Spanglish

“Yo no soy de aquí,” sings Uruguayan singer-songwriter, Jorge Drexer, “pero tú tampoco.” I am not from here, but neither are you.

Today, I stand watch on the corner, protected by my white, US-American identity. A team member texts updates as he drives around town looking for signs of ICE activity. Inside the locked and password protected building, sad brown mothers and fathers receive help filling out legal paperwork. Their numb-eyed children are invited to play.

I, too, am an immigrant, the several times great-grandchild of people who fled war, poverty, and religious persecution. Benjamin Franklin bemoaned the proliferation of what he called the “swarthy races” in a 1751 essay; those were my people.

I used to be secretly proud that my Swiss-German Mennonite ancestors settled in the north, before the United States was born, never to be enslavers. I fantasized that my farmer relatives might have hid fugitives on the way to Canada in their barns.

I used to be relieved that my German ancestors arrived in the States before they had a chance to become Nazis. One set of great-grandparents homesteaded in what would become the state of Minnesota. Another set of great-grandparents met on an immigrant farm: him the stow away fleeing Bismarck’s army, she the farmer’s daughter.

For decades, I ignored the fact that all of my ancestors settled stolen lands. Yo no soy de aquí.

*

My friend Mark and I worship on Sunday morning yards apart on the same large church campus: him in the English congregation, me in the bilingual community. Mark asserts this administration’s immigration practices do not vary from past administrations; it is only the liberal media who would have you think so. I sit in silent rage.

I think of Pastor Rosa teaching me her favorite word, confianza (trust), the first of many culture lessons. Her coaching invites me to learn the rhythms of our community.

I think of Isabella, head barely as high as my shoulder, greeting me warmly. Between her English and my Spanish, we share, perhaps, a dozen words in common. It is enough to say “I see you.”

Maria, brought to the States as a child, tells of her parents teaching her that if she worked hard, she would be accepted in this land of opportunity. She and her husband now debate where they will raise their citizen son to best guard his human rights.

In a soft voice, Roberto speaks of the violence he saw in the country of his birth. He tells of the death threats he receives today as a citizen of the United States. Speak up and become a target.

I tell Mark none of these stories. I fear what he would do with the information.

*

I heard an immigration reform advocate say current events are worse than the raids that took place in the 1990’s. I was in this city in the 1990’s but retain no memory of raids. The community I was a part of met for worship on Sunday morning, congratulating ourselves on the many shades of melanin in the room. We were ignorant of the violence perpetrated on our neighbors.

Turning away from whitewashed history means I am seen as an apostate by the community that formed me, calling itself faithful.

The words of a corito run through my head: Cuando el pueblo del Señor alza su voz en unidad hace justicia. (When the Lord’s people raise their voices in unity, they bring about justice.) Hope and grief. Rage and faith. Spanish and English and Spanglish pointing toward a polyglot eternity.

What language do I have and what words do I say to my people?

Artist’s statement

I live in the in-between: between the Eaton Fire and rebuilding, between the conservative white community that was my home and the bilingual community that is now my familia, between the “I can change the world” enthusiasm of youth and the weariness of the third-third of life. This piece reflects pondering and experience of this season of life.