Over our three days, our multi-faith delegation had plenty of opportunity to pray with people one on one. Yesterday after spending several hours in Matamoros, we held a collective prayer vigil next to the bridge shortly before leaving. This trip has been an extraordinary experience, especially traveling with such thoughtful, engaged colleagues, government leaders, and immigration activists.
For our prayer vigil, Rev. Eileen Wiviott of the Unitarian Church of Evanston led a beautiful song that said, “Where you go Beloved, I will go. Your people are my people.” Because I knew the most Spanish, I explained in Spanish that we were there to hear the stories and witness what the impact of the Migrant Protection Protocals, only to discover there is no protection provided for migrants seeking asylum. Rev. Ben Lynch of Fair Oaks Presbyterian prayed for strength and peace to be among the people. Rev. Eric Biddy of St Christopher’s Episcopal church prayed for the children’s health and well-being. Rabbi Max Weiss of Oak Park Temple spoke of the current holiday of Sukkot and how it calls for the protection of all people with adequate shelter. Rabbi Ari Margolis of Congregation Or Shalom in Vernon Hills then sang a Jewish blessing from the Sukkot celebration. Rev. Scott Onque’ of St Luke’s Missionary Baptist Church in Chicago and Director of Policy at Faith in Place prayed for God’s blessing on the people here to know they are not forgotten. Rev. Marshall Hatch Jr. of New Mt Pilgrim Missionary Baptist Church and the Maafa Redemption Project prayed for God to lift the voices of those on the margins and declared that in God’s perspective a government without justice is no more than organized crime. Rev. Ira Acree of St John’s Bible Church led us in singing “Ain’t Gonna let Nobody Turn Us Around” and called for the end of the Migrant Protection Protocols.
Our multi-faith delegation was led by Mony Ruiz-Velasco, Anna Marin, and Betty Alzamora from PASO: West Suburban Action Project. Our delegation also included two Illinois State Representatives, Representative Lisa Hernandez from Little Village and Representative Rita Mayfield from Waukegan and immigration rights leaders Lawrence Benito from the Illinois Coalition for Immigrant and Refugee Rights and Dulce Ortiz and Megan McKenna from Mano a Mano serving the north Chicagoland area. Paul Goyette documented our trip through photographs.
As we finished the service, a woman fainted, apparently of heat exhaustion. She was unable to walk. She looked like she was in severe distress. Several people sent for medical help but it was 45 minutes before an ambulance arrived.
Just before we left the encampment of migrants, we unfolded banners that said End MPP meaning End the Migrant Protection Protocols that has fostered this refugee crisis. The other banner said Abolish CDP because the development of this force treats human beings in search of a better life as criminals.
We then began to sing Wade in the Water as we walked across the bridge back into the United States. On the very first street corner, the banners were unfurled. Two of the local immigration activists were in tears. They never imagined seeing a clear call to end the policies and procedures that dehumanizes so many people.
Then began the press conference. Chicago WBEZ reporter Maria Zamudio traveled with us. Her amazing story can be heard at https://www.npr.org/local/309/2019/10/17/771001018/chicago-area-activists-protest-conditions-at-the-border She tells our story so eloquently.
For me, this trip was an extraordinary opportunity on several levels. First, to see for myself in a multi-faith circle of trusted colleagues the impact of what is going on at the border. Second, to bring beloved a broad range of colleagues in closer relationship with immigration justice leaders that have been so inspirational to me. Third, to witness the inspirational witness of Team Bronzeville that now feeds 1,000+ people. And lastly, to develop a circle of relationships that gives us hope that our collective voices matter in the face of horror occurring at the border.
More reflection to come as well as specific ways to be of support!
Yesterday I returned to Matamoros with our multi-faith clergy delegation from Chicago. When I encountered Mario again, he was with his son and daughter. I asked him about his tent and he offered to lead me there. To engage with his daughter, I said in Spanish, “Can you show me the way to your tent?” When she didn’t answer, her father said, “Donde esta nuestra casa?” It suddenly hit me: they referred to their small tent as their home.
Betty Alzamora and I followed him through a massive conglomeration of tents and clotheslines to where he and his children live. Their tent was squished between two other tents. A couple dozen people came out of the tents curious about the priestly looking figure that just entered their living space. Betty and I explained why we are here—we want to witness the reality of what’s happening just across the border and hear the stories of people who are living there. We are here to pray with them and let them know there are people of faith aware of their circumstances and will work to alleviate them.
I knew Mario is from Honduras. What surprised me was that this spontaneously created neighborhood had people also from El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Guatemala. These people were literally taking care of each other, looking after one another’s children and providing one another safety. Betty and I spent two hours listening to their stories. All of them fled their homes in fear for their lives or the lives of their children. Some had lost family members to violence at home. Others knew their daughters were at significant risk of being kidnapped into the sex trafficking pipeline. Still others had come forward as a witness to violence and were told they would be killed if they didn’t leave their home. While they felt safe in this crowded community, they feared venturing out into Matamoros—it is known to be one of the most dangerous cities in Mexico. The U.S. State Department ranks it “Do not enter” for U.S. citizens, the same classification for Syria and Afghanistan.
Now all these people in seek of protection are finding themselves stuck between the Rio Grande river and one of the most dangerous places on earth. All they’ve got is a makeshift community without running water. The “Migrant Protection Protocols” of the Trump administration is literally putting people into danger. These people are obliged to fend for themselves in desperate conditions. All of them have a court date, at least three months of waiting that often results in either waiting for another court date or outright refusal.
The stories are utterly heartbreaking. These people are largely dependent on the generosity of humanitarian efforts. Last night our clergy delegation heard from the leaders of Team Bronzeville. Fifteen months ago they organized to provide two meals a day to the migrants stuck at the border. There were only 30 people there at that time. Six weeks ago there were 300. Now, there are over a 1,000 people. They do what they can. I will share more soon about the water purification system they wish to install and other ways they are seeking to provide for the burgeoning number of people in their backyard.
This is a refugee crisis in the making. Today I will cross into their camp a third time and I will catch two flights back to Chicago this afternoon.
There is a lot for me to process right now. I will share more in time.
Warmly,
Alan
Dear Friends,
I am currently in Brownsville Texas with a multi-faith clergy delegation, two state lawmakers, and the leaders of PASO and Mano a Mano. Yesterday, we crossed the border where over a thousand migrants seeking asylum are camped out in tents. The tents are pushed right up against each other because there is so little space between the border and the city of Matamoros, which is known to be very dangerous. It was 93 degrees Farenheit yesterday afternoon.
What is most striking are the hundreds of children, some playing with such beautiful sparks in their eyes and others who lay listless in the arms. I have enough facility with Spanish that I introduced myself to several different families. I met many people from Honduras, Nicaragua, Guatemala. I met one family from Guerrero, Mexico. All of the families had the same story of fleeing violence in their community—all of them at a loss of where to find safety other than seeking asylum in the United States.
I spoke at length with Mario, a father with a 4 year old and a 1 year old. I was struck how he repeatedly kissed his four year old. And when he was talking to me, his son would kiss him with an affection that communicated to me that what they have is each other. His wife and oldest daughter are in Dallas, where his wife is working as a cleaning lady. He has not seen her for six months, but he does intermittently call her when he is able to use someone’s cell phone. I gave him my phone to call her—it was a Dallas number. He talked for 12 minutes and then gave me back the phone extraordinarily appreciative.
I prayed with several different people, all of whom came to tears. Today I will go across the border again and talk to more people and help Mario with filling out papers online he needs for asylum. However, the current policies and procedures of the “Migrant Protection Protocols” are living up to the name that everyone has for them “Remain in Mexico.” Unless the United States government changes the policies, I don’t have any hope that Mario and kids will be able to join his wife and older daughter. The most I can offer him is that there are people like me who know his story and will do what we can to change the laws.
Early this afternoon, our clergy delegation that includes two rabbis, two UU ministers, four Missionary Baptist ministers, a Presbyterian minister and an Episcopalian priest, we will hold a prayer service for the people who are migrants there and then in the late afternoon, on U.S. soil, we will hold a vigil and demonstration with the local immigration rights leaders to put pressure on U.S. Representative Fileman Vela (D) to intervene and stop returning seekers of asylum to such a crowded area on the outskirts of one of the dangerous cities and regions in the world.
Please keep me and my colleagues in your thoughts and prayers. And please keep the many migrants in your thoughts and prayers–and act on them!
Warmly,
Alan
Two weeks ago, I met Jose Antonio Vargas, a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist who is undocumented.
He grew up in the Philippines until age 12, when his mother put him on a plane to come to the United States and live with his grandparents about a half hour south of San Francisco. This was 1993. He hasn’t seen his mom or his siblings for the last 24 years because of his “illegal” status, and his mother can’t get a visa to visit because her poor income makes her high-risk in the eyes of those who grant tourist visas.
Jose Antonio arrived and entered the sixth grade. He studied hard and to fit in, he listened closely to television shows, and would repeat phrases for hours to learn how to speak American. In the eighth grade he memorized words he couldn’t even pronounce and ended up winning the spelling bee, on the word indefatigable. At age 16, he took the green card his grandfather had given him to the DMV to apply for a drivers license. The clerk whispered to him, “This is fake, don’t come back here.” He went home to confront his grandfather and learned the truth. All of his documents including his social security card were fake.
His grandfather assumed Jose Antonio would eventually become a citizen by marrying one. But in 1999, at age 17, his class watched a video about Harvey Milk, the gay San Francisco city council member who was murdered. In the class discussion that followed, Jose Antonio came out of one closet. While it was tough being the only openly gay student at his high school, it was far easier than to reveal his immigration status. The first person he told was his choir director when she announced that the choir would tour Japan. The next week she announced that the choir would tour Hawaii instead. Many years later she told him, “I wasn’t going to leave any of my kids behind.” In time Jose would tell certain teachers, the principal, even the superintendent who he became close to. And they all mentored and guided him as he navigated through San Francisco State College and into a career of journalism that would lead him to interviewing some of the most famous people in the country.
In 2008, while working with the Washington Post, he was on a team that won a Pulitzer Prize for their reporting on the Virginia Tech shootings. When he called his grandmother to share with her the news, the first thing she said was, “What will happen if people find out?” He cried in anguish after that call. The following year he worked at the Huffington Post. His HIV/AIDS series was made into a documentary. And he got an exclusive interview with Facebook’s Mark Zuckerberg for the New Yorker. But the more he achieved, the more scared and depressed he became.
He read about undocumented Americans walking in protest of the current immigration laws and calling on a more humane policy toward the undocumented. He reached out to talk with them. He marveled at their courage claiming an American identity while the law and wider society saw them as illegal, unwelcome. He credits these courageous young people for giving him the courage to join the efforts of changing the conversation in the wider culture about what it means to be an American.
In 2011 even though he managed to get a new drivers license with fake documents that wouldn’t expire until 2016, he decided to come out publicly. The New York Times Magazine ran his story entitled “My Life as an Undocumented Immigrant.” He said,
I’m done running. I’m exhausted. I don’t want that life anymore. On the surface, I’ve created a good life. I’ve lived the American dream. But I am still an undocumented immigrant. And that means living a different kind of reality. It means going about my day in fear of being found out. It means rarely trusting people, even those closest to me, with who I really am. It means keeping my family photos in a shoebox rather than displaying them on shelves in my home, so friends don’t ask about them. It means reluctantly, even painfully, doing things I know are wrong and unlawful. And it has meant relying on a sort of 21st-century underground railroad of supporters, people who took an interest in my future and took risks for me. So I’ve decided to come forward, own up to what I’ve done, and tell my story to the best of my recollection. … I don’t know what the consequences will be of telling my story. I do know that I am grateful to my grandparents, my Lolo and Lola, for giving me the chance for a better life. I’m also grateful to my other family — the support network I found here in America — for encouraging me to pursue my dreams.
Jose Antonio Vargas
He used this article and the attention he received to launch a powerful nonprofit called Define American. As the website says, “It’s time for a new conversation about immigrants and identity in America. Why do people come to this country? What does it mean to be undocumented? What does it mean to be a good citizen?” This website is designed to support undocumented young people, to help them come out and claim who they are, and to spread greater understanding of their plight. The films on the website are extraordinary, including one he made for MTV entitled White People.
This month, my congregation at Unity Temple is exploring the theme of abundance: What does it mean to be a people of abundance? When I think of what it means to be American, I think of abundance. Isn’t our nation one of great abundance, an abundance of resources, an abundance of opportunities, an abundance of hope and courage in the hearts of so many? Last weekend we celebrated Veterans Day, and the ideals on which the country was founded, ideals that many many people have committed their lives to defend. And soon we will be celebrating Thanksgiving, a time when we recognize the abundant blessings we enjoy as Americans. It is a time to remember the American story.
But there is a shadow side to our nation’s story. Our national identity was forged on the exploitation and decimation of the native people who originally peopled this continent and the enslavement and exploitation of black skinned people who didn’t immigrate to this continent but were brought here in chains. The shadow side of our national story runs deep. And it emerged from the base impulses of greed, of fear, of hatred that dominated, diminished, and destroyed the humanity of so many. But this doesn’t have to be the end of the story.
The redemptive story of our nation is how over time, our culture has at times claimed the better angels of our nature to lift up the humanity of all people.
At Unity Temple, we believe in the worth and dignity of every individual. And this calls us into hard conversations about racial inequality and the ongoing struggles for many people of color. It calls us to understand what it means to be gay, trans and what it means to be human in all sorts of contexts. As Unitarian Universalists, we have had a very real impact on the opening up of American culture to affirm and accept gay, lesbian, bisexual, queer, and transgender people. In our lives. Even the younger generation has witnessed how real shifts are possible.
Over the past few weeks and months, I’m wondering if we are witnessing the beginning of a deeply significant shift, as more and more women are coming forward sharing their stories of sexual harassment, abuse, and rape. There’s something extraordinary happening in our wider culture that even as we have a president who has celebrated his own sexual predatory behavior and gotten away with saying the most misogynist things, many women are speaking up about their own experience, joining the #metoo movement, demonstrating just how pervasive are the violation and objectification of women’s bodies.
Two weeks ago, the speaker from the Unitarian Universalist Service Committee suggested that we are witnessing the last gasps of white male supremacy. I hope so, but these gasps come from not only decades but centuries of entitlement, oppression, and secrecy.
The reality of sexual abuse and sexual harassment has been a part of the shadow of civilized society for centuries. I pray that this cultural moment is a real turning point where victims of sexual predatory behavior can speak up and be taken seriously. For the problem of sexual predatory behavior is not limited to a few famous powerful people.
Ultimately I believe Audre Lorde has it right, “Your silence will not protect you.” Wherever you are holding secrets of who you are, whether it’s your sexual identity, your experience of being taken advantage of, wherever you are most vulnerable, that is from where real truth comes. Suppressing the truth due to fear means suppressing who we really are. Moving through our fears makes it possible to respond to where we are being called. Claiming who we are and bringing forth all who we are, then we can live into genuine abundance.
Audre Lorde was a self-described “black, lesbian, mother, warrior poet.” As she said forty years ago, “When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.”
Jose Antonio Vargas knows this. He travels throughout the country supporting others who share his undocumented status. When Central American children were being detained by the thousands in McAllen, Texas, he headed there to meet and support them and to bring more attention to their plight. But he was unaware that he was entering a militarized zone that would require him to pass through an immigration checkpoint to leave. There he met with undocumented people who were stuck in that area, who if they tried to leave, they would surely be deported. When he went through security to catch his plane, the immigration agents handcuffed him and detained him for hours. They released him with a statement that he has no criminal record.
When Donald Trump was elected a year ago, Jose Antonio received hundreds of text messages saying essentially, I’m so sorry. His grandmother urged him to go into hiding. His lawyers suggested he lie low, well all of his lawyers except Mony Ruiz-Velasco, the executive director of PASO here in the western suburbs. She told him, “we have your back.” So when Nancy Pelosi, the minority leader in the House of Representatives, called Jose Antonio to invite him to be her guest at President Trump’s first inaugural address, he accepted. Sitting literally in the heart of power of this nation, he never felt so American. He immediately wrote about this experience in the Washington Post. He said,
I decided to show up tonight because that’s what immigrants, undocumented and documented, do: We show up. Despite the obvious risks and palpable fear, we show up to work, to school, to church, to our communities, in big cities and rural towns. … We show up even though many Americans, especially white Americans with their own immigrant backgrounds, can’t seem to see the common threads between why we show up and why they showed up, at a time when showing up did not require visas and the Border Patrol didn’t yet exist.
I take great inspiration from gay, lesbian, and trans people like Audre Lorde and Jose Antonio Vargas who recognize that silence ultimately is submission, and that authentic power comes from using our strength in the service of our vision to lift up the worth and dignity of every individual. It’s time for a new conversation about how vulnerable people are treated.
What deep joy do you hold that is getting suppressed? What fears hold you back that you need to move through?
As we enter the Thanksgiving Season, may we be thankful for the many blessings we enjoy and may we use our blessings to lift up the worth and dignity of all people, thankful that we are a part of a community for whom this work is at the core of who we are.
This was taken largely from a sermon I gave at Unity Temple on November 12, 2017. The podcast can be listened to here.
