A Beautiful Reunion

Today I got a glimpse of a family reuniting after being separated for a month because of legal immigration reasons.

A mom of one of our 6th grade girls came into homework time today. I saw her and was taken aback a bit because this was one of the moms who we usually saw around the center all the time, but hasn't been for the last couple of months. I quickly thought, "oh, I haven't seen her in awhile," and was super happy to see her again. It wasn't until her daughter ran up to her with a huge smile on her face that I realized this was also the first time she had seen her mom in awhile.

They shared an embrace. Full of joy. Reunited. Together.

The mom has been spending some time in Juarez to renew her visa. She told me that she was given one day to cross the border and chose to pick up her daughter (and probably her son, too) to spend time with her, even if just for a day.

Even though some families are separated for years rather than only a month because of legal requirements, this reunion moved me. It was the first time I had actually seen families come together in a moment of bliss after being separated by the border. It was beautiful, joyful, and sad, all at the same time.

Ironic School Projects

Maybe it's the potential loss of their innocence that makes me uncomfortable with the fact that my 6th graders have been researching the Holocaust during homework time all this week.

Maybe it's the fact that I've seen similar photos that have popped up on their Google images searches in pieces about the violence in Juarez right across the border. Bodies that no longer breathe life but that echo the death of not only of the Holocaust, but also of the modern genocides happening all over the world.

Maybe it's just the fact that the Holocaust was so... horrible.

I asked the girls today, "So why are you researching the Holocaust?"

"It's for our English class, Miss. We have to do a project on the Holocaust. We've been reading about it."

Another girl responds, "I think they want us to learn about it so it never happens again."

Gas chambers, swastikas...and peace signs. Those were our most popular photos that the girls printed off today for their project display boards.

Even though it's gruesome to think about and the pictures disgust me, these girls (or maybe their English teacher) are reminding me of the importance of remembrance. Painful remembrance, yes. Necessary,  I think so, too.

However gruesome it is, I still find some hope in the girls' comments and how much they get disgusted with their research.

"The Nazis were such bad people. How could anyone do that?"

I wonder if some day we will look back at the violence in Mexico, the war in the Middle East, the millions dying of starvation, and think, "How could anyone do that? Let's make sure that never happens again."

"Our mom says we can't go to camp."

These past few weeks at work have been full of preparing for the summer and figuring out which kids to choose to fill our 40-ish spots for out-of-town middle school camps. Because we're limited in spots, we try to give the opportunity to the kids that have attended our program the longest and most consistently. But two of those kids won't be going to camp this year. Two kids who come to our program everyday. Two kids that never get to leave El Paso. Two kids who won't experience "the best week of my lifetime!" because they don't have "proper papers."

In the meantime, my friend who is from Iowa, but now attending school in California, is trying to figure out if she should apply for camp staff in North Dakota or South Dakota.

Once again, legal status stands in the way of an amazing opportunity for our kids. While for my friend, even though transportation might be tough, she still doesn't have to think twice about working at a camp halfway across the nation because of her (lack of) citizenship status.

Another kid might not be able to go to camp because her parents are not happy with the way she's been behaving at home--being rude and mean. She is mean and disrespectful at our program some days, but I still think a week at camp would be great for her. How do I tell her somewhat close-minded parents about her bad behavior when all she wants to do is get away from home (and I want her out of that potentially destructive place)?

The simplicity of applying and preparing for camp has gotten complicated...for me making phone calls, double-checking forms, and organizing fundraisers. But also for our beloved kids, who are facing obstacles that they shouldn't have to face. Gosh, world, just let them be kids and go to summer camp.

Jesus' Triumphal Entry and Migrants' Journeys

This day after Palm Sunday is affecting me differently than usual. Rather than the excitement and optimism I usually feel on this day as we celebrate Jesus' triumphal entry into Jerusalem, I am finding myself caught in the despair and pessimism of thinking about where this king that was just being praised and "Hosanna!"-ed is headed to next.

Yesterday my roommates and I attended mass at a Catholic church here in El Paso. The service began in the courtyard, with a few folks dressed up in the typical colorful robes to appear to be from Jesus' time, and even included a live donkey to escort Jesus! Before entering the sanctuary, we processed around the church on the sidewalk until about two blocks later, we returned to the courtyard and entered the sanctuary. I was super excited about following Jesus, his friends, and his donkey--finding myself processing all giddy on my tip-toes, trying to get a peek at the star of the show and waving my palm branch. But at some point on the procession, a thought occurred to me--a thought I don't typically have on Palm Sunday.

"In a few days, he is going to die."

In that moment, it was as though the life, the exhilaration of shouting Hosannas, the joy of following Jesus...all seemed to poof out of me. All the pain, despair, and anguish of Lent seemed to fall upon me. Instead of feeling like I was standing on a cloud, I felt as though Jesus' donkey had been set on my shoulders.

Today as I was reflecting on that moment, I also thought: I wonder if migrants ever have similar moments...

Moments in the voyage: when a hopeful journey to el Norte becomes a painful trip full of abuse, thirst, hunger, rape, and hiding out; when you realize there is absolutely no option of turning back. Moments in the promised land: when the hope of attaining a "better life" disappears as your dream of the North becomes one of discrimination, confusion, and loneliness; when you realize the American Dream is more like a nightmare; when every authority figure is a threat to your security.

I wonder what the US looks like to those south of the border who are waiting to head north. What is their picture of this Jerusalem? I think of some friends in El Salvador who once told me that, when I asked them if they'd like to visit the US someday, replied with a "yes, of course," because everybody is rich and you can have a job, a family, a nice home, and be happy. They want to come for the American Dream of prosperity.

But many folks' dreams are shattered when after they cross the border, they cannot find work, they don't understand the language, and they do not hold the proper documentation to make a sustainable life.

With the passing of NAFTA, the US set itself up to have so many more migrants attempting to cross. In a way, the US was saying, "Here, let's make it impossible for you to find work and feed your family, and then put up a wall so you can't come running to us and you have to stay in your shitty situation of unemployment and starvation." It makes me think of those welcoming Jesus into Jerusalem and then turning around some time later to hang him on a cross. Perhaps it was Jesus' confusing stories, his insulting the pharisees, his taking his angst out on a fig tree, or his making a mess of the temple they oh-so loved and then threatening to destroy it...that led folks to despise him, that made their "Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!" become an echoing "Crucify him!"

But what has the immigrant done to deserve having to live in constant fear of returning to the place that they had to leave--the place that, even though life is hard here in the US, they still are convinced is worse than where they are now. I remember one El Paso migrant woman telling us once in response to the question, "was it all (your difficult journey and since then difficult life) worth it?" with, yes, in fact, it was still worth it. Living on this side of the border, for her, is the lesser of two evils.

Jesus had a triumphal entry before being led to his death. But instead of a warm welcome, migrants are met with figuring out ways to get around the fence and not get caught doing it, as well as having to survive in the process.

May we see Jesus in our migrant brothers and sisters, and may we walk alongside them to make the Hope of the resurrection just as real as, or even more real than, the Cross that they bear.

Preferential Option for the Poor... including YOU.

Today I got to listen to a presentation about liberation theology, and as I took notes on things known as well as new ideas, I re-lived my days in El Salvador when I first learned about this subject that has stolen my heart, my thoughts, and my Google Reader feed.

In the class I'm taking with Ciudad Nueva, we are currently exploring Poverty. As we read Ruby Payne's, Framework for Understanding Poverty, we are learning about characteristics within a culture of poverty and having many "aha!" moments while comparing what we're reading with the families that we work with here on the border.

Many of our families struggle with levels of income unimaginable to some. The median annual income for our neighborhood tends to be anywhere from $15,000 to $18,000. But one thing I am learning from our studies is that money is not the only active factor in a culture of poverty. There are so many characteristics that go beyond a lack of financial resources; a lack of emotional, spiritual, physical resources and support systems fill a culture of poverty as well.

The families in our neighborhood need to be liberated from hunger, from bad immigration law, from abusive relationships, from a lack of money to pay the gas bills, from racism, from being told their stories are not legitimate, from corrupt schools...from economic, political, and social systems that continually oppress them.

But the families and youth I work with are not the only ones that need to be liberated. We all--"rich" and "poor"--need to be liberated...

...from greed.

...from selfishness.

...from ignorance.

...from despair.

...from judgement.

...from ourselves.

I love liberation theology because it forces us to first examine oppression that is actually happening; it forces us to listen to stories, to build relationships, and to fully experience reality. Solidarity is not just something we experience once and move on; as we walk in solidarity with those who are suffering--from poverty, depression, violence, etc.--we are called into a journey where oppression and brokenness might reign for now, but liberation and redemption are our Hope.

Borders and Slinkies

Wednesday night I gave a reflection about how life on the border for a middle schooler is like a slinky. The kids with whom I work are constantly going back and forth...

...moving between childhood and adulthood: that awkward time known as adolescence. Struggling with peers, school, family demands, and hormones.

...constantly switching between Spanish and English. English at school, Spanish at home, and a mixture of the two at our program. We encourage our bilingual staff and volunteers to speak English with the kids to get them more comfortable using it in conversation. We have many exchanges with me speaking English, the kid speaking Spanish, back and forth. The kids struggle with homework sometimes, and parents often cannot help with homework, because it is all in English.

...literally moving from here and there--across the border and back. All of our kids have some connection to Juarez, most have family living there. A couple of our kids actually live in Juarez and make the daily trip across the border to go to school. Other kids cannot make the trip across, even though family members can, and even though, for example, their grandpa's funeral is in Juarez. Some only get to go on special occasions. Some don't go at all anymore because of the violence.

...within their cultural identity: am I Mexican? Am I American? Do I conform to the standards of U.S. culture, or maintain the traditions of my family?

At Ciudad Nueva, we serve to build bridges--bridges between the things listed above, things happening within our kids; as well as bridges between the kids and others in the community. Between Mexican-immigrant children and white, 50-year-old, native El Pasoans; between donors who give thousands of dollars and the families making $15,000 per year; between those holding PhD's and those who are struggling to graduate high school; between the rest of the world and the border region.

My year has been full of constant back-and-forth motions from hopelessness to joy. A slinky that rarely stops moving, but that I can only hope is moving in a direction of hope and redemption rather than down the flight of stairs.

Los Nadies

by Eduardo Galeano

Sueñan las pulgas con comprarse un perro y sueñan los nadies con salir de pobres, que algún mágico día llueva de pronto la buena suerte, que llueva a cántaros la buena suerte; pero la buena suerte no llueve ayer, ni hoy, ni mañana, ni nunca, ni en lloviznita cae del cielo la buena suerte, por mucho que los nadies la llamen y aunque les pique la mano izquierda, o se levanten con el pie derecho, o empiecen el año cambiando de escoba. 
Los nadies: los hijos de nadie, los dueños de nada. 
Los nadies: los ningunos, los ninguneados, corriendo la liebre, muriendo la vida, jodidos, rejodidos: 
Que no son, aunque sean. 
Que no hablan idiomas, sino dialectos. 
Que no profesan religiones, sino supersticiones. 
Que no hacen arte, sino artesanía. 
Que no practican cultura, sino folklore. 
Que no son seres humanos, sino recursos humanos. 
Que no tienen cara, sino brazos. 
Que no tienen nombre, sino número. 
Que no figuran en la historia universal, sino en la crónica roja de la prensa local. 
Los nadies, que cuestan menos que la bala que los mata.


The Nobodies

Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping poverty: that, one magical day, good luck will suddenly rain down on them - will rain down in buckets.

But good luck doesn't rain down, yesterday, today, tomorrow or ever.

Good luck doesn't even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day on their right foot, or start the new year with a change of brooms.

The nobodies: nobody's children, owners of nothing.

The nobodies: the no-ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way.

Who are not, but could be.

Who don't speak languages, but dialects.

Who don't have religions, but superstitions.

Who don't create art, but handicrafts.

Who don't have culture, but folklore.

Who are not human beings, but human resources.

Who do not have faces, but arms.

Who do not have names, but numbers.

Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the crime reports of the local paper.

The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.

Peace be yours.

We've lost five kids these past few weeks. Five kids who no longer come to our after-school program. One left the country to live with his father who recently got deported. Another is being punished for not writing "long enough" letters to her mom in jail. Another three who left the shelter in which they were living without notice.

For the healing of the nations, we pray to you, oh Lord.

One of my best friends is a missionary in Nigeria. Last week a suicide bomb shook her town.


For the healing of the nations, we pray to you, oh Lord.

My friend's husband is deployed in Afghanistan. He had to use his weapon for the first time in combat last week.

For the healing of the nations, we pray to you, oh Lord.

With a tally of 80 murders in February, Juarez had the lowest homicide count since 2009.

For the healing of the nations, we pray to you, oh Lord.

A new batch of sponsors emerged tonight.

As the lead singer from MercyMe was giving his pitch between sets for child sponsorship at the Rock and Worship Roadshow tonight, one of my 7th grade girls leaned over and started asking me questions.

"So you have to pay $30?"

"Yep, every month."

"But Miss, I only have $3. And it's taken me...*counts on fingers*...three months to get that much."

Now, this girl has a place to live, a loving mother who takes good care of her, a place to go to school, and a rockin' after-school program she attends (wink). I'm sure she's "better off" than most of the kids whose photos are on those packets that they hand out at concerts. But it was humbling to hear her honest response at the fact that:  one, she doesn't have the resources to sponsor a child even though I think the thought did cross her mind; and two, that she only averages $1 a month from her mom's pocket change while other children are receiving $30 from total strangers.

I was a child sponsor for a couple of years in college, and I think child sponsorship is a fascinating and cool idea. There are some really great organizations out there that do really awesome things for their sponsored communities. But I continue to wonder why we cling to the idea of helping out a child from a faraway place with whom we correspond through letters, when there are so many children in need next door who we might see everyday. I still wonder what my motivation was when I sponsored a child. We often fail to recognize the struggles of our coworkers, our neighbors, our family members when it is so much easier to feel bad for the "cute little Latino children"--who, in my current situation, are my immediate neighbors in need. I think detachment from a situation makes it easier on ourselves. If we are detached from a problem, but can still give our money to help resolve it, we will take advantage of the opportunity to give with a limited burden on ourselves by simply giving money. And that's ok.

But I don't see the kids in our community as those whom I give charity to; they ARE my community and I care deeply about them. I don't give them my money; I give them my time, my energy, and my love. I hope everyone who takes steps to donate their money also take steps to grow relationships with those right next to them in their immediate community as well.

Quick Trips

I drove to Las Cruces, New Mexico, twice today.

Our program encompasses the two cities of Las Cruces and El Paso, and we volunteers make the trip north to Las Cruces a couple times every month for different events. This weekend we had guests from the Urban Servant Corps experiencing the border region in both El Paso and Las Cruces, and I became a supplemental driver for myself and other volunteers. The trip is relatively short--about a 45 minute drive. For those of you in northwest Iowa, it's comparable to a trip to Sioux Falls from Rock Rapids. I remember throughout growing up taking trips to Sioux Falls on special occasions, either to shop, to eat out, or to attend a Girl Scout event. In high school the trips became more frequent, first with the hospitalization of my grandma. For over four months, my dad drove up to Sioux Falls almost everyday to visit her in the hospital. Then as I got involved in TEC (weekend high school retreats), I made a bunch of friends in Sioux Falls and would frequently travel to hang out with them. Then I ended up at Augustana for college and made many a trip to Rock Rapids for breaks, but also just when I needed something from home or for other events. Many people commute to Sioux Falls everyday for work or school. Overall, traveling to and from Sioux Falls was no big deal, just as traveling to and from Las Cruces has become not such a big deal for us El Paso volunteers this year.

Last weekend, I took a couple of young men who are involved in our community outreach to Las Cruces to earn some extra cash. (They walked around Walmart dressed as Chester the Cheeto's cheetah for four hours.) On our drive up they mentioned to me that this was their second and third time going to Las Cruces. These guys have lived in El Paso for years, and when I was their age (17-19), I was traveling in my own car (well, my parents' car that they let me use for myself) back and forth from Sioux Falls all the time. These teenage guys rarely have the opportunity to travel outside El Paso; nevertheless, visit other parts of El Paso, too. They don't have cars, they don't have driver's licenses...things that are sometimes assumed that a person has in this country (especially in smaller communities where there is no such thing as public transportation). In a community where papers, poverty, and accessibility are always an issue, one would think I would expect that teenagers aren't driving their own cars all over town or aren't in line at the DMV a few hours into their 16th birthday. But it wasn't until I reflected on my own teenage experience that I thought even more about how different life is for a teenager living in this area of El Paso.