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Homeland. Tu tierra. The land where your people are from, the place where your corazón resides. I was born in mountains that have been laid claim to by many different people. I speak the language of both the conquered and the conquering. I walk the razor's edge, as many of us do whose outward appearances don't immediately identify us for who we really are.
So when I stood next to a twenty-year-old man today after his court hearing, after he'd paid a month's wages to the District Clerk and been placed on probation by the judge for a relatively minor offense, it took me a few seconds to snap to what was going on when the men came up and pushed him against the wall as they flashed their badges in his face. One of the agents was barking at him in broken Spanish. Tengow informaaahshun kay eztahs here ileeegal.
He and I looked at each other in panic and I instinctively grabbed his hand. I grabbed his hand as if I could somehow hold onto him and keep them from taking him. The agents pulled him away from me and cuffed his hands behind his back, smug and showy for the crowd that had gathered in the hall. He looked so scared. He asked me to tell his family that they took him. No digas nada, I told him. Don't say anything. His sister watched helplessly from a few yards away. I looked at her and shook my head, silently urging her to keep her distance. She began to cry.
I saw her from across the courtroom when I went back in to look for the judge. The probation officer. The same probation officer who called the INS, the same one that would file a motion to revoke once he missed his first appointment, claiming that he had "absconded" from probation. The pinche Catch-22 of all time. For those of you who have ever seen Zoot Suit, you will recall the point where El Pachuco tells Henry what every Mexican brother in this country has felt at one time or another: Ya te chingaron, ese. Fucked from the beginning, before you even got started. No matter what.
We can do that, she answers in defensive response to my question.
Just because you can, doesn't mean you should. Shame on you. You're despicable. I know I've burned bridges, but I don't need a bridge built on other people's backs.
There is a word. Llanto. A cry. It is a weeping with a pained heart. I write this as a llanto for this young man and his family. I write this as a llanto for the hundreds and thousands like him. I write this as a llanto that will eventually become a grito. A grito is different. A grito is weeping with a determined heart. I write this as a reminder to us all, the ones who know the pain of this particular llanto, that there is a grito coming. I have to believe this. I have to believe in the power of the determined heart to transcend petty tyranny....that the borders will one day move again and the homeland, tu tierra, the place where your corazón resides, will be whole.
So when I stood next to a twenty-year-old man today after his court hearing, after he'd paid a month's wages to the District Clerk and been placed on probation by the judge for a relatively minor offense, it took me a few seconds to snap to what was going on when the men came up and pushed him against the wall as they flashed their badges in his face. One of the agents was barking at him in broken Spanish. Tengow informaaahshun kay eztahs here ileeegal.
He and I looked at each other in panic and I instinctively grabbed his hand. I grabbed his hand as if I could somehow hold onto him and keep them from taking him. The agents pulled him away from me and cuffed his hands behind his back, smug and showy for the crowd that had gathered in the hall. He looked so scared. He asked me to tell his family that they took him. No digas nada, I told him. Don't say anything. His sister watched helplessly from a few yards away. I looked at her and shook my head, silently urging her to keep her distance. She began to cry.
I saw her from across the courtroom when I went back in to look for the judge. The probation officer. The same probation officer who called the INS, the same one that would file a motion to revoke once he missed his first appointment, claiming that he had "absconded" from probation. The pinche Catch-22 of all time. For those of you who have ever seen Zoot Suit, you will recall the point where El Pachuco tells Henry what every Mexican brother in this country has felt at one time or another: Ya te chingaron, ese. Fucked from the beginning, before you even got started. No matter what.
We can do that, she answers in defensive response to my question.
Just because you can, doesn't mean you should. Shame on you. You're despicable. I know I've burned bridges, but I don't need a bridge built on other people's backs.
There is a word. Llanto. A cry. It is a weeping with a pained heart. I write this as a llanto for this young man and his family. I write this as a llanto for the hundreds and thousands like him. I write this as a llanto that will eventually become a grito. A grito is different. A grito is weeping with a determined heart. I write this as a reminder to us all, the ones who know the pain of this particular llanto, that there is a grito coming. I have to believe this. I have to believe in the power of the determined heart to transcend petty tyranny....that the borders will one day move again and the homeland, tu tierra, the place where your corazón resides, will be whole.