Tag Archives: latinos

The Most Deafening Sound is Silence

2 Jun

I’ve read too many tweets, threads, LinkedIn posts, etc. where as soon as a Black person posts about their pain there are comments by those in the Latino, Asian, and all non-Black communities that jump in and say “What about us?!” I’ve seen chats where females try to prioritize their trauma as sexual abuse/assault survivors over the Black Lives Matter movement.

I speak from the perspective of: a first-generation Mexican-American; a mother to three daughters; and as an Angeleno from Westlake / Boyle Heights / East LA. I speak as someone who was sexually, emotionally, physically abused by family throughout my childhood. I speak as a former single mother who has had to degrade herself in order to keep a roof over her kids’ head; as a domestic violence survivor; and as someone who has experienced a multitude of prejudice in the workplace/school/relationships for being what I was born as – a brown Latina.

Yet NONE of the pain from these experiences can remotely compare to the pain and racism that Black Americans have to grapple with throughout the entirety of their lives.

I am highly empathetic but I know that I can never fully comprehend the threat that Black people in America face every single day.

Like many of you, I have been on Twitter every waking hour to keep up to date with developments. And like many of you, I have woken up every single day with a crushing pain in my chest, the hurt choking me and making it hard to breathe. I am constantly lightheaded – as even my own self wants to slip out of this reality, and I have so much rage because this is not a new occurrence.

Racism is not new. Police brutality is not new.

Nor has either ever ceased to exist. Racism has actively harmed Black Americans since the founding of this country. We The Protestors tracks and visualizes all police killings since 2015. I encourage you to support their work and to see for yourself why Black Americans (and those who stand with them) are overwhelmed with the compounding effect of so many needless deaths – so many murders without consequences at the hands of police.

I used to question my own feelings as White and other non-Black people gaslighted me for my outrage, for my searing pain at the injustices that the Black community faces. But they were never in the right.

We have seen many instances on Twitter of White / non-Black Americans trying to squash the conversation around Black Lives Matter by saying that it is not appropriate to discuss racism in a professional setting or that it is unhelpful to demand of them to get involved.

They are doing what they’ve done for centuries – using their Whiteness/proximity to Whiteness and unearned power to condescendingly educate us on which is the right way to protest and not.

They continue to value the loss of property over the loss of life and pretend that they are two separate things, as if peaceful protests haven’t been carried out time and time again without producing results.

They continue to curl their lips in disgust at the vision of screaming protestors as if we were uncouth to march and stand for basic human rights and the just treatment of Black Americans. And usually (and time and time again in the past) this has worked.

But we are seeing a shift. As soon as they are called out and see the backlash that can potentially harm their property (e.g. their employment, investments, networks, etc.), they are backtracking. They are apologizing on Twitter and donating to Black organizations. I hope that they are truly remorseful and that they use their privilege to educate their networks, family, and friends. I hope that they can stop seeing themselves as “US” and Black Americans as “THEM”.

The treatment of Black Americans has not changed. America has and continues to treat Black Americans as subhuman, as not feeling pain, as criminals, as a threat, as statistics. What has changed is that the nation is breaking under the weight of racism. What has changed is that the old mainstream views are becoming uncouth, unacceptable to admit publicly, and getting close to real consequences.

Before you make yourself feel better by claiming that you are not a racist, I want to remind you that racism does not exist in extremes or a vacuum. Racism is woven into the daily lives of a Black Americans. Racism is every: micro-aggression; continual requirement for Black people to justify their credentials and ability; time they have to prove why they belong on a space that is dominated by White people, time that they are stereotyped; pulled over; ignored by their doctors; “put in their place” by teachers and counselors; followed in stores; avoided in the street; stared at; seen skeptically; face betrayal when they are subjected to racist behavior by those who they trusted as an ally (and the list goes on and on). Racism is not experienced individually but as the build up of every racist instance they’ve had to deal with that day.

While the list of ways that Black Americans experience racism in the US is non-exhaustive, there are equally many ways you should make a difference in your daily life to fight racism.

Call out the colleague/classmate/boss/professor/investor who is passive-aggressive, who blocks promotions, who speaks condescendingly, who doesn’t invite them to outside of work socializing, who doesn’t hire them, who doesn’t invite them to panels, etc.

Be an observer when you see an interaction with a police officer and use your white privilege and the safety it affords you by policing the police.

Stop your family and friends when they use racist language. Educate them and don’t use the excuse that they are a different generation and “don’t mean it like that.”

Reflect on whether you are prioritizing your fight (as a non-Black POC, LGBTQ, and/or any identity that you belong to) over the NECESSITY of saving Black lives.

Listen and don’t make statements that invalidate their experience such as “I don’t think they meant it that way” claiming that you “give everyone the benefit of the doubt” as if you are being the bigger person. Black people do not have the privilege of blindly trusting everyone and believing that they won’t be harmed.

This is overwhelming but when you want to lean away from the subject because it is “too much” or you can’t handle that much pain – remind yourself that Black Americans don’t have the privilege of distancing themselves from their daily lives.

You don’t have to have the words that makes it all better because no one expects nor believes that your words or any words can make it all better. Don’t use that as an excuse to explain why you’re not saying anything on the matter.

Your silence hurts.

Don’t leave your friends and family wondering which side of the conversation you’re on. If you are not fighting against racism, you are part of the problem.

At minimum, donate to an organization that is listed in the Minnesota Freedom Fund and publicly share your donation while asking your network to do the same.

Don’t expect your Black colleagues / classmates / students to show up as if nothing happened. They are under incredibly painful and extreme duress and should not have to prioritize your pSets, exams, reports, code, etc. over the struggle to be seen as human beings and the grief at the continued murdering of Black Americans by police with impunity.

Actively lighten the load of Black Americans. This can be advocating for your Black colleagues / classmates / students (without requiring them to participate). It includes pressuring your boss or professors to provide paid time off or make assignments and exams optional (without requiring them to reach out). That last part is key. I’ve seen professors offering accommodations IF students reach out. Don’t do that – the onus is on YOU, not them, to realize that they are not in a space to even think about your classroom (nor should they have to).

I understand that the pain many of us are feeling can make us feel numb, detached, deeply depressed but I also realize that this pain will only go away with real lasting change. Quite frankly I wish that everyone felt this pain, maybe then they would demand change if for no other reason than to stop hurting.

As a Latina I particularly ask my Latino community to accept that anti-Blackness permeates our culture and that it is our responsibility to eradicate it. Here’s what NOT to do. Don’t make this about Latinos (and don’t forget that many Latinos are Black Latinos). Do the right thing and stand firmly (al cien) with the Black community in actively fighting for equal justice.

Lost in Translation

28 Jan

I was 15 and missing class for the day as I walked along my dad to an immigration one stop shop to renew his green card. By then, our relationship was distant, making for awkward conversation as we waited, mostly in silence, for his number to be called.

He had walked into my room the previous evening, looking slightly nervous, to ask me if I could take the day off school and help him with paperwork and translating questions. He didn’t mention what kind of paperwork and I didn’t ask. I simply said, “Claro que si papi!” And he walked back out, his shoulders noticeably relaxed.

The following morning we got up early and briskly walked to the bus stop. As we waited, he asked if I would miss much school work. I shook my head and we rode in silence, using the noisy backdrop of multiple conversations, music, arguments, and laughter from our fellow bus riders as noise filler.

“Numero 143!” The loudspeaker was all base and garbled sound that you had to strain to hear it, followed by multiple questions of, “Que dijo? Cual numero?!” I looked down at our number, #257…

I looked around and saw the snaking line in front of us, and even longer mess of a wait behind us. I had the large manila folder close to my chest, its contents all neatly filled out and in the appropriate order. We went through the questions: Color of Hair -, “Negro no?”, Color of Eyes -, “Cafe”, Height -…and so on. What year did you enter the US? Have you ever illegally done this, that, and other idiotic questions that were meant to trick you into losing your green card.

“Numero 257!” We hurried up to the window, my father a step behind me, and I beamed brightly at the zombie-esque employee behind the window. I pushed the paperwork toward him and he rattled off a litany of questions, each to which my father would look to me before responding in the affirmative or negative. He looked so serious, that face that I came to know every time he was in front of a figure of authority, that face that thinly masked the knots of nervous terror that threatened to snake through his pores. His yellow pallor and slight suffle from his left to right foot reflected his fear, this precarious arrangement by the US government that allowed him to be in the North side of the Mexican/US border with his family – his wife and kids that is. I was standing next to him so I did the only thing I thought to do, I reached for his hand and held it in mine and gave it a slight squeeze. To my surprise, he squeezed back and released a pent up breath. Those long heavy breathes that you release when you forget to breathe.

Thump. The stamp of approval came down on my father’s paperwork and the zombie gave me the proof of renewal as well as intructions of things to watch out for in the mail.

As we stepped away I saw hundred of people just like my dad, a yellow tint betraying their fear, their unsteady stance on slippery ice of the INS.

As we left that dimly lit and dingy building and walked out into the bright sunshine of Olympic/Soto, he cheerfully asked me if I wanted to grab a bite. “Quieres una Hamburguesa?” I didn’t. I wanted to go home and rid myself of the depressing images of hope and broken dreams that the building had left behind in my mind. I wanted to stop the awkward company of my father and lock myself up in my room to listen to music and read a book. But his smile was so rare, it seemed out of place in his usual solemn face, and I remembered how he had returned the squeeze when we held hands that I nodded my head and smiled so he could remember his five year old Chuchi that had always quickly done anything he requested.

Instead of hopping on the bus we walked to Tom’s Burgers on 4th/Soto and ordered burgers, fries, and a shake for me. I told him about how my swimming was going, about my history class, about all of the subjects that I enjoyed. That afternoon I had my father back; the one that used to help me with homework art projects, read to me and protect me when I was in pre-school.

It dawned on me then how hard and embarassing it must have been for him to ask me for help for a matter that I would never have to face since I won the lottery at birth and was born in this country.

My mother always came to me when she needed translating, documents filled out, appointments for me to attend with her, but my father… He had never asked for my help before then and I was happy that I had quickly assented, that I had agreed energetically to having lunch with him.

He told me about his adventures as a young man; stories about crossing the border, the comedy he peppered in didn’t quite hide the perils and unfortunate events that crossing illegally with a pollero invited. The fry scratched my throat as I chewed and tried to swallow the mouthful along with my sense of shame of not having wanted to prolong my stay with my dad. But the shame was nothing compared to the ache that I felt for the millions of unfortunate undocumented fathers out there whose standing on the North side of the border was even more precarious than my father’s.

President Obama will release his immigration reform plan tomorrow and I have a seed of hope hesitantly sprouting that his plan includes a major upheaval of our class system: the third class that suffers in silence and moves noiselessly from unwanted job to job without any right to vote or voice their injustice, the second class that holds green cards but are not yet citizens and do not have the right to vote, and the rest of us – US Citizens (via birth or naturalization) that are free to enjoy 100 % of our rights, as disparate in education and economic mobility opportunity as they may be, there is still a door for us that grants us 100% of the right to seek those opportunities. And with shame I acknowledge that I have often forgotten how fortunate I am for having a US birth certificate, that sacred paper that allows me to live the life I have led…

I hope that President Obama pushes his immigration plan forward and doesn’t allow for the stories of suffering undocumented millions to be lost in translation.

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