Via Dream Activist. More information on Tania Chairez and Jessica Hyejin Lee’s arrests at Dream Activist Pennsylvania.
Tag: life on the border
Arizona dispatches
Meanwhile, I’ve had several people asking what they can do for Tucson right now. There isn’t much honestly–it’s all watch and wait, and mostly we all are fine, if a little more sober than usual. But yesterday Gabrielle Giffords’ husband, Mark Kelly, mentioned in an official statement that if anyone feels inspired to make a positive gesture, two charities Giffords has long supported are the American Red Cross and Tucson’s Community Food Bank.
You all already know about the Red Cross, which is most folks’ first thought after a tragedy, so I’ll put in a word for our local Community Food Bank. Because it’s well-run, it’s an important community resource (and has an excellent reputation in that community), and it makes a real difference in real lives here every single day. And, well, like so many places, Tucson’s been hit pretty hard by the current economic situation, and the food bank has been feeling that, too.
So, as Mark Kelly says, support and good thoughts and prayers really are enough. This isn’t a request or suggestion that anyone should do more. But I know that sometimes people look for something concrete that they can do when something awful happens–and if you are, a donation to Tucson’s Community Food Bank in honor of the victims of Saturday’s shooting is something that I can say without reservation would make real lives in Tucson better.
Seriously, Arizona? SERIOUSLY?
Much of the rest of the day has been spent following updates on various news sites.
So here’s the thing. Tucson is a small town grown large. Our congresspeople are not distant figures. The places you’re hearing about in the news today are not distant places, either. I know that intersection. It’s on the other side of town–and we complain Tucson has grown large sometimes, that it takes so long to get there. But it isn’t all that large, not really.
Gabby Giffords is my congresswoman. Those are my fellow Tucsonans who shop at that Safeway. Friends of mine know Giffords, went to school with her. She’s a member of my synagogue. (A synagogue that’s already in mourning. I spent the day hoping not to get an email that began, “Blessed be her memory …”) A couple of my former Scouts posed in ads with her when they were small and she was running for state representative. A week before she was elected to her first national term, she and some staffers were sitting in the same coffeeshop I write in, hopeful and excited.
Giffords is one of ours, part of our community. I am stunned and sad and furious at the people living here who apparently don’t understand that. I’m hoping hard that she recovers, and knowing that won’t bring back those who’ve already died.
Because, yeah. There’s another friend, wondering about her school district, and a class of nine-year-olds who are going to be trying to make sense of what they hear when they return to school Monday, about the death of one of their classmates. There’s an aide to Giffords, and a federal judge, and three others, who have also died. Our people, our community.
This is a national tragedy, but it’s a local one, too.
Arizona, we’re better than this. Tucson, we’re totally better than this.
Let’s start remembering that, okay?
More on the Dream Act
So last night, the Dream Act–which allows some undocumented young people, who’ve grown up here just like you and I have, to stay in this country if they go to college or enlist in the military–passed in the House by a narrow 211-208 margin. Which is the farthest, to my knowledge, that this act has ever gotten … but it’s still in the senate, where as I understand it it’s been fillibustered for some time. (ETA: And now tabled, after a 59/40 vote in same, to be considered again next week.)
Meaning, if you’re a U.S. citizen and it’s your inclination, this might be a really good time to give your own senators a call.
Here’s another thing I’ve been thinking about: As a writer and reader of young adult books? The teens the Dream Act affects are part of our community. They’re part of who I write for, and they’re part of who I share this genre full of books I love to read with.
Looking at it another way: A teen who’s worked hard all their life but who risks being cast out of the only home they’ve ever known if the wrong people find out who they are? (Because as I learned, a teen can be deported alone right now, even if their parents are allowed to stay in this country.) That sounds just like the hero of a YA novel to me.
Except that unlike in a YA novel, we adults get to–need to–be part of the solution.
How I learned about the Dream Act
What I learned was, the solution I was looking for did not exist. I learned that maybe, if one of my protagonist’s American citizen brothers had a serious enough medical condition, possibly my protagonist’s parents would be allowed to stay in the U.S. But my teen protagonist would still be deported without them. (I had to reread the email explaining this to make sure I understood. A minor can be forced to leave this country alone. Truly.) I learned that my protagonist’s younger brothers, once adults, could request that my protagonist be allowed back into this country. If she was lucky, 14 years after her request was submitted, she would be allowed to return. I learned that my protagonist’s parents couldn’t have come here legally even if they’d been willing to wait 14 years, or longer–because there was no line for them to get into, no legal way to enter this country at all.
But thousands of teens just like her are not fictional. They’ve grown up in this country, have been shaped by it, and know it in as deep a way as any of us do. They’re working as hard as any of us, but even so they’re graduating from high school knowing that, unlike all the other teens they’ve grown up alongside, they can’t simply go to college, continue working hard, build a life here, and contribute to the lives of the rest of us who live here with them.
The Dream Act is trying to change this. It would allow at least some undocumented students who graduate high school to get a temporary residence permit under the condition that they go to college or enlist in the military.
The Dream Act is being debated in the House as we speak, and may be voted on today. I’ve called my representative to let her know I support it, and was told she’s still listening to opinions from constituents before deciding how to vote. Maybe your representative is still listening as well. If you think letting kids who’ve grown up here go to college and stay here is a good idea, today would be an excellent day to call and tell him or her so.
I don’t say this often, but I would really love it if, one day soon, I had to explain to readers why my new short story was already so terribly dated.
Running away to Bordertown
What I really wanted, though I didn’t quite know it at the time, was to run away to someplace like Bordertown, a city on the (human side of) the border between our world and Faerie that drew on the magic of both worlds.
When I bought that first computer and began writing seriously, I hadn’t actually read any the Bordertown books yet, and wouldn’t for some years, though I was cheerfully devouring new urban fantasy books by Emma Bull and Charles de Lint and Meghan Lindholm and writers who were a part of Bordertown as well.
I don’t know exactly when I read the Bordertown–maybe not long after coming to Tucson? I didn’t read all of them. It’s hard to remember which ones I did read, though, because Bordertown has become so much a part of the landscape of fantasy that on reread it all feels strangely familiar. I know I read all the stories in Bordertown, and Elsewhere when it came out from Jane Yolen Books as well. I know I didn’t read Finder for years, though I’d always meant to and once I did I wondered why on earth I’d waited so long.
But it wasn’t until I read or reread the Bordertown books this past year that I recognized, in the runaways seeking magic within its pages, that same longing that drew me to reading fantasy, and writing it, and dreaming of running away to cities I didn’t know.
In truth, I only dreamed of running away for a few years–just enough time to figure out that finding a community of writers wasn’t something that required running away. It was something that could happen when you looked around you and built a community in the place you were already planted. Magic is like that too, actually, and urban fantasy knows this better than any other genre–that you don’t have to run away or cross into some other world to find magic (though you can), because it’s here, around us, in whatever city or town or landscape we live in, if we only know how to look. So I began finding my own communities and my own magic, first in St. Louis, then in Tucson. I wrote, and I grew up, and time passed.
Fast forward nearly twenty years. I’m working on the sequel to Bones of Faerie, which may or may not be an urban fantasy–the definitions have grown pretty fuzzy, over the past two decades–set in and around St. Louis. I have a reasonably tight deadline for Faerie Winter, so as much as I love writing short fiction, I’ve decided I won’t write any more of it until the book is done. I’ve decided I won’t take on any other writing commitments at all, fiction ones or day-job non-fiction ones.
And then I this email. From ellen_kushner and blackholly. Asking if I would write a Bordertown story.
I think it actually took me a whole five minutes to accept. Mostly because, you know, I had to finish squeeing and making other incoherent sounds first.
Some things, you make the time for.
Writing a Bordertown story was very much about channeling my inner younger writer self, the one who was just discovering urban fantasy books and who wanted magic so badly. (Of course, part of me wants it still–my inner and outer children have never lived very far away from one another.) It was about finally running off to the place that I wanted to run off to all those years ago. It was also, a little, about arguing with that place, because when you return to somewhere you first glimpsed long ago, the view changes–since, of course, you’ve changed.
Most of all, visiting Bordertown–writing Bordertown, being in Bordertown–was a whole lot of fun. I’m still thrilled and delighted and grateful and honored to have spent some time there. (And it turned out Bordertown wanted some things from me in turn–but that’s the subject of a whole other post.)
Anyway, all of this is by way of saying that yesterday, when I saw the new Welcome to Bordertown cover, I was very very happy:
My characters don’t get there by motorcycle, and they don’t manage to catch the train like Wolfboy and others have, either. (Though they do, briefly, manage to hitch a ride on Ye Olde Unicorn Trolley once they arrive.) Everyone gets to Bordertown in their own way, and for my protagonist, that way involves a long hot walk through the dry dusty desert, because that’s how we cross borders around here.
Welcome to Bordertown is due out in May–the full table of contents is here. I hope you have as much fun visiting and revisiting this city on the border of tech and magic as I did.
All Soul’s Procession
I don’t know why it took me so long to finally make it to Tucson’s All Soul’s Procession, but I’m glad to have finally gone this year.
Thousands of people dressed up in white paint and skeletal faces–along with dress up clothes of all sorts: black suits and black dresses, yes, but also bright reds and various other sparkling, glittering colors. Together they marched, some pulling elaborate floats, others alone with just a name or two held on a sign or hanging from their necks, to remember their dead and all the dead. Those of us gathered on the sidelines on Fourth Avenue were given pieces of paper, too, so that we could write down our own names and put them in a cauldron that would be burned when the procession made its way downtown. (We were also reminded that anyone was welcome to march, if they chose to.)
The costumes and dancers spanned the world, from Mexico to China and Japan to Scandinavia, from folklorica dancers in bright skirts to Vikings in a faux dragon boat. There was a dead wedding procession (of course), and countless drummers, and our local bellydance group. There were signs held up, too, for those lost in the desert south of Tucson, and in Afghanistan, and in Iraq; for those lost to various illnesses and various forms of discrimination. There were accordion and string players, drummers or all sorts, and countless individuals, not part of the larger groups, in flowers and white paint, or not, walking, dancing, remembering the dead.
I felt joy and tears together, which is, of course, the point. Because tonight the dead dressed up and came out to dance.
And reminded us, without words, that we should be dancing, too.
Yesterday
And two snapshots from downtown Tucson yesterday:
– At an area down in Presidio Park for kids to draw pictures about how they feel about SB1070, a crayon drawing reading: “I Hate SB1070 Because It Takes Parents Away From Children.” The drawings in general focused on fears of parents being taken away from kids, actually. Not a perspective one gets much on the larger immigration debate in this country, actually.
– At the main protest down at the state building: An infant, just barely standing, wearing a button: “Reasonably suspicious.” This just made me smile and smile.
I spent about an hour out there mid-afternoon. It was a small crowd then, but beginning to grow when I left. Apparently the crowd swelled large enough, by rush hour, to block traffic and lead to arrests.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
So two days ago–the day before SB1070 went into partial effect–I had a conversation with an acquaintance about the law. It was an uncomfortable conversation, because I’d assumed we were in agreement until we began talking, because the words “they” and “them” were tossed around a lot in unkind ways, because my acquaintance seemed more concerned about her own comfort and safety than that of those who are actually in danger. But mostly it was uncomfortable because of how angry it left me–even during the conversation, I found myself interrupting, talking over my acquaintance’s words in my anger at the things she was saying–and anger kept me from arguing well, because it was so uncomfortable to even hear what she was saying.
This was still on my mind when I went downtown yesterday and stood outside with SB1070 protestors in front of the state building. I’d say about two-thirds of the cars that drove by were supportive–honking, waving, smiling, quietly giving thumbs-ups. But there were also significant numbers of people frowning, shaking their heads, shouting at us.
Smiled at the old white man in his car who sat shaking his head as he waited for the light to turn, smiled at the younger man who pointed and told us “Mexico’s that way,” smiled at the bus driver who scowled as he rode on past. I wasn’t the only one doing this, of course. As one man shouted at us from his car while also waiting for the light to change, protestors around me cheered and called out “have a nice day” and “God bless you.” The light was long; by the time he drove off, that man was half-laughing in spite of himself, even as he waved us off with a “go to hell” sort of gesture. I count that as a victory. Later, walking back to my car, when a woman asked me about the sign I was carrying and then began ranting at me about how stupid the protests were, I was able to respond with less heat than the day before, and also to extricate myself from the conversation once I was done stating my view and it was clear she wasn’t truly listening. And I was able to walk away feeling less angry and frustrated myself. There’s a part of me that’s always been a little hesitant to get involved politically, because it does make me angry, and I find–no surprise–that being angry over the long term is pretty uncomfortable. As I drove home, I was reminded–as I had been at the protest back in May–that it’s possible to do this thing in a joyful way, and that while that doesn’t make the anger go away, exactly, it makes it makes it manageable–keeps it from getting in the way. The notion of acting out of love rather than hate is an old, old notion, one that was central to the last civil rights movement. I knew that. But what I didn’t quite understand is that doing so isn’t only a moral position, and it isn’t only about kindness and decency toward the people one is protesting against. It’s about the protestor. It’s about protecting oneself, about keeping one’s psyche in a place where one can remain involved, rather than quickly burning out and needing to withdraw. I’m still thinking about this.
Arizona and SB1070 as of today
A judge announced a temporary injunction against the worst parts of the bill yesterday. Among other things, in Arizona: law enforcement is not yet required to check the immigration status of anyone they pull over for a minor offense if that person seems–for reasons that have never been well-defined–“reasonably suspicious”; it’s not yet a crime for non-citizens not to carry immigration papers–and so there’s also not yet justification for detaining citizens who don’t carry immigration papers because to someone or other they look like non-citizens; and warrantless arrests of those suspected of having committed deportable offenses are not yet legal.
Things that have gone into effect today, as I understand it, include that it’s now a crime in Arizona to so much as offer a ride to anyone who’s not here legally. How one is supposed to judge this when deciding whom to give rides to is, again, unclear.
And so we wait.
In Phoenix/Maricopa County, there were reports of unlawful detentions of citizens not carrying what are deemed sufficient documentation of said citizenship even before the law was supposed to take effect. If you’re visiting our state and are stopped by the local police or by border patrol, here’s an ACLU card detailing what your civil rights are and how to respond.
For Tucsonans, there’s an ongoing protest in Presidio Park until 3:30 p.m. today. (Can’t make it this morning; am hoping to stop by this afternoon.) There are almost certainly protests at the state capitol in Phoenix, too, though I don’t have the details.
For those of you in Arkansas, Idaho, Indiana, Maryland, Michigan, Minnesota, Missouri, Nebraska, Nevada, New Jersey, Ohio, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Texas, and Utah: your states are considering SB1070-like laws of their own. It’s not too late to find out more and begin acting against them.
Thank an Arizona bookseller for opposing SB1070
For those of you who don’t live here, though, there’s something you can do, too. Because one of the participants is our local indie bookstore, Antigone Books. Antigone Books is part of Indie Bound. Like many bookstores, they’ll order anything they don’t have in stock, and they’ll ship books to non-locals.
So the next time you order books online, why not order from Antigone? And when you do, include a note thanking them for opposing SB1070.
Please do spread the word. It’d be lovely if this independent bookstore that’s so much a part of our community could see that others have noticed not everyone in Arizona supports this unjust law, and that we all appreciate their willingness to fight it.