El Día de los Muertos, El Día de los Difuntos

To some people, the Day of the Dead is an ugly pagan holiday, something akin to devil worship. In the white protestant world, it's poorly understood, and therefore feared and looked down upon.

Yesterday, as I was talking with someone I love about a Halloween greeting I had received from a Guatemalan friend, she said, "But don't they celebrate the day of death or whatever?" It wasn't just the mistaken name, but the tone with which she said it, that made me cringe. What I heard was her refusal to respect what she didn't understand. What I understood was that, to her, the blending of pre-Columbian and Catholic traditions had produced something sinister rather than something sacred.

I remember learning about the Day of the Dead in Spanish class in high school. What I didn't get out of it was the beauty of the day's intent. I remember candy and skeletons. I remember it as the "Mexican halloween." I never even saw a Day of the Dead altar until I saw this one:



All by herself, Luis' grandmother lovingly placed food, dishes, flowers, and candles in memory of her departed husband. He was on her mind as she worked. Less like Halloween and more like Memorial Day, the Day of the Dead is for remembering those who have died. Families gather and celebrate the rememberance of their beloved departed. The belief is that their spirits return to earth to visit the living on that day, so they are welcomed with their favorite foods, their way lighted by candles.



It is a hallowed day.

Rudi's Return

I almost didn't recognize him. The defeated stoop of his shoulders, the pale of his once morena clara skin, nearly caused me to look away. But he looked at my eyes in the rearview mirror as I was just leaving, and I stopped.

His smile is still silver, but now when he smiles, he only does so with his mouth. His eyes don't follow along. They're sad, and they're flat black, like holes in his face. I couldn't stop looking at his eyes as we talked. This 27 year old had aged a decade since I had last seen him.

Rudi asked, Cuanto te debo? How much do I owe you?

Oh, Rudi, that was a long time ago. Ya me he olvidado. I've forgotten it already.

But he insists, and I think that even though I never expected to be repaid, maybe it's essential to his dignity that I allow him to repay me. In Mexico, he lost some of his dignity, but he also lost a ton of money. Not money that he had to lose, but his future earnings. He was kidnapped on his way back here, held for ransom, and now on top of the cost of his passage, he owes $6,000 to his friends and family who paid for his freedom.

It kind of makes the $600 I paid the lawyer seem insignificant. I was happy for the chance to help him, and although it came to naught, it was not money wasted. It was proof that, as he sat in that glowing white hot tent in Texas, someone cared for him and wanted him out of there. He was deported back to Guatemala anyway, where he lived and, according to his primos here, suffered, until he had the strength to cross Mexico again.

That crossing took years of his life, and that sparkling-eyes-and-teeth smile I had loved to see directed at me.

He had called me once from Guatemala, told me there was no work, and he would return in March, nearly a year after he was deported. March came and went, and I asked about him. His cousin told me, he's in Mexico. He left Concepcion Las Minas the end of February.

But it's April.

He called his mother and said someone took him, not la migra, not the police. They're holding him there. He can't leave until he pays them six thousand dollars.

What does that do to a man? How can he swallow the injustice of having to pay so much money to someone whose only intent is to cause him more suffering? On top of the injustice of poverty, lack of education, lack of opportunity in his homeland, lack of respect in the only place that offers him any hope at all for a better life. I burn with injustice at being ripped off in simple everyday purchases. But six thousand dollars, for nothing? Just for the privilege of continuing an already terrible journey?

I complain when my flight to Key West is delayed, bitch and moan about my "lost" luggage that I have to wait an agonizing 24 hours to receive. Rudi lost two months, sitting in the middle of a hostile place, just waiting. Waiting for his destitute family to collect and send that $6,000.

The injustice of this is indescribable.

Nearly two months after he left Guatemala, Rudi was back here, with a mountain of debt to pay. He took no time to rest and recover. Mowing lawns, washing dishes, he dove instantly back into his work, the same work he was doing when he was arrested for having committed no crime aside from simply being here, working.

Rudi didn't tell me any of this. I heard it from his cousins. For me, Rudi had nothing but his best attempt at a smile, and two questions: How have you been? and, What do I owe you?

Unapologetic Love

Death is, in a way, a blessing to those of us who remain. It reminds us how short and precious life is. It keeps us from drifting too far away from what matters the most. Death gives us an opportunity to stop for a minute and think of the people we love, people we take for granted every day, people who may not be here for us tomorrow.

I see death pass me on all sides, causing awful holes in the lives of people I know. Gone are mothers, brothers, husbands, children. I'm sorry for those who have lost someone they love.

Just this morning alone, I've been told to be my best, for God and myself. Ask forgiveness, offer a balm for an unnecessary hurt. Thank you, Tim Chavez, for being a voice for the voiceless, and for writing as long as you could.

Thank you, Luis Urrea, for reaching out in your time of sadness and loss to those of us who need the reminder: Don't wait another minute to tell someone you love them.

..if you love somebody, tell them now. If you're mad at them, get over it. If you miss them, write them or call them. Tomorrow might not come around in time. Love them now.

DREAMers Are Our Future

Thousands of students are hoping for the chance to realize their dreams of higher education and employment as fully contributing members of society through the passage of the DREAM Act. Undocumented students are currently faced with closed doors at every turn, through no fault of their own. They are barred from receiving financial aid and scholarships, and some states have begun to bar undocumented students from attending community colleges. Even after working hard and paying their own way through college, their job prospects are cut off by their lack of working papers. They can't get a driver's license, can't work legally, can't be the fully productive Americans they want to be.



We all lose when the talent and ambition of these bright young people goes to waste. We can all win by opening the doors of opportunity to those who work so hard and deserve the chance to succeed.

You can take 2 easy steps to support the passage of the DREAM Act!

At Change.gov, add your vote and your voice to President-elect Obama's Citizen's briefing book. The most popular ideas will be presented to him after his swearing in, so every vote is vital to getting the DREAM Act the attention it deserves!

At Change.org, your vote will help make the DREAM Act a priority in making positive change in our country a reality. The deadline for this action is Thursday, January 15, at 5 p.m. EST.

Help ensure a bright future for the United States of America through our immigrant children. It's how this country has always grown and prospered! It's the American Dream!

Angel Crossing

Workers lined up outside the U.S. consulate office in Monterrey seeking work visas. (© AP Images)



Angel rides Thoroughbreds, bathes them, feeds them, cares for them when they're sick. He speaks to them in Spanish, sometimes in English if necessary. He works legally in the U.S., thanks to the 4 month work permit he carries.

He returned to Mexico this week to renew his permit, which was due to expire. It's the second time he's done it, the last time was fairly easy, so he expected no problems. He figured he would spend a week staying in his parents' house, visiting family and friends, renew his visa, and return to work by the following Monday. Even though Christmas is coming up, and his brother will arrive to spend the holiday with the family, Angel couldn't afford to stay that long. He was anxious to get back to work.

Early in the morning, Angel went into the city to wait in line for his visa. In the late afternoon, he returned to his parents' house empty handed.

It seems there aren't enough work permits to go around. Angel was applying for his third 4-month visa, and apparently, the people applying for the first time get preference. Come back in a year, they said, and apply again.

"What can I do here for a year? There's no work here, and my job is waiting for me there."

I asked, "So what are you going to do?"

"I'm leaving, Friday or Saturday, so I can be back to work on Monday."

"Leaving, how? How can you return without your permit?"

"There's a guy who can bring me across for dos mil quinientos. Like they do for little children. He says I won't even have to walk."

So... let me get this straight. He was here working legally, just long enough to get settled, acquire stuff of his own, get into the groove of his own routine of work-eat-bathe-sleep. Just long enough to learn his job well, so well that he moved from cleaning stalls to riding racehorses in a matter of months. Just long enough to take the edge off his homesickness, until he had to go back to renew that little 4-month work visa. He had had no troubles with the law. And now -

If he stays in Mexico for a year to wait to re-apply (without any guarantee that he will be approved again) for a visa, he will lose his job. His boss will have to hire someone new, someone lucky enough to have gotten a work visa, or maybe he'll have to hire someone desperate enough to work without one. His boss will have to retrain this new person and hope he's as good with the horses as Angel was. Meanwhile, Angel will try to find work in Mexico, but even so will most likely be a burden instead of a help to his family.

But Angel does not want to burden his mother, and he does not want to lose his job. Instead, he will pay $2500 to be smuggled across the border. If he's caught, he will be processed and will have a criminal record. He will face a ban of 10 years to enter the U.S. legally. He may go to jail.

Or, the smuggler may not keep his promise of a safe ride across the border. He may drop him off just short, make him walk or swim across, and promise to meet him after just a couple hours' walk on the other side. That couple hours' walk could stretch into a couple days, unprepared and without water, in the desert. Or, his safe ride across the border for the bargain price of $2500 could end in a house in an American city where he could be held against his will until he pays more money, more than he had originally agreed to pay.

Dos mil quinientos is a lot of money, hard earned and better spent to help keep his sister in college than to end up in a coyote's pocket. Angel is a good man, has done everything legally up to this point. His family has become dependent on his income, and he has come to love being employed where he is treated well and can live pretty well on what little he keeps of his earnings. No one can imagine how much better that is than the alternative, until you consider all that he is willing to pay and risk for it. Then it becomes a little easier to understand.

¿Y Que?

Sunday morning as Luis and I were leaving the Western Union office, I pointed to the headline on the local paper: "Obama aunt illegally living in U.S."

"Mira, la tia de Obama es una indocumentada." I said, wondering what he would think of this earth shattering news.

He raised his eyebrows, and shrugged, and said, so what? Everyone at some point arrived here illegally.

This is the reaction of one who is also labeled indocumentado. Undocumented. Illegal. This is the reaction of an indigenous Mexican.

El Miedo y La Hermandad

Sunday after a walk along the shore of Cayuga Lake, Luis and I decided to have dinner at a Mexican restaurant we had never noticed before.

As we walked in the door, they locked eyes like long lost brothers, and their questions flew back and forth in español rápido, first pertaining to each other’s nationality. “Soy Poblano,” Luis said. “Ah, de Puebla, Mexico?” replied our host, his uncertainty betraying his relative unfamiliarity with Mexico. “Soy de Ecuador,” he offered; this, his proof of their brotherhood. Luis has told me he believes that they’re all one people – Mexicans, Guatemalans, Colombianos, Chileños - all de la misma sangre. Not everyone believes this, or if they believe it, sometimes don’t want to admit it. But these two men, they believed it. They celebrated it.

It was one of those moments when I had again become the outsider, an appreciative spectator to their meeting in this town with so few hispanos, where seeing one is a surprise for me, but like a homecoming for them.

He seated us at a table and Luis asked, “How long have you been here working?” They always, always, use the word work - trabajo - when talking about their lives or when asking others about theirs.

Like the man from Toluca at the circle center in Indianapolis who, within moments of making my acquaintance, lowered his eyes and said this life is full of work, hard work. He spoke of his life and his days with work being the thread that held it all together. Exhausted, his thoughts were dominated by the need to work, by the work he had done that day with his paint smeared hands, and by the work that waited for him tomorrow. He hardly knew what to say, because his phrases, like his thoughts, were constantly interrupted by that word, trabajo. But that’s a story for another day.

I looked up at el cuencano and his eyes darted nervously from Luis to me and back again. His smile faded. “You mean here.. here at this restaurant, or in the United States?” Oh God, he looks like he’s being interrogated, I thought. I recognized his nervousness and tried to reassure him with a smile, trying to meet his eyes because, surely, ICE agents don’t make eye contact while chatting up their prey. I wanted so badly to put him at ease, our gracious host now suspicious of this mexicano and this gringa asking him questions.

I remember when such friendly conversation in a Mexican restaurant between curious patrons and their foreign hosts was innocent and not a cause for alarm. I remember precisely the day it all changed, when the smiling waiters became guarded, and the singing kitchen workers became quiet, working with their heads down and one eye on the back door. Such questions used to be nothing more than the locals’ attempts at understanding these new people with no apparent ties to our little town. It was the chance to learn about and welcome them to our stagnant town in need of new dreamers, with their new enthusiasm and hunger for the freedom and affluence of which we had grown complacent. Seeing our town through eager new eyes was refreshing, it reminded us of all that we had to be thankful for. They reminded us of our Italian grandparents, of our English ancestors and their idealistic dreams. It was our first impulse to wish them well as they began the hard work to prosper here.

As the two men continued to trade questions and answers, our host regained some of the disarmed joy that had shone unabashedly from his face the moment we first walked in the door. He turned his shoulders and directed his words in my direction a little bit more, finally met my eyes, a gift of trust and acceptance that I received with gratitude, knowing from whence his momentary distrust had come.

After our delicious meal, he shook hands with Luis and with me, two or three times in our journey from our table to the exit, all of us proclaiming - ¡mucho gusto, mucho gusto! Such pleasure, such pleasure, at having met.

"I didn't stop."

He walked away, the voices of the police officers calling out to his back. "Come here and show me your identification."

Was he afraid that he would be pursued, knocked to the pavement, handcuffed and put into the van with the others? Did the skin on his back prickle at the thought of a bullet that could be sent to stop him in his tracks?

If so, those fears were not as strong as the ones that made Enrique keep walking.

According to la chota, they were responding to complaints that a group of day laborers, who had gathered at that spot daily for the last 3 years without incident, were blocking the sidewalk and "congregating."

For that, these men who were seeking work - not buying and selling drugs, not begging, not fighting - some of whom are the primary breadwinners for their families that are so lucky to have mothers always in the home to care for the children, these men were arrested and charged with disorderly conduct.

Is it also disorderly conduct when a group of white guys in suits block the sidewalk waiting for a bus or a train, or waiting to cross at the crosswalk on their way to their jobs? If more than one of them at a time pause on the sidewalk to take a sip from their Starbucks cups or talk on their cellphones or punch important information about stock trades into their blackberries, and block my way as I try to pass, is that also disorderly conduct? Sound absurd?

No more absurd than a group of day laborers waiting to go to work being charged with disorderly conduct. Then again, groups of brown men congregating on a sidewalk do not strike terror into my soul. They remind me of every single wave of immigrants to ever come to New York seeking a better life. Giving more than they take. Willing to work hard at whatever job that needs to be done.