Undocumented and Unafraid


My Name is Gabriel and I am Undocumented

When I was I kid I used to practice holding my breath as a game. I would try to see how long I could last and then try to go even longer. One time I lasted a minute and a half; it felt as though a hammer was beating my lungs. I never imagined that I would be holding my breath for twenty years.

I was always aware of my status; even as a young boy my parents had told me about it. They explained their reasoning for coming here and what our goals and aspirations as a family were. So I grew up always knowing, however it was only until junior year in high school that I really understood the gravity of our situation. And with that understanding came a downward spiral during which I practically gave up all efforts in school; my reasoning was, why bother with all this work if it’s not going to amount to anything.

I managed to better my grades and keep my hopes up somewhat during my last year in school, and even flirted with the idea of applying to some universities; but without status and with no money, it was a difficult journey ahead. So, rather than begin my college studies with the rest of my peers, I proceeded to join the underground economy and with my share of odd jobs, save some money.

During that time I joined my father in community gatherings and forums to promote a bill allowing undocumented students to pay instate tuition. At these gatherings I spoke to families about the potential of our youth and the benefits of this bill; I talked about the difficult choices that an undocumented teen had to make when there was no means to gain access to higher education.

It wasn’t until a year after graduation that hope finally came in the form of AB 540, allowing me to enroll in a local community college.

While working fulltime and going to classes at night, I managed to transfer to a state university in 2005. One of my dreams having come true, I continued to work fulltime and go to school at night, focusing on school rather than any form of social life. On weekends it was either overtime or being in the library. What drove me was the somewhat naïve idea that once I graduated everything would somehow magically work itself out.
So the time passed, and in the winter of 2007 I graduated Cum Laude, with a degree in Industrial Engineering. Graduation was a bittersweet day. Having finished school and still being undocumented, I have no prospects other than to stay in the underground economy and let my degree lose value as the time passes.

Sure, I had met my goal and, facing difficult barriers, obtained a degree. But now what?

Being in my mid twenties I see all the time that has passed me by, and how a lot of it has been wasted by this constant worry that not having nine digits entails. I look at all the opportunities missed, the demeaning jobs, anger and despair, and realize that I don’t want undocumented kids just graduating from high school to go through that. I also look towards my future, or lack of, and feel the tugging of time as each year passes. To be a 30-year-old fast food worker is not something that I aspire to. I want to be able to finally breathe.

These are my reasons for fighting for the DREAM Act.

~Gabe, DREAMer from California
Check out my blog here: http://documenting-me.blogspot.com
 
 
We were so inspired by the DREAMers’ courage in coming out last week that we will continue to feature their stories through the end of March.  Please show your support by signing the petition to pass the DREAM Act.  Thank you.
 
 
 

Undocumented and Unafraid

My Name is Ashley and I am Undocumented

The funny thing about my story is that my grandmother and mother were both green-card holders. Yet, here I am in a state of limbo status because the lawyer messed up. In the time it took for my mother to futilely navigate the immigration system, I had already overstayed my tourist visa and forgotten my native tongue. I thought of myself only as an American and was thoroughly disappointed and in a state of shock when I found that I couldn’t get a driver’s license. As I grew older, the barriers grew more formidable. I moved into a studio-size apartment with my family, checked vending machines for forgotten change, and somehow managed to finish my college education.

I graduated from a prestigious university without any form of institutional financial aid. I did, however, qualify for in-state tuition, without which I would not be the person I am today. To save money, I finished two majors in three years and received the highest honors given at my school. Throughout my college days, I was and still am an active member of the community. I led efforts to provide health service for the uninsured, tutored and mentored underserved youth, and volunteered at the free clinic. My status had provided me with unique insight into the struggles of the low income and underserved and with undying strength to help those in greater need.

Finally, I realized that my greatest desire in life was to pursue a career in medicine so that I could dedicate each day to directly helping those in need. I applied and was accepted into MD-PhD programs across the nation, placing me in the top ten percent of the student population. Yet, in a matter of days, my dreams would be destroyed. I am still out of status and unable to pursue dual degrees in medicine and research. Currently, I am still unsure whether or not I will be able to enroll in medical school. My elite pile of acceptances seems to dangle before me as dreams that are so close to reality and yet so far from my reach.

But I don’t deserve this. I had made no excuses on my application and told no lies. I was, instead, reviewed and accepted on my own academic and personal merits. These schools don’t even have a clue of what I’ve had to go through to get this far in my life. They offered me admission because I was well qualified for a spot in their entering class, because I had shown the potential to make great differences in the world of healthcare and scientific innovation. It is entirely their loss that they revoked the acceptances I had gained fair and square.

I hope this nation will not make the same mistake as these schools. We, the Dreamers, represent some of America’s most persevering and brightest youth. We have been tested by the most difficult challenges. Most of us have experienced days when we couldn’t afford to buy food for our family or painful incidents when we couldn’t afford medical help for our loved ones. Yet, with each challenge, we continue to overcome. We face these adversities head on and grow stronger in the process. And each day, we explore the limits of our potential as tested by the restrictions imposed on us because we hold faith that this country we love so dearly will one day recognize us and our efforts. We want nothing more than to contribute to the growth of this nation and, without a doubt, we have the potential to do so. All we need is the chance to grow.

Please pass the DREAM Act. All I ever wanted was to go to medical school, to spend the rest of my life giving back to the community, and to finally be an American.

~Ashley, DREAMer from California
 
We were so inspired by the DREAMers’ courage in coming out last week that we will continue to feature their stories through the end of March.  Please show your support by signing the petition to pass the DREAM Act.  Thank you.
 
 
 

SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: WALT WHITMAN

SELECTION FROM THE PREFACE OF “LEAVES OF GRASS”

by Walt Whitman


This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.

Walt Whitman (1819-1892) was an American poet, essayist, journalist, and humanist. He was a part of the transition between Transcendentalism and realism, incorporating both views in his works. Whitman is among the most influential poets in the American canon, often called the father of free verse. His work was very controversial in its time, particularly his poetry collection Leaves of Grass, which was described as obscene for its overt sexuality. (Annotated biography of Walt Whitman courtesy of Wikipedia.org.)

Editor’s Note: I was sent this excerpt from Leaves of Grass by two different people this past week, which to me was a sign that it needed to be shared with you. Walt Whitman is that rare example of a poet who is well known by name today. Recently Andrew Sullivan featured this same excerpt in The Atlantic. As previously featured in this series, Levis has made Walt Whitman the voice of their Freedom campaign. In his own time Whitman was controversial. Today his words are less so in comparison to what is the norm in the modern world. And still, Whitman is known, quoted, referenced, revered, and loved. My own introduction to Whitman was through the poets I am closest to. Ginsberg, Lorca, Spicer – to the poets who came after him, Whitman was a hero and mentor. Because of Whitman, not only was Whitman’s own timeless poetry written, but great poetry was written by those who followed.

Want to read more by and about Walt Whitman?
The Walt Whitman Archive
Poets.org
WaltWhitman.org

National Coming Out Week for Undocumented Youth

 

My Name is Liz and I am Undocumented

I am afraid to tell my story; the consequences are immense, but silence is no longer an option.
 
My family immigrated to the U.S. from Mexico sixteen years ago on a visa. Throughout those years, my parents paid countless visits to lawyers and applied for residency three times. For various reasons, such as the 9/11 attack, all those residency applications were denied. We lost thousands of dollars and, worse, we lost hope.
 
Attending college was difficult; the application process for a non-resident was troublesome, but the financial difficulties were even greater. I could not apply for financial aid due to a lack of social security number. At the same time, I could not work to help my family out. Despite these obstacles, I am immensely proud that I was able to graduate college with a psychology degree.
 
After graduating, I still hoped to find a job that could sponsor me for a work visa, and I applied to dozens of jobs. All I wanted to do was help people. I had certified in nonprofit management in conjunction with my degree, and wanted to work in a nonprofit organization and help those in need. I received several job offers, but was quickly disillusioned when I found out they wouldn’t sponsor me. That is how I, a recent college graduate, ended up working as a receptionist making minimum wage for the next two years.
 
I later found out that a local school district sponsored teachers for work visas due to the great need in that profession. I started gaining hope again and joined an alternative certification program. I worked hard, used up all my hard earned savings, and applied for a teaching position. I accepted a job and worked there free of charge while I started my process for a work permit. By this time I was over 21, I had overstayed my previous visa, and my work permit was denied: in other words, undocumented. I was devastated and felt defeated. I did not get paid for the time I worked there and I was, once again, left without a job and without hope.
 
All the immigration lawyers I have encountered have given me the same advice; they say that my only option is to get married to a U.S. citizen. I do have a wonderful boyfriend, but do not want to rush into marriage for the wrong reasons. My situation becomes even more frustrating as I have an expired driver’s license that cannot be renewed, I am unemployed, and I am undocumented and living in fear. I avoid people so that I don’t have to answer their questions about what I am doing with my life. I am tired of lying and making up excuses so that I don’t have to see the judgment in their eyes. I am tired of hiding and living in fear. And I don’t want to be pressured into marriage and ruin a perfectly good relationship by rushing things just to get my papers. The DREAM Act would be the answer to my prayers. I don’t want to have my life on hold anymore; instead I want to live life and be free.
 
 ~Liz, DREAMer from Houston, TX
 
 
This is National Coming Out of the Shadows Week for undocumented youth, modeled on the LGBT strategy to raise awareness through disclosure of status.  If you are inspired by the DREAMers’ courage in coming out, you can help by supporting the DREAM Act.  Visit DreamActivist.org to learn more.
 

National Coming Out Week for Undocumented Youth

National Coming Out Week for Undocumented Youth

By Dave Bennion

While most eyes are focused on the HCR debate right now, there is another high-stakes legislative issue waiting in the wings. For those whose families and communities are impacted by the problematic immigration system, immigration reform is as crucial as anything else on the Democratic agenda.

But right now, immigrants and advocates are wondering whether immigration reform is even on the agenda of Democrats in Congress and the White House, notwithstanding Candidate Obama’s promise to make immigration reform a top priority during his first year in office.

That’s why I was happy to see the Philadelphia Inquirer’s editorial about the DREAM Act last weekend.

Under the Development, Relief, and Education for Alien Minors Act, a path to citizenship would be provided to these children after they graduate from high school and enroll in college or the military for two years, steps that would help them become productive members of society.
Critics argue such action condones or encourages illegal immigration, but that’s a narrow-minded view of a much bigger problem. There are at least 12 million illegal immigrants who live and work in the United States. Since most are not returning to their homelands, this country must find a good way to move them to permanent-residency status.
Short of a comprehensive national policy on immigration, the DREAM Act bill provides lawmakers with an opportunity to pass one segment of the sweeping reform that’s needed.

President Obama had promised to take up immigration his first year in office. But with other issues on the table, in particular health-care reform and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, he has been forced to delay tackling another divisive issue.. . .

Although many illegal immigrants work and pay taxes, giving their children a chance to attend college or serve in the military would help those families contribute more to the economy with better jobs and higher wages.

That’s no substitute for a new immigration policy that addresses the larger issues. But the DREAM Act can be a first step to put the children of illegal immigrants on the right path.

More and more people are coming around to the idea that passing the Dream Act would reinvigorate the immigrant rights movement and empower the best advocates of immigration reform, immigrants themselves. I believe the undocumented youth movement will be the core of any successful immigration reform effort.

Last Wednesday was National Coming Out Day for undocumented youth, modeled on the LGBT strategy to raise awareness through disclosure of status. From Mo at DreamActivist.org:

Your courage will open the way to having even more conversations about your immigration status. Sharing your stories will allow us, as a movement of undocumented youth, to grow, as we continue to learn to accept ourselves. By being more open we will begin replacing fear with courage and, ultimately, be united in our demands for change. You will be surprised how little other people know about the realities of being undocumented. People who know someone who is gay or lesbian are more likely to support equal rights for all gay and lesbian people- the same follows for people who know someone who is undocumented.

Gabe speaks from experience about the benefits of coming out:

Tania in Chicago came out to a Tribune reporter, which must have been nervewracking.

If seeing the courage of these undocumented activists inspires you like it does me, join Dream Act students and supporters in a march in support of comprehensive immigration reform and the Dream Act in D.C. on March 21st. There are buses traveling to D.C. from around the country–sign up for a seat here.

~Dave Bennion

[Cross-posted at Citizen Orange]

Practical Cats

We used to have two lovely cats, we scored them at Pets Unlimited back in 1993. Like the Eygptians, who first domesticated the feline 5,000 years ago, we had rodent issues: we co-resided our warehouse on Harrison St with a host of ridiculously bold mice. First we went to the SPCA and chose a nice short-haired kitten but we were identified from our hastily filled- out adoption forms as unsuitable caretakers. We were called into a small undecorated room where we sat one side of a table whilst an animal welfare expert explained why we were unfit to adopt a cat. The worker went straight to our stated reason for adoption: ‘pet & mouse-catcher’ I had honestly scrawled, she shook her head and looked at us with a mixture of disbelief and horror.

“We don’t adopt cats if they are going to be worked, we are very strict about that, we only let them go to loving homes.” I tried to explain that  we were going to love the cat and that there just happened to be mice at our place that I considered a cat would love to catch. The operative would not budge, she had identified us as cat-exploiters, and I suspected that in her zeal we would be put on the SPCA blacklist.

So onto Pets Unlimited, we had our story straight for this attempt at adoption; we were careful to make no mention of mice or any expectations of feline usefulness, we were just interested in fur to love. We’d only planned on getting one cat but when we saw a black and white boy and a tabby girl together and read their rather poignant sign, “Samy and Nigel would like to stay together,”  we empathized. The Pets Unlim worker had a way different vibe than the SPCA woman, he was so delighted that we’d take the two mogs together he gave us a two for one deal and didn’t even ask if we planned on making them work for their kibbles.

The mere presence of Samy and Nigel caused an immediate mass exodus of the genus rodentus from our apartment, a few days after the cats moved in I discovered a nest of dead baby mice in a bag of rye flour, Mama, I surmised, hadn’t been able to make it back.

Samy and Nigel accompanied us on our next seventeen years: they moved with us to the rat-infested wilds of West Marin, back to Sausalito and then here to Mount Davidson where they both now rest under the apple tree, enriching the back garden soil.  Samy died first: she stayed away one night and came back a day later looking pretty wretched, I made her a bed in the basement and she declined over the next couple of days, unable to drink or eat, I found her dead on the back stairs after the boys and I came home from supper at a neighbor’s house. I remember it was a full moon and I wrapped her up in an old blue baby blanket. One front leg was outstretched and impossible to reposition.  I knew the boys would want to see her so I arranged the blanket shawl-like and cradled her in my arms,

“She is smiling and waving goodbye!” said my littlest guy, and sure enough Samy’s slightly open mouth was not downturned and that rigor mortised leg was pretty gestural.

We’d always thought plump, neutered Samy was the dummy of the pair but after her demise we realized that she was the huntress. Nigel, always a bit of a misery, went into a decline, pissing indiscriminately and dozily watching mice eating his dry food from his vantage point in an African basket where he’d taken up residence. His kidneys were failing but as I had no spare cash for a euthanizing trip to a vet and couldn’t take up my Irish friend’s offer to kill him with a brick (like they used to on the farm) It was a long smelly death.

Unlike most cats, Nigel did not want to die alone, he spent a week on a pillow in an old laundry basket in the kitchen, mewling intermittently and didn’t seem happy to leave. Finally, I turned down the lights, lit candles, burned incense and chanted until he mewled his last.

Out of respect for the dead we didn’t want to replace these family members immediately and after the protracted unpleasantness of Nigel’s passing we were all happy to be a dog-only household for a while.

The incursionist  mice are barely held back by the ultra-sonic devices and they are scornful of any peanut butter bearing death device. I know not to say “mouser” at the shelter but now I have other ethical issues to work through: firstly, I don’t agree with micro-chipping. Not for cats or dogs, its just too Orwellian for me. I know many chipped critters and ostensibly they seem fine, but this is not a development that I want to endorse. I think a collar with a name and a phone number is sufficient identification for a house pet. My friends, particularly my cat lady pals, don’t understand my fears around the implants, but basically I imagine that humans will be next. Tracking devices for your children, tracking devices for felons and paedophiles, tracking devices for spouses?  Also this Radio Frequency Identification (RFID) technology is relatively new and the studies on mice and rats have proved that the chips can stimulate tumors in surrounding tissue ( McGrath Jane, ‘How Pet Microchipping Works’ howstuffworks.com 2009)

I have spoken to all the major shelters in our area and have yet to find a shelter which doesn’t chip, in fact it’s the law for dogs in Oaktown!  The guy I spoke to on the phone at Pets Unlim last week was very surprised to hear my aversion to the chip, I felt like the last hippy in San Francisco when he said, “Nobody has ever asked me for an un-chipped cat, everybody loves the extra protection!” He wasn’t mean though, just incredulous, he emailed me a list of other shelters for me to try in search of a chip-less pet. No luck yet.

My online research has enlightened me to a lot of other relevant stuff about cats that is largely disquieting.

Take for example, the horrific statistics about the decimation of bird populations by felines. The American Bird Conservancy estimates that 150 million free-ranging cats (domesticated outdoor cats & feral) kill around 500 million birds a year.

An article in Aubudon Magazine by Ted Williams almost had me in tears at the hopelessness of controlling feral communities: the Trap, Neuter and Return (TNR) policy which maintains that feral communities can monitored and maintained is actually leading to “hyperpredation” where  well-fed feral kitties are hunting  already depressed mammal, bird and amphibian populations which is leading quickly to extinction of  various species. The cat lobby has so much more support that the bird-lovers that the writing is on the wall.

So outdoor cats are not PC, but any incoming cat, indoors or outdoors, is going to have issues with both Akira , our huge mutt, and feisty Leon, our  sausage-dog house-guest.  And then there is the cat litter to endure all over again. I don’t see myself following PETA’s advice to take a cat outside on a leash but I have to let go of my happy imaginings of  cats once again lounging in the long grass of the back yard or sunning themselves on our picnic table.

Leon spends a good half hour a day whimpering and growling in front of the oven and for now that’s gonna have to do.

–Billee Sharp

COMMENTARY

Stephanie at 10 Maple Lane, 1983. Photo by her Dad.

GOODBYE FACEBOOK, OR WHY I QUIT YOU.

by Stephanie Vernier

This feels like a break-up of sorts. I feel like I need to explain myself. It’s been 4 days since I became facebook free. You know, I thought I’d be a little empty inside.  Thought the detox would be painful, the withdrawal substantial.  There were other times I tried quit, tried to stay away. Each time lasted hours, once a few days.

This time was different.

This time I deactivated, which wasn’t easy. As soon as I took the first step, they tugged at my heartstrings, If you leave Nikki will miss you! Send her a message before you go. Nikki’s profile picture stared longingly back at me. Then Annie popped up, and Amy, and Liz. They want you to stay!
No, I clicked continue. Then facebook wanted to know why: did I spend too much time there, was I unhappy about something, was there another reason? I clicked: other. Then continue. Another dialogue box popped up, but why? Why did you chose other? Please explain. I’d rather now not say. They promised I could come back anytime, they would be waiting, my spot would be held.

I wanted to tell them this was not my original plan. I never wanted to leave.

It started as a necessary cleanse in the beginning of the week. Deleting those few high school acquaintances whose Jesus Saves!, abortion murders baby angels, and bible-quoting updates were no longer that funny and ironic to recite and make fun of, because they were actually being serious. Once the deleting started, I decided couldn’t take another “friend” joining a group like, I’ll vote for Palin in 2012 (also not ironic), or Let’s see if this poodle in a tinfoil hat can get more fans than Glenn Beck!, or I’m glad I can see my ex got fat after we broke-up!

Maybe it was the incessantly inane status updates and my inability to not check them constantly, either on my computer or my iphone. Maybe it was conundrum of blocking certain friends’ feeds because of their constant updating, and then having nothing interesting to look at in my news feed. Maybe it was the addiction to farmville, gathering more and more neighbors so I could keep expanding my property. Maybe there was no one interesting left to stalk. Maybe I did not want one more former high school classmate peering into my adult life when we had had zero contact since graduation, and aside from clicking “confirm as a friend” zero contact since.

I started thinking: What do these people do all day that they can constantly update their status, join groups, or ask for more nails so they can finish their horse stable on farmville? Why do I give a shit and waste even 5 seconds of my day reading about someone making a grilled cheese for their kid, or being stuck in traffic (obviously they didn’t take the Oprah oath about texting and driving), or I’m in Maui and it’s so great I’m updating my facebook status. I sort of thought about how the whole world might stop on it’s axis because 89% of the workforce is updating their status, uploading pictures, joining groups, playing games, or worse facebook instant messaging.

I had what I would like to label as an “unconscious slip-up” occur in the past 4 days. Typing a URL into my web browser I automatically starting typing: http://www.fac – then I stopped myself. If I had any doubts deactivating was the right choice, I knew then and there I had been in too deep. My fingers have a muscle memory I now must work everyday to correct.

I’ve received some confused texts: ummm…I can’t find your Facebook page? Why can’t I send you a farmville gift. Can you send me another sheep? Do you hate me? Why did you delete me?  Are we in a fight?

I started to rethink my decision, should I reactive and update my status: I’m leaving facebook, I still like most of you, find me in the human world if you would like to interact. But, I stayed strong, stayed away. I’ve started to read before bed again, something I haven’t done since I expanded my farm to a plantation.

Sure I’ll miss out on certain things, won’t know the every move of every person remotely connected to my life, but I realized I’m ok with that. I’ll survive not knowing the girl I once sat next to in home room hates finding out her roommate incorrectly uses the word copulate, or a former co-worker wishes the rain would stop, or an individual I (once) respected enjoyed the Twilight series.

If I had a status update it would be:

Hello world – I’ve missed you.

–Stephanie Vernier

This was first published on 2/23/10  in A Day in the Life of the Marginally (Un)Employed.

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National Coming Out of the Shadows Week

 
This is National Coming Out of the Shadows Week for undocumented youth, modeled on the LGBT strategy to raise awareness through disclosure of status.  If you are inspired by the DREAMers’ courage in coming out, you can help by supporting the DREAM Act.  Visit DreamActivist.org to learn more.
 
 
My Name is Rohit and I am American
 
What does it take to be an American? It doesn’t seem to be how long someone’s been in the country, or what they relate to, the way they talk or act, or even the values they hold most dear. These days, it seems being American is all about holding a piece of paper.

I’m Rohit and I am American. Even though I’m Indian by decent, and born in Germany, I’m American. I’ve lived in New Jersey since I was 5 (I’m 23 now). I have a Bachelors of Science in Biomedical Engineering from Rutgers University. I like writing stories and poems, and do semi-professional photography. I run a web design firm. I am proud of this country, my country, and what it represents. And while I entered the country legally, I’ve been in the country illegally for 13 years.

I went through the public school system, with regular aspirations to be an astronaut and president. I grew up a science nerd, being picked on through elementary and middle school. I can still remember how mad my parents were the first time I got a bad grade, and the first time I cursed.

In eighth grade, I got a unique opportunity to attend a magnet high school focusing on the sciences and engineering. My class was the first of the school, and got the rare chance to establish the school. I helped found the school paper, serving as the de-facto editor for two years. I was part of the first National Honors Society, and was the soccer team’s statistician for a year. It was also in high school that I got into photography after being volunteered to be the school photographer. In high school, I took a particular interest in programming and web design. I even went as far as to make my first girlfriend a website for Valentine’s Day (in addition to the usual flowers and a teddy bear).

After graduating high school, I applied to a variety of engineering universities. I got waitlisted at Carnegie Mellon, but got accepted into the Rutgers School of Engineering. College was a drastic change. I went from a high school of 120 people to a University where some of my lectures had 120 people in it on an off day. Fortunately, the honors program was small enough to give me a personal feel in a giant university.

Right from the start, my University experience was different. In high school, I was the closed-off, quiet geek. I was a worker, relatively intelligent, but I was never very social. My first day of college was orientation. At Rutgers, New Student Orientation used to be a three day series of events with both information and fun. Being the geek, I went to the informational stuff, but the energy and helpfulness of the orientation volunteers got me enthused and pushed me to volunteer work all though college.

Even until then, I didn’t know I was in the country illegally. Through high school, my parents shooed off my getting a drivers license by saying the insurance rates were too high. I knew we were tight on money, so I went with it. In college, I didn’t have a car, so it didn’t matter. My parents had managed to avoid the topic, with my never having gotten a job and really never having needed ID. So college was pretty normal.

I entered Rutgers intending on going into electrical engineering, but my early experience at college changed my mind, driving me to biomedical engineering. Through BME, I could use electrical and computer engineering and apply it to medicine, to help people. I also joined a number of clubs, and for better or worse, they became my focus in college. I joined a cultural organization, the Association of Indians at Rutgers, to help get in touch with my cultural heritage as well as to get into volunteer work. I also joined the engineering student government, the Engineering Governing Council, to help make a difference at Rutgers. I wound up on the board for AIR, helping revive a cultural aspect of the club, along with pushing more volunteer activities. Through student government, I became an expert on student legislation at Rutgers, and even helped shape the new student government when Rutgers underwent a merger of its campuses. Through the years, these two clubs became my main clubs, though I also started a religious organization, the Anekantavada Jain Association. While I was attentive to my studies, my college life seemed to revolve around my clubs.

Still, I was pretty into the programming aspects of my degree. I did a project on bone fracture recognition and did my senior design project on a therapy device for people who have suffered a stroke. These classes finalized my intentions of wanting to help people by developing devices to make their lives easier. Unfortunately, senior year is when my life took a turn for the worst. In my final semester, as I started to look around for a job, I inquired with my parents about our immigration status. It was the hardest news I’ve ever received, when my dad informed me that our visas expired in the mid nineties. Instantly my hopes of a job vanished, my dreams of a future went up in smoke. In seconds, I went from just another person to being a pariah. Fortunately, I had been seeing a therapist for other depression issues, and managed to make sense of the situation without going insane.

I have now had a degree for nearly two years, with no use for it. I’ve had ambitions and desires placed on the back burner because of a sheet of paper. I can’t contribute to the society I grew up in, or donate back to the clubs and college that gave me so much. I’m also now in removal proceedings. While I wait to see if I get to stay or leave, I’m stuck at home, not having a car or other effective mode of travel, any semblance of a social life limited to when friends are available and can give me a ride. I feel like through this process, I’ve become a mooch on my friends, who’ve given me nothing but support. Along with my mother, father, and younger brother in his third year of college, we face our final hearing in a few months, and will be forced to leave the US by mid summer without some sort of immigration reform. I’ll be sent off to a country I don’t know, to a culture I’m not a part of, to a language I barely speak. It will be, for all intents and purposes, an exile. If I’m sent off, I have no intention of moving back… Why be a part of a country that doesn’t want me because of the mistakes my parents made? I learned that who you are has nothing to do with being American…in the end, it’s what other people think you are.

~Rohit, DREAMer from New Jersey

 

The New Jim Crow

How the War on Drugs gave birth to a permanent American undercaste

By Michelle Alexander

Originally published on Race-Talk.org and TomDispatch.com

Ever since Barack Obama lifted his right hand and took his oath of office, pledging to serve the United States as its 44th president, ordinary people and their leaders around the globe have been celebrating our nation’s “triumph over race.”  Obama’s election has been touted as the final nail in the coffin of Jim Crow, the bookend placed on the history of racial caste in America.

Obama’s mere presence in the Oval Office is offered as proof that “the land of the free” has finally made good on its promise of equality.  There’s an implicit yet undeniable message embedded in his appearance on the world stage: this is what freedom looks like; this is what democracy can do for you.  If you are poor, marginalized, or relegated to an inferior caste, there is hope for you.  Trust us.  Trust our rules, laws, customs, and wars.  You, too, can get to the promised land.

Perhaps greater lies have been told in the past century, but they can be counted on one hand.  Racial caste is alive and well in America.

Most people don’t like it when I say this.  It makes them angry.  In the “era of colorblindness” there’s a nearly fanatical desire to cling to the myth that we as a nation have “moved beyond” race.  Here are a few facts that run counter to that triumphant racial narrative:

  • There are more African Americans under correctional control today — in prison or jail, on probation or parole — than were enslaved in 1850, a decade before the Civil War began.
  • As of 2004, more African American men were disenfranchised (due to felon disenfranchisement laws) than in 1870, the year the Fifteenth Amendment was ratified, prohibiting laws that explicitly deny the right to vote on the basis of race.
  • A black child born today is less likely to be raised by both parents than a black child born during slavery.  The recent disintegration of the African American family is due in large part to the mass imprisonment of black fathers.
  • If you take into account prisoners, a large majority of African American men in some urban areas have been labeled felons for life.  (In the Chicago area, the figure is nearly 80%.) These men are part of a growing undercaste — not class, caste — permanently relegated, by law, to a second-class status.  They can be denied the right to vote, automatically excluded from juries, and legally discriminated against in employment, housing, access to education, and public benefits, much as their grandparents and great-grandparents were during the Jim Crow era.

Excuses for the Lockdown

There is, of course, a colorblind explanation for all this: crime rates.  Our prison population has exploded from about 300,000 to more than 2 million in a few short decades, it is said, because of rampant crime.  We’re told that the reason so many black and brown men find themselves behind bars and ushered into a permanent, second-class status is because they happen to be the bad guys.

The uncomfortable truth, however, is that crime rates do not explain the sudden and dramatic mass incarceration of African Americans during the past 30 years.  Crime rates have fluctuated over the last few decades — they are currently at historical lows — but imprisonment rates have consistently soared.  Quintupled, in fact.  And the vast majority of that increase is due to the War on Drugs.  Drug offenses alone account for about two-thirds of the increase in the federal inmate population, and more than half of the increase in the state prison population.

The drug war has been brutal — complete with SWAT teams, tanks, bazookas, grenade launchers, and sweeps of entire neighborhoods — but those who live in white communities have little clue to the devastation wrought.  This war has been waged almost exclusively in poor communities of color, even though studies consistently show that people of all colors use and sell illegal drugs at remarkably similar rates.  In fact, some studies indicate that white youth are significantly more likely to engage in illegal drug dealing than black youth.  Any notion that drug use among African Americans is more severe or dangerous is belied by the data.  White youth, for example, have about three times the number of drug-related visits to the emergency room as their African American counterparts.

That is not what you would guess, though, when entering our nation’s prisons and jails, overflowing as they are with black and brown drug offenders.  In some states, African Americans comprise 80%-90% of all drug offenders sent to prison.

This is the point at which I am typically interrupted and reminded that black men have higher rates of violent crime.  That’s why the drug war is waged in poor communities of color and not middle-class suburbs.  Drug warriors are trying to get rid of those drug kingpins and violent offenders who make ghetto communities a living hell.  It has nothing to do with race; it’s all about violent crime.

Again, not so.  President Ronald Reagan officially declared the current drug war in 1982, when drug crime was declining, not rising.  From the outset, the war had little to do with drug crime and nearly everything to do with racial politics.  The drug war was part of a grand and highly successful Republican Party strategy of using racially coded political appeals on issues of crime and welfare to attract poor and working class white voters who were resentful of, and threatened by, desegregation, busing, and affirmative action.  In the words of H.R. Haldeman, President Richard Nixon’s White House Chief of Staff: “[T]he whole problem is really the blacks.  The key is to devise a system that recognizes this while not appearing to.”

A few years after the drug war was announced, crack cocaine hit the streets of inner-city communities.  The Reagan administration seized on this development with glee, hiring staff who were to be responsible for publicizing inner-city crack babies, crack mothers, crack whores, and drug-related violence.  The goal was to make inner-city crack abuse and violence a media sensation, bolstering public support for the drug war which, it was hoped, would lead Congress to devote millions of dollars in additional funding to it.

The plan worked like a charm.  For more than a decade, black drug dealers and users would be regulars in newspaper stories and would saturate the evening TV news.  Congress and state legislatures nationwide would devote billions of dollars to the drug war and pass harsh mandatory minimum sentences for drug crimes — sentences longer than murderers receive in many countries.

Democrats began competing with Republicans to prove that they could be even tougher on the dark-skinned pariahs.  In President Bill Clinton’s boastful words, “I can be nicked a lot, but no one can say I’m soft on crime.”  The facts bear him out.  Clinton’s “tough on crime” policies resulted in the largest increase in federal and state prison inmates of any president in American history.  But Clinton was not satisfied with exploding prison populations.  He and the “New Democrats” championed legislation banning drug felons from public housing (no matter how minor the offense) and denying them basic public benefits, including food stamps, for life.  Discrimination in virtually every aspect of political, economic, and social life is now perfectly legal, if you’ve been labeled a felon.

Facing Facts

But what about all those violent criminals and drug kingpins? Isn’t the drug war waged in ghetto communities because that’s where the violent offenders can be found?  The answer is yes… in made-for-TV movies.  In real life, the answer is no.

The drug war has never been focused on rooting out drug kingpins or violent offenders.  Federal funding flows to those agencies that increase dramatically the volume of drug arrests, not the agencies most successful in bringing down the bosses.  What gets rewarded in this war is sheer numbers of drug arrests.  To make matters worse, federal drug forfeiture laws allow state and local law enforcement agencies to keep for their own use 80% of the cash, cars, and homes seized from drug suspects, thus granting law enforcement a direct monetary interest in the profitability of the drug market.

The results have been predictable: people of color rounded up en masse for relatively minor, non-violent drug offenses.  In 2005, four out of five drug arrests were for possession, only one out of five for sales.  Most people in state prison have no history of violence or even of significant selling activity.  In fact, during the 1990s — the period of the most dramatic expansion of the drug war — nearly 80% of the increase in drug arrests was for marijuana possession, a drug generally considered less harmful than alcohol or tobacco and at least as prevalent in middle-class white communities as in the inner city.

In this way, a new racial undercaste has been created in an astonishingly short period of time — a new Jim Crow system.  Millions of people of color are now saddled with criminal records and legally denied the very rights that their parents and grandparents fought for and, in some cases, died for.

Affirmative action, though, has put a happy face on this racial reality.  Seeing black people graduate from Harvard and Yale and become CEOs or corporate lawyers — not to mention president of the United States — causes us all to marvel at what a long way we’ve come.

Recent data shows, though, that much of black progress is a myth.  In many respects, African Americans are doing no better than they were when Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated and uprisings swept inner cities across America.  Nearly a quarter of African Americans live below the poverty line today, approximately the same percentage as in 1968.  The black child poverty rate is actually higher now than it was then.  Unemployment rates in black communities rival those in Third World countries.  And that’s with affirmative action!

When we pull back the curtain and take a look at what our “colorblind” society creates without affirmative action, we see a familiar social, political, and economic structure — the structure of racial caste.  The entrance into this new caste system can be found at the prison gate.

This is not Martin Luther King, Jr.’s dream.  This is not the promised land.  The cyclical rebirth of caste in America is a recurring racial nightmare.

~Michelle Alexander
Originally published on TomDispatch.com on March 8, 2010 and on Race-Talk.org on March 10, 2010

A longtime civil rights advocate and litigator, MICHELLE ALEXANDER won a 2005 Soros Justice Fellowship and now holds a joint appointment at the Kirwan Institute for the Study of Race and Ethnicity and the Mortiz College of Law at Ohio State University. Alexander served for several years as director of the Racial Justice Project at the ACLU of Northern California, and subsequently directed the Civil Rights Clinics at Stanford Law School, where she was an associate professor. Alexander is a former law clerk for Justice Harry Blackmun on the U.S. Supreme Court and has appeared as a commentator on CNN, MSNBC, and NPR. The New Jim Crow is her first book.

ANDREAS ECONOMAKIS

Khan el-Khalili market in Cairo. Photograph by Andreas Economakis.

THE HUH-HUH KID

by Andreas Economakis

“Huh, huh,” he laughs, an almost perfect imitation of Beavis.  Or is it Butthead?

We are speeding down a narrow, ultra-busy Cairo street in a small white mini-van, packed in like sweaty, oily sardines.  The scene on the streets is straight out of National Geographic.  Poverty everywhere, barefoot children with cigarettes dangling from their lips, businessmen in gelabias getting their shoes shined, mangy dogs sleeping on car roofs, street vendors hacking fruit in two, cars practically dancing with the pedestrians, squinting policemen clutching AK-47’s, mountains of garbage on every street.

“Look son, they’re all wearing pajamas!” says Bill, the director.

“Huh, huh,” his son replies.

What a hallucinatory experience this must be for them.  Cairo is their first ever trip outside of the continental United States.  They just arrived the night before with the rest of the film crew from LA.  We are barreling out of Cairo into the desert, on our way to St. Catherine’s Monastery in the Sinai desert.

“Towel Heads!” remarks the huh-huh kid.  Why did Bill bring him along?  We are going to be the laughing stock of St. Catherine’s.

On the dusty highway outside of Cairo, Ron, the assistant cameraman, pulls out a handheld GPS unit and starts punching its buttons.

“It can tell us where we are and how fast we’re going,” he tells me all excited, his eyes glued to the little LCD.  Should I tell him that we’re in a small white van in the Egyptian desert, and that the van’s speedometer says we’re doing 110 kilometers per hour?  I shutter and watch my reflection on the minivan window reflecting on the desert.

Three days later, in the Monastery, the huh-huh kid makes a brilliant observation:  “Why are all these Greek dudes wearing robes?  I bet they’re all a bunch of fags!  Huh, huh…”.

I look at him wide eyed, contemplating my response.  Father Daniel saves me from losing my job.  He grabs my arm and tells everyone he needs to show me something.  The two of us end up in the Monastery’s refectory, next to the bakery.  We speak in Greek.

“This place is over 1500 years old and most of your crew is clueless to our ways, our customs, our history,” he tells me.

“They just want to shoot icons and go back home,” I answer, munching the Monastery’s stone-crushed green olives.

He smiles and says: “So be it.  That’s what you’re paying for, I guess.  It’s a shame though, that they don’t even express an interest…”.

Father Daniel takes me to the woodcarving area of the Monastery, a small hut just outside Emperor Justinian’s big walls.  In the hut I meet a young Greek carpenter named Sotos, who is working on a piece of an iconostasis.  His craftsmanship is incredible, his hands effortlessly carving little wooden flowers and birds at play.  He misses Greece.  We all do.  We take shots of tsipouro and eat some of Sotos’ vegetable soup, watching the sun dip over the red-green hills.  The colors keep changing hues, making the hills dance against the light blue desert sky.

When Daniel and I get back to the room, we find the huh-huh kid hunched over his Game Boy.  He doesn’t notice Father Daniel walk by with the 6th century encaustic icon of Jesus.  Jesus’ bloodshot left eye is looking directly at the huh-huh kid.

“Dude, beat that,” the huh-huh kid says, handing his Game Boy over to Ron.

–Andreas Economakis

This piece is part of a collection of stories on blindness entitled: The Blindness of Life.

Andreas Economakis is a film director, writer and father of a curly-haired girl named after Anaïs Nin and Melina Mercouri. He calls Los Angeles, Athens and Nisyros his “home.”  Greek when in the USA and American when in Greece, Andreas constantly relies on his past as a bicycle messenger, cabinet resurfacer, maintenance mechanic,  airport shuttle driver,  alumni development fundraising researcher and  film production manager to avoid typical office jobs and the odd redneck spitball.

Copyright © 2010, Andreas Economakis. All rights reserved.

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