PART OF WHAT makes me feel gross inside this hoopla, this ultra hyper TV extravaganza-palooza that both parties are telegasming 24-7 is ICE, cracking down with serious force on gente while the popcorn is being buttered and the lights being dimmed.
PART OF WHAT makes me feel gross inside this hoopla, this ultra hyper TV extravaganza-palooza that both parties are telegasming 24-7 is that ICE is cracking down with serious force on gente while the popcorn is being buttered and the lights being dimmed.
The scared elites on their sparkling shining heaps use all they can out there: media, distraction, propaganda, general ignorance, and all means of misdirection and misrepresentation to continue the war on the Brown®, the poor, the “meek”, some might say. I wouldn’t say. I would say that the fringe elements of this society surround the center, eh? Not so meek. Combined, las mujeres, the brown, the black, the golden, the gay, the women—all those who are not accounted for in the “UNIVERSAL”, in the default setting, make up quite a lot. Or maybe the “center” of this growing weave is not ‘whites’, but just those without honor, without heart, without sensitivity, without integrity. And the fringes…we’re bones and emotion. We’re fire and grito. We’re seeing things for what they are.
But either way, that’s always the aristocrat game. Divide and conquer the rabble.
Like this article, hey, it’s even titled Immigrant raid divides a Mississippi town.
LAUREL, MISS. — Fabiola Pena considered running away from her factory job when she realized she was being targeted in a federal immigration raid. She was deterred when she noticed the helicopters hovering overhead.
But helicopters were not what shocked Pena the most on her last, fateful day at Howard Industries, the largest employer in this small Southern town. It was the black co-workers who clapped and cheered, Pena said, as she and hundreds of other Latino immigrant laborers were arrested and hauled away.“They said we took their jobs, but I was working from 6 a.m. to 8 p.m.,” said Pena, 21, a day after the raid last week that resulted in the arrest of nearly 600 suspected illegal immigrants. “I didn’t see them working like us.”
“They need to go and do this in every little town,” Tonya Jackson said.
Jackson, who is black, said that over the years she had applied numerous times for a job at the locally owned manufacturer, which employs about 4,000 workers. Jackson, 30, said she never received a callback. The raid, she said, was a welcome purge of illegal Latino laborers who had taken jobs they didn’t deserve.
“We’ve been here all our lives,” she said. “And it seems like they have just arrived and are getting the nice cars and the good homes.”
Because that’s sort of what these pendejos want. They want me to go head to head, and they want it to be with the blacks who are my friends. While they write these filthy essays determined to divide us, we really ought to simply remember the FIELDS.
Who has worked THE FIELDS? Who dies in the FIELDS?
THEM? Or your people and mine?
They seek to divide us. They seek to impress upon us their own Model of Scarcity (sombrero tip a Theriomorph), their own fears of losing the ability to suck up all the resources, their own fear of the hordes of Others coming to steal their treasure. They want us to adopt it so we fight their fearful battle and they keep their polished hands well-softened. The elites, those with batallions of fears marching in on their piles of wealth, armies of advantages at their command, even actual armies and private armies and five houses, hundreds of thousands or millions of dollares.
You and me? We have nada. But no—
We have hope, we have love, we have familia, we have pride. We have our histories, and our herstories and all our stories. We have heart. Let us remember this, it is all we have. So many give theirs away or leave it sitting cold and unattended, or woo it with a hail of coin.
Let us keep ours whole and in each other’s keeping. This storm won’t last forever. We will be the ones standing.
Just last Monday as the Democratic Convention was getting underway the largest immigration raid ever took place. 595 people were arrested. This post is a call for help.
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I HAD A ROUGH DAY in Denver. My second to the last day. I don’t have time to write much out, as tomorrow I leave for the RNC. But I traveled another mile in this journey I walk, the one that began with El Grito back in 2006. It was a good feeling, a good realization, a good mile. But it hurt. And I just about broke Twitter with sheer fury that morning. The moments kept adding up, you see. Day after day. From the bus rides and the racist attitudes of a handful of whites around me who wouldnt stop offering their ignorant views, to the agenda of the MSM. One moment was when a latina activist and amiga was used by a WaPo reporter who she trusted. But Vargas, the slimeball, put words in her mouth, added Latina Stereotyping to the article, and changed her very political stances.
Another moment was when ICE was raiding mississippi with the biggest raid yet, families were being destroyed, labor workers were cheering—cheering cheering cheering. I kept hearing cheering On the news everywhere was cheering and laughing and confetti falling for a multimillion dollar party. On the bus was sneering. So we speak of MLK and a brand new day and hope and hope and hope for change. And everywhere I looked, arrows and daggers and walls are closing in on people. Chota on the streets with bats and bullets and beatdowns for the people who dare to stand up and speak to the State. Abuse and control, not in any new way, perhaps. But it wasn’t change I can believe in. And so I removed myself from the lobby and sat out in the sun by the pool and cried.
And I wasn’t interested in standing with sardines, wasting hours in line to go watch the big scripted event. (Which is why Kai and I took the route we did.) I was left empty in the belly with this “representation” and the Hope of the Day and the Story of the Day. It wasn’t my Story of the Day, you see. And it did not give me enough hope.
It’s funny. I had a bit to do with the formation (and all of the design) of The Sanctuary. That, in part, came out of my disappointment with Ykos 07. (A XOLAGRAFIK documentary not yet made, but it will be, footage is all digitized.)
While I was in Denver, someone from an org sent a carom shot through someone else to attempt to tame my voice, or teach me framing. As if. You see why they didn’t waste their time and come straight to me, but put it in someone else’s ear? Well, they know it’s a waste of time. Although it’s not the last time an org or org person mentioned the same.
But oye, I don’t frame. I don’t “Frame” and I don’t FRAME. I speak my heart and mind. I do not do it for some dull or dry or ideological reason, nor to be an Ally or a friend or a Political Activist. I do it like I would stand in front of my mother or mijita or mi amor if a threat showed up. I do it for Lucha, and for Felipe. For Jeno and Alejo. For Juanita and Vicente. Mi familia. Mi gente. And nothing you say speaks to me louder than their voices.
And anyway, I’m doing it for me. And I already know how to speak my heart.
But to add injury to insult, the types of groups that imagine they somehow deserve the bullhorn for Migrant Advocacy? They equivocate, say one thing, do another, or just turn their backs when it counts, like the blanquitos they wish I would be. Nobody at the DNC—aside from my little posse of sanity—was talking about the raids in any way that mattered.
It’s you and me, gente. We are many and we are strong. Let us not be convinced otherwise. Let us stand together.
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