"You are the Salt of the Earth."

Each Wednesday afternoon, an hour and a half before their children begin returning from school, a group of between fifteen and twenty women gather in a neighbor's front yard. Only three of them read with any sort of facility. Although they love music and song, not a single one of them can carry a tune. They are acutely of aware of this fault, but sing their hearts out anyway.

Each time that they get together, one of the three women who can read shares the Gospel of the coming Sunday's Eucharist. In turn, they reflect on the reading, offering opinions that are at times strongly expressed and other times offered as a guestimate. Jesus can be confusing--this they readily admit.

This particular group has been at it for more than ten years now. They are friends, for they trust each other. They are sisters, for they live the same fate--poverty, too many children, not enough water, weariness--and joy in the midst of it all.

They are Church, for they care for themselves and for their neighbors, sharing out the little they have in times of trouble, offering shoulders for the burdens of life, and space for the celebration of life, all of this after the example of Jesus.

They salt our world, preserving it in hope, as it were, in this particular space, for what comes next.

Fear

We are more afraid of ICE than of Ike
Posted to the Rio Grande Guardian
September 11, 2008

BROWNSVILLE, September 11 - I have lived in the Rio Grande Valley's colonias for the past 15 years and have come to love the resilience and the energy that these communities contain and nurture.

The homes in the colonia neighborhoods are nearly all works in progress - visible testimonials to the Valley residents' tenacious hold on hope. Outsiders see poverty and misery; those of us who live here see the fruits of people working far harder than most other Americans to build something for their children and their children's children.

Works in progress, however, are often risky ventures. A working family doesn't always have the material resources to build the strongest homes and can't always locate their family's homestead in the best geographic space.

Many of our colonia neighborhoods are in flood plains, exposed to the whimsical wrath of storms such as Dolly. House blessings are particularly touching - some of my neighbors' homes are indeed depending upon some divine protection. Hurricanes are particular threats to our neighborhoods. All of us are all too aware that a storm like Gilbert would leave us but memories of what our neighborhoods once were.

We tenaciously hold on to hope, looking over our shoulders, every now and then, hoping that fate isn't creeping up on us unseen.

Hurricane Ike is being seen, and as it makes its way east and north, I have been speaking with my neighbors. They all vividly remember that day in May when Rio Grande Guardian reporter Joey Gomez discovered the Border Patrol checking for citizenship documents during a practice evacuation. The word spread quickly—during a hurricane evacuation, the Border Patrol will separate people according to their documentation.

I asked my neighbors, in light of Border Patrols' recent claims that they wouldn't "necessarily" be checking for documents, that if an evacuation was ordered, would they leave? Those families composed of legal permanent residents or U.S. citizens all told me "Yes indeed! We aren't crazy people." Those families composed of people with mixed immigration status - a grandfather whose application for residency is in "process," or a niece who had submitted a request for a visa under the Violence Against Women Act, or a family with children who are U.S. citizens, but whose parents are Mexican nationals - they all told me, every last one of them, "No way are we leaving." When I asked those neighbors why wouldn't they leave, they said, again, every last one of them, "We don't trust the Border Patrol. We would rather take our chances with Ike."

While I admire the bravado, it is clearly that - bluster bordering on foolishness. The families with small children are the ones whose eyes open wide as they consider their options - the tragedy of a catastrophic storm or the icy efficiency of our government's security apparatus.

This sort of worry would have seemed inconceivable 15 years ago - we lived in a different time, a time when someone's identity had to do with their character more than with their documentation. It seems to be that we have given in to terror, a terror so deep that as a nation we are willing to take actions which would place our poorest, most vulnerable families - yes, those with children - at risk.

Today’s memorial of September 11th will be another opportunity to reflect on what sort of national community we have created in the face of enemy attacks. Have we become a stronger people because of that experience - or have we become shrill in our fear? As this hurricane blows up the waters in the Gulf, it might well lift up the veil that covers some of the shameful realities of our national character - we have become a fearful people.

The hurricane will indeed be a tragedy and a disaster, wherever it makes landfall. And, as in all such events, heroes will emerge. People will share, generously, with those in need. Locally, and nationally, purses will open, helping communities rebuild. I pray that we are blessed with courage and wisdom - and much less fear. I put my own hope in that - tenaciously.

Photo by M. Seifert. The child is an American citizen; his mother has her papers in process. Would they be separated during an evacuation? I am not sure, but I do know that this would be no place for children during a hurricane.

Passports and Midwives

David Hernandez is a tough guy. He has done his time in the army and has stood by his family over the years. He grew up in San Benito, Texas, a small town just up the road from Brownsville. His mother is a sweet woman who is obviously proud of her son.

When Mrs. Hernandez was ready to deliver David, she did what so many working-class families down here do--she sought out a midwife. The "parteras" as midwives are called were much less expensive than doctors, and the experience a much more human one than that of a hospital.

Next year, in order for David to visit his extended family that lives in Mexico, he will need a US passport to be able to come back into the country. Some months ago, David filled out an application, paid his $112—and then got a letter from the State Department telling him that he needed to produce a bundle of secondary proof establishing that he was in fact a US citizen.

David did the paperwork. He got a second letter: the State Department had denied the application, but encouraged him to reapply, "once you establish your citizenship.”

David then went to the local immigration office and told them that he wanted to become a US citizen. They responded, “But you already are a US citizen. You were born here, and you have a valid birth certificate.”

But they couldn’t help him get a passport. That was another branch of the government. Moreover, David had committed the sin of being of Mexican descent, of living on the border, and of having been born with the help of a midwife.

In post 9/11 USA, David was now a suspicious person.

And he was being punished for it. House arrest. No Cancun for him, no visits to his cousins, no leaving the USA.

David said, “I have pledged allegiance to the flag every single day from kindergarten to high school. I traveled all over Europe on the basis of my Army identification card. And now this.”

Although women along the border have been using midwives for decades (one woman noted that she delivered more babies in a year than the local hospital), someone in Washington DC, apparently with too much time on his hands, decided that the para-professionals were untrustworthy, despite the fact that the State of Texas (the tightest state in the union) had long decided otherwise.

On behalf of David and thousands of others from our community, the ACLU filed a lawsuit against the State Department. When the whole mess finishes, I hope that we can all have a nice meal on the other side of the border.

We will, of course, have our passports with us.

For more information, you can see this website: http://www.aclu.org/racialjustice/gen/passports.html

Another interview is here:

http://www.aclu.org/multimedia/passport_seifert.mp3

School Days

A new school year opened this week, and so did the San Felipe de Jesus after-school tutorial program. All last week, mothers came by the parish office to pick up school supplies—pencils, notebooks, backpacks. A lovely group from the Catholic Daughters of Texas drove all the way from Roundrock, Texas with a van packed with things to share. Nearly thirty-five children pack our two classrooms, where they have a place to do their homework—and someone to check it for them. Most have parents who are not home until late in the day (everyone works down here); all of the children are proud of their work, excited to be back to school, and give us the gift of youth—unbridled cheer and boundless hope.

(Photo by Michael Seifert)

What Do You Want to be When You Grow Up?

I have known Angel since he was seven years old. Even as a boy, he wanted to be an engineer. He loved thinking about how to design things.

He is now 19 years old, the oldest of seven children. His mother is a true hero, raising her family the best way she can, working at what she can, fighting, scraping by, doing the right thing by her kids. Her children adore her.

Angel is bright, and a good student. He managed to get into a magnet high school for science. In May he got his engineering degree at the local university. He would love to design cities. "Civil engineer! That would be me!" he says.

He came by the parish office the other day, as he needed internet access to make an online application. I thought, “What a great thing. Angel is going to begin his career.” I felt like a proud, but elderly uncle.

Unfortunately, that was not to be the case. He was applying to the US Border Patrol. I asked him why, and he told me that it was the only secure job in town. And that the government offered health insurance as part of its benefits. I said, “But you always wanted to be an engineer!” He looked down and said, “I still do, but I have to support my mom.”

He then looked up and said, “You know, I have already had three interviews with the Border Patrol. The last time I went, I had to meet with four agents. They told me that they wanted to see what I was made of. So they said, ‘We are going to give you a scenario. Pretend that you are out on patrol with your partner, and you are loading up some immigrants, and one of them gets your partner’s gun and holds it to his head. What would you do?’

Angel continued, “Well, I thought for a moment and then told them, ‘I would pull my gun and then try and negotiate with the guy so that no one gets hurt.’ And then the captain shouted at me, “No! You will take out your gun and shoot that illegal five times! We are Border Patrol. We don’t negotiate with anyone.’

Angel finished, “Now I see how they really are. It is not a very attractive job, but it is all that there is.”

Angel’s mother was brought to the USA by her husband, a legal resident who refused to help her straighten out her immigration status. While she has now applied to "regularize" her immigration status through her son Tony, a US citizen, she still remains in the limbo of awating approval from the United States government.

She could be one of those people that the Border Patrol would not want Angel to negotiate with.

Rocio

Rocio is eight years old and lives in the neighborhood called “Los Comunicadores” in Matamoros, the Mexican border city that sits just across the Rio Grande from Brownsville. She seemed to be a healthy child—bright, inquisitive, active—until she turned three years old. She quit growing, lost a lot of weight in a hurry—and her bones became fragile. She suffered repeated fractures, often from incidental contact.

Her skeletal system, that lovely invention of God’s nature, had turned into a torture machine. She began to shrink in upon herself.

A group of evangelical Christian doctors discovered Rocio during a quick missionary trip to Matamoros. The circumstances of her life, the vibrancy of her spirit, the hopelessness of her case--it is hard to know what moves a group of people from observation to action. In any case, the missionary doctors wanted to save her. But their time was limited, as were their local contacts, and, in the end, they headed home, unable to do much of anything other than raising false hope.

The hard truth was that there is not much that can be done, not now. Rocio had been through the Mexican medical system and the doctors had in fact done good work. She had received a plethora of examinations at no cost to her family. It doesn’t seem that she has rickets, but there is a possibility that she has an metabolic disorder. Rocio is being afflicted by something that is extraordinarily complicated, something that would be very difficult to treat, even in the best of circumstances.

The circumstances of Rocio’s life have made such treatment an impossibility. Rocio’s mother, Enriqueta, is raising her three children alone. She works on a factory assembly line where she earns about a third of what is needed to feed, clothe, and shelter her family. At 26 years of age, Enriqueta is worn out.

Taking Rocio across town to a doctor’s visit is a journey of pain for the little girl, who only breathes with any comfort when she is sitting up.

My friend Dr. Marsha, a pediatrician from Brownsville, and I pay the little girl a visit. Marsha sat with her and gently lifted her arm. Rocio indicated where they had taken a bone biopsy from her collarbone. She quietly told Marsha, that, yes, she was in pain. Marsha then asked the mother about Rocio’s medical history. The mother answers perfunctorily, her gaze out beyond the small sadness of her yard.

When Marsha asked Rocio what she would like to do, her eyes lit up. “Go to school!” she says. Her mother, for the first time during the visit, smiles, “She knows how to read!” she proudly exclaims.

As we continued the visit, Rocio turned in her little wheelchair so that she could better see the neighborhood kids scampering up and down a tree. “Rocio loves to watch the kids play,” her older sister says, helpfully.

We take our leave, promising to come back.

Once in the car, Marsha sighs, “I doubt that she will live out the month. Did you notice how much trouble she was having breathing?”

Actually, I hadn’t noticed that. I was caught up in the luminosity of her eyes, when she spoke of looking forward to the opening of school, and in the brightness of her smile, as she watched the kids from next door act like monkeys.

“The people asked him, ‘What, then, are we to do?’” (Luke 3: 10)
(Photos by Michael Seifert and Marsha Griffin, MD)