to buy him a beer. Luis said, thanks but no thanks, but the man insisted realizing even in his late stage of drunkeness that he'd seriously offended Luis. Finally, Luis agreed and we each accepted a beer from him. We finished our meal and got up from the table to make room for the next group to eat. I wondered if Alejandra was charging them for meals or if they were friends.

After about an hour and a half, we left with four beers in a black plastic bag. Luis told me later that when Tio Agosto had taken him aside it was to ask if I'd like some soup. Luis had said yes but Tio Agosto was worried about whether I would mind eating tortillas. Luis assured him that I didn't mind eating Mexican food and that they shouldn't worry about it.

I'm glad Luis got to see his Tio Agosto on Christmas day. I think it reminded him of home, something both sad and comforting during the holidays. Offers of good food one must not refuse, silly jokes amongst friends and the occasional drunk man acting inappropriately.

Marta

Marta called me and asked if I could come talk to her. She said that her father had been taking care of her son in Guatemala but he had died. She wants to return to get her son and bring him back here to live with her. She wondered if there were any options available which would help them re-enter with a visa. I went over there yesterday.

Before I knock on someone's door I call first to tell them I'm there. I've found that often people won't open the door unless they know who is knocking. There are a lot of reasons for this fear. After parking at the curb, I called Marta's number. A man answered the phone. I asked for Marta but he said she didn't live there anymore. I told him who I was, that I was outside and that she was expecting me. He put her on the phone.

She let me in and we climbed the two flights to her third floor apartment. On the staircase a window was broken and the cold air was coming in. Her apartment was cold, too, and I kept my coat on. Like almost all the homes I visit, this one was immaculately clean and sparcely furnished except for various religious iconography. A Christmas tree was lit with colored lights.

Marta thanked me many times before beginning her story. She told me that she wanted to bring her teenage son here to live with her but with things being so difficult at the border, so expensive and so dangerous to cross, she wondered if there was any way to come back legally. I explained the various options that are available people related to a US citizen or permanent resident, to victims of crime, domestic violence survivors and asylees.

She told me that she had been assaulted on the street a few months ago but had been afraid to cooperate with the police for fear that the woman who attacked her would be provoked to retaliate. And, she told me that about three years ago she was involved in something that I might have heard about. Luis had already told me this story. A Puerto Rican man had spent years victimizing immigrants by breaking into their apartments and robbing them at gunpoint. Because the police either weren't able to catch him or didn't care or because immigrants are afraid to report crimes because they fear that the perpetrator will not be caught and come back to hurt them, this man continued to steal the hard-earned cash immigrants kept at home because they don't have bank accounts. People had begun to arm themselves to protect themselves from this man and from others who were feeding themselves on their vulnerability. One night he broke into Marta's apartment. Someone there had a gun and shot and killed him. Marta said she'd spoken to the police about what happened but the case had never gone to court.

I told her that these two events might qualify her for a U visa, as a victim of crime. Then, she told me the story of why she left Guatemala. Her son was the result of a rape at age 16 but she had never told anyone what had happened to her because of her fear and shame. Part of the reason she left Guatemala was because living there with her rapist nearby was too traumatic for her and she was unable to put it behind her. She cried when telling me this and I was sure it was not easy for her to do so. I told her that this might qualify her for an asylum claim but I also said that it didn't sound like she would be prevented from living elsewhere in Guatemala, only in the place where this man still lived.

One thing I've learned is that this culture doesn't find it easy to open up and share painful experiences or personal feelings. Even within families I've seen cases where a woman hasn't told her family that she's pregnant until it becomes absolutely necessary. Is it shame? Denial? Or, fear of being judged for past mistakes? Or, do people assume that it's no ones else's business?
Coming from a culture that encourages the sharing and processing of one's life experiences (to move on or to engage in a process based on the assumption that we can overcome the obstacles in our path) the level of secrecy I've seen amazes me. Obviously, I wouldn't expect Marta or others who barely know me to open up and start telling me their life stories. All I'm saying is that the level of formality and lack of intimacy in personal relationships which I've observed is perplexing to me.

In any case, I understood that what Marta was telling me was not easy for her and had likely not been shared with even her closest friends. Who knows what else she had been through? That level of isolation and loneliness was almost too hard to contemplate. I can't imagine having been raped and not being able to talk about it.

I hope there is something that can be done to help Marta be reunited with her son. It's not likely and I told her that. But, there's nothing to be lost by trying. I kissed her goodby and wished her a Merry Christmas and a happy new year. As I left her apartment I once again cursed the stupid laws that separate families, enable criminals to hurt and rob people, and contribute to the keeping of secrets because of fear and shame.