In the USA, I have new habits

Dear Bono,

These are some of my habits (hábitos).

I bite my fingernails, because I like the flavor. I send text messages by phone while driving and exercising. When John texts me, I correct his Spanish. I like to eat sweet potatoes (camotes). When I eat french fries (papas fritas), I only have five or six. On Sundays, I like a big breakfast, with pancakes and syrup, eggs, and hash browns. I like hot tea—very, very hot, even in summer.

When I cook, it is from memory and from instinct (instinto). I do not measure the salt or other ingredients. I just make what I am making—tortillas, tamales, salsas … I ask my friends, “Does it taste OK?” I do not taste the salsa myself. I never cook from a book, never from a recipe (receta). I remember how my abuela cooked when I was a girl. My grandmother still makes tortillas the slow way, by hand, with masa, but other women in México buy from small tortilla shops, tortillerias.

My habits in México were different. In Poza Rica, and all across México, we have five meals every day—desayuno, almuerzo, comida, merienda, cena. My friend asks me, “How do you have time?” My mother and my abuela cook all day—the kitchen does not close.

I wrote before about sweet potatoes. I like them very much for dessert (postre), and they are a common dessert in México. In Poza Rica, I remember a man who sold them from a cart that he pushed through the streets. He blew on a whistle (pito), like a referee (árbitro) in football. He served grilled sweet potatoes on small plates with condensed milk.

I remember other things. I remember when I studied in college. I liked to study at night, by myself, in the quiet of my home.

I like to read. Now I am reading La Quinta Montaña by Paulo Coelho. It is a book about the life of Elijah (Elías) from the Bible. He had many doubts (dudas), many loves, many struggles. I am like Elijah. I have traveled to new places. I follow the path (camino) where God leads me. I change paths if I have to. If I have doubts, I stay strong.

Despite (a pesar de) struggle and doubt, I have the love of my friends. I think about my birthday in May. I will rent a room and hire a 10-piece band—$1,000 for six hours. I need a good picture of you, Bono, for my cake. My friend in Reynosa will bake a large cake for me and mail it from McAllen, Texas.

You are invited to my party. But if you cannot come, I will have a big picture of you, life-size. People can take pictures of you and kiss your lovely thin lips (labios).

Un abrazo,
Karla

Do I need a green card?

Dear Bono,

I never worried before about my visa status in the United States. Once I was stopped by a police officer in Atlanta. I drove to a friend’s house, near Buford Highway, a street where many Hispanic people live.

A policeman followed me for a short distance. Finally, he stopped me. He asked me who I was and where I was going. He asked me where I was from.

He asked for my driver’s license. I said, “I do not have one.” I told him I have a driver’s license from México. He asked to see it. He asked me when I was born, and I answered him in Spanish.

He told me, “Be safe,” and drove away. I did not receive a ticket. I was lucky. I am an “illegal,” but still I am happy here in Atlanta. I have many, many friends from all over the world.

How do I get a green card? Marrying a U.S. citizen is the fastest way. After marriage, I can apply to become a legal, permanent resident. But I need to learn more. These are hard decisions to make.

My family, my friends, my abuela (grandmother) in México are the most important things in my life. But people say that life in Georgia may become harder in 2011 for “illegals” like me. The next time a policeman stops me, I might not be lucky. I might be deported.

Parties and festivals are important, especially at this time of the year. On Christmas Eve I went to a party and danced all night. At my house I invited friends, including John, for a party before New Year’s. We celebrate life together. We dance bachata, a dance from the Dominican Republic. I work all day to make tamales, salsas, mole, and we buy lots of wine and cerveza. Some friends drink tequila and get very drunk.

Already I think about my birthday party in May. Sometimes I spend $1,500 on my party. Maybe it is crazy, but I work very hard all year. I like to give myself a nice present—a big party with 70 or 80 friends. I hire a DJ, mariachis (I like mariachis!), and we always eat Mexican food—always Mexican!

I am inviting you now to my party! We will listen to U2 music and dance together, maybe to “Mysterious Ways.”

John printed the words to “The Hands That Built America.” I think it is very beautiful. I know it is a song about immigrants like me.

You gotta live with your dreams, don’t make them so hard
And these are the hands that built America

I help build America every day. It feels like my home.

Un abrazo,
Karla

Passive participants in segregation

Public Hearing » Joint Committee on Immigration Reform
Georgia State Capitol, Atlanta, Room 450
16 December 2010

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I thank this committee for holding these public hearings on an issue important to Georgia and to the country, and that is immigration reform.

I gather that immigration reform means different things to different people.

To me, immigration reform means expanding opportunity in the marketplace, in education and in all areas of society in which an individual’s life intersects with the state. Immigration reform means making the social world bigger. It means making our community bigger and more inclusive.

I speak to this committee today as an individual. I do not speak on behalf of an advocacy group or political entity.

I am a 17-year resident of Georgia. This past year as a volunteer for a nonprofit literacy organization I have been teaching English, primarily to undocumented immigrants. These are native Spanish-speakers from México, Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador. We meet at a recreation center off Buford Highway in northeast Atlanta.

I share some personal history before I say more about these students and their unique situation in life. My secondary education took place in the mid- to late 1970s in the suburbs of Washington, DC. Only in the past 10 years, by scanning yearbook photos before high school reunions, have I realized a disturbing fact. And that is, I attended segregated schools. These schools were in Montgomery County, Maryland, traditionally one of the nation’s wealthiest public school systems, by and large progressive in outlook. Scanning the yearbook pictures I notice that every fourth or fifth face is unknown to me. This is surprising, because my graduating class in high school was relatively small—less than 200. The faces I do not recognize are, without exception, faces of color. In origin, they are Asian, African and Hispanic. These English as a Second Language students occupied their own classrooms in the junior and senior high schools I attended. Although we would graduate together, we never mixed. White students, in fact, made jokes about them. It pains me to think that I may have been one of the ones laughing at these slurs, born of youth and ignorance. We as students participated passively in a regime of segregation, less acknowledged but no less real than separateness between white and black.

You may be thinking that educational practice thirty-some years ago in a state that is not Georgia has no bearing on the present conversation. I would agree, up to a point. The fact is that law-making bodies such as the Georgia Legislature help shape the social world. As Georgia and other states consider what I hope you will forgive me for calling an “Arizona” system of enforcement—that is, a regime of crime and punishment for undocumented migrants and their families—I think about my students on Buford Highway and the students, my cohorts, 30 years ago that I never got to know.

In 1829 a Creek tribal leader spoke to the Creek nation, the Muskogean confederacy that included Alabama, Georgia and Florida, about President Jackson’s intent to relocate them west of the Mississippi. This leader said to them, “I have listened to a great many talks from our Great Father. But they always began and ended in this—‘Get a little farther; you are too near me.’ ”

One question I ask of honorable legislators and Georgia citizens is, with Arizona-style laws and additional limitations on immigrant rights, do we make criminals of a group after their arrival in order to justify having called them “illegal” in the first place? Do we send a message through such laws, “You are too close; we do not wish to see you”?

To conclude, my students, who number among some 500,000 undocumented immigrants in Georgia, who in turn number among some 12 million in the United States, are sometimes tagged with the label “invisibles.” These students number among a further millions upon millions who travel the world’s networks of migration. One of the women in our class who works as a restaurant server at an elite Atlanta social club relates the experience of customers looking past her, or of not speaking when she says “hello” to them. I believe that we judge wrongly when we correlate such “invisibility” to a desire to shirk responsibility. Undocumented immigrants are not invisible because they cannot be seen. They are invisible because we are blind to their identity as human beings.

These students who occupy an English classroom on Thursday nights are my friends. They form a vital part of my community of learning. They educate me about courage, generosity, love and joy. If their rights as human beings are constrained, so are ours.

I thank you for your attention and for your service on behalf of everyone in the state I call home.

Many, many memories

Dear Bono,

For a few weeks in November I was sick. First the gall bladder problem came back. I tried to eat salads for two weeks. Then I caught a cold, then the flu.

I clean houses six days per week with no vacation. Sometimes I take short holiday trips to Florida. I eat a small breakfast in the morning and take snack bars with me to eat during the day. By 3 or 4 p.m. I am very hungry.

When we meet at the Mexican restaurant on Tuesdays, I order a meal flambé and share with John. He shows me how U2 supports Greenpeace, Amnesty International and other justice groups.

What do you think about immigration issues? A very famous American, John F. Kennedy, talked about his Irish ancestors. At the same time México lost land to the United States, after the Mexican American War in 1848, millions of people left Ireland to come here. President Kennedy’s great-grandparents (bisabuelos) came from Ireland. They arrived in Boston on “coffin ships” (barcos de muerte).

Thirty-four percent of immigrants, like me, work in cleaning jobs. I am happy in the job, but I study English to find something better. In México, if I could find a job, I would earn much less money.

For the year 2011, I make a resolution (propósito) to learn more English. I raise my hand in front of John and tell him that I will do it.

Guess what? I might not have to work on Christmas Day. I have three houses to clean on December 24. This is a lot. I will not be able to go to Mass on Christmas Eve.

Do you remember when I wrote about hearing U2 for the first time? I sat with friends in a car in Poza Rica. We were teenagers. In México there was a radio program that started at 9 p.m. The program played romantic songs. With my friends in the car, in the warm summer, I listened to the start of the show, and from the radio I heard your song “With or Without You.” I knew that the song was for me.

We wore uniforms at our Catholic high school. I liked the school for the colors—brown and beige. We had a vest, shirt, skirt and shoes. That was a long time ago.

Un abrazo,
Karla

A personal thanksgiving » From ‘el maestro’ to you

Dear students,

I started teaching English in March 2010. I did not know that teaching English to you would change my life.

I cannot speak for 306 million people in the United States. That is Barack Obama’s job. But I say thank you. I thank you for your courage (valor). All immigrants leave home and enter a new world. It is frightening (espantoso). My ancestors (antepasados) left Ireland and Scotland in the 1700s. They were like you: they did not know the future.

With your families and your energy and your faith (fe), you make Atlanta a better place. I thank you for your hard work. I thank you for rising early in the morning to make bread, to clean houses, to take care of children, to sell diapers (pañales), and to work in clubs and restaurants.

If people do not speak to you or say hello, I am sorry. I learned that everyone in the world is equal (igual). My parents (padres) taught me this lesson (lección). The Declaration of Independence (1776) also says, “All people are created equal.” Everyone is a child of God (hijo de Dios). This is the ideal. Because I am white, a man and an American, I am not better than anyone else.

The summer was a sad time in my life. I have worries (preocupaciónes). I know that you have worries, too. I learn from you. I learn from you every Thursday. I learn to have joy (alegría) in life. I learn to love. I learn to risk (arriesgar). I learn how to live in a family. I remember the poem we read together:

todos en la familia
nos dedicamos a cuidar
los sueños de cada quien

I thank you for cooking food—quesadillas, tamales, pozol, taquitos—and for bringing food to class. I thank you for sharing cerveza and mescal. You teach me hospitality. I thank you for the rides (paseos) from the MARTA station. I thank you for bringing your children to class. I love your children very much, even more than blue Volkswagens. You make the classroom a family. I thank you for listening to me talk about fútbol. I thank you for sharing your pictures and your stories (cuentos) of Guerrero, Michoacán, Veracruz, Chiapas, Oaxaca, México City, of Honduras, Guatemala, and El Salvador.

I thank you for being my students.

I will think of each of you on Thursday, on Thanksgiving. I will thank God that each of you is in my life.

Always your friend,
John

What it costs to stay hidden

Dear Bono,

I am one of millions of undocumented Mexican workers in the United States. Sometimes we are called “invisibles.”

I work for myself and to send money to my family in México. After I get home in the evening, I do not go out. I stay in my bedroom. I eat in my bedroom. I listen to U2 in my bedroom. I like where I live. There are trees, and it is quiet.

It will cost $2,000 for me to obtain a driver’s license from a license broker. Half the fee is required in advance. Driving without a license is risky. In Georgia, I can be charged with a felony. In the United States, I need a driver’s license to board a plane. All my travel here is by car.

I do not have health insurance. From working as a cleaner six days per week I have pains now in my lower back. I get medicine at a clinic. Some of the houses I clean are very big. Sometimes it takes two days to clean them. I look at the books on the shelves. They are in many languages. I do not wear headphones or listen to music. I only think, “I must work faster so I can go to the next job.”

I also took medicine for a gall bladder problem. I carry all these pills in a plastic container in my purse. I take a few pills per day. The gall bladder pain comes if I have greasy food or food that is too spicy. I have to be careful. An operation will cost $10,000. I am 37 years old and am single.

I need a car to do my job. I cannot take a vacuum cleaner and all the supplies on the MARTA bus. My vacuum cleaner broke two weeks ago. My car needed a new sensor. Everything costs money.

Recently I took a break from a job in Buckhead, a place in north Atlanta. The job was at a club. I like the job—my supervisor is one of my best friends—but I was tired. I plan to work New Year’s Eve for extra money. We will work until 3 a.m.

When I came to the United States, in January 2005, I did not think I would have to work so hard. I had no free time. I worked all day.

Now I have one off day on Sundays. I sleep on Sundays until 1 p.m., and I go to church in the evenings.

I talk to my mother on the phone every few days. She lives in my hometown in Poza Rica, in Veracruz. I have a cell-phone plan that is $60 per month for international calls.

I leave the apartment for work and for English lessons. Sometimes I shop at a farmer’s market for food or look in an outlet for white shoes to wear on my job. In the past I studied English at a technical school. But without documents I cannot take these classes anymore.

If I see U2 again I would like to sit closer to the stage. Seeing U2 is the most exciting thing I have done in my life. I like exciting things. I would like to try skydiving!

Un abrazo,
Karla

Thanks and comparisons

Dear Bono,

I write to thank you. U2’s songs help me learn English. My teacher, John, and I study English together every week. We meet in a Mexican restaurant in Decatur, Georgia, and share margaritas. Sometimes the margaritas help, but they are strong. John can only drink one.

I want to give an example of how the songs help me. From the song “Hawkmoon 269” I learned how the word like helps compare one thing to another.

I need your love …
Like drums in the night
Like sweet soul music
Like sunlight.

What is a “hawkmoon”? My teacher does not know.

We Mexicans are like the Irish. We came to the United States to make money for ourselves and for our families. But sometimes we are not welcome. My friends sometimes feel like they are invisible. In Atlanta, since I came from Reynosa, México, in 2005, I tell John I feel tranquila, at home, but my family in México worries. Not many Latinos here like U2. I do not always understand the words, but I know all the words in English. John is teaching me more about the words. He teaches me about Aung San Suu Kyi, Ireland and The Psalms. I feel free when the band plays, especially at live concerts. I feel like I am driving on an empty road.

From the U2 website John learned that the band in 2011 will play three shows in México City. I am from Veracruz, the city of Poza Rica, to the east, but I visited México City as a girl. I returned in 1997 to see U2 in concert for the first time, at the Autodromo. I first heard a U2 song in México when I was 14. I wish you a lovely visit to my country. Be careful if you go shopping on Alameda Central. It is dangerous.

I saw U2 twice in Atlanta, on the Vertigo and 360° tours. I want to see the band in Miami in June 2011. In Atlanta, someone stole my U2 albums from my car, but John is helping me replace them.

My favorite song is “Kite.” You sing the song to your father; my father died, like yours. I think that I am like a kite. I want a life that is free and happy. Who knows where the wind will take me?

Un abrazo,
Karla