Why I Came to Tucson

I’m here because there is perhaps no issue so divisive, yet so important, as that of immigration. And the hot-spot of that issue, is of course, the border. Or, as I call it, home.

I grew up on the U.S.-Mexico border, further down west from Tucson, in El Paso, Texas. And before I came on this trip, I thought myself well-equipped for the environment. I know Spanish, virtually all of my friends are Hispanics, I’ve traveled I-10 most days of my life and have seen the giant Mexican flag near the bridge on each and every one of those days. The border and the many facets of bi-national issues, from green cards to to naturalization to deportation, surrounded me. The struggles of immigrants spoke to me, hit so much closer to home than I could imagine. I was set for this program, I thought.

It goes without saying that I wasn’t quite right.

It’s one thing to live in a border town known to be virtually impenetrable, compared to places like…Arizona, for example. It’s another thing to be completely immersed in the world of the non-profits, humanitarians, hard-working volunteers that throw themselves into the roiling debate that is immigration so that they can help, not hardened criminals, but many real, loving people. People who risk their lives crossing the desert, leave behind $4/day jobs because their kids are still crying from hunger, can’t be sustained by $4 worth of livelihood.

Okay, I’m off my soapbox (for the moment).

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So, you’re probably waiting for some revelation about Senate Bill 1070, right? The heart and soul of what is wrong with Arizona, many may think. That one bane of a law. That’s the thing, though. It’s not just one problem we’re looking at.

If you get nothing else out of my ramblings and my new-found education, know this: SB 1070 is not some out-of-the-blue, isolated event. It’s not like one day Gov. Jan Brewer and former Senator Russell Pearce got together and thought, “Oh hey, look at all those immigrants, looking all illegal and speaking Spanish. Let’s apprehend them by handing over federal, immigration-related duties to policemen; it’s not like those guys have other things to do or anything. It’s not like there could be negative repercussions.”

1070 is the culmination of a cascade of factors—from the tightening up of the borders on either side of Arizona—creating a funneling effect through AZ—to the passing of several propositions (like one that makes those smuggled across the border “co-conspirators” in smuggling) to tje white, retiree conservative demographic in the state, and on and on.

Alright, so you’ve heard of 1070. I know you’re dying for another atrocity, so allow me to present to you, without further ado: Operation Streamline.

One of the most moving arguments against illegal immigration is, of course, that it's detrimental to our economy. Want to talk detrimental to our economy? I’d say that sucking $3.5 BILLION out of federal taxes just for FY 2010 (which is not even halfway completed yet) is kind of detrimental, economically. Just a guess.

That’s exactly what Streamline does, though. Since its institution in Tucson in 2008–having already been present in a few other border towns—about 35% of the immigration budget set aside by homeland security, is used on Streamline. The federal public defense office is completely opposed to it, and only conceded to provide one federal public attorney per month for a Streamline hearing. The rest are privately contracted. And yup, that costs money, too.

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What is Streamline?

After being detained by Border Patrol, a migrant can either voluntarily return, be formally deported, or plead guilty to illegal entry at a hearing of 30 other people and then be deported. Your pick. Except that, oh wait, it’s not.

It’s hard to describe just how awful Streamline appears and feels unless you’ve witnessed it—sat in that courtroom that houses 35 hearings in the space of about an hour and a half (depending on how much time the judge feels like spending on his job). It's all a big show, a way to criminalize immigration, instead of just deporting people off the bat like they used to.

Here’s the scene: you walk into a big federal courtroom. Behind the judge’s bench hangs a huge U.S. federal seal done up in a dull golden color. On the front near the left is where the jury typically sits. There are a number of Hispanic men sitting there, probably a little more than twelve of them; all wear what appear to be upside-down headphones that look like stethoscopes. Those, you know, transmit the judge’s words translated into Spanish. You’re told to sit on the far right only. That’s strange, since usually the audience of a trial/hearing can take up the whole back row, but you go with it. There are two Border Patrol agents standing near you; closer to the “jury” of accused are U.S. marshal agents. Some suited people seated near your left are whispering, laughing, joking.

The hearing begins once the judge enters. Everyone stands. Then there’s this startlingly loud clanging of chains.

The men you saw earlier, you realize, are all wearing shackles, both on their wrists and their legs. But that’s not all—on the far left of the “audience’s” seats stand at least 20 or 25 more people, some women, all of them shackled and wearing those headphones. A hearing for 30 people. Something completely un“heard” of in any other situation.

The proceedings begin. A number is called and then a person’s name and he/she yells, “Presente.” There’s a lot of posturing afterwards and you feel like you’re watching a play. The judge rambles about rights, the crowd feels pressured to say nothing except the expected “Si” even if they don’t understand what’s going on. Considering the lawyers have four or five clients each, and talked to each for no more than 30 minutes that morning.

Each Streamline experience is unique, because, unlike what the judge and some in the courtroom seem to think, not every immigrant is exactly like the next. They seem to think that justifies their being judged en masse. Have you ever heard of any court hearing where more than a score of people is tried at once, like they were two dozen eggs? I didn’t think so.

In this unique case, the judge has trouble pronouncing the defendants’ names, and drawls Nogales so it sounds like No-gaahlesss. At one point, he addresses a woman by the completely wrong name, then has to shuffle through papers to figure out what her name actually is.

During the proceedings, the immigrants don’t really have a chance to talk. All they say is “Si” or “Presente” or “Culpable” (basically, “yes, I’m guilty of illegal entry and willing to return to Mexico). The attorneys don’t really talk either.

But once in a while, the judge will ask if anyone has anything to say. The first group up is the batch of people who have entered the country twice. That is apparently felony-worthy. They all get between 30 to 90 days in prison. More tax dollars at work to house working people guilty of a victimless crime.

One man, on the shorter side asks into the microphone where his young son is. He crossed with him, he says, but the two were separated and this father doesn’t know what’s become of him.

The judge has no idea. The man gets 60 days in prison. He walks out, getting really close to you because the exit is right in front of you. Everyone stumbles behind in their leg shackles.

The man is crying. You want to cry, too. You think of his son. His son who probably has no idea what’s happening to his father. Who could be hurt, dying, in another courtroom. Who knows? Certainly not the judge.

When other men speak at the mic, their words are usually ones of thanks.

“I’d like to thank this country.”

“I’d like to thank the immigration officers for giving me water in the desert.”

You might think I’m making this up, but it’s the honest-to-God truth. While the Wackenhut buses are getting ready to deport these men and women back to Mexico (probably many, many miles from their actual homes)—they’re saying thank you.

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If you don’t know me, you might think that, being on this trip, I’m a Spanish major or a Public Policy major, or maybe a Political Science major.

Actually, I’m a pre-med English major pursuing a Global Health Certificate (and a Bio minor). I am nowhere near getting all my ducks in a row education-wise, life-wise, etc. I’m hoping, though, that this program can help me through that journey.

On the last day of a creative writing course I took back at Duke, the teacher dropped a few pearls of wisdom. Always respect your elders, neither a borrower nor a lender be, don’t eat the yellow snow. Just kidding. One piece of advice of hers, though, struck me. She told us that when we encounter situations in which, instead of feeling the expected feeling, some other, contradictory or unwanted feeling rises within us, that is where the story lies. That is what is worth writing about.

I’m not saying that when I’ve been told a heart-wrenching story here, my heart hasn’t been wrenched, because oh, trust me, it has. What I mean is that I often have my point of view on issues challenged and sometimes the lens needs to be adjusted. For me, this trip is already a series of contradictions and internal conflicts and often misplaced emotions. So I write, trying to leave nothing out, because it’s all bemusing, and thus worth writing about.