Foro Social Fronterizo
As I write this, there are several dozen people chatting here in the office. They are here for the planning meeting of the Foro Social Fronterizo, the Border Social Forum, to be hosted in part by my organization, CETLAC, in Ciudad Juarez next month. Some of the dialogue is in English, most is in Spanish. The idea is to have many different organizations, from all around the border, as well as Ciudad Mexico and Washington D.C., come together, host forums, workshops and panels, and work to integrate themselves into a transnational movement. The topics of the forum range from environmentalism to women's rights, to worker's rights, and about 20+ other topics. A part of me is very excited about this, while a part of me looks at it cynically. That's all for now.
I like you, Boston
So, let me tell you all a story. I seem to be good at that. Now, as a preface to all of this, I should mention that up to the point of this story, I had not really been doing well or feeling too great about the program. I felt like I wasn't really doing anything and couldn't really figure out why I was here. It was last sunday, I went out with Tavo, one of my host 'brothers' (actually just guys who rent from my host mom) to a restaurant to knock a few back. I had finished all my homework the night before, and it was 2 PM on a sunday, what are you supposed to do? We go, where we run into some of Tavo's friends. Everyone is speaking spanish--not a big surprise, it's Mexico. One of the girls across the table keeps on looking at me. Finally, she says, in English, with no perceptable accent, ''Hey, where are you from?'' I say, ''Boston.'' She lights up. Immediately, she screams, ''yeah, awesome! Red Sox!'' And I go, ''uh, yeah. Go Sox.'' We continue chatting a while, across the table, until she moves her chair next to mine.
''I forgot your name.''
''It's Ben. Yours?''
''Susana. Or just Susie.'' She pauses for a second, then turns directly to me. ''So, what are you doing here?''
''I'm studying. It's a progra-''
''No, I know that. Why are you studying here?''
''Well, I'm studying the border. You know, border issues.''
''Ok, I guess. What kind of classes are you taking?''
''Well, the one I'm taking at UTEP is literature-''
''Literature? Why are you studying literature?''
''Well, it's Chicano literature, you know, a lot of stories of people who crossed, it's important, I think.''
She paused.
''What's your name, Boston?''
''Ben.''
''Right.''
She paused again.
''So why are you here?''
''beats going to college?''
''yeah, I guess. But you could be anywhere. Why here?''
''To study the border-''
''You already said that. Why?''
''Well, I guess it's a big issue in America, and I want to know more about it.''
''So what are you going to do with that?''
''I don't know yet.''
''So where does literature fit into this?''
''Well-''
''Actually, let me put it this way. We could talk about literature all day, you know, shakespeare or shit like that. Not to be cocky, but you know, I know literature really well. But I want you to look around.''
''huh?''
''just look around. Now.''
I looked around. It was a fairly middle class place, kind of touristy, mariachis and all that shit. There were several tables of gringos, but mostly mexicans. I was uncomfortable, and liked it. I liked being pushed.
''What am I looking for?''
''Just look. We are in a culture here, where what you say, goes. So why are you HERE?''
She had hit the nail on the head. I thought for a second. This is obviously a question I ask myself a lot. And then it just sort of hit me.
''Listen, the way I see it is that if I can come here, and really try and understand what's going on, not so much here, in places like this, but in the maquilas [sweatshops] and in places like Anapora, [the poorest neighborhood in Juarez] because I really do think that the reason people are in the situations they are in in places like Anapora is because of a lot of big systems. Big things, global things, and I think most of them are out of America--and I really fundamentally believe that if I can learn a bit more about what's happening here, in places like Anapora, I can go back and learn to change it. I don't want to be one of these people who just goes through life without thinking about this kind of stuff. I think I have a big opportunity, you know, going to college in America, being an American citizen, the least I can do is use it.''
I stopped. I was kind of amazed myself that this polemic just sort of came out. And I realized, that I had said it so earnestly, so sincerely, that I knew that somewhere deep down, I believed it. Susie was silent for a few moments. She thought about it, then turned to me.
''I like you, Boston.''
a shot in the dark
Ok, don't say it, I already know--I´ve been herer for almost a month and this is my first update. Let me say, to my credit, for the first week, there was a problem logging in and I couldn´t update. After that, I was just lazy. But as of now, I´m at work and have nothing to do for the moment, so, you all get to hear about my life.
Working at the Centro de Estudio y Taller Laboral. The inexact translation is essentially, the Worker's Center. To call it a union would not do it justice--rather, it is an organizing resource for unions. The staff offer the space and their advice to unions in Juarez and the area, and I get to witness it all. In addition, I'm editing their new newsletter, which is, essentially, People´s news. What's going on in the poor neighborhoods. In the maquilas. How will local and national policy affect the poorer people in Juarez. It´s interesting stuff, it´s giving me a big window to view things. It´s right up my alley, too, although it´s fucking demanding work.
A story: Las Personas Olvidadas
It was early into my second day of work when a number of men walked into the door. In a word, they were ragged. Many of them were old. Most of them walked right by me to the back room, where they began setting up chairs. My boss, Daniel, walked up to me. Ellos son pesonas olvidadas, he says. They are forgotten people. Ellos son el UBA, el unión de boleros. He walked into the room, motioning me to follow. In the time I had, I quickly looked up bolero in my spanish-english dictionary.
Shoeshiner.
All in all, there were about a dozen, a dozen and a half men in the room. They drank coffee and many were smoking. It was very difficult to understand many of them. As the meeting began, they were talking about their liscensing process. They are liscenced by the government, I found, and it's not easy to get a liscence. More importantly, it´s not cheap. They are going to meet with two agents from the agency to talk about this. I assumed that this would be in the near future. However, only a few minutes later came a knock on the door. They were here.
The meeting was repetitive. The boleros said that the process was too expensive, and the oficials said that it wasn't their problem. They called out the names on the liscenses. Almost everyone was there. They said, after a while, that they´d see what they can do for the people that were there, but the price wasn´t changing. It wasn´t their issue that the boleros often couldn't pay the price to renew. This is economics, one explained, if you want something moral, go to church. They left.
After they were gone, Daniel looked up. Don't worry, he explained, this happens all the time. These people are used to dealing with people like us. Their job is to say no. But we will go one step higher on the ladder, go to the people who work in the offices. They don't deal with people often, and they don't like to. And they really don't care about a bit of their budget going towards the boleros if it gets us out of their hair.
This is the work that we do every day. Maybe some time soon I will tell you about my life or my classes. But that stuff is less interesting.
