The weekend was truly a beautiful experience. Whether it was making tortillas, going to the river, playing guitar with her younger siblings and sobrinos (nieces and nephews) or answering their questions about how to say different things in English, to listening to the stories of her and her mother Julia, I felt so at home. My heart was so full of peace and happiness with this family, and I feel so blessed to spend this time with them.
During this experience I realized in greater depth the importance of living in Accompaniment and Solidarity with the Salvadoran people, from two contrasting meetings. After Mass Sunday we went to a meeting with a group of students who are sponsored by a wealthy gringo family from Cincinnati, Ohio. The family sponsors about 35 students from Chiltupan by paying their fees to attend university. Without this support these students would not have the opportunity to study otherwise. The experience for me was rather strange and uncomfortable. I didn’t feel like I fit anywhere. In this experience I was reminded of the poem by Gloria Anzaldua “Borderlands” because truly her words reflected my currently reality. This can best be explained as Zaidy introduced herself, her mother, and then me and the reaction of the gringo family when I spoke to them in English. They were shocked, because they thought I was another student they were sponsoring. And really there reaction made me think of other times when traveling through the States, often with my family, how people would be shocked at our ability to speak perfect English. How discrimination is real part of my life because it is alive and well in the United States, and in my experiences here I find deep similarities because of the oppression of mi familia in South Texas to the Salvadoran people I accompany. Truly as expressed by Gloria, I live in the borderlands.
However, this meeting left me contemplating how the US defines solidarity. As I listened to the students and their parents sharing their deep gratitude for the support of these gringos, I saw how much was lost in translation. How in a way these Salvadoran people although in the same physical space with this gringo family was so far away from them. The gringo family could not see the tears of immense gratitude and suffering of the mothers and connect it to the testimony of their own grandmother like I was. I realized that solidarity in the US is defined by money. That solidarity and charity had an inseparable definition.
“I will give you this support so you can make a better life for yourself as long as I can see the return of my investment. Then I will make a trip to ensure what I am paying for meets my standards.”
I continued to see this kind of measuring up to something in this meeting, which broke my heart. But it wasn’t until after another meeting with becario alumni I understood why. Later that evening we met with two becarios, who were part of the Romero Program about 4-5 years earlier. As they recollected memories, they continued to speak of Fr. Dean Brackley. Fr. Dean was a Jesuit, who after the death of the six Jesuit Martyrs and their concinera and her daughter was assonated by the military in 1989, offered his whole life to the Salvadoran people. He passed away two years ago from cancer. Part of his work was creating Casa de la Solidaridad and the Romero Program. During the meeting Julio, a member of the equipo continued to say, “People would always ask Fr. Dean, why don’t we invest in more students? Six per year is a small number and we could do so much more. But Fr. Dean would always reply it is not a matter of numbers, it is about the person and helping them have a holistic experience.” This is truly solidaridad. Empowering another to embrace their most authentic self, to realize the sacredness of their story, hold the weight of their suffering and greatness of their joy. Knowing that everything in en camino con Dios y cominidad, because solidarity has no measurement or boundaires. Solidaridad is truly sin fronteras.
“Borderlands” –Gloria Anzaldua
To live in the Borderlands you are
are neither hispana india negra española
ni gabacha, eres mestiza, mulata, half-breed
caught in the crossfire between camps
while carrying all five races on your back
not knowing which side to turn to, run from;
To live in the Borderlands means knowing
that the india in you, betrayed for 500 years,
is no longer speaking to you,
that mexicanas call you rajetas,
that denying the Anglo inside you
is as bad as having denied the Indian or Black;
Cuando vives in la frontera
people walk through you, the wind steals your voice,
you’re a burra, buey, scapegoat,
forerunner of a new race,
half and half—both woman and man, neither—
a new gender;
To live in the Borderlands means to
put chile in the borscht,
eat whole wheat tortillas,
speak Tex-Mex with a Brooklyn accent;
be stopped by la migra at the border checkpoints;
Living in the Borderlands means you fight hard to
resist the gold elixir beckoning from the bottle,
the pull of the gun barrel,
the rope crushing the hollow of your throat;
In the Borderlands
you are the battleground
where enemies are kin to each other;
you are at home, a stranger,
the border disputes have been settled
the volley of shots have shattered the truce
you are wounded, lost in action
dead, fighting back;
To live in the Borderlands means
the mill with the razor white teeth wants to shred off
your olive-red skin, crush out the kernel, your heart
pound you pinch you roll you out
smelling like white bread but dead;
To survive the Borderlands
you must live sin fronteras
be a crossroads.
gabacha: a Chicano term for a white woman
rajetas: literally, “split,” that is, having betrayed your word
burra: donkey
buey: oxen
sin fronteras: without borders
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