Class and Immigration

The one thing we don't usually want to talk about in the U.S. is class. Class seems fluid and tricky. For some, the term is too Marxist. For others, it just makes them uncomfortable. But we still use terms like "middle class" and "working class" or "working people" all the time. We all know, especially those of us from the working class, that there is indeed a class system in the United States.

Even though I am now in seminary, and in an academic world, I still identify strongly with my working class roots. My dad works in a warehouse and my mom runs a dog kennel on their farm. I grew up there, learning the value of hard work and working-class values. We never went hungry, but we never had a lot of money either. We lived in a mobile home and my dad built a barn to house our goats and chickens and we all dug a garden to grow our vegetables. My sisters and I are the first in our family to receive a university education, thanks to scholarships.

As I have been more and more involved in immigrant communities, as an ESL teacher, as an activist, and as an advocate, I have seen people who are working hard to make ends meet for their families. Immigrant workers are often exploited in the workplace, receive low wages, and struggle to survive and feed their kids. I've seen the same in the majority white, rural, working communities I grew up in.

That's why, when I attended a meeting hosted by the MA state governor's office last week in Framingham about Secure Communities, my heart dropped to see so many working class white people show up with their support. Secure Communities is opposed by the immigrant community because it creates a partnership between ICE (the branch of Homeland Security responsible for arresting and deporting undocumented immigrants) and local police. Many white people from the local area showed up with signs that were particularly offensive to the immigrant community ("I love gringos" "Go home, Illegals!").

Working class people have been told over and over that their own woes should be blamed on immigrants who are stealing their jobs. In this way, people who should be natural allies are pitted against each other.

I wanted to say; "Look, we are all in this together!" The reality is that the government policies that drive so many people to immigrate to the U.S. are the same policies that are hurting working class people in the U.S. For example, NAFTA allowed large corporations to import their products without tariffs into countries like Mexico. This drove corn prices down so low that millions of subsistence farmers in southern Mexico have been forced to migrate or starve. It is no coincidence that 1994 marked both a massive increase in border crossing and the implementation of NAFTA. At the same time, large corporations also have consolidated their landholdings, forcing U.S. farmers out of business and into poverty. Factories and industries in the U.S. that have employed most working people have been closed, because trade policies allow corporations to move offshore to make a better profit. Workers, both white and immigrant, are facing a massive economic squeeze for the same reason. Yet we are fighting each other!

If only we could recognize this and work together!

My Two Favorite Spiritual Practices

As a seminarian, I tend to talk a lot about my spiritual practices. And I have many. However, this weekend, I was reminded of two practices that always rejuvenate my spiritual life; taking time outdoors and protesting.

The hardest thing for me moving to the city has been the distance I feel between myself and the earth. I have lived most of my life in rural areas, surrounded by nature and sky and trees. This weekend a friend and I borrowed a car and drove out to the Ipswich Wildlife Sanctuary. It was so quiet! That was the first thing I noticed-- I could hear the silence, without the sound of traffic or people or machines. And I could truly see the sky, with the winter sun turning it gold and silver. I saw eastern red squirrels for the first time, chattering and fighting all over the place and clouds of chickadees landed periodically. We walked around the frozen lake and through the trees. There was an ancient Red Cedar, its branches worn through the decades, firmly rooted by the lake's edge. The smell of the tree as I sat besides it was warm and sharp and I felt like I finally had the time to clear my mind. My times of deepest prayer are nearly always in the quiet of the woods. It is there that I find God most present. I find it deeply saddening that the wild places are continually getting taken over by highways and development parks all over the country. I think we losing something precious, something many of us do not realize we have.

My other favorite spiritual practice is as loud and noisy as the woods are quiet and still. I do not go to protests just simply to go. Protests are a way for me to voice my solidarity with people who are marginalized in our society. Just as the woods call me to renew my sense of the presence of God, so protests call me to renew my sense of solidarity with my fellow human beings. This particular protest yesterday was in support of the Immokalee farm workers from FL, who were demanded a raise. A group of farm workers travelled from FL to Boston, in the snow no less, to highlight the fact that those who pick our tomatoes have not received a raise in decades and are often abused and exploited. This is the side of immigrant rights that activists sometimes forget-- migrants who obtain a job in the U.S. generally obtain a low wage job in the agricultural or service industries and often have very few rights. This group from Immokalee was courageously demanding fair treatment. It is tragic that the people who feed us, who clean our hotels, and who package our food are in possession of so few rights. It is in their faces that I find the face of the crucified Jesus today.

My Thoughts from the U.S.-Mexico Border

"1,950 mile long open wound…The U.S.-Mexico border es una herida abierta, where the third world grates against the first and bleeds." Gloria Anzaldúa

I spent the first three weeks of January on the U.S.-Mexico border on a grant for cross-cultural studies. After spending years involved in immigrant rights, I wanted to witness firsthand what was happening on the border. I was less prepared than I thought for what I saw and heard. It was jarring to see miles of hideous fence cutting through the beautiful desert landscape. It was even more jarring to see the hundreds of shacks lining the hillsides on the Mexican side and the mansions on the streets of the U.S. side and the heavily armed guards on both sides. I talked to migrants from shelters all along the border—in Nogales, in Agua Prieta, in Altar. They all told me the same story. "There is no work. We need to feed our families." Several repeated over and over, "We are not coming for a better life. We are coming just to survive." The border has separated so many families and many of the people I talked to were desperately trying to return to children in the U.S. Some had tried multiple times to cross, been caught and processed by Border Patrol and were returning to try again.

"People who experience trauma live in the suspended middle territory, between life and death… Neither a figure of life or death exclusively, the cry from the wound is the hinge that links the two. It is a cry of witness from the middle." Shelly Rambo

This middle territory is no metaphor on the U.S.-Mexico border. It is literally a fight between life and death in the borderlands. Everything is against the migrant—the desert, the patrols, the roaming gangs, local ranchers, and time. Even with the economic downturn, many estimate that up to 1400 people are crossing through the Sonoran desert every day, driven there by U.S. border policy. Operating under a policy of deterrence, the federal government consciously decided to funnel people into the desert, hoping that the harsh conditions and high death toll would keep others from following. But people are desperate enough to keep coming—and many do die. 253 people were found dead in the desert just last year, many who were never identified.

Those who are shuffled back and forth by unjust economic policies and harsh anti-immigration laws give witness to the wound on the border. The twelve year old girl trying to take care of her sick mother and baby brother who had just spent two days in custody after being found in the desert. She told us about the girl she met, crying in Border Patrol custody, who had miscarried in a Border Patrol van after being kicked by a patrol's horse. The Guatemalan woman who had fallen off the train on her way up to Nogales and was now crossing the desert alone with her husband because they could not afford to pay a coyote. She told me; "I am afraid, but God will protect us." The couple who had left their children behind in Michoacán and were heading to San Francisco to try to make enough money to take care of them. They set off across the plaza in Altar with their backpacks, ready to try again after being deported on their first attempt. They had been on the road a month so far.

"War dehumanizes, war diminishes, war debases all those who wage it." Elie Weisel

One person warned us about the border; "It is a low intensity war zone." She was not joking. The desert is full of high tech tracking equipment, low flying helicopters, and armed Border Patrol. Driving the back roads with humanitarian groups looking to provide food and water to migrants, I quickly lost count of the dozens of Border Patrol vehicles and checkpoints and Wackenhut buses used to transport people to detention. At border checkpoints, guys with machine guns are everywhere. Parts of the fence are electrified and crowned with rolled barbed wire. All of this largely to keep out an invasion of the poor.

I met a young Border Patrol agent at a checkpoint who seemed eager to go home to San Diego. He laughed; "As long as they keep making Mexicans, I'll have a job." The dehumanization didn't end there. ICE agents I met with were unable to refer to people crossing borders as anything other than aliens, illegals, or worse, "bodies." There is no accountability for agents who abuse people in their custody and reports of violent abuse, such as kicking, punching, threatening, and even raping migrants are common. The week I got there, a 17 year old kid was shot on top of the border fence by a Border Patrol agent, a kid who ended up being on his way to or from a party he went to with his U.S. girlfriend on the other side.

The war zone spills into U.S. federal courtrooms, where Operation Streamline processes seventy people a day in Tucson solely for the crime of crossing the wrong border. The day I visited, I saw sick women and men who could barely walk, fully shackled, led up in groups of seven to the front of an English speaking court with minimal translation and forced to give up their rights and plead guilty. Seventy people, one at a time, said; "Cupable." Guilty. Guilty for wanting to feed hungry families. Guilty for fleeing economic policies largely induced by U.S. policy. Guilty for entering away from a port of entry without documentation it is impossible for poor people to obtain.

Throughout my trip, these words from Elie Weisel kept haunting me; "We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented… When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men and women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must — at that moment — become the center of the universe." And, in the last three weeks, I was visiting the center of the universe.

Christmas Thoughts

Christmas is a time of expectation and joy. It falls within a few days of the winter solstice, the time when the darkest days are over and the earth awaits the slow return of the sun. We celebrate the rising of the Sun of Righteousness, we sing carols about joy and hope, and our children do pageants remembering the joyful birth of a baby two thousand years ago. Advent reflections are full of thoughts of birthing new life and looking forward in our lives. But, I wonder, how often do we reflect on just how painful birth can be? The picture above reminds me of just how difficult and bloody birth can be, and reminds me just how lonely and isolated the birth of the Bethlehem babe must have been.

It also reminds me of how painful the bringing forth of new life can be. When we allow ourselves to be pregnant with possibilities, with life, with hope, we also invite pain and birthing. It is not always a fully pleasant experience. We experience waiting and pain and labor in both our personal and collective lives.

I think about what the journey has been like for women seeking equality in a patriarchal world and, pertinant to my context, seeking the right to preside at the table, to re-present Christ at the altar.

Susan Ross quotes Frances Frank in her poem on this struggle;

Did the woman say,
When she held him for the first time in the dark of a stable,
After the pain and the bleeding and the crying,
"This is my body, this is my blood"?

Did the woman say,
When she held him for the last time in the dark rain on a hilltop,
After the pain and the bleeding and the dying,
"This is my body, this is my blood"?

Well that she said it to him them,
For dry old men,
brocaded robes belying barreness,
Ordain that she not say it for him now.

For a better part of my life, I struggled with a call I was told could not exist because I was a woman. There was much pain in the birthing of new possibility in my life. I have faced and continue to face the angst and the pain of birthing new life, new possibilities. I am grateful to have found competent midwives-- in the church, in seminary, in all the friends who have supported me through this time of new discovery. It may be painful, but it also wonderful to bring new life into the world.

A Country Girl’s Meditation in the City

When I walk in the city I am afraid. Not of the cars or the people or the culture I don't always understand. I'm afraid of losing what I love. When I walk past the homes of the wealthy with BNWs parked in front, I see the bags of good mulch leaves left out for garbage pickup. The roots of an old oak still push up the concrete and asphalt, pushing down below the ground where everything is still free, its last remaining leaves dancing in the road. A pine tree rustles up ahead, but its whispering voice is overcome by the sound of sirens rushing past. When I finally reach the river—that beautiful running water that runs through Boston, I see the sun reflecting on the little waves and the geese flying low, staying for the winter because they know there will be enough food. Runners pass me constantly, their iPods to their ears, blocking out not only the traffic, but also the soft lapping of the water on the bank. Garbage floats in the corners and I turn into the little patch of woods that reminds me that nature still exists. The trees are young and small, growing on the roots of the large trees that once towered over the place and are now probably a rotting boat somewhere on the harbor. Robins and jays pick their way through the leaves, rustling and calling each other until a car horn drowns their voices.

And then I am really afraid. I am afraid that there are no wild places left, that since my leaving, the open places and the forest places have been swallowed up by concrete and asphalt, that all rivers are running with sewage and pollution, that every place is now full of the sound of cars and the smell of fumes. I try to smell the crisp autumn air full of the tangy smell of rotting leaves, but I catch only a whiff beyond the exhaust and the lady's perfume up ahead. I can't feel the soft spongy earth beneath my feet because nearly every inch is covered in walking trails. A few old trees are left in that corner, to be sure. What have they seen? Have they seen the demise of the forest and the fishing grounds that these places once were? When I look, I can see no place to retreat. There are just miles and miles of concrete jungle and brick building, concrete sidewalks and traffic jams.

I am constantly reminded in the city how important our countryside is, how important the wild places are, how important it is that we learn to live with and on the land in a way that will allow future generations to not only survive but thrive. I am reminded that we are all interconnected—human beings and the cycle of life, the wild animals and the farm creatures that feed us, the forests and the rivers.

Perhaps what scares me most in the city is that it is hard to find God. I can see God in the faces of the people that I meet and in the little cracks of nature that appear in broken sidewalks. But I always hear God's voice best in the wild places.

Wendell Berry shares my fear in his poem, A Timbered Choir.

Even while I dreamed I prayed that what I saw was only fear and no foretelling,
for I saw the last known landscape destroyed for the sake
of the objective, the soil bludgeoned, the rock blasted.
Those who had wanted to go home would never get there now.

I visited the offices where for the sake of the objective the planners planned
at blank desks set in rows. I visited the loud factories
where the machines were made that would drive ever forward
toward the objective. I saw the forest reduced to stumps and gullies; I saw
the poisoned river, the mountain cast into the valley;
I came to the city that nobody recognized because it looked like every other city.
I saw the passages worn by the unnumbered
footfalls of those whose eyes were fixed upon the objective.

Their passing had obliterated the graves and the monuments
of those who had died in pursuit of the objective
and who had long ago forever been forgotten, according
to the inevitable rule that those who have forgotten forget
that they have forgotten. Men, women, and children now pursued the objective
as if nobody ever had pursued it before.

…the once-enslaved, the once-oppressed were now free
to sell themselves to the highest bidder
and to enter the best paying prisons
in pursuit of the objective, which was the destruction of all enemies,
which was the destruction of all obstacles, which was the destruction of all objects,
which was to clear the way to victory, which was to clear the way to promotion, to salvation, to progress,
to the completed sale, to the signature
on the contract, which was to clear the way
to self-realization, to self-creation, from which nobody who ever wanted to go home
would ever get there now, for every remembered place
had been displaced; the signposts had been bent to the ground and covered over.

Every place had been displaced, every love
unloved, every vow unsworn, every word unmeant
to make way for the passage of the crowd
of the individuated, the autonomous, the self-actuated, the homeless
with their many eyes opened toward the objective
which they did not yet perceive in the far distance,
having never known where they were going,
having never known where they came from.

Seasonal Thoughts

Time goes fast in seminary and this first semester is no exception. At the same time, I have been very aware of the changing season. Fall is a beautiful time of year here in Massachusetts, with the trees vibrant with orange, red, and yellow. As the last day of October comes to a close, it makes me think about life's journey. Fall is a time that I think about rest and about the cycle of life. It is a time when the earth begins to ready for the great sleep of winter. And, for as far back as we know, humans have taken this time of year to think about loved ones lost and the reality of our mortality.

In the old Celtic cultures, this is Samhain, when the veil between life and death grew thin and people remembered the dead who were no longer among them. It was a night of ritual and rememberance, of bonfires and readying for winter.

In my tradition, it is the eve of All Saint's Day. We bring pictures of loved ones and place them with candles on an altar. Some churches have processions where those who have died are named and remembered.

Concurrently, we approach Dia de los Muertos, an ancient tradition where the dead are also remembered and fiestas take place in cemetaries. Elaborate altars carry the fruits of the harvest alongside pictures of the dead. Death is mocked in dances and celebrations.

And, of course, it is Halloween, the Western holiday where little kids dress up as witches and Superman and collect candy from the neighborhood. It is a time of celebration and scary movies, a time where we joke about our mortality.

While everyday is a day when the veil between the sacred and the common is thin, it is nice to have days like this where we think more seriously about what the world is enacting in the great ritual of the seasons and what that tells us about our own lives. In the beautiful garden where I love to walk, I could take a moment to remember loved ones I have lost, to contemplate my own mortality, and then to laugh and enjoy the world around me.

Finding Space in the Chaos

Sorry, folks, that it has taken so long for another update. Seminary life is as busy as it is cracked up to be... and I have been more than busy with settling into a new place, starting classes, and reading more in a day than I ever thought possible. I love all my classes and the teachers here at EDS are amazing.

But I am also finding that there is more to seminary than simply studying. It requires you to put your whole self forward and to engage in just as much heart work as mind work. Because of this, I am learning to find space for reflection and meditation as well. I am glad that I chose one of my classes to address the issue of "Spirituality and Well-Being," as learning self-care and disciplined spiritual practice is vital for seminary life.

I have found it very helpful to find space and time during the week to mediate, pray, and just to be. One way I do this is in daily chapel services, which I find very centering as I start or end my day with prayer in community, in the company of candles and icons. Another way is in spending time outdoors, which has always been my favorite place to find both God and myself. I am still finding it quite an adjustment to move from rural to city life, where there is so much noise and activity and people everywhere all the time. I am glad that just outside the house I am staying in, is a garden that is usually fairly quiet, where I can just sit and watch the bees in the flowers or draw.

This weekend, I visited the beach. I find the sea so calming and centering, so I spent some time reflecting and writing-- and just standing in the surf looking out to the endless horizon. I love the Loreena McKennitt song that says; "The pounding sea is calling me home; home to you." I feel like the sea represents, in some way, the infinite-- new possibilities, new horizons, endless life.

This is the chapel at EDS, where we hold Eucharist and morning and evening prayer. The daily offices held in community has been an amazing addition to my spiritual life...