I have no experience as journalist yet, I have been drawn to the world of blogging because I simply have the desire to tell relevant, meaningful stories about the people and events that shape this the world we live in. I would like to say this was due to my education in social work, but I can not, because it has been instilled in me.
What I will say, my social work education has made me think about myself and why I have always been more fascinated by the stream of events that led up to a “newsworthy” event rather than the event itself.
My passion for uncovering the facts, connecting-the-dots between seemingly disparate events and disseminating the information to a larger audience is probably why I participated in the social dialogue – such as ePluribus Media, Booman Tribune, My Left Wing, Migra Matters and now on Texas KOS. I started out in ePluribus Media because of its overall mission as being an internet based group of citizen journalists reporting on current events. However, before I joined Texas KOS, I felt I needed to contribute more to my community, therefore, I started my own blog Para Justicia y Libertad. With that in mind, I also felt I could express my views without feeling limited on how I expressed myself and without worrying if it was professional or not. If I wanted to rage how I felt about immigration reform, corporate corruption and voter tampering, just to name a few, I could express it through my blog witout the worry if I offended someone who rather identify themselves as a centerist.
I am particularly interested in stories on topics where people think they know the facts, but in reality, they do not. For instance, after reading the media coverage surrounding Cinco de Mayo I decided to research the actual events that led to Cinco de Mayo becoming a day of historical significance. I was struck by the many details that are not commonly known, even by Hispanics, because they are not included in the usual coverage by the media or even in the History schoolbooks. By writing about it, I was able to go beyond what is usually written about subjects like this and others frequently covered by the media in a superficial manner citing the commonly held beliefs. I write in the hopes of educating the visitors at my blog and on community blogs such as this about both historical and current events that are affecting their lives. My interest and desire to get the story behind the stories is almost as old as I am and I think it is because I have been a life-long, interested observer of the defining moments experienced by those close to me.
When I say life-long, I mean almost literally life-long. One of my earliest memories and one that qualifies as a “life defining moment” for me is that of spending many hours of my very early childhood accompanying my parents to activities of the Raza Unida Party back in the days of Ramsey Muniz in Laredo, TX in the 70’s. My parents would take me on Saturdays to a local Community Center named “Centro Azlan” where they did volunteer work. I was only 3 or 4 years old at the time so while I observed all these events, my knowledge of those times is from hearing my parents reminisce as I grew older.
The Center was set up to help non-English speaking community members fill out government forms printed only in English, apply for housing assistance, explain correspondence written in “governmentese,” assist with funds to pay past due utility bills and other daily obstacles resulting from too little education and too little money, basically the same activities that social service agencies do today in predominantly minority neighborhoods. I guess some things never change. Having been a Girl Scout herself, my mom got the bright idea of organizing a Girl Scout troop at the Center. She attended training to be a Girl Scout Leader. She sent out invitations to families in the surrounding neighborhood. A few responded and she began to hold meetings thinking she could introduce these girls to one of the time-honored American experiences. It failed. The families could not afford the uniforms or the materials needed for the activities required for earning badges. For a while my parents would buy the materials themselves, but other bigger problems kept cropping up–no transportation to get to the center, no childcare available for the younger siblings except for this older child so she could not attend the meetings without bringing all the younger siblings with her. The group limped along until it just fizzled out. So much for this American Dream.
The Raza Unida Party also died out. There are many great books chronicling the decline of the Party in South Texas. The books describe the political wheeling and dealings, the rise and fall of various coalitions aimed at giving the Party a broader base, the great hopes, the crushing failures, the back stabbings and the final coup de grace — the arrest of Ramsey Muniz for drug possession. I remember hearing from my parents the folktale of a man carrying two buckets of live crabs. One bucket held Anglo crabs and the other held Chicano crabs. The one with the Anglo crabs had a cover but the Chicano crab bucket did not. The man was asked by a passer-by for his reason for doing this. The man answered, “If I don’t cover the Anglo crabs they will get out, but every time one of the Hispanic crabs tries to get out, some of the others reach up and drag it back down.” I believe this story describes the disillusionment and disappointment my parents felt with the Party that they hoped would give a voice to so many in their hometown.
The recollections of my parents regarding their desire to, like Don Quixote, fight injustice go even earlier. While a student at the local junior college, my mom led the first ever student protest. Was it against the Vietnam War? No, it was against the college cafeteria that was notorious for unhygienic practices. My parents recall having their food prepared by the same person who would accept payment without wearing gloves. Cups and glasses would have lipstick stains, and the final straw — a worm in the lettuce of their hamburger. This cafeteria had been part of the college for years, but it wasn’t until the social activism movement of the 60’s finally trickled down to this quiet, small town in South Texas that a group of students said “enough is enough” and scheduled a “sit-in” boycott as they were called in the 60’s. The student protestors marched to the President’s house located on the campus and requested to speak to the President. My mom recalls her voice trembling as she presented “the demands” to the President. (My mother had always been, in her own words, a “goody two shoes” who would never challenge authority.) She promised the President that they would not go the press if their demands for cleaner practices were met. The group sat outside the cafeteria eating the food they had brought from home until the President responded. The President agreed to meet with the owners of the cafeteria and get a commitment to clean up their act. To the protesters’ surprise and horror, the story did get into one of the San Antonio newspapers. My mom and her friends had no idea how this happened and were afraid they would get expelled from the college. Of course, nothing happened. The story was about two inches long in one of the inner pages and merely stated that in “this age of violent war protests, a group of students at a local college in Laredo had held a peaceful sit-in protesting the quality of the food in their cafeteria.” Was it a put down or a compliment? Who knows, but the fact that predominately Hispanic students had come together, with the verbal (though covert), support of several faculty members to protest something, anything was a first for a small junior college that had not exactly been a hotbed of student revolution since its founding in 1949.
That wasn’t the only act of defiance my mom and her friends exhibited in those days. They also protested the policy of the college of only recognizing students at an annual awards banquet who, not only were active in student activities, but also made the Dean’s list. My mom and her friends felt this was unfair to those students who helped with all the campus activities, but had average grades. The protest consisted of inviting students to the banquet who fell into this category as guests of the students receiving the “L” award. When the awards had been given out, my mom and her friends stood up, explained why they were protesting and asked for a round of applause for their guests. To their credit, the audience, including the faculty, did stand and applaud the students.
During this same time my dad was away at The University of Texas (adding at Austin was not necessary in those days) and was also breaking with expected behavior by coming home for his first visit from college sporting shoulder length hair and a Fu Manchu mustache and talking about the anti-war protests he had been attending. Much later in life he came to admit that he had never been more scared as when he and others marched from the campus to the federal building with police officers armed with shotguns at every corner. He recounts that regardless of the fear at the pit of his stomach, the sense of unity with others that were like-minded in their views of the Vietnam War, and truly believing that the war was wrong, was enough to overcome that fear. I can remember hearing from my parents of high school friends who never returned from the war and, of others who did, but were never the same. Though glad that Nixon ended the war, I can also remember the emotions that my father felt as more and more evidence surfaced related to Watergate, Nixon’s dirty tricks and the sense of victory at his resignation.
All these stories and many others that I grew up with fascinate me because the generation of my parents, growing up in a small Texas town on the Mexican border, were the children of Mexican immigrants who just wanted to remain under the radar while living, working and bringing up their children as best they could in a world dictated by Anglo rules. For many, the best defense was not rocking the boat and, undoubtedly, modeled this behavior in the presence of their children. Yet the climate of social activism managed to infiltrate down to this border town and influenced the future behavior of their children, and in my case, their grandchildren. It also gave rise to the emergence of such movements as the Raza Unida Party and, while it might have failed, its goals continued to be guiding principles for my parents and many other Hispanics of their generation.
Undoubtedly, the desire to bring about change, to give a voice to those who are also just wanting to live, work and bring up their children as best they can in an increasingly hostile environment towards immigrants, to acknowledge the contributions of those whose every day actions do not reach the level of “hero,” yet constitute the backbone of our city was passed on to me from my parents. Once again these events are occurring against the backdrop of a war which has polarized the country. How our collective past affects the present was never clearer than in the last Presidential election where the war time activities of the candidates became such a heated, emotional point of contention for so many. I want to write about these “defining moments” – the moments that continue to shape world view; the moments that effect our lives. Malcom X once said:
Once you change your philosophy, you change your thought pattern. Once you change your thought pattern, you change your — your attitude. Once you change your attitude, it changes your behavior pattern and then you go on into some action. As long as you gotta sit-down philosophy, you’ll have a sit-down thought pattern, and as long as you think that old sit-down thought you’ll be in some kind of sit-down action. They’ll have you sitting in everywhere. It’s not so good to refer to what you’re going to do as a sit-in. That right there castrates you. Right there it brings you down. What — What goes with it? What — Think of the image of someone sitting. An old woman can sit. An old man can sit. A chump can sit. A coward can sit. Anything can sit. Well you and I been sitting long enough, and it’s time today for us to start doing some standing, and some fighting to back that up.
Well, I am tired of sitting down, no I am tired of living on my knees – we have been suffering, and will continue to suffer if we continue to live this way. And like Emilio Zapata – I too rather die fighting on my feet.
In the short time I have participated on the community blogs and on my own blog, I am humbled by the number of visitors who have taken time to read what I wrote. I just hope I have provided the spark for them to get off their knees and fight.
