Jose Gonzalez and UNIDOS

            Our visit with Jose Gonzalez, former Mexican-American Studies (MAS) teacher, and United Non-discriminatory Individuals Demanding Our Studies (UNIDOS), raised far more questions and trains of thought that I can begin to enumerate here. One of the most expansive themes that came up in those visits was education (in its various forms and functions). I plan to weave my own experience and understanding throughout the conversations we had in class.

            One place our conversation resided for a while was about the role and function of education in society. We got onto this subject mostly through the discussion of charter schools, although of course in talking about MAS classes and their pedagogy we were also discussing these issues. Being asked about charter schools, Jose told us that, in his opinion, they are not a good or viable option because they make a good education a privilege and not a right. If a quality education must be paid for it will be the elite who can and will pay for that education, and that denies the section of society that cannot pay for education the hope of being “well educated.”

            Why is “well educated” in quotation marks? Well, it’s largely because, after almost 16 consecutive years of time spent in classrooms, I still have a hazy idea of what it means to be well educated. This, despite the fact that, growing up in Chicago, I went to a magnet program for grade school, the number one high school in the state of Illinois[1] (and currently 25^th in the nation[2]), and currently attend the 65^th liberal arts institution in the United States.[3] The high school I went to was technically public, being a “selective enrollment” high school (students are accepted based on their score on an elective standardized test). My educational credentials are significant on paper, but how does that relate what I was taught, how I was taught it, and how that was controlled by the larger system that educated me?

            I’ll explain more, and attempt to shy away from the overly philosophical. I guess my question about education has to do with the larger pedagogical goals. These are goals that can be radically different in the classroom and in the city council, as the example of MAS classes illustrates. In my Intro to Women’s/Gender/Sexuality studies course last semester at Earlham, the class read a book called Understanding Race, Class, Gender, and Sexuality: A Conceptual Framework.[4] The book uses education as its integrating theme, weaving in analyses of race, class, gender, and sexuality and their intersections. Lynn Weber, the author, lays out multiple educational models: whom they’re for, their goals, and how they function in the classroom. Without the text in front of me I know I’m paraphrasing dangerously, but I do remember that the “lower” models emphasizes rote learning and discipline as goals (stay at your desk, memorize formulas, don’t ask questions), and the higher models focus on discovery and critical thinking. This was certainly my high school experience, where our math class focused not on memorizing formulas but developing the formulas ourselves from word problems of real-life problems for which there were mathematical solutions. A crucial element of these multiple systems of education is the number and type of bodies that occupy each one. The lower-level, discipline-based models are occupied by the majority of society, and contain mostly people of color, lower class, and queer folks. A smaller number of primarily white, upper class, and heterosexual folks populate the upper educational echelons. These discipline-based models are components of things like the “school to prison pipeline”[5] whereby public school students are funneled into the criminal detention system. Jose brought this up when he mentioned the disparity in what the state will spend to educate a student versus incarcerate someone (Arizona currently spends approximately $16,000 more to incarcerate someone per year than they spend on public education).[6]

            Jose told us that his model of teaching MAS is right there in Pedagogy of the Oppressed by Paolo Freire, and that he aims to teach his students to think critically.[7] This seems incredibly significant when considering Jose taught public high school, and Tucson Unified School District student body is overwhelmingly comprised of people of color (73% of the population, 57% of whom are Hispanic).[8] These are not the typical demographics that receive this type of education, according to the educational system presented by Weber. The MAS program, with educational models like Freire’s, did what no other program in the country could do or has done since: closed the achievement (or as Jose prefers to call it, opportunity) gap for students.[9] And yet, it was defunded. What does that say about the larger system of education? It seems to me that it suggests that despite the improvement in test scores and graduation rates, any program that threatens the educational system by which critical thinking skills are regulated will be shut down. It furthermore seems significant to me that the bodies receiving this education include a demographic majority of students of color, who are less likely or able to access critical pedagogy under the current system.

            The Tucson Unified School District, in their cancelation of the MAS program, seems to be intent on preserving the status quo for education in Tucson. This status quo suggests that a good education emphasizing critical thinking should not be readily or publicly available to the whole of society. Students of color (although due to the focus of the campaign, it is important that it is only Mexican-American students) should not have public access to their history taught by educators who strive to teach them to use their minds to achieve their goals and love themselves. The view of an educational future without MAS is a bleak reality, although I believe it would be an insult to the educators, students, and community who rallied around the program to assume that this is where the struggle will be left.

- Genevieve Beck-Roe

---

[1] “Top Ranked IL Schools.” US News and World Report.  US News and World Report LP.

2013. Web. 14 November 2013.

[2] “2013 America’s Best High Schools.” The Daily Beast. The Newsweek/Daily Beast LLC.

2013. Web. 14 November 2013

[3] “National Liberal Arts College Rankings.” US News and World Report.  US News and World

Report LP. 2013. Web. 14 November 2013.

[4] Weber, Lynn. Understanding Race, Class, Gender, and Sexuality: A Conceptual Framework.

New York: Oxford University Press, 2009. Print.

[5] “What Is The School-To-Prison Pipeline?” Racial Justice. ACLU. Web. 14 November 2013.

[6] Yellin, Tal. “Education vs prison costs.” CNNMoney. Cable News Network. Web. 14

November 2013.

[7] Freire, Paolo. Pedagogy of the Oppressed. New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2000. Print.

[8] “Ethnic/Gender Enrollment Breakdown for Instructional Day 40.” TUSDStats. Tucson

Unified School District. Web. 14 November 2013.

[9] “Need to know: Banned in Arizona.” PBS. 15 February 2013. Web. 7 November 2013.

A Conversation with Mike Wilson

On November 14^th, we met with Mike Wilson, an activist and member of the O’odham Nation. We had previously encountered stories about Mike Wilson in our summer reading for the program, a book called The Death of Josseline by Margaret Regan. The book, which chronicles the dangerous journey of many migrants through the desert, highlights Mike Wilson as an independent man set on providing water for migrants. The book also discusses the political tension between Wilson and the O’odham Nation with regards to migrant deaths on land belonging to the Nation. Ultimately, our conversation centered on the complex web of accountability that exists within the notion of humanitarian aid and the ramifications of larger immigration policies.

In our conversation, Wilson expanded on his political conflict with members of the Nation. To begin, he drew a chart on the board that created a distinction between the O’odham Nation and the O’odham people. Wilson’s chart emphasized that his debate was not with the O’odam people themselves, but was rather with members of the Nation’s various governmental bodies. He also used charts to highlight the high numbers of migrant deaths on O’odham land and juxtaposed those charts with anecdotes about his struggle with members of the O’odham Nation. When questioned about the reasons why the Nation might oppose the placement of water in the desert, Wilson referred to the Department of Homeland Security’s wide-spread dissemination of anti-immigrant narratives, for example the racist myths that migrants are dangerous, stealing jobs, and are connected with terrorism.

It is crucial to recognize the power of racist rhetoric around migrants because this rhetoric is constantly influencing policies in the Borderlands. Along with recognizing the influence of this language, it is also important to consider where these myths originate from and who is benefiting off of their dissemination. As Wilson highlighted, the origin of anti-immigrant myths stems from the US government and the web of private companies that are also engaged in the task of promoting increased border militarization and deportations. Ultimately, these entities are benefitting from anti-immigrant myths through perceived public, political support and also through financial gain, such as the profit from private prisons. Therefore, I believe it is important to not only look at the decisions being made about water on the Nation, but to also look at the root causes for anti-immigrant sentiment, a sentiment that did not originate within the O’odham Nation.

Wilson’s theme of accountability stretched to critique the network of organizations in Tucson that work to provide humanitarian aid in the desert. He highlighted the fact that several organizations in Tucson have failed to reach out to the O’odham Nation and ask if they can place water barrels on the Nation’s land. This notion of accountability ties into sovereignty, as many of these organizations may feel that it is not their place to tell the O’odham how to govern their land, especially given histories of colonization. However, Wilson confessed to us that he felt this reasoning was paternalistic and racist because it did not hold the O’odham to the same standards of morality. Within his words remains the question: how does one navigate dynamics of sovereignty while still maintaining accountability?

His language also reminded me of a presentation we had in class recently on the topic of Human Rights. The presentation was centered around the Universal Declaration of Human Rights that was adopted by the United Nations General Assembly in 1948. In our class conversation, we discussed how implementing a universal standard of human rights can be used as a political tool to spread western, imperialist standards. Furthermore, the notion of human rights can be used to dismiss current systems of oppression within the United States. Conversations around universal equality can often ignore the present existence of oppression and injustice, and instead simply promote the status quo. This idea of universality with regards to human rights could also be applied to questions of standard morality. Ultimately, Wilson’s talk pushed me to consider how I would define my morality if I am skeptical of a standard bar of moral behavior.

Tied into the conversation of morality and accountability was also the dynamic of activism and performativity. Wilson critiqued the way that numerous community organizations appear to be considering questions of equity and justice on the surface, but are not actually following through on their promises. While this “follow through” may look different based on one’s personal identity and experiences, it raised several questions for me about the way that activism can be enacted. I was also struck by the next part of his presentation where he charged us to remember that, “silence is never neutral.” Though I have heard a version of this sentiment before, I was reminded of its value and to continue holding myself to its implied challenge. It was also a important reminder considering the end of our group conversation, which delved into questions of intersectionality, including gender and racial justice. This was a charged conversation, and I was reminded of the neutrality of silence when considering when/how I wanted to articulate my argument. Ultimately, the presentation reminded me that we were all students and teachers, and for many reasons, I hope that we were able to challenge and stir Wilson, just as he had challenged and stirred many of us.

 - Uma Venkatraman

The Border Is…

On the last night of our second travel seminar, after traveling from Douglas/Agua Prieta to El Paso and then to Big BendNational Park (and lots of places in between) we had to finish the statement “The Border Is…” Below is what I made/wrote and I think I’m going to let it speak for itself about what the second travel seminar/comparative borderlands trip meant to me and taught me.

(on back of envelope) The Border is bound up in my identity – somewhere. If only for the fact that I am a citizen of the country that built it. The Border is still new to me. The Border feels like a cousin or even a long-lost sibling that I have recently been introduced to – a contradictory and confused and mean and violent and racist one. I did not grow up with the Border. The Border is not my home. But isn’t my home built on the backs of the Border, of the people who cross it, of the people who leave their homes to make it their home? The Border is so many things – it is the physical: the wall in Nogales – its metals, rust color, its coldness at night and its hotness in the day. The Border is the Rio Grande/Rio Bravo. The Border is the bridge between El Paso and Juarez. But the Border is also a thing that cannot be seen, but felt. It is in rhetoric, in speeches, in interactions, inside individuals and communities. So much of the Border is about fear. I think of my own misguide, immature, reactionary fear – mostly fueled by family and friends’ disbelief that I was actually going to be going to the Border. The Border’s creation is about fear of distance and fear of closeness. The Border requires “blessed rage.” The Border is something and somewhere I feel I need to know.

At the vigil for Jose Antonio in Nogales, I thought a lot about what the Border is. That was probably because I was touching it, standing on it, looking and listening across it, and leaving a candle to melt into its base. Being there felt right and it felt wrong. I stood at the wall in the dark and could not understand the Spanish being spoken and sung on the other side, though I tried. I held a banner demanding justice and came in too late on chants for the same thing. I thought about wanting a sticker, which felt petty, felt privileged. I looked at the wall and I wanted to cry angry frustrated tears because what, how, why could any of it happen: the deaths in the dessert, U.S. policy, U.S. rhetoric, the fear, the racism, how could a 16 year old boy be shot and killed? The border outrages, upsets, confuses and disgusts me. It is a place that manufactures, and is manufactured. The Border is a site of beauty and resilience, for others. But is it for me?

(written on the strip across the center of the envelope): The Border is people and history. Senseless, yet filled with meaning. Violence, ugly, beautiful, everywhere and yet place specific. Land, laws, questions, change, an edge, an opening, the end, beginning, monumental and yet every-day.

(on the back of the Big Bend National Park postcard): The Border is this picture, too. The river, just water, dividing two bodies of land. A rock throw’s distance. A wade or swim or boat ride across. This picture, along with the experience of crossing at Boquillas makes me think of both what the border is and what it could be. But even this border is tricky, violent, watchful. The virtual passport checking machines when we crossed back in. The Border is rife with these false sense of comfort – comfort, safety, for some, for those that are U.S. citizens, or look like what U.S. citizens are expected to look like (white). The Border wall makes these people think they are “safe” (that’s the idea, right?). And at the Boquillas river crossing, I felt this false sense of freedom – feeling my body traverse the boundary only through the feel of the water’s current tugging at the resilience of my things and the rocks’ sharpness poking at my toes. But then I got to the machine, pulled out my little blue book of U.S. citizen privilege – my ticket into a cordial conversation with a Border Patrol officer in El Paso via telephone. The machine – with its false glass (a Border Patrol officer could see me, and I only saw a screen that read “Processing”). And I’m still processing how the Boquillas Crossing felt different. But, there, I felt like I saw something new about what the border is. The border is about two countries, places, lands, and always about people. The singing as we crossed and conversations with the Boquillas residents – how they were able to cross us into their country and back through a boat ride across the river. I know it’s not this simple, not this romanticized, but the border could be, should be, just about water.

- Jennifer Ruymann

Meeting Brad Lancaster

Brad Lancaster said his presentation would include strategies on how to live a more balanced life. He said these strategies can be adopted in other places "they're not hindered by borders." Brad is a teacher of Perm culture and mostly he focuses on water, our BSP group had the honor to hear from him in the comfort of his home.

"What is the story of your place?" Is the first thing he asked us. After answering that question, he said, we can take on our role in that place. Brad told us Tucson is the oldest cultivated space in the U.S. Brad showed as a relatively current picture of Tucson and one taken 100 years ago. To me Tucson looked grayer and less vegetated now, back then, the Santa Cruz river was flowing. Brad told us Tucson has historically been a place of abundant natural resources with more than 400 native species. Back then when the Santa Cruz river used to flow all year long things used to be different. Infrastructural changes have had a major impact in Tucson, Brad calls it "dry infrastructure" . The over-pumping of Arizona's water system is a major concern for Brad and should be for all of us. Tucson and Phoenix get their water from divesting water it the Colorado River. And Tucson is the second largest consumer in Arizona. According to Brad divesting that water requires an enormous amount of energy, hence resources.

Arizona looks so different from 100 years ago because "we live in a hydrophobic society" Brad comments. One that has created a "dehydration structure". When there are big rainstorms the water washes down the streets of Tucson, like it's not welcomed. Brad said floods are occurring here every 10 years rather every 100 years which was used to be before.

So after telling us a little about the story of Tucson, Brad told us his next question was "What is my role in this place? " and Brad encourages us to do this at our hometowns as well. Do you we like the story? Our answer can help determine our roles in our community. This is how Brad led us into a journey of alternatives and challenges of more sustainable lifestyles for everybody.

Brad sees the possibility of beneficial generative infrastructure. Generative infrastructure according to Brad, is one that consumes less and conserves its resources. And even better than that Brad mentioned regenerative structures where we can count on nature doing the work for our consumption because we are working with nature as opposed to interrupting natural processes. For example: water conserving irrigation systems.

We learned that the relationship between nature and our human structures should is key. I am not able to reproduce the details about these structures in this blog post, but I invite you vistwww.HarvestingRainwater.com and www.DesertHaversters.com to take a clearer and closer look at Brad's extensive work.

In this blog I want to share the bigger concepts I took out of Brad's presentation that hope to implement in my ways of living. One of these is the importance of using our local resources rather than importing resources and plan carefully how to use those resources. This is beneficial to everybody, it's about promoting our health and well-being the environment. One way this can happen in Tucson is by harvesting and utilizing on site water. Brad said Tucson gets enough rain water to be able to sustain on it. It would also create an organic underground-water sponge, that well, ultimately would maximize living here by promoting a growing environment for plants.

One way to achieve this would be by creating drainage systems on our roofs that would feed the plants around the homes. This an alternative to using our clean water for irrigation. However, we have tons of options, harvesting greywater is another way to make use of these resources easily available to us, easier on our pockets as well. Another of example of using free resources would be orienting your house, more specifically placing your windows toward the sun during winter months.

Brad claimed these our "solar rights" and hence our responsibility of not blocking our neighbors sunlight. New Mexico has made these rights lawful. Brad showed us this system at work in his own home. It made sense to me: Environmentally friendly and cheap for the pocket. So far, the alternatives Brad had presented seemed very realistic. I was worried coming into the presentation that I wasn't going to be able to relate and hence engage well with ideas of "sustainability" due to financial limitations. Nonetheless for the most part I felt like the alternatives presented by Brad were relatively accessible and not solely possible for a certain privileged group. Brad commented that he is currently working on ways to reach out to the Tucson community more including spanish speakers members.

The second biggest idea I take from Brad's presentation is not one he spoke about but one he enacted. And this is the idea of commitment. Brad not only presented all these healthier alternative ways of life but we also got to see them in place at his own home. A limitation I put on myself when thinking about these alternatives, is that I question what difference will it make if I use a composting toilet when there million other regular toilets around me? The way Brad thinks about it is that you can't just sit around and wait for others to take action. You can't force them either but "you can nudge them". Brad has achieved a lot. His neighbors have started adopting several different ways of harvesting water and making use of other resources. But probably the biggest and most noticeable achievement of that neighborhood block is that they have their own rain water drainage system from the streets that feeds the trees along the sidewalk. The block is noticeably greener than its surroundings. The organization of the block has also brought the neighbors closer together. It is truly inspiring to see what some ideas, organization and cooperation can achieve for us!

- Martha McCann

Reflections on Walking a Migrant Trail

For this past Thursday’s critical issues class, the original plan was to get a tour of the Florence ICE detention facility and meet with the Florence Project, a non-profit that offers free legal aid to people who are being held in detention in ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) facilities in Arizona. Due to the government shutdown, we were unable to make this visit, because ICE did not have enough employees working for someone to be able to give us a tour.

This was the first and only (so far) way that my daily life has been affected by the government shutdown. It is important to remember that many people’s lives are being affected in far more severe ways by the government shutdown. It is important to remember that, like most things our government does, it will be the most marginalized and disenfranchised who will be harmed by this shutdown.

Instead of going to Florence, we drove down to Arivaca, a town of less than 1,000 residents, located 60 miles south of Tucson, and 11 or so miles from the US-Mexico border. Due to its proximity to the border and mountains and trails, it is a prime spot for the work of No More Deaths. Founded in 2004, No More Deaths is a humanitarian organization that has the goal of “ending death and suffering in the U.S.-Mexico borderlands.” Its mission statement says, “No More Deaths operates on the premise of civil initiative: the conviction that people of conscience must work openly and in community to uphold fundamental human rights.” No More Deaths has many other projects, but our visit on Thursday focused on the group’s desert aid work.

Paula and John, who work with No More Deaths and both live at Casa Mariposa, led us on a walk along a trail used by migrants crossing from Mexico into the U.S. Each of us carried a gallon of water and a can of beans while we walked, either carrying them or stuffing them into our backpacks. This is what I thought, felt, saw, and learned during and after walking the migrant trail:

1.     The tall grass brushes my face, my legs, my knees. I would never have been able to know to go on this trail if it wasn’t for John as our guide. We walk uphill through a forested area, and then downhill on loose rocks that slip even beneath my good hiking boots.

2.     We stop at a little shady area and all plop to the ground to sit in a circle. John tells us that the part of the trail that we had walked on up until then was part of the wildlife refuge and is used for recreation but the next part of the trail is only used for migrants.

3.     John and Paula talk about No More Deaths a little bit, and why they do the work they do. I scribble down some of the things they say:

a.     John says “I walk this trail a lot. And I am always grateful.”

b.     John tells us how this area, southern Arizona and the whole borderlands region, has been a crossroads of humanity for thousands of years, and will continue to be, regardless of any border wall or the desires of the United States and its arms. He acknowledges that we are sitting on occupied land, like all the land in the borderlands.

c.     John says that, today, the lens for him is “pilgrimage.” He reads two Webster’s definitions of pilgrimage:

                                               i.     Noun: a journey to a shrine or other sacred place

                                             ii.     Noun: a journey or long search made for exalted or sentimental reasons

d.     “The questions for today are why do people make this pilgrimage? And why am I making it today?”

4.     John says, “Today the books are set aside and our instructors are our feet.”

5.     Walking feels hallowed, sacred, as John has told us it would and prepared us for. The walk is relatively challenging – through sandy soil and loose rock that sounds like breaking china or a clanging sack of coins each time my hiking boots hit the earth. Up a number of boulders and ducking under low hanging trees. None of it has been carved out by a park service or government entity – it has been carved out by those who walk it – migrants and those who wish to aid them, and probably the Border Patrol too.

2.     I see rusted lids of cans, an old plastic water bottle, a towel that has washed down stream when monsoon season turns the wash into a river, two used CapriSun juice packs, a crumpled and dirty pair of sweatpants, a sock tangled in rocks. Walking through this trail and seeing these things, just thinking about the people who have walked it before me, the people who will walk it after me, it is impossible to ignore the humanity of migration.

3.     In the small canyon area where the shrine is, there are gallons of water that No More Deaths volunteers have put out a few days ago. A few are empty and one or two are still full. The blue circular tabs that come off the water bottle tops are scattered around, which is a good sign. That means people have drunk the water. We each write something on our gallons in Sharpie. Paula suggests that we write the date and wishes of good luck and maybe “Agua pura.” Sometimes, as a means of keeping control over the group, the coyotes (guides) will tell the migrants not to drink the gallon bottles of water that volunteers leave out. The coyotes say that it is poisonous, or a trap.

4.     We get to the shrine. It is a small shrine, with a few pictures. There is a clump of rosaries, all entwined together by water and elements. There are a few candles, some broken and layered with dirt. There is a picture of a young man, a boy even. Crosses, crucifixes. I sit there under the shade of the mesquite tree, hardly panting, my feet only dully aching. I force my mind to try to imagine what it would actually be like to come upon this small canyon, this small shrine, in the night most likely, after days of walking, fearing the Border Patrol, fearing so many people and things, and yet still walking. What would it be like to actually do this journey? I have no idea. I feel only a deep sadness and remorse for what the fact that U.S. policy has created the deaths in the desert, how policymakers said that the “desert would act as an ally” to U.S. border enforcement.  

5.     John tells us that once, a Mexican man said to him, (and I’m approximating the quote here), “We look at that wall and know how you feel about us: that you’re afraid of us. But what does that wall say about you when you look at it?”

6.     What does the wall say about me? What does the wall say about you?

7.     While I was thinking about what to write for this blog, I found a picture of the beach in Tijuana where the wall separates two sides of the beach, extending out a little bit into the water, and then stopping. This got me thinking about the ocean, which may seem off topic, but bear with me for a second. I grew up body surfing and boogie boarding on the Jersey shore. I was tousled and knocked around by the sea; my hair and swimsuit always caked with the sand by the end of the day. At a certain point, every boogie-boarding kid knows, you yield to the sea. You back down to its power. Looking at this picture of the border wall extending feebly out into the first few yards of the ocean and then stopping, makes me think of how we should yield to the ocean more.

The tide of migration will continue to turn, with or without our wall. What would happen if the United States relinquished some of its power to the sea, to the ocean water that mixes and churns with Mexico’s, past that Tijuana beach border wall? Migration will continue to happen. People will continue to move to search for a way to live. The only thing we are doing now with our border enforcement is ensuring that the people who walk these trails will do so with a higher risk of death.

8.     If my feet were my instructors on Thursday, I must first start with my feet - my physical, literal feet. My feet were encased in my hiking boots. I was able to call what we did on Thursday a hike, while others call it necessary, migration, pilgrimage, desperation, hope, life. I could call it a hike and appreciate the trees and the tall grass and the blue sky and the wind because I was not walking for my life and I didn’t have to fear Border Patrol finding me.

9.     As we walk down from the shrine, this is what I’m thinking about. All of this – but mostly, about how I can call this a hike, a form of physical exercise. My whole life I have grown up being told that, “I am lucky to be born in this great country.” But, I am not just lucky. I am an American, which means that I am lucky not out of chance, but because of military and economic systems of power that allow me, with all the privileged facets that go into my American identity, to be lucky. I am only lucky because other people – in other nations (and here in the United States as well) are “unlucky.”

I believe that too many people I know, and our society in general, has this built in acceptance that there will always be a certain level of inequality and that that’s just “the way it is.” But really, that’s “the way it is” because that is what capitalism requires – that some people own and profit, while others toil for low wages that allow those people to profit.

When I look at the border wall I too see the United States’ fear. The U.S. fears Mexicans - a fear that is inextricably tied to a racist fear of all masses of black and brown people. The U.S. has a fear that spurs it to protect what is “ours,” and underlying that, maybe a fear (which would be validly held fear) that what is “ours” is not really “ours” because it was rightfully someone else’s before. I think the United States is afraid to face the dignity, strength, and agency of those who we have exploited in order to maintain our wealth and power and comfortable lives.

When I look at the border wall, I am afraid of what my country is doing, of how much we have manufactured this fear of other people just because it is politically salient and profitable for an elite class. When I look at the border wall, I fear for the morality of U.S. officials. I look at the wall and wonder how we can live in resistance to this massive physical structure, and to the structures that lie behind it, unseen but always present. I look at the wall and wonder how others look at it.

Isn’t the border wall the face of the United States? At least to its southern neighbors, as it is the first thing they see?

10.  In a way, I enjoyed the walk, not because it was an enjoyable or a happy thing to be doing, but because carrying a jug of water and a can of beans in my backpack and walking this trail is something that I can do. (Yes, partly it is that it makes me feel better to be able to feel like I am doing something productive after all of the frustrating things I have been learning about the border.) Though it is only a band-aid fix, it feels right to do. The border is not simple, the whole issue is not simple, and none of the people who work in the border or cross the border are simple – they are, we are, and all of it is, undeniably complicated, complex, nuanced. But on Thursday, it felt correct and right and just that when people are dying of exposure and dehydration, other people put out water.

- Jenny Ruymann

A Glimpse of Desert Aid work

Originally, this week we were supposed to talk to people from The Florence Project and visit the Florence detention center. Due to the government shut down, that was no longer possible. I was looking forward to this visit, but to be perfectly honest, I’m glad it was cancelled because in its place we got to do something I’ve wanted to do since I heard about BSP. Our group met with Paula and John, both of who live at Casa Mariposa and work with No More Deaths, among other organizations. The two would be our leaders on a hike through a migrant trail in the desert.

            The day would offer us an opportunity to ask questions about desert aid work as well as experience a little bit ourselves. We drove to Arivaca, Arizona, where we met Paula and John outside a national park. Our cars called the attention of a park ranger who told us that the park was closed, also due to the government shut down. Regardless, we drove to a lot that was closer to the beginning of the trail.

Each one of us carried a gallon of water and a can of beans. We started trekking through tall grass, when we quickly realized how lush the desert actually is. I imagined the desert to be pretty barren with a bush here and there, but in reality it is filled with sharp, pokey plants, lizards, vultures, grasshoppers, and centipedes, among other forms of life.

Paula and John told us we were on our way to a shrine that they had discovered some time ago, a shrine that was created by various migrants passing through the area. In a single file line we wobbled our way down hills of loose rocks, used our jugs of water to swing through the grass, and climbed over short barbed wire fences. As we walked through the not so marked trail, John told me that volunteers were often asked to leave the park. Technically, it is a recreational area that many use, but the activists from organizations like No More Deaths, Samaritans, and Humane Borders are asked to leave by park rangers or detained by Border Patrol. This was upsetting to me. We have heard some pretty absurd opinions on the politics of immigration, but this is not about politics. This is life and death, and people are cited or even prosecuted for trying to prevent death.

After a few stops, where we rehydrated and ate our granola bars, we finally made it to the shrine. It looked much different than I expected. To get to the shrine we had to climb up a dry creek. In one of the walls there was an eroded space where crosses, candles, and pictures sat. Some of it looked very old or rusty. Other pieces looked newer, as if they had been added over a long period of time. On the ground next to the shrine was a weather beaten pair of sweatpants and various jugs either filled with water or empty from use. The jugs had the dates they were placed there and encouraging messages written on them.

We all took a look at the shrine and then sat in silence. After some time to talk about where we were, Paula and Amanda passed out sharpies so we could write on our water jugs. On mine I wrote the date and “Me llamo Natalie, tengo 20 años. ¡Suerte!” I wanted to write something to let them know they were not invisible, that a white American was thinking about them and their journey. I wish I had the Spanish to be able to write something like that, but I hope what I did write will give whoever receives it an idea of who is looking out for them. Hopefully it will give them some sort of comfort or a little extra push to keep moving. In reality I feel pretty helpless in terms of what I can do to affect the lives of the people who pass the shrine. I know that the water makes a big difference, but in terms of the bigger picture I don’t know what I can offer other than some information about myself, and the fact that I care.

It was strange to think that we, an active group who had snacks, ample water, hiking boots, and sunscreen were feeling tired or worn. The hike was not even two hours. It was just that, a hike. But we were tired and the sun had beat on us. The hike made me feel even more that I do not know what it’s like to make that trip across the border. I thought about what it would look like for a family to be climbing through the desert, and realized how much people risk for a better life. There’s no way people would make that trip by choice; it’s likely their last option for survival.

The hike made me realize that there is a lot I don’t know about immigration and crossing the border. But now I have more questions. I’m hoping these questions will just get me a little closer to truly understanding this issue and the people involved.

- Natalie Ancona

Reflections on our Oaxaca Travel Seminar

            As several BSP participants have expressed before me, it is an impossible task to capture the entire Oaxaca travel seminar into a blog post. Summarizing each speaker, visit, and impression invalidates the complexity of each experience and yet each of these pieces was instrumental in the overall trip. Therefore, while I selfishly feel relieved for an opportunity to start processing the past ten days, I am also blatantly selecting portions to describe and leaving many out.

On our last day in Oaxaca, we were asked to split into pairs and create a representation of what we had been processing over the last few days (in a physical map, song, dance or whatever form we wanted). My partner for the project, Asa, had a brilliant idea that we should just talk to each other at first and see what came out. While I was initially taken aback by the idea (shouldn’t we just dive straight into the project?) I soon appreciated being able to just talk with someone about what I had been feeling for the past ten days. After this conversation, we narrowed down our reflection into major themes. Toward the goal of attempting a comprehensive and thoughtful approach, here are a few of our categories and accompanying stories. Please know that there were countless more challenging and beautiful moments that I wish I had the capacity and time to share.

1. Language

Though the travel seminar officially started with a 5:30am van ride, three different airports, and several Sudoku puzzles, it began for me with Ruth. A former government employee for thirty years, Ruth now hosts students from different programs and regularly has students coming and going from her beautiful home. She was an incredible host—full of tips about how we should take advantage of our time in Oaxaca (going to the square and listening to music), the best kinds of mezcal (crema de mezcal), and where to get the best kind of tlayudas (her home).

One evening at the dinner table, we were all discussing our intended plans for the evening and somehow the conversation turned to our musical talents in the group. Hastily, I mentioned that one of our group members loves to sing—and suddenly we had all planned a concert for the next evening. We immediately began to joke about how we were going to spend the evening demonstrating our vocal talents at the zócolo and what our group names might be. We were sitting around the table laughing and for several seconds we seemed to embody the “laugher is the universal language” cliché that is constantly thrown around. However, when we performed the next evening, our spontaneous line-up looked something like this: the Beatles, Death Cab for Cutie, and Britney Spears. When I looked over at Ruth, she seemed to disappear into the background as this array of unfamiliar songs began and more and more students came to join the singing. When asked at one point what songs she might request, she just shrugged and smiled but said nothing.

What songs could she recommend that we could sing? Some of us had a decent grasp on Spanish but not enough to recognize and sing a Spanish song. This moment of disconnect was starkly different from the laughter last night and represented an ever-present dynamic of our Oaxaca trip. While there were times that we were comfortable and laughing, we were still foreigners come to a new place for ten days and inevitably about to leave again. We had still come because of money and capitalism and were tourists attempting to mitigate our damage by speaking the Spanish that we could and saying “please” and “thank you.” And when Ruth told us how happy she was to have us in our home, all we could do is mutter “muchas gracias,” completely unable to demonstrate our appreciation and therefore just settling on an inadequate phrase to do the job.

2. Resistance

Our host for the trip was Oliver, a self-proclaimed cynic who happens to be German. Oliver is a current Mexican citizen working for an organization called SURCO that arranged our entire trip to Oaxaca. He liked to wear fedoras and was also passionately opposed to formal education, which he felt was being used to churn out obedient citizens that follow the law and listen to authority.

After our arrival in Oaxaca, he gave us an extensive history on the teacher’s union strikes of 2006 including the history of APPO. This history contextualized the current teacher’s union strikes that are happening in Mexico City, which are drawing attention to topics including standardized testing, teacher evaluation standards, and tenure terms. While it is true that testing should be differentiated based on location (and that testing in general should not be created by white men), there are multiple layers of politics muddled into the strike. For example, many parents are frustrated with the teacher’s union and the strike appears to be reaching an end without apparent compromise. While I am still very much learning about the teacher’s strike as a resistance movement, it is inherently confining and complicated that a movement meant to resist corruption is also having adverse effects on some students and families.

For our project, Asa and I drew a brown power fist and a Zapatista snail to symbolize resistance. I also wanted to recognize the work of midwives, advocates, teachers, and several others that we met that are doing day-to-day resistance work. How do we fit them into our conversations around working in and out of the system? How do we acknowledge and praise these forms of resistance as well?

3. Land and Money Exploitation

“Let me tell you about the words that I don’t like.” This was Simon Sedillo, a journalist who is currently working on a book called Weapons, Drugs and Slavery: Crime and Corruption in the US Political Economy. During this portion of the talk, he broke down words like “sustainability” and “anti-oppression” for our group. In the process, he also introduced me to one of my new favorite phrases: anglo manarchism (essentially, be skeptical of the way that white men are co-opting anarchism in the US). One of the reasons why I felt so inspired by Simon was his ability to just be honest with those of us who identified as US citizens about the privileges of that position. As a South Asian woman, who is also a US citizen, I was reminded again of how to think about how these various parts of my identity influence the work that I choose to do in the future. He challenged us, “don’t make documentaries. Help other people make documentaries” and reminded us that “there should always be young women of color at the table [of non-profit organizations] who are making decisions.”

Simon also devoted the majority of his speech to the devastating and violent ways that US systems of exploitation harm Mexico, specifically through dominating the weapons trade, funding and supporting violent dictators, and developing a network of private prisons that exist as a system of modern slavery. This conversation directly connected to the idea of land exploitation and the way that we continually perceive the land to be our property, both so we feel ownership over the land and also so we feel the right to claim the land as part of our own history. If we can claim it as ours, then we can tell stories about it, make decisions over its use, watch it fulfill our purpose and feel relief that the ramifications of these actions are pushed elsewhere, somewhere we can’t see, somewhere with brown bodies so the US doesn’t question.

4. Gender

“Indigenous women carry culture and therefore carry resistance” – Simon Sedillo

It is daunting to discuss Teotitlán del Valle but I want to mention it because it felt in many ways like the core of the trip. There we visited with members of Vida Nueva, the weaving cooperative, who were primarily all women of different ages. The two women that I stayed with, Doña Isabel and Doña Reina, showed us their land, their market, their temazcal, and their weavings. We responded with questions in Spanish, wide smiles and murmurs of gratitude. I am so appreciative of that trip and also extremely aware that we were able to have that experience because of numerous factors, including money.

I aim to continue reflecting on this interplay of culture, resistance, and gender to eliminate pre-conceived notions of what “resistance” looks like and also to consider a question that Simon raised: the representation of indigenous women in media. I also want to say that throughout the travel seminar, I was initially delighted by the consistent mention of indigenous women with the people that we interacted with, and then later also concerned and upset about who the term “women” encompasses and excludes.

5. Our ideal community

Over the summer, I was asked to draw or write about my ideal community and I found that I was struggling. It seemed strange to me that I would have trouble with an assignment that I initially thought would be comfortable. The same question was brought up our last day in Oaxaca and I found it just as confusing. The theoretical words that I wanted to say such as “dismantling systems of power and oppression of course” and “community accountability and justice” seemed hollow and meaningless. However, on our first day in Oaxaca we learned about the cargo system, a physical implementation of the community accountability framework that I had read about. The cargo system was a person acting as a police officer in their community for two years and then switching out. This system was an alterative form of justice, for example, a man who was caught beating his wife was given a consequence based on the wishes of his wife and enacted by his neighbors. Though complicated, this system was a process that rejected the idea that putting people behind bars is a solution.

//Where do we go from here?

 It is impossible to form genuine connection and reciprocity within a 10-day period, but we still went and were present for 10 days. When I found myself completely at a loss for how to behave, I remembered that hiding is unproductive as well. I am looking forward to continued reflection and critique on what it means to travel and return home, what to carry away, how to describe without romanticizing, how to tell stories.

- Uma Venkatraman