In Lak'ech - Julia Munson

In Lak’ech
Tu eres mi otro yo - You are my other me.
Si te hago daño a ti - If I do harm to you,
Me hago daño a mi mismo. - I do harm to myself.
Si te amo y respeto - If I love and respect you,
Me amo y respeto yo. - I love and respect myself.

In the Hopes and Dreams Room at Ochoa Elementary, we begin every meal with this poem. Around the Border Studies Program lately, it’s become a reminder to ground ourselves. We began our symposium with it this evening by asking all those who have supported us this semester to read it with us. The voices together rang louder than I imagined they would, and, as I am often in this program, I was swept over by a wave of thankfulness. This semester has not always been easy and I wouldn’t have wanted it that way. The world is a tough, violent place in many ways. Yet there is so much to be thankful for. Three of the students in the Hopes and Dreams Room came to our symposium tonight with their families, to say goodbye and thank you as I strove to find the words for what they mean to me.

As we prepare to leave the borderlands, I have been thinking often on community, of how those first days my time here seemed so short, how it seemed so impossible that I would develop relationships of such deep respect and gratitude with people I would see only for a few hours a week for fifteen weeks. Yet I have. The students, families, and teachers at my field study have taught me so much about how to be graciously and bravely in the world, how to stand up for what you believe in, and how to stand in solidarity. They have taught me to sing to pollitos, to run around the playground, and to find incredible joy in encountering insects in the compost. They have taught me to laugh, to imagine the world in new ways, to move beyond the fear of putting myself out there.

I have learned to step out of my comfort zone, to approach others with “Buenos días. ¿Como esta Ud.?” before they approach me. I have learned to introduce myself, to explain my existence in a place rather than seeking to hide it, to say goodbye with wholehearted thanks every time. This transformation has been a radical process, radical as in roots; the roots of strong relationships start in these actions, in cultivating that sense of respect. It’s been a matter of decolonizing my mind, of reaffirming our potential to connect in a world that seeks to divide us.

Protect Chuk Shon, Rio Nuestro NOT Rio Nuevo - Sophie Kazis

Last Saturday, activists and community members gathered at Verdugo Park in Barrio Kruger Lane to oppose the Rio Nuevo Board and its attempt to develop the Chuk Shon land––the sacred birthplace of Tucson––for private profit. This land has a very long history, as Chuk Shon is the longest continuously inhabited land in North America. It has been farmed and inhabited for over 4,000 years––holding within its desert soil the heritage of indigenous folks, Chicano/as, and working class people for years and years. What the Rio Board wants to do is develop and gentrify this land, which would disrespect the land’s heritage, displace the local residents in the surrounding neighborhoods (one of which is Barrio Kruger Lane), and ecologically destroy the land. Tucson activist and Barrio Kruger Lane resident, James Patrick Jordan, explains, “What the Rio Nuevo Board wants is not only displacement, but a new colonialism.”

The Rio Nuevo Board, which is unelected by the public, was appointed by Governor Jan Brewer and Senator Russell Peirce––both advocates of SB1070. The board’s chair, Jodi Bain, is a lawyer for Munger Chadwick and Associates, a firm of NAFTA lawyers. To add insult to injury, John Munger, of Munger Chadwick, has been a loud opponent of Ethnic Studies, a position antithetical with the values and wishes of community members in areas surrounding Chuk Shon. The board also includes SB1070 supporter Jonathan Paton and Rosemont Copper lobbyist and Republican candidate for mayor, Rick Grinnell. This group wants to sue the City of Tucson not only for the ownership of the Chuk Shon land, but also for $47 million––taxpayer’s money nonetheless.

Everything the Rio Nuevo Board stands for goes against the values of those for whom the land is sacred. The board has only its own profiteering interests in mind, and cares nothing of the site’s indigenous, Chicano/a, and working class history. In opposing the Rio Nuevo board, we are also resisting the militarization, criminalization, and dehumanization of the community. As I am a Tucson implant, and cannot claim Chuk Shon’s history as my own, I join in solidarity with those directly affected by the actions of the Rio Nuevo Board in saying: “Our land, our community, and our freedom is NOT for sale! So thank you very much.”

On our Protect Chuk Shon – Rio Nuestro NOT Rio Nuevo Facebook page, you will find this statement:

"Thousands have taken to the streets all over in the Occupy Movement and the world watches with many people answering the calls to take a stand. We in the occupied city of Tucson live under an increased atmosphere of colonized oppression through private prisons, border militarization, deaths in our desert, police brutality, and hate laws like SB1070 and HB2281. These measures that attack our communities, destroy our schools, and ruin our health have been financed by large corporations and banks who have also contributed to the collapse of housing markets and unemployment in Arizona. We in Arizona are motivated to act in support of the Occupy movement, but seek to do this through addressing the need for systemic change in our local community. Fighting against the AZ State appointed and unelected RIO NUEVO Board while making an alternative solution for this ancestral land that respects historical, cultural, and indigenous values is our way to make this local struggle in solidarity with the global fight against capitalist oppression and economic inequality all over the world. JOIN US!!"

The Nov. 12 unity event/teach-in was very successful. The day started with a land beautification/earth-decolonization effort, in which people pulled up buffalo grass at the Chuk Shon site. Buffalo grass in a non-native invasive species that has displaced many native species, like the Mexican poppy. Then there was a blessing on the land, and a procession from Chuk Shon to Verdugo Park across the river, lead by the powerful dancers of Danza Cuauhtémoc. The day proceeded with speakers and teach-ins by indigenous activists, Barrio residents, local musicians, and many other people/groups as well. There was food and festivities, and activities for children. The event concluded with a community discussion to decide on a plan of action and talk about where we want to go next in our fight to reclaim and renew the Chuk Shon land for the community, NOT for the private interests of the Rio Nuevo Board. The event last Saturday was just the beginning of our fight to protect and decolonize Chuk Shon. Rio Nuestro, NOT Rio Nuevo!

Remembering Not to Forget: Imposed Forgetfulness in the Age of Neoliberalism - Sophie Kazis

During our trip along the western portion of the U.S.-Mexico border, it became clear that neoliberal development schemes fundamentally necessitate the social construction of invisible, or forgotten, communities. In her article “Climate Justice,” Ashley Dawson uses Hurricane Katrina as a lens into “the structural nature of invisibility”. She explains Rob Nixon’s concept of “unimagined communities,” which describes “populations who find no place in neoliberalism but whose existence is nevertheless an integral part of it.” The very existence of development in its current form depends on an ignorance about and normalization of its ugly consequences––whether that be potter’s graves, mass fish die-offs in the Salton Sea, or the struggle for basic survival of the Cucapá community in El Mayor. These are the harsh realities that we are not meant to see; and if we do see them, we are taught to believe that such consequences are the “natural” sacrifices our society must make, and with sacrifice comes benefits. But with every stop on our travel seminar, we witnessed “unimagined communities” that people benefitting from the current globalized, neoliberalized world would prefer were kept hidden. Invisibility is constructed in many ways, some of which include: enclosing the commons/displacement of peoples and ecosystems; pollution; conservation efforts; and the loss of traditional knowledge over time, through migration as well as acts of cultural imperialism and genocide.

As I celebrated Día de los Muertos about a week ago, I couldn’t help but think about the third day of our travel seminar, when we visited a potter’s grave. I remember pulling up to a grassy cemetery in Holtville, California, sprinklers on to keep the grass growing green. We walked to the far side of the cemetery where we stepped over a chain, separating the “official” cemetery from the sinking ground behind it. There, we found rows and rows of potter’s graves, single bricks marked Jane and John Doe. This potter’s grave is the burial ground for unidentified migrants who died crossing the desert. Killed directly by “the funnel affect” of U.S. immigration policy, these individuals are then buried far out of the public eye, with only a disintegrating brick to mark their lives and their deaths. The potter’s grave is a micro-example of the large-scale, structural displacement of peoples due to socio-economic foreign policy, and the government’s successful attempt at hiding the ugly costs of their violent legislation.

The costs of displacement are not easy to witness. The potter’s grave was in despicable condition. We were told to walk along the outskirts of the potter’s grave, as to avoid the graves sinking in beneath our feet. Handmade crosses lay broken and fallen down throughout the makeshift cemetery: a past attempt by people at bringing some small semblance of dignity to those forgotten and forgotten again. The John and Jane Does buried in Holtville are hidden people¬¬. Many of them were crossing the desert to become hidden workers in the U.S. In the process, they died in the harsh and hidden desert, and today are buried in a hidden cemetery. There is no room for dignity in neoliberal development, and thus, it is imperative that we remember not to forget. We must remember not forget the migrants buried in Holtville, the migrants working everyday in hidden jobs throughout the U.S., and the undocumented people being locked up and hidden away in detention centers and prisons every single day.

Joseph Nevins has a Border Wars blog post called “Holtville, California on the Day of the Dead,” in which he explains that each year on Día de los Muertos, people gather at the potter’s field to remember those who have died in the desert, at the hands of U.S. immigration policy. This is a powerful image, and perhaps more of us should spend our days actively remembering those who are actively forgotten, or “unimagined.”

"You Can Break Me, but Please Don't Break My Family": A Greyhound Story - Ian Flanagan

If you had looked for me Friday night last Halloween weekend, you would have found me dressed as the Scooby Doo of a Mystery Gang-themed group out on the town, lightheartedly hopping the plentiful parties as critical to Halloween for college students as candy and animal costumes are for kindergarteners. If you had looked for me the year before, you would have found me cruising on a Greyhound bus through 300 miles of cornfields to University of Iowa to surprise a friend on his birthday and stay up all night watching Arrested Development. If you looked for me on Halloween weekend’s opening night last night, however, you would have found me in a similar-looking Greyhound Station to the one I stepped off in a bus into at Iowa City two years ago, but for a very different purpose.

The other Border Studies students and I spent our Friday night at Tucson’s slightly creepy and chillingly cold Greyhound Station with the local peace and justice house Casa Mariposa. Immigration & Customs Enforcement (ICE) has a nasty habit of releasing undocumented detainees from nearby immigration prisons at the Greyhound Station late at night without money, phones, food, or a place to stay if they can’t get on a bus, and the house sends volunteers every night to lend a helping hand and listen to detainees’ stories.

We passed the ICE prisoner-transit van on the way in, a big pick-up truck with a cramped armored compartment on the back that looks like it’d be difficult to fit kids in, much less the adult men who typically get picked up for immigration violations. Only three men got out of the van, a light evening—often 15 or more people spill out of ICE’s armored clown cars—and as the St. Louis Cardinals won the World Series on the TV, we waited around awkwardly with our boxes of food and water and our cell phones ready to lend until the three of them came inside.

At first, I thought that not much could come out of talking to just three released detainees. An hour or two in the station proved me wrong.

My fairly limited Spanish kept conversation with two of the men somewhat utilitarian, as the men borrowed our phones; turned down food, as ICE had, for once, fed prisoners before releasing them; and bought bus tickets to Phoenix and California with money their families had wired. In spite of the language barrier, however, we had some notable conversations.

The man off to Phoenix was quiet. He was from El Salvador and had been stopped while driving in Arizona and turned over to ICE (a process that’s in legal limbo in the state). He had been released with a court date because, due to an obscure bit of 1980s immigration law, he could be considered a refugee, as he left his country while it was still in civil war. He had been in immigration prison for two years and two months, and seemed dazed to be outside.

The man off to California was more talkative. He was from Mexico and had been released on bond with an immigration court date. He had papers to be here but didn’t have them on hand when stopped by California police, who turned him over to ICE (an illegal detention and a process California law doesn’t actually provide for). Of his four U.S.-born children, one is serving in the Army, one in the Navy, and one in Marine Corps, with the last stationed in Iraq. And this detail is a little silly to have taken such notice of, but it struck me perhaps the most of all that the man works as a strawberry picker, one of the legion of invisible workers who help provide my favorite food, somebody your average upper-middle-class college student depends on but never sees in the flesh.

The longest conversation I had, however, was with someone I wouldn’t have expected to see in immigration custody: a Mormon from Fiji living in Oakland, California who spoke perfect English. (I felt more than a little bit stupid when I first addressed him in Spanish.) He had been arrested at home when his wife called the police during an argument. She immediately dropped the complaint, but he was found by Secure Communities—a Homeland Security program that searches out undocumented immigrants in local prisons (some convicted of crimes, many simply detained for a short time) in prisons and transfers them to ICE custody for deportation—and sent to one of Arizona’s many immigration detention centers.

He had spent the past several months working one of ICE’s $1/day jobs in a prison where $7 buys a 12-minute phone card, $4 buys a single serving of coffee creamer, $3 buys a packet of ketchup, and $70 buys a tiny dollar-store radio. (He showed us the prison’s price list, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bigger racket—the only thing which didn’t cost 10x its market value was the postage stamps sold at face value.) The guards from the prison’s private security contractor treated prisoners well, even bringing in forbidden items past Homeland Security. ICE employees, on the other hand, treated detainees as both inferiors and criminals, especially the man I talked to, because the police had put the label Domestic Violence on his case. (Perhaps the most chilling quotation from an ICE agent I heard that night was: “So you like to hurt the females? Well, you can do that in your own country; go back and do it there, not here.”)

Detainees lived in fear of “segregation” (i.e. being put in living quarters with suspected gang members), and had to bargain their only personal items, shoes and watches, for access to phone cards. ICE personnel spent much of their time trying to get immigrants to sign voluntary-deportation forms in clumsy bits of subterfuge. But perhaps the most heart-rending thing I heard from this father of five was his description of the first time he went in front of a judge in detention, making the plea I can easily imagine making in his position: “You can break me, but please don’t break my family.” I wanted to ask what he thought his chances were in immigration court in California, but I knew it was more important just to listen…how much else can you do for someone in the situation?

As we left, I thought back to when we were driving to the Greyhound Station that night: I had half-wished I was back at the college for an evening of festivities, or even hanging out at Tucson’s costumed Halloween parade we passed on the way. But just shaking that man’s hand before he got on his 18-hour Greyhound ride to Oakland was more than I could have asked from a holiday so full of frivolity as Halloween.

Vida Nueva: Weaving Through Resistance - Sophie Kazis

Just after visiting the almost exclusively female town of El Carmen––a small, rural Zapotec pueblo, whose men have mostly all migrated to Mexican and U.S. cities in search of work—we traveled East to another Zapotec town that felt very different: Teotitlan de Valle. From what we saw of both towns (which certainly was not “the whole picture” and left me with much speculation), Teotitlan de Valle felt more populated, urbanized, and tourist-based than El Carmen. Yet, in both towns we saw women coming together to organize both formal and informal systems of social and economic support.

Teotitlan de Valle is home to Vida Nueva, a 14-year old women’s weaving cooperative. At its formation, Vida Nueva comprised 30 women and instigated town uproar. Men and husbands, fearful of shifting gender roles, made their opposition clear: women had no place organizing and assembling together. A women’s place is in the house. And as a result, many women left the coop. Now, Vida Nueva has 14 members, only two of which are married. The cooperative has worked hard to gain acceptance and respect within their community.

I want to start off by saying that the weavers of Vida Nueva were inspiring both as artists and organizers. However, our visit brought up many more questions than it did answers, perhaps due to the short duration of our visit. When we arrived, a group of about six Vida Nueva members gave us a brief history of the cooperative, and then an overview of their annual community projects. A few topics in particular brought up the majority of my questions: 1. The women explained that, at one point, the coop had sought government support. In exchange, however, the women of Vida Nueva were required to show support for the PRI (Partido Revoluccionario Institucional), a powerful Mexican political party. 2. The coop members also described talleres, or educational workshops, in which they were required to participate. These included classes in Spanish-language, self-esteem, and sexual health, to name a few. The women spoke with enthusiasm about the benefits of these workshops--for them as individuals and as an organization—however, their explanations were somewhat vague, and I couldn’t help but leave the talk wanting to know more.

So here are some (among many) questions I left thinking about:
1. Was the agency and voice of these women being influenced by a political party or some sort of development scheme?
2. Who was running these “educational workshops”: Oportunidades (aka the government)? Outsider NGOs?
3. How did these “educational workshops” conflict with and/or compliment traditional Zapotec knowledge, traditions, and practices, and how come such age-old knowledge is now considered insufficient (when it has previously fostered successfully self-sustaining communities for thousands of years)?
4. How did our group identity as white U.S. citizens with varying Spanish-speaking abilities affect the information we received and how we received it?
5. How did our affiliation with UniTierra shape the information we received and how we received it?
6. There were several Vida Nueva members present at the talk, although one woman mainly spoke to us. How would have hearing different/more voices changed the information we received about the cooperative?
7. How has cultural imperialism and Western-style feminism affected my own definition of “gender equality,” and the definitions of women at Vida Nueva? How are these definitions similar or different?

A few of the Vida Nueva women spoke to us briefly about Usos y Costumbres. They explained that as their community projects have proven successful, and subsequently, gained respect for the cooperative, Vida Nueva women have been given a voice in the assembly (traditionally only open to men). Some of the women appeared happy to finally be given a voice in community decision-making, yet once again, I wished I had had more time to speak with the women and learn more about the complexities of their lives and opinions.

Reading a chapter from Silvia Federici’s book, “Caliban and the Witch: Women, The Body, and Primitive Accumulation,” for class this week made me think back on our visit to Vida Nueva and our discussion on the coop members’ new role in the assembly. Federici’s book describes the erosion of women’s rights and the exploitation and commodification of the female-body in the “transition” to European capitalism. By the end of the 17th century in Europe, Federici explains,

“It was even argued that any work that women did at home was ‘non-work’ and was worthless even when done for the market. Thus, if a woman sewed some clothes it was ‘domestic work’ or ‘housekeeping,’ even if the clothes were not for the family, whereas when a man did the same task it was considered ‘productive’” (Caliban and the Witch, 92).

As women were restricted to domestic labor, their work––or “non-work”––was simultaneously devalued.

I am curious how this relates to the women at Vida Nueva and their role in the assembly. Now, not only do they do their “non-work” in the home and their work at the cooperative, but also they additionally have the new responsibility of assembly member. It would seems, then, that they have three times the responsibility as many of the men in the community. Of course this is not to say that women shouldn’t have a voice in the assembly––because I believe that they absolutely should––but rather that “gender inequality” is multi-layered and historically based. It could be said that gaining voice in the assembly addresses a symptom of gender inequality, rather than its root causes.

In addressing my many questions on the topic of Vida Nueva, I have only produced more questions. But what I speculate is this: in part, Vida Nueva was formed in response to insecurity. It is a cooperative of female resistance––to the affects of gender oppression, migration, globalization, and exploitative development schemes. Indeed, these women were once laughed at by their peers, and seen as devious and plotting. They have fought and continue to fight for their social and economic independence, although resistance is neither simple nor black-and-white. It was an honor to be in Teotitlan de Valle in solidarity with these women.

Additionally, we were lucky enough to participate in a group limpia, or “cleansing.” By candle-light, we were each given a pile of aromatherapeutic plants (covered in mezcal) to rub into key points on our bodies, stimulating our skin and internal self-curative abilities. We then came together in a circle, holding and supporting one another as we breathed in the fragrant heat of copal and felt a cool splash on the back of our necks. Then: time alone, to sit in silence with our newly cleansed bodies. During the limpia, we were given the time and space to let the strength of community help heal such ailments as fear and stress. Our limpia was also about self-care, a practice and value so often overlooked in Western-style modern medicine.
Last, but certainly not least, I must not forget to mention the mole riquísimo that the women made for us. This meal––of chocolaty mole, chicken, and Oaxaca’s famous quesillo––was by far the best food I ate during my time in Oaxaca.

Border Stories - Julia Munson

So much of the border is contradiction. A few weeks ago now, we left Tucson for a short excursion to Nogales and Altar, Mexico. Nogales – really Ambos Nogales – is a town that the border cuts awkwardly through: the fence and Customs station sit in the middle of the plaza where people from both sides used to get together.

Our first stop: the largest Border Patrol station on the Arizona border. If border policy as militarization had yet to sink fully in, this visit helped solidify that reality from the parking lot on. First impression: a sea of white and green vans emblazoned with Border Patrol, some with cages in the back. The night before, two such vans surrounded a truck and two men a block from my house. It was the first time I’d seen a Border Patrol stop. I felt totally overwhelmed, unsure how to respond. Confused as to why two Border Patrol vans were necessary to stop two men in one truck – intimidation? Reminded that many people in my new neighborhood must live in fear – fear of routine traffic stops that turn into deportations, fear of opening their doors lest the knock not be that of a friend but of an unwarranted Border Patrol raid. The next morning, then, standing in the parking lot at Border Patrol, my head was still reeling.

We heard a report about what was happening on the border and why we need the fence, the ever-increasing number of agents, and the use of military technology – infrared cameras, floodlights, “less-than-lethal” weapons… The number one reason? Terrorism. Yet the Border Patrol has yet to apprehend one terrorist on the U.S./Mexico border. The agents giving our tour admitted it, though claimed they wouldn’t know it if they had. After the talk, the two agents showed off their less-than-lethal weapons at their shooting range (which contains a human target): two different pepper spray guns, most often used to scare people away from the fence, especially those who might be throwing rocks at the agents. The new fence has slats in it that allow agents to see through to the Mexican side – and shoot through if “necessary.” While neither are “fatal” (to healthy adults), the Border Patrol will not allow its agents to be hit with one of them, as it can cause fairly severe damage. Next to the shooting range was a garage with overflow detention space – caged off areas on the concrete floor with razor wire at the top. What is this station if not a military complex?

Our next stop: Grupos Beta in Nogales, Sonora, Mexico. Grupos Beta is a Mexican governmental organization that provides discounted bus tickets home, phone calls and other services to recently deported migrants. It also works to advise migrants about the dangers of heading north. Outside, we talked with some migrants who, affected by the culture of fear perpetuated by SB1070, had left their children (U.S. citizens) behind. They wanted to return, but a failed attempt at crossing through the mountains had forced them to return and reevaluate. They asked if their children’s citizenship might help them through the visa process. Unlikely, so they’ll try crossing through the mountains once again.

Later that night, we stayed at CCAMYN, a migrant shelter that provides free housing, clothes, food, showers and other necessities to migrants in Altar – formerly a small town that serves as a staging area for the last stretch of the trip north. In this town, many migrants meet up with their coyotes and prepare for the trip north. Many stay in crowded casas de huespedes and are charged exorbitant prices for food. CCAMYN attempts to provide migrants with a dignified alternative. At CCAMYN, we talked with a man from Honduras who had lived in Hartford, Connecticut – less than one hour from my home – for five years before he was deported while visiting family in Florida. He was heading back, full of questions about crossing and concerns about the heat. The journey would take weeks. He’d already been traveling on trains across Mexico for a month just to get to Altar. And all I had to do to get home? Hand over some money and spend the day on planes. Over dinner, a Guatemalan man expanded on what the trains are like – how long it takes (he remembered the name of every town he’d taken the train through), how you have to avoid the Mexican migra and the gangs that rob migrants, how dangerous the trip was. His foot had gotten caught as he was getting on the train and he had lost a toenail. Some people lose limbs or fall off the trains to their deaths. The next day, we talked with three deported teenage boys at DIF (Desarrollo Integral Familiar). One of them, a seventeen year-old from Oaxaca, had headed north to make money so he could build himself a house in his village and find a wife.

These are the people who the Border Patrol stops with their military complex: separated families, people with lives in the United States, people who want to make money so they can return to their homes. They don’t stop terrorists, and they don’t stop the vast majority of drugs that come across the border.

The Right to Rootedness - Julia Munson

Blessed rain on a tin roof in a dark room. Some voices almost faceless, yet light shines over a mountain in the distance. The visit begins like many of our visits, with an explanation of Centeotl and its mission to make villages like this one more economically viable places to live.

The conversation turns to migration, and a woman who shares my name stands up, walks to the middle of the room and speaks forcefully through tears: her husband gone to the fields of New York state where the winters are long, cold and workless; how he and his fellow workers turn to alcohol and drugs to face them. Another women with an angry voice, the husband of her daughter gone to the U.S. never to return, angry at his forgetting of home and family. So much violence – for the men forced far away from their families, forced to cross borders that employ violence as strategy, violence for the women who stay behind on land that won’t produce, raising children alone because their husbands won’t or can’t return. The soil is worn down by goats, fertilizers, deforestation. The water: not enough. It’s as if the world has no place for them – and it doesn’t really. Neoliberalism sought to rid the world of “excess” farmers, to turn them into cheap labor. They survive by diversifying, by going north, growing amaranth, tending to their milpas.

The Centeotl representative tells us “first visit: applause, second visit: *alegrias. ” Some significance there, a sharing of sustenance in return for a return, in return for a promise delivered. As we file out, we shake hands with every person, a custom so full of grace and reverence for others I wonder why we rarely stop for it in my communities. Many of the women repeat the same sentiment, “Come back, come back.” And while it’s a request, it feels like a necessity. To ask for these stories, to listen, and not seek to change the way the world makes it unfeasible to live well in one’s home seems to me a failure.

For my own well-being, I need to believe that I can plant roots in the land of my home. I need to believe that I can work with the land I live on to sustain myself. These are the things that ground me: soil, water, food. My life would be less whole were I not to have the right to grow my own food, to feel its direct connection to the place I call home. I feel compelled to fight for this right, for this community in rural Oaxaca, for communities across the world, for my family. I may never physically return to El Carmen, yet I hope I return often in my thoughts and actions, that I return by promoting the rights of individuals to live dignified, rich, and connected (to land, history and community) lives in their homelands.

I left El Carmen utterly overwhelmed. We talk of solidarity often on this program. In many ways, the visit to El Carmen began to turn my understanding of the necessity of solidarity from an intellectual one to a personal, emotional one. Still, the visit created many more questions than it answered. What does my solidarity with communities like El Carmen look like? What does it mean? How can I be in solidarity? These are questions I hope I will struggle with for the rest of my life.


*Alegrias are bars of popped and sweetened amaranth.