Recently, Subcomandante Marcos from the EZLN (Zapatista organization) came to Juárez to continue their Otra Campaña (other campaign) which is supposedly an alternative to the typical presidential campaign that happened this year. They are travelling throughout all of México, stoppiing in towns and holding open forums and discussions for people to bring up what they believe are the most important issues for their communities. The following is something I wrote after I went to a demonstration, where Marcos spoke as well. I wrote my thesis on the Zapatistas, so it was a very surreal experience to see the phenomena in person. I have much more to reflect on this experience and what I saw, but I've learned that if I'm going to post anything, I need to not wait for the moment when I feel like I've said everything. So, as the introduction to further thoughts....

Well, Marcos arrived in Juárez in a Black dodge mini-van, with no chicken on top. He came sólo, unaccompanied by his Zapatista folk, but quickly surrounded by a group of youngish mexicanos in black, with chains, and the too cool hats on. They took on the role of body guards, arms linked in a circular blob, but they were protecting him from the hoard of tv's and camera's (mine included, I tried to get in there - there was no shame in breaking out the lenses when marcos shows). He smoked his pipe vigorously, with almost fake smoke surrounding him and his crowd. His eyes looked young and he actually looked a little nervous, like he didn't quite know what he was doing here on this crazy international bridge. His movement pushed and pulled the swaying of the entire crowd for the next hour or so. We followed him, marching and protesting, up the Lerdo bridge, justo antes de la linea exacta. The cameras and microphones maintained their stance and blockage for the rest of us to see anything that was going on, but folks crawled up the fences on either side of the bridge and tried to glance a peek. Another group of protestors arrived from the El Paso side, having come through a blockade of suspicious Border Patrol cars and ICE (immigration/customs) patrols that were ready to rumble, as it were. They closed down the bridges from the US, and weren't letting folks go into the US either - i suppose that was partially the point of this march. Then, the messages were given by each respective organization present, until it was time for Marcos himself to speak. He voice was old. He sounded like he sounds. I admit that I had thought that maybe they had just sent a dummy as bait, to tempt the US enforcement, giving them a chance to finally get rid of the dude who's making trouble in MX. But, I think he was himself, whoever that is. Then, the microphone was passed to him and spoke about unity, reaching out to Mexicans in the US and then, as if the "they", the powers that be, could prevent his radical and offensive words, a ginormous helicopter arrived and circled and circled, and blew up dust from the river, and circled some more. Glen and many others took that opportunity to flick off the helicopter and the Border patrol, in an amazingly emphatic and repititious way. And even with the drone of the helicopter, the sea of people stayed put, the mothers, the children on shoulders, the cowboys, the grandmas, the radical anarchist punks, the hippy camera's, the gringos. The largest sign at this protest was "gringos asesinos" appropriately I suppose.
It then disintegrated, back down the bridge, with a crowd of folks continuing to march him down to his minivan, and the Zapatista party then moved to a nearby high school where they were going to do their workshops and listening panels. That would have been the place to be, but I didn't really feel comfortable going. I'm not a member of this community, and it's not my gringa-ness that prevents me from taking on that identity. One of my favorite activistas in the area,Nancy, who is gringa, went and she is member of the community, and has been for a long while.
Anyways, I could clearly ramble on about all of this, but I guess the part that shocked me the most was then coming into the US, the helicopter was still circling where Marcos was, above the high school, and the bridge were littered with BP and then following 5 blocks had atleast 5 agents or so on the corners, with radios. Just checking things out. I guess it just surprised me that they cared enough. in some ways, that goes along with the "success" of the march and of the importance of Marcos being here in the face of so much security and potential danger. The Mexican AFI, their CIA, was all over the streets in Juárez too. And yet, Marcos is a puny kind of a guy. But, it's amazing that he can represent and carry and maintain the threat that he supposedly poses to our country, and to Mexicos.

Yikes...I've missed writing in this blog, and so here I am, returning a bit shameful for ignoring this wonderful connection to many people for too long. But, here it is (whatever it may be)

The border sigue siendo la frontera. Over the past month, I have visited countless organizations in both CJ and EP who are all working towards changing the present reality of life on the border. This is the broadest description I can make, because they range from Midwifery clinics to labor union organizers to after school programs, and the connection which I see and hear from them all is the desire to change peoples (emphasis on the peoples) reality so they are able to make healthy choices for themselves and their lives. Be it petitioning for higher wages, or offering counseling services to battered women, all of the organizations operate with the awareness that there is a large amount of the population here who is not living a humane life. And, so it seems that many people are here doing very good work, which they are. But, lately I have been questioning my own personal role here and in these communities which I have the right and access to enter and exit as I wish. And, while I have encountered this "complex" of positioning and privelege (and have arrived at a point where I am comfortable just 'being' where I am, and try not to dig deeper than the humanity of those around me) there is still a part of me which continues questioning myself and my own motives for being here, and now for doing this job.

Last weekend, I visited Earlham College (to which I am an official alumni - weird), and it was a surprisingly huge relief to be there, for many reasons. And, something that didn't strike me until I came back was simply that my eyes get exhausted while being here. I could draw out an elaborate metaphor about the significance of what I am seeing, and what I am comfortable with and not comfortable with - but really I believe that it comes down to the fact that there is a constant dust that you breathe, and have to peer through everywhere you go. The air is quite bad here - the bridges provide intense bubbles of exhaust, while the oil refinery produces a gross amount of (air-waste, i forget the word) that often settles in the valley over the two cities in the afternoon.

I mention all of this pollution because the longer I live here the less I want to be here, and what I see and breathe everyday are the repetitive reasons which contribute to me not enjoying living here. Recently I told someone "I hate Juárez". Now, while this may have been a rash comment I made for emotional reasons as well (mostly, I've been known to say, 'I love Juárez') I also do not want any part of the world to ever develop into a city like EP/CJ. And, amidst this desert of industry, dust in the eyes and all, I am here continually trying to ask questions and challenge myself. Which I am doing. I just occasionally forget that challenging myself means that somedays I will "hate Juárez" but that some days I will love it.

I don't know how much it matters for me to be asking whether or not this is my place to be in the world. Not that it is not of crucial and utmost importance that people question their motives for travelling/working/living in any community, either national or international; however, this cyclical analysis never quite comes to a satisfying verdict. Personally, as a priveleged, educated person who has lived in many many kinds of places, all I can do is try and be aware of my "power" (yup, the big word) in a situation and not abuse my "power" because of the fact that I simply can. Right now, I believe I can be in a place, with my privlege, education and "power" all clearly influencing me, without simply playing the role of "colonizer" or what have you. I'm downright sick of the paralyzing guilt for having my background, and being in the position I am in. Education is a tool - (this is partially why I want to be nurse practitioner.) My access to education is something which I want to take advantage of and then use.(again, maybe another obvious and basic concept, but heck, I'm just beginning to understand what this really means.)

Yesterday, I saw someone wearing a t-shirt with a quote that should inspire many interesting discussions for multiple reasons, and I would love to hear your reactions to it ; and so to go out with a final little spark here it is

"If you have come here to help me, you should leave. But, if you have come here because your liberation is tied to mine, then welcome. - Indigenous Women"

El día cuando la frontera fue tragada

This past weekend I went to a “Oaxacan Mole Festival”, which was organized by a very radical and awesome workers rights (specifically women’s rights) organization, La Mujer Obrera, (www.lamujerobrera.com). Beyond the amazingly delicious food (you should all eat mole, all of you) and beautiful music, it was an impressive scene of people and moreover, it was the perfect example of just how mexican El Paso really is. Glen (the professor I am working with this semester) and I wandered and observed (because that’s really what you are doing when you are in a crowd and you think too much like me), and then with a cup of horchata and a quesadilla in hand, we entered into a very interesting discussion about the state of the world as of today (or rather, as of Saturday, because today some crazy events occurred, i.e Fidel Castro)

Our conversation began with another friend who works in the area, and it centered on the violence in the middle east and it’s degree of severity, and then jumped to our feelings of helplessness as people who do “care” about the state of the world. But following this semi-emotional and semi-academic reaction, Glen dropped the phrase “systemic collapse”.

This phrase has always seemed like a buzz word to me, and in some ways a cop out which implies that the events of today’s world are special and unique and are bringing us to something which is ultimately fatal. This may very well be true, but during this conversation this friend and I questioned the implication, asking “But, what came ‘before’ systemic collapse” and “so, what’s comes ‘after’, what does ‘reconstruction’ look like?”.

Glen of course, did not provide the answers to these questions exactly, but I think he re-defined the definition of systemic collapse for me some. So, I suppose I am taking it upon myself to share this vision with all of you who are reading this.

This “systemic collapse” thing is just the all-encompassing (like the universe…the whole thing) structure in which we are all placed. Glen argues that processes like globalization have been inaccurately given this all-encompassing stature, implying that other global processes like global warming and over-population are results of globalization. Glen faults this analysis, making the picture bigger and suggesting this vision: If the world is just a bunch of overlapping ven diagrams(those circle things from 5th grade math), then “Systemic collapse” would be the box outside of all of those circles.

This is not a complicated vision, really a rather simple one. But, it also removes the sole causality and dependence between global processes, and directs it towards a grander cause and ultimately a grander assumption about what this whole “existence” this is all about - and glen would say that if things don't start changing now we are going to self-destruct within , oh, about the next twenty years (now Glen would be rather unsatisfied with that definition but it is what he argues and implies)

Now, for the past week in Cd. Juarez/El Paso which is a desert, it has been raining, pouring and raining more. Today, the limit was reached and finally highways were closed, three of the four bridges were shut down, houses were flooded, blockbusters collapsed, mud slid, and the Rio Grande (Big river) began to crest above the 20 ft. embankment. (*an ironic sidenote, people who cross illegally are often called ‘wetbacks’ o “mojados” and I overhead people in a coffee shop in El paso saying “pues, hoy todos somos mojados, no” “well, today we’re all wetbacks”)

While this rain may allow for humor as the border swells and both sides suffer the consequences, there was a huge blindness within the news coverage on both sides. People in El Paso didn’t know what was going on in Cd. Juarez, as people here in Cd. Juarez didn’t know what was going on in El Paso. I had gone to El paso, early this morning, and promptly almost been stranded on some side streets that were flooded with a few feet of water. But, my co-worker and I waited out the worst, and safely made our way to a meeting. Deciding that we may as well try to go home to Juárez, we crossed the only open bridge by foot seeing the top of the river lap up against the fence as crowds of people stood nearby, watching in horror as something which is usually ironically small and dry present itself as something to be reckoned with. In some ways I wish the Rio Grande was like this always, as it would be more satisfying or cathartic to cross it. But, as it was, we were able to hop on a Ruta (school bus public transportation) and then walk the 6 blocks to my house, only passing through one block of stinky flood- water.

I suppose that this entire day of trekking around in an environment of chaos, where people weren’t going to work, or were sent home, and houses flooded and there was just utter paralysis, I kept thinking to myself “But see…roads collapse, systems collapse, but us people-people, we can still get where we need to get cause somehow we just keep going.”

I was teasing Glen this afternoon, suggesting that today would be the perfect kind of day to go out and convert people to his theory of “systemic collapse” because it feels like this entire region is falling apart – he chuckled and agreed, while someone suggested a soap box.

Changes are inevitable, and looking back at history (which is a phrase used too often) there are catastrophes and there are tragedies and too often too many people die. But, it strikes me that we will never escape systems which will need to change. There is no solution to Systemic collapse. There is no easy answer to what you do in a desert when it rains 15 inches in five days – except to just wait it out.(I did get some movies in case I have to stay home tomorrow.)

I could probably continue blabbing about this, but I guess the point is that right now I can't base my understanding of the worlds systems solely on the concept of a fated “systemic collapse” because that’s too easy – of course the world will look radically different in fifty years but who am I to assume that I can know today what we will all need then?

For tonight, I am thankful that I’m home safely, I’m about to take a hot shower, and that the only water I hear right now are the steady drips from three places on my ceiling into pans and buckets. I kind of like the clinking actually. (although I do think they need to fix the drainage in both El Paso and Juárez, and my roof)

(*Annie dillard has a great book called "For the time being" which is a much more poetic way to talk about these themes of change/collapse)

La guera guerita cruzando los puentes

Living in a Border City I have found that the border itself, that invisible yet very physical marking, inevitably and purposefully acts as an edge, which therefore requires the oh so dramatic “crossing”. Maybe in some parts of the world, such as Europe for instance, a border crossing may seem trite or not worthy of implications which “to cross” brings because the necessary division is almost inexistent. But, for me and for many others I am assuming, between the U.S. and Mexico it is a thing; by thing, I mean a deal, a process, a test, and most of all, something you only do if what is waiting for you on the other side is worth it.

Most people in El Paso never go into Júarez. In fact, when I tell people that I am living there, I often receive requests to accompany that person on a visit to Júarez because they are too scared to do it alone. It’s true – Júarez is not a visually accessible city, by which I mean that the mixture of people, stores, garbage, traffic, and wonderfully colorful buildings, often presents a complicated impression of what is really what. Yesterday a woman told me that it just breaks her heart to see the kind of poverty that exists in Juarez just on the streets. I agreed that there is a substantial amount of poverty in some parts of Júarez, but I qualified the remark by adding that El Paso’s poor neighborhoods are also hard to see and accept. She didn’t react, but she simply wished me a good ride home (on my bike) and told me to be careful “over there”.

Júarez is perceived as the ever so classic “other”, dangerous, unknown, untrustworthy, and third-world city. I suppose that living here I’ve simply come to recognize that there are places in most cities in the U.S. where I might react with the same perceptions simply because I don’t am unfamiliar with, and may not understand, the place or people. If you can’t tell, I get defensive about Júarez. It is a city, yes, which requires awareness and not denial. However, it does not merit the rejection and criticism it often receives in the International Press.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, most people in Júarez do go into El Paso, at least those who are able to afford the Laser Visa which costs about $150 per year(don’t quote me on this, I’m not up on the immigration details). I don’t know the porcentaje of the population which this includes, so I can’t provide proof in reliable numbers, but needless to say, thousands and thousands of people cross daily from Júarez into El Paso.

There are all sorts of random beliefs about what products are just “better” in El Paso. The other day I heard someone say that the eggs in Júarez were always bad, and that you should really get your eggs in El Paso. It’s funny, you’d think these kinds of preferences and decisions would be purely economic (which some are, like buying electronics for instance) but the justifications are mostly complete hearsay. I also can’t remember these remarks being made with the opposite implication – not much is better to buy in Júarez. Although, there does exist a very real struggle between who can claim better Mexican food, Júarez or El Paso. Ironic, eh. (by the way, I buy my eggs in Júarez, and they are cheaper than in El paso)

The "crossing" these days is often between forty five minutes to an hour and a half. This wait-time on the different bridges is part of the daily traffic report for T.V.’s and radios in Júarez. Walking, the line may be a little faster, however you can never be sure. I have always tried to understand the flow of gente, but every time which I come up with a thesis about when there will be the least amount of people, I am confronted with a good long wait. Timing is unfortunately not everything here.

There are a few select choices for transportation across the bridges: automobile, foot, or the ever so rare bicycle. By foot or by car there is a sticky atmosphere of imposed patience which everyone resists, but in the end no one can do anything but wait for their turn to pass through the cameras and stoplights and finally the point of revision where you are judged on your appearance, accent, and most importantly the possession of proof for where in this world your body has rights. These bridges are truly the land of bumper-to-bumper, where chicle(gum), churros(Spanish donut things), cokes and newspapers are thrown in your face every few minutes, offering a distraction or relief from the feelings of powerlessness that everyone, no matter who you are, succumb to. I suppose there is this commonness that occasionally provides for some kindness on these bridges; a car allowing another car to switch lanes, or allowing an elderly person to cut to the front of the line so they don’t have to stand for so long.

As of yesterday, I have crossed via all possible methods of transportation. Previously, I had only driven a car (which takes the longest, and tends to make the craziest) or walked (which I love because it allows for the most people-watching, interacting, and humanness possible in these situations). But, yesterday morning something inspired me to take the plunge into Juarez traffic and side streets, and to cross into El Paso with my red bike (thanks Grandpa) and it’s big honking white basket on the back of it (I was also wearing a helmet, a rare event in these parts). A bike’s place is with the cars, so I weaved in between the lanes, feeling rather slick honestly, and I cut to the front of the line, ahead of cars that had probably been waiting a good hour to reach the brink of passage into the US. I didn’t feel guilty, I felt oddly triumphant. I passed through the border, faster than I ever had before which somehow had the affect of diminishing the drama and power of "crossing". I’ll have to try it again.

It's been hard trying to think of a good introduction to this blog, and to this initial post, but I think this will serve both me, the writer, and you, the reader, best if I just dive right in. Below are some random paragraphs I've already written, some to people in e-mails, some just as writings for myself.

I just spent the afternoon walking around my neighborhood, something which Cristina(landlady and friend), and Daniela(previous host mom and friend), or Abraham(ex-boyfriend) for that matter, never, and I mean never, do.
I spent the afternoon walking around my neighborhood some, trying to get situated and find a good tortilleria. I like knowing where I am, and here there is something almost voyeuresque about walking around because no one goes on walks. By that, I mean that no one who owns a car walks more than 1 block, even if they are only going two blocks. I’m realizing that I’m already slipping into generalizations of Juarez and the border, which I fear will become easier the more I live here and the more I try to find my place amongst the variations of how people live in Juarez. But, none the less, I found some neat folks. Talked to a guy in an abarottes(like convenience store), with whom I had the ever familiar conversation of whether or not it is easier to speak and learn, English or Spanish. He was interesting enough, and I was up for the conversation, having spent most of the weekend by myself. Looking back on it, nothing much was said in the conversation, but I think that was my most pleasant moment of the day. I then spent the afternoon in the park, cerca de la calle Costa Rica, watching kids play soccer, throw around balls, and families engage in goofy park behavior. I got to listen to a roll of hearty laughter which dealt me some vicarious happiness. I sat there, happily ignoring those who stared at me, and finally finishing A passage to India. Maybe it is simply a change in my perception this time here, but I am receiving less obvious attention. I’ve gone running twice in the mornings, and no one has cat called me…no one. For a fleeting moment I missed the familiar sounds, but quickly rejoiced at being one step closer to ‘blending’ or to not be a blaring, shiny foreigner. Even at the grocery store, I feel as if I belong more, whatever that means. Maybe there is something about returning to a known place which merits you the status of more comfortable, and less obviously misplaced. But I don’t feel displaced either, I know exactly where I am, most of the time.

Right across the street from my house is a shelter/prison for the minors who get deported from the US. We visited it because two students will work there, and so we get let in. locks on all the doors, a security guard, meanwhile most of the windows are broken. But you wouldn´t know it from the brightly colored orange wall which surrounds it. Inside, there are lots of people, lots of adolescent boys, some little boys, and a few pregnant women and a few women who have children who are there. People have to wait here until someone comes to pick them up or their family is contacted. The place smells like piss. There are no resources for any kind of activities, and i don´t write this to sound dramatic, but their eyes are simultaneously haughty and desperate... it´s not that they are special or unique or warrant any other kind of treatment than anyone else. But, I haven´t been able to stop thinking about those kids/people who are right there. I run right by their windows in the mornings, and there´s just something about the situation, both in a physical place sense and in a political-humane sense that i can´t get out of my head. Very few people know this place is in this neighborhood, which is odd. There are nice houses with gates, normal house with open doors, and then the ever so classic in Juarez (and I'm sure in many parts of the world), house which isn´t a house but just a big pile of concrete and shit that someone didn´t or couldn´t deal with.