I grew up in the outer Chicago suburbs. During the 80s and 90s there was some racial tension, not terribly serious, as successful, hard working immigrant families moved into some of the older neighborhoods. The kids in those families, my friends and peers, may or may not have been documented. I don't know and I don't care.
One of my first schoolboy crushes was Rosy. She had dark skin, big eyes, a terrific smile, and... well... she was ahead of the curve when it came to curves. I was smitten but of course, being terrifically shy and timid, kept my admiration private.
Maybe Rosy's parents took her over the border when she was a baby. Maybe she was born here. I don't know and I don't care.
I remember walking over to Victor's house as a kid. Victor showed me his stash of m80 firecrackers and we set one off in his yard. I thought he might be a troublemaker and was probably somewhat influenced by the "Mexican=gangbanger" white panic stereotype into worrying that guns or drugs were next after illegal firecrackers. So we didn't really become close friends. Later we played football together in high school. Now Victor does wonderful carpentry work, as I've learned after reconnecting on FB and seeing pictures of cabinets he installed. The panicky stereotypes making the rounds among white families in changing neighborhoods are laughable and embarrassing in retrospect.
Maybe Victor's parents took him over the border when he was a baby. Maybe he was born here. I don't know and I don't care.
Freshman year. Homecoming. Leo took the pitch from the quarterback and raced past the tackle. From my wide receiver position I feigned a block at the corner who shuffled past me charging at Leo. I ran into the end zone. Leo pulled the ball up and launched a wobbly bomb. It felt like forever as the ball hung in the air. I was wide open. The trick worked perfectly. Make this catch. Make this catch. Touchdown!
Maybe Leo's parents took him over the border when he was a baby. Maybe he was born here. I don't know and I don't care.
In my high school the hispanic population ranged from recent immigrants in separate ESL classes to typical "all American" teens. They all have a right to be here and if they don't have documents the problem is with the system and not with them. I'm especially moved when I hear stories like this one about Albert (who barely spoke Spanish) and his deportation to Mexico. I think that I could easily have had a best friend facing deportation. I think of the friends and peers I grew up with. We played together, learned together, partied together, and grew together. I get angry.
These are fond memories, but the period of integration was not without tension. One Sinco de Mayo there was a food fight in the cafeteria. From my perspective, the food seemed to have come flying primarily from a corner of the cafeteria where a group of Mexican-American students were sitting. These were more recent immigrants, less integrated than the kids I went to elementary school with. Maybe some one said something racist and they started throwing food. Maybe some one threw food their way and the retaliation was all that I saw. I had baked beans in my hair and I was pissed. When the principal said everyone should have to clean the mess around their table I blurted "make the beaners clean up; they started it". Not one of my finer moments.
We grow. We mature. We change. We progress. We gain perspective.
Some of our less progressive friends on the right lack the perspective that I have gained from growing up in a diverse community, from seeing first hand that stereotypes are unfounded, and from forming the emotional bonds that turn "them" into "us". That's why it's so important to speak up with our undocumented friends and neighbors. Estamos unidos para amnistia. Si se puede.