When Bernie Sanders was confronted by Black Lives Matter activists at Netroots Nation, it reminded me of something that had recently happened in my life. I've been listening to Bernie for almost a decade on the Thom Hartmann show. He answers questions from callers for an hour every week (not so regularly lately). The questions aren't screened or limited to a particular topic. Just whatever anyone wants to know. He is always kind and respectful, and he writes down the person's name so he can refer to them by name. Additionally, he has been fighting the good fight on all kinds of issues over his three or four decades in politics. When the women at NN said, "black lives matter," he said, "of course black lives matter." That may not be what you've read or heard on tv, but, trust me, or just watch the video, that's what he said. Maybe I am just projecting myself onto him, but I saw pain in his face. NN had asked to speak about immigration reform, and he was prepared to do so. But when he heard what was being said, he changed his talk to deal with economic issues, thinking that's what the women were protesting about. It isn't like he didn't know about discrimination. Or didn't know about inequality. These are issues that have made up the focus of his life's work. And, I believe, his failure to respond appropriately caused him some real pain. And here's why I think that.
In 1970, I lived in Van Nuys, and shared a front stoop (one step) with an Hispanic man from Las Cruces. Our doors were next to, and perpendicular to each other. We didn't introduce ourselves to one another for several months, but always recognized each other while coming and going. Let's call him David. A few months in, David's friend from Las Cruces moved in with him. We'll call him Mario. Mario and I became fast friends, and then a bit more than friends. Another few months, Mario's brother came to stay for a little while. He'll be Frank. Frank was adorable. Just 17, a little shy, and very kind. He was the one who taught me how to make quesadillas. I never make a quesadilla that I don't think of Frank. We all spent a lot of time together, and my relationship with Mario grew. At some point, Frank went back to Las Cruces. Within three weeks of leaving, Frank committed suicide. Mario, being second oldest in a very large family, felt he needed to go home. And it wasn't long before David left as well. We kept in touch, and I was invited to visit. On New Year's Eve, 1971, I flew to Las Cruces.
Mario picked me up, and took me to a New Year's party at David's sister's house. Here was a large group of people, sitting around and talking and laughing, and I only knew two of them. Well, that didn't last long. This amazing group of people took me in like I was a long lost relative. Not friend. Relative. Soon, I was talking and laughing right along with the rest of them. I had never met people like that. I stayed a few days, taking in the environs, and meeting lots more family. I wanted to be with Mario. And I wanted lots more of these wonderful people. And the environs weren't too shabby either. Especially if you have been living in Van Nuys. The next month, my sister came with me to see if she was interested in moving with me. She also was enchanted by the Land of Enchantment. The next month, Mario and some others came to get us, since neither of us felt confident about driving a U-Haul. We only managed to stay for a year, but that's a whole 'nother story.
Seven years later, my then husband (not Mario) wanted desperately to get out of the traffic in L.A. We set out to find a new home, our sights set on Phoenix. Nope. Just as much traffic as L.A. I asked if he wanted to check out Las Cruces. And, like my sister and I, he was immediately smitten. So, we bought a house (assumed a loan; you could do that in 1979), and headed back to L.A. to collect our stuff and our child. And this is where I've been since. I continued my relationships with those I had met in that first year, and made lots of new friends. Many, if not most, of my friends have been Hispanic. On my little 12 house cul-de-sac, 8 of the houses are inhabited by Hispanics. This isn't unusual for Las Cruces. The majority of people who live here are Hispanic.
Then came the "outsiders." Rand-McNally listed Las Cruces as the number one place to retire, and old farts from all over the country descended upon us. And they brought all their prejudices with them. And I'll never understand why people with those prejudices would come to a place that's majority Hispanic. Most Hispanics in Las Cruces are bi-lingual, so it's not unusual to hear Spanish daily. The "outsiders" don't like people to speak Spanish. Didn't they know before they packed up everything they owned that New Mexico has two official languages? What has happened over the years is that Hispanics have begun to not like or trust Anglos. We went from this incredibly happily integrated city to one with lots of dislike and distrust. I can feel it sometimes, and it makes me very uncomfortable. So I just act like I've always acted, and the relief of tension is almost palpable. Until one day maybe four or five years ago.
My daughter and I went to the annual city celebration/parade. We parked in the parking lot that abuts the sidewalk on the main drag. We schlepped our chairs to the sidewalk, and made ourselves comfortable. Shortly thereafter, an Hispanic couple with two or three children arrived. The woman told me that they had brought their truck to that space the night before to reserve it. The plan was for some to sit on the tailgate, and the others on the sidewalk. I told her that we would move as far over as we could so we could all fit. And she said, "I don't know why you want to sit next to a bunch of beaners anyway." I turned away from her to move our chairs and said, under my breath, "I can't believe you just said that to me." My eyes just teared up again thinking about it. I thought to myself, "that's how you think I feel about you? That's how your self-esteem has been diminished over the years?" I can't even express how much that hurt. We finally all got settled, and there was enough room for everyone.
They used to throw candy from the floats, or cars, or trucks along the parade route. And the kids would run out and grab as much as their little hands would allow. Then someone decided that might be dangerous. So now people walk along and hand out candy. Someone handed me a handful, and then ran after the float they were with. They ran away before they gave the little kids any. So I turned around and handed the candy to the woman. She took it. Not a word was said. The day ended well.
|
|
|
|
Kitchen Table Kibitzing is a community series for those who wish to share part of the evening around a virtual kitchen table with kossacks who are caring and supportive of one another. So bring your stories, jokes, photos, funny pics, music, and interesting videos, as well as links—including quotations—to diaries, news stories, and books that you think this community would appreciate. Readers may notice that most who post diaries and comments in this series already know one another to some degree, but newcomers should not feel excluded. We welcome guests at our kitchen table, and hope to make some new friends as well.
|