“I don’t think I have rebelled against Latina culture. I have rebelled against those who try to make me warm tortillas for my brothers when they can warm them for themselves, I have rebelled against a patriarchal religion. I rebel against small mindedness in all ways and in every situation but those things are not an intrinsic part of Latina culture and I will fight tooth and nail against anyone who tries to make me feel like I’m less Xicana for not embracing the small-mindedness.” - Alice Bag, interview on 1/23/12
350,000 to 500,000 people take to the streets of Dallas, Texas & demand immigration reform & a more just life in the United States May 6, 2013
Thousands gathered Sunday in downtown Dallas to call for an immigration system overhaul as the Senate considers a proposal to legalize some of the estimated 11 million people who are in the U.S. unlawfully.
At the front of a march that began at the Cathedral Shrine of Our Virgin of Guadalupe were Catholic Bishop Kevin J. Farrell, an immigrant from Ireland, and Domingo García, a Dallas lawyer and one of the demonstration’s organizers.
“This nation was founded and built on immigrants, and we must continue to always welcome the immigrant in our midst,” Bishop Farrell said as the crowd clapped. The bishop drew more applause when he switched to Spanish and said he prayed that the nation’s leaders “accept and treat every person with justice.”
The march stretched for several blocks, bringing out families, college students and other supporters of the cause. A crowd estimate wasn’t available from police, but the turnout was a fraction of a similar march in 2006 that police said drew 350,000 to 500,000 people.
When the marchers arrived at Dallas City Hall, a Cinco de Mayo festival paused as the Pledge of Allegiance was recited and “The Star-Spangled Banner” was sung.
Dallas County Commissioner Elba García told the crowd: “We want immigration reform now. No more excuses!” Her husband, Domingo García, added, “The march is not over until President Obama signs an immigration bill.”
Angel Mondragon, an immigrant from Mexico City, carried a handmade placard that read, “Gays also want an immigration reform.” Mondragon said he loves the U.S. “I am gay and I have more opportunity here. People give me more respect here.” But the Senate measure doesn’t provide a provision that recognizes same-sex bi-national couples — a fact highlighted by various gay advocacy groups on the national level.
Some marchers and speakers noted the recent record deportations in the U.S. of about 400,000 a year. Hector Flores, a past national president of the League of United Latin American Citizens, and Roberto Corona, an immigrant leader demanded that deportations should end. Through hard work within the United States, Corona said, “we have earned this immigration reform.”
Interview: waging the fight for migrant justice from under a border patrol truck March 13, 2013
As with many deportations, René Meza Huerta’s started with a traffic stop. The Tucson Police Department (TPD) had received a call about a suspected kidnapping of six children from a man who saw Huerta’s and his girlfriend’s children getting into the hatchback of their newly purchased 99 Mercury Cougar. TPD was searching for the car when they pulled Huerta over in the early afternoon of Sunday, February 17. After determining that no kidnapping had taken place, TPD officers asked Huerta for his driver’s license, a document he did not have. Deciding that they had probable cause to suspect Huerta was in the country without proper documentation, TPD called the Border Patrol (BP), which came to detain him.
This is a scene that plays out constantly in communities within 100 air miles of the US-Mexico border, the so-called “constitution-free zone” where BP has expansive powers of search and seizure. In Arizona, this is compounded by Senate Bill 1070 (also called SB 1070), the state’s infamous 2010 “show me your papers” law that was partially upheld by the US Supreme Court in June of 2011. Section 2(b) of the law, which was not struck down, requires all state law enforcement officers, “when practicable, to determine the immigration status of the person, except if the determination may hinder or obstruct an investigation,” when “reasonable suspicion exists that the person is an alien and is unlawfully present in the United States.”
There’s a lot about Huerta’s deportation that makes it totally unexceptional, most importantly that it resulted in the separation of yet another parent from his children. What sets it apart is that somebody tried to stop it: Raúl Alcaraz Ochoa, a day labor organizer with the Southside Worker Center and member of the migrant justice group Corazón de Tucson.
Ochoa’s decision to place himself under a BP truck to prevent the detention and likely deportation of Huerta was a bold act of civil disobedience and a tremendous personal risk. Ochoa, who was born in Mexico, is a legal permanent resident, meaning that he is subject to deportation if convicted of certain crimes. Ochoa’s and Huerta’s arrests sparked a 300-strong protest in front of TPD’s headquarters the next day, little more than 12 hours after the previous afternoon’s events. Attendees demanded the immediate release without charges of both men, an end to TPD/BP collaboration and a halt to all deportations.
Truthout interviews Raúl Ochoa below.
Murphy Joseph Woodhouse for Truthout: Could you give me a brief account of what happened and what you did the afternoon of Sunday, February 17?
Raúl Alcaraz Ochoa: I was biking from my home to a community meeting. About a block east of there, just as I was about to arrive at the meeting, I saw three Tucson Police Department vehicles that had pulled over a car to my left on a corner one street over. I walked my bike to the scene, and I saw that there was a man who was handcuffed and in the custody of the police officers. I approached the car and there were six kids inside, six children. They were scared; they were startled; they were crying. I approached René’s partner and she was crying and she really didn’t know what to do. She explained to me what had happened. She said that they got pulled over by the police and that [the police] had called the Border Patrol.
When she told me this, I took out my notebook and I started writing everything down: the time, the officers’ names, the patrol car numbers, just as much information as I could. An officer approached me; he was a sergeant. He asked me if I needed help. I immediately asked him, “Why did you call Border Patrol on this family?”
When I asked that, he said, “My officers are obligated and required to call Border Patrol because of SB 1070.” I responded to that, “You actually have discretion even within 1070. You only need call Border Patrol when practicable and if it’s not going to hinder another investigation.” And then he told me that they had received a call that René had abducted children and that’s why they had stopped him.
“So you mean to tell me that these children in the middle of the street crying for their father because you have him handcuffed - are you telling me that these children were abducted by him?” And then he said: “Well, no no no no. We determined, after the investigation, that that was not the case, that he was not abducting the children.”
“So why is he still handcuffed?” I asked. “Why is he under your custody?” That’s when he said that they had reasonable suspicion to believe that he was undocumented. Then I asked him to define what reasonable suspicion was and why René was reasonably suspicious. He refused to answer and threatened to have me arrested if I didn’t leave. I told him I wasn’t going to move because I was on a public sidewalk within a reasonable distance and I wasn’t interfering with any of his duties. Then the Border Patrol came onto the scene. It was one vehicle and one agent. Once the Border Patrol parked, I immediately thought “I’m going to get under the vehicle. I’m going to try to impede as much as possible them taking away this father away from his crying children.”
Once I got closer to the Border Patrol vehicle and I saw that the agent was walking toward the vehicle with René handcuffed, I immediately rushed in front of the vehicle and lay down on the ground and crawled underneath the vehicle. As soon as I did, the officers rushed up to the vehicle and screamed, “What the hell are you doing?” And then one of them grabbed me by the arm and then he let go like he was really confused and surprised. They didn’t know how to respond. When he let go of me, that’s when I crawled deeper underneath the car. The Border Patrol agents were taking pictures of me and I was taking pictures back. I was calling people, sending messages and telling people to come. Then the Border Patrol agent came up to me and said if I didn’t leave the area, if I didn’t get out from underneath the vehicle, then I would get felony charges for impeding the work of a federal agent. They threatened to pepper-spray and Taser me. Eventually they pepper-sprayed me to get me out, and then they dragged me on the concrete floor until we were in an area where they could handcuff me and take me away to the Border Patrol station. That’s where René and I were taken.
Why did you feel compelled to intervene?
I work with day laborers, with domestic workers, with mothers and fathers, and youth. On a regular basis I receive calls from people, friends, colleagues, coworkers, who tell me they have been stopped by the police and that they may potentially call Border Patrol. Sometimes I don’t even know that this happens until I get a call from somebody in detention who has been incarcerated. Police pull them over, stop them and then call Border Patrol. This happens on a regular basis. This is daily life in Tucson, Arizona, in one of the most militarized regions of the continent. I regularly hear about my community, my family members, my coworkers being taken, pulled over by police and then handed over to Border Patrol and disappeared from their communities: torn apart, family separation, community disruption taking place invisibly. I constantly deal with the effects of detentions and deportations and how they tear people and families apart. I have witnessed firsthand the effects of all of these injustices that take place.
After dealing with them from the time I was little and detained along with my parents when we were crossing over to the United States when I was young, all the way to my auntie getting her house raided by ICE [Immigration and Customs Enforcement] agents, to working here in Tucson, Arizona, amidst SB 1070, and working with families and day laborers and them constantly getting pulled over, harassed and incarcerated, I felt like enough is enough. We do everything that we can; we document when abuse happens; we take pictures; we show videos. But at this point, seeing René being handcuffed in front of his six children, and his six children crying their eyes out and screaming for their father to be given back to them, and then just thinking that these are children who are possibly not going to have their dad with them this evening at home, comforting them, I felt like I needed to do something that was more than just document what was going on. I felt like I needed to put my body on the line to interrupt this detention from taking place. That’s what I felt needed to be done at the moment. I needed to do everything in my power to be able to attempt to stop this injustice that takes place due to unjust immigration and state laws.
In your view, what is the importance of direct action and civil disobedience in the context of the ongoing debate around immigration policy?
Currently, the only thing that can save us from the right-wing immigration reform debate is grassroots community organizing, direct action and civil disobedience. If there is no massive movement that resurfaces again, much like the DREAMers have done in the past and continue to do, if there isn’t a focus on strategizing around community organizing and direct action, then our movement is going to be hijacked and co-opted by the center-right tendencies of the big national Hispanic organizations that claim to represent us.
In the conversations around immigration reform, I believe it is key to demand a moratorium on deportation, ending detention and family separation, and a halt to the militarization of the US-Mexico border. To give voice to those demands, we are going to need to continue and escalate civil disobedience and direct action. In order to be able to amplify these messages and these demands that don’t have the mainstream appeal within the movement, I think we need to learn from the actions that the DREAMers have done, the UndocuBus, the civil disobedience that took place in North Carolina and along the journey to North Carolina, where undocumented people were speaking for themselves and making that sacrifice and taking that risk to come out of the shadows, undocumented and unafraid. That’s where the power lies.
It is up to people power, how much the people believe in their own power and act on that power to really create political pressure for an immigration reform that truly lives up to our visions of equity and liberation; an immigration reform that will be meaningful and that will include all of the 11 million people who are undocumented at the moment. Living under this deportation regime, I am not sure this can happen, but we must utilize all direct action tactics to make our undocumented dreams a reality.
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“I spell Xicana and Xicano (Chicana and Chicano) with an X (the Nahuatl spelling of the "ch” sound) to indicate a re-emerging política, especially among young people, grounded in Indigenous American belief system and identities. I find especially resonant Robert Rodríguez’s observation in his treatise The X in La Raza that X in many ways reflects the Indian identity that has been robbed from us through colonization, akin to Malcom X’s use of the letter in place of his “slave” name. As many Raza may not know their specific indigenous nation of origin, the X links us as Native people in diaspora.“
Xerí Moraga, Xicana Codex of Changing Consciousness