A letter to immigrants past and present

“I am searching for words that do not betray me.”

There was a time when television was enjoyable.  Now announcer words infuriate me; as such I watch it less because I told myself I would never be that one member of the family who was always yelling at the people inside the show. Yet even as screen sits silent, the words still echo inside eardrums:

“They are taking our jobs….”

My father was born in 1936 in Wyoming to my grandparents after they crossed. He had asthma, so he had difficulty filling the 30-pound sack wrapped around his waist with potatoes that brought in nickels for the family. In the evenings, he would pass the time with his siblings chasing the trucks that sprayed DDT on the fields. He was five. Pesticides are a known cause of cancer and birth defects. Fifty-five years forward, two of my grandfather’s daughters would die from cancer. I am grateful my father is still living.

“But they are criminals…..”

The other morning my phone rang earlier than normal. It was a colleague who taught at a Middle School in Watts. His voice strained, he said simply: one of my students need’s help; immigration raided her home last night and took away her mother for not having papers. She is left alone and does not know where to go or where they took her mom. Can you offer any help?

An eleven-year-old little girl with caramel colored skin and eyes almond shaped now faces life inside a foster system because under the cover of shadows, men with badges stole her mother. I often wish that theft of one’s childhood were a crime.

“Remember this is OUR country”

There are days where my skin pretends to be of another nationality, but my tongue betrays me. English is the only language it speaks. However my soul is tri-lingual, dancing across dialects: local, global and spiritual.  It sings hymns that remind me borders are imaginary lines reinforced with real weaponry; my heart carves poems that challenge an economy of fear that entire banking systems are built upon.

In arguments, I am able to offer an array of data that counters every common misconception of immigrants in the public realm. Remind individuals that an undocumented immigrant pays a higher percentage of their taxes than the average citizen, is less likely to commit a crime, or use illegal substances than the average citizen. FBI research shows that the highest amount of drug abuse happens in affluent communities and so forth.

Yet this is not the dialogue I want to build upon. One that reduces immigration to numbers and statistics, economics and self-interest, rather than the sweat, flesh, blood, and tears that comprise the lives of those who live a human reality complicated by immigration policies, whether they are documented or not.  I was raised to speak with people, not about them - and reminded to do otherwise is rude.

The phrase “this is ours” implies  a separate class of people who must be told “this is not yours.” If “ours” is a collective ownership of a land and an idea that is limited in access, I ask those who use such phrases how they obtained ownership of said idea or land: was it purchased, inherited, passed on? When did Earth sign your deed of purchase? I know my family’s experience, have ancestors who played drums that  echoed across deserts before America was even imagined, when India was a dream in an explorer’s hat. Look closely at your deed of ownership,  chances are it was signed with our blood. I will write love poems that transcends legal limitations, I will decolonize my imagination and language, speak new words that do not betray me. I will remind myself, I am human, and recite it like mantra.

Life. Love. Language. Land
These are all the things ever stolen from us. They are everything we will reclaim.

Disabled Vet Standing on His Own New Feet

Chapter I

On May 23, at 6:00 a.m., Chang Wong and his tank crew were out on patrol when they were struck by a roadside bomb.

“I remember looking through my tank sight and a second later, my head was pushed way back, away from the sight,” Wong recalls. “I looked around and noticed that my both feet were severely damaged.”

Wong tried to stand and run, but couldn’t lift himself up. So he started yelling for help. “When they finally pulled me out, I was in so much pain and adrenaline I started cursing and yelling,” Wong says. “Throughout the entire ordeal, I was conscious until the field nurses and doctors put me to sleep.”

Doctors at the field hospital at the giant U.S. military base in Balad amputated both of Wong’s feet. They had initially hoped to save his right foot, but because of the severity of the fractures and poor blood circulation, they had no choice but to remove it as well.

Little did Wong know, his life was hanging by a thread. The blast from the Improvised Explosive Device (IED) did more than damage his feet; it sent shock waves that rippled throughout his entire body causing further complications.

L.A. Vets Project - Sgt. Chang Wong from New America Media on Vimeo.

Both lungs collapsed, which nearly ended his life; Wong was also given 55 units of blood. Because of the severity of the situation, the Army doctors had an extremely difficult decision to make: whether to use a medical device not approved by the military and face possible reprimands, or continue with conventional methods that were not helping Wong recover.

After eight very precious days, Wong was airlifted to Regensburg University Hospital in Germany, where he would be treated with the unapproved medical device, the “nova-lung.” This machine is intricate and unique for its size (it looks like a compact disc player with four tubes) because it mimics and performs like a set of real lungs. The “nova lung” is connected to the veins and arteries, found near the groin. And as the blood circulates throughout the body, it passes from the patient’s veins through the machine, where it releases carbon dioxide and picks up oxygen. For the next two crucial weeks, Wong was fighting for his life once again. He had fevers over 100 degrees, non-clotting nosebleeds, and tubes going into and coming out of his chest.

Once Wong was stabilized, they transferred him to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany, the U.S. military’s largest hospital in Europe. Finally, on June 22, 2005 – nearly a month after the IED blast – he was moved to his final destination, Fort Sam Houston, near San Antonio, Texas, where he would receive the remainder of his medical care and begin the long road to recovery.

Chapter II

Chang Wong’s mother, Lien Chu remembers receiving a telephone call. For one whole week, she said she cried her heart out. The military sent her and his father, David Wong, to Germany, where they spent three weeks, in and out of the hospital, caring for their son. After leaving Germany, both parents accompanied him to Texas.

For the first few weeks, his mother would accompany Wong, day and night, and speak to him until he slowly fell asleep. She would stay with him for the next five months.

As Wong was weeded off heavy sedatives, he began to realize that both his legs were amputated below the knee. And at the young age of 23, he found it extremely difficult to accept this reality. He immediately went into denial.

Wong speaks about his battle through depression with such strength and resilience. “I was scared; I was terrified; I was afraid that if I fell back asleep I wouldn’t wake back up again… I didn’t eat, didn’t drink, and didn’t feel like talking but also didn’t want to be alone. And it wasn’t until the 4th of July weekend that I fully accepted all the events leading up to present day and moved forward. I had friends and relatives, who flew in to see me but at that time, I didn’t care for visitors. I begged my mother to leave me behind, to go back home and carry on with her life. She defiantly refused and kept telling me that she would do no such thing. I then turned to my friend, Sara Zigman, and asked if she would convince my mom to leave me be; she also refused.”

“At this point, I gave up and decided to lay there, restless. My mom, thinking that I was finally calm decided to pour some water into my mouth and with no such luck, grew increasingly angry, upset, and tired. She wound her hand back and slapped me across the face; the pain registered, it felt real, I came to the realization that I was not dreaming, that this wasn’t some horrendous dream or trick my mind was playing on me.”

Following that incident, Wong gradually accepted his outcome and decided never to look back and pity himself.

Lieu Chu poured out her heart to take care of her son, consistent with Asian family values — filial piety, parental care and interdependency. These notions define specific rules of conduct in social relationships and place great importance on the family. The family provides support and assistance to each individual member; in turn, individual members provide support and assistance to the entire family. These relationships, interactions, and obligations are lifelong; and the goal of individual members is not necessarily autonomy or independence.

Charter III

After graduating from Alhambra High School in 2000, Wong had plans to attend a local community college but because he had just received his permanent resident status, he was charged as an out-of-state student. Not wanting to pay such a high fee for a community college, he decided to take that year off and enroll for the following fall semester.

Before the new school year began, a few of his friends approached him about serving in the United States military. They told him his college tuition would be paid for, that he would acquire leadership skills, and see different parts of the world. After giving the idea of serving in the military some thought, Wong took on the commitment. Without notifying his parents, he enlisted in the United States Army. His parents were shocked and extremely upset when they found out. It is atypical for someone with a Chinese heritage to enlist into the military voluntarily because in Asia, military service is a requirement.

August 2001, Wong was sent to Fort Knox, Ky., for basic training and one-station-unit training (OSUT). After completing the grueling, four-month training, he was deployed to South Korea for a one-year tour and from there, he deployed back stateside to Fort Irwin, Calif., where he remained before deploying to Iraq. On January 2005, his unit was activated and deployed to Iraq. Wong was a tank gunner in the 1st squadron, 11th Armor Calvary Regiment.

Born in 1982, in Malacca, Malaysia, Chang Wong is of Chinese decent. His family immigrated to America when he was two. Before enlisting into the U.S. military, he had just received his green card and was not yet naturalized. Prior to his deployment to Iraq, Wong sent in his application to be naturalized and was waiting for an interview and a swear-in date. He received notice in May and was relieved that he would soon become a United States citizen. But because Wong had joined the military, he never had a chance to make that interview; therefore, immigration authorities requested an immigration officer from Italy to set up a naturalization ceremony for him at the hospital in Germany. Wong was finally naturalized on June 13, 2005, three weeks after losing his legs in Iraq.

His naturalization ceremony was atypical. He doesn’t remember it because he was sworn in a medically induced coma.

Charter IV

In April 2006, Wong returned back home to the city of Alhambra. That following summer, he enrolled at Pasadena City College, the school he had planned to attend before joining the military. After completing his general education requirements, he applied and was accepted to California State University, Fullerton, where he is pursuing a bachelor’s degree in business. He is expecting to graduate no later than 2011. While attending Cal State Fullerton, he is staying with his aunt in Rowland Heights.

Chang Wong received his first prosthesis in August of 2005; the first pair of legs was temporary. After several major and minor adjustments and improvements, he received a pair of permanent prosthesis in early 2006. When he bathes, he sits on a chair and removes his prosthesis; afterwards, he puts his prosthesis back on.

After using the prosthesis for a period of time, they need to be adjusted, refitted and modified, but the prosthetics manufacturing company requires the approval of the Department of Veteran Affairs before they can begin any type of adjustment and modification requests. In order for this to occur, Wong needs to be seen by the VA prosthetists and this takes between several weeks and several months. He hopes that this process will become more efficient and less time consuming.

Oftentimes, Chang Wong will wear pants over his prosthesis, which makes him look like any able-bodied person. However, this “healthy” appearance also brings him problems.

For example, one time, when Wong drove himself to the campus, he parked his car in a disabled parking spot. Since he appears young and “healthy” looking, other people who are around, frown, look down upon him, and even harass him for parking in the disabled spot. Security guards and campus police have also questioned him—“How did you get this handicapped parking permit?” He had to produce his veteran certificate of disability, and sometimes he even lifted his pant leg to reveal his metal prosthesis before they believe him. As a veteran who sacrificed life and limb for this country, he feels he has been wronged but also understands why.

In the summer, Wong wears shorts and runs at a park near his home, using specialized running prostheses that resemble skis. Children are often curious and even follow him around to watch him run. Wong isn’t embarrassed by his appearance but finds it uncomfortable when adults stare at him like he has been cursed.

While at school, he does not participate in sports; but he plays wheelchair basketball with friends and occasionally swims and skis.

Chapter V

Today, Chang Wong is being compensated for his disability from the Veterans Administration and Social Security. In addition, he receives free medical services in military hospitals. Fortunately, even in this economic downturn, Wong is able to meet his financial obligations and live somewhat comfortably.

Wong, like many other wounded soldiers and marines, were in a fight for survival. Fortunately, due to advancements in body armor, medical procedures, and such, his chances of survival increased dramatically—compared to soldiers and marines who served in Vietnam or World War II.

With that in mind, soldiers would come back from the battlefield alive but with very serious, visible amputations and disfigurement. In addition, they came back with less visible injuries—post traumatic stress syndrome. Similar to the experiences of veterans before him, they all face the long and sometimes, very lonely road to recovery. Like all major obstacles in life, overcoming this or any hurdle requires perseverance, support, and a strong will to keep pressing forward.

Wong is a strong-willed individual who wanted nothing more than to recover—physically, mentally, and spiritually—and return back to his normal life. He began setting recovery goals that were very unrealistic and when he did not meet his goals, he pushed himself even further and harder. His ambition, focus, and dedication were unreal and he fully recovered in less than eight months.

But Wong’s journey is not over. As the years go by, it will become even more complicated. Not only will he have to overcome any difficulties that may take shape but also now he must deal with the degrading stares, misunderstandings, and discrimination.

Wong’s home is located in U.S. Rep. Adam Schiff’s district. The reporter called Yvonne Hsu, the congressman’s district representative, and asked how Schiff’s office can help veterans, such as Chang Wong. Hsu asked Wong to call the office—she would like to speak to him in order to determine what types of benefits he is eligible for. She also hopes Wong and other veterans know that if they require any assistance from the Department of Veterans Affairs (VA), they are welcome to contact their elected officials.

Chang said he would give her a call after midterms.

–

This article originally appeared on New America Media.

How two illegal voyages led to my American Dream

My mom was 4-years-old when she first dreamed about going to the United States. Sitting in front of the church in the impoverished village she grew up in, called Paraiso de Osorio in El Salvador, she watched a newsreel of President John F. Kennedy giving a speech, with the American flag waving in the background. Watching those images, she said to herself that the United States was where she wanted to go.

She was born in 1954 and grew up in a small village where there were dirt roads, no hospitals, fire or police stations, and no water or electricity. My mom rarely wore shoes. There were also seven other children in the family, making it more difficult to have aspirations in a life filled with destitution.

My dad was also influenced and inspired by Kennedy. He used to get care packages to feed children, which the U.S. sent through a program started by Kennedy. My dad was born in 1950 in a city called Santo Tomas, where he lived in a tin-roof house and showered with cold water in the outhouse. Working at age 17 to provide for his mother and sister, my dad had a strong work ethic and desire to leave his country.

Kennedy’s politics also had an impact on my dad, who grew as the radical and revolutionary type in the Central American country. But his love for the political climate in the war-torn country – which eventually erupted into a violent 12-year civil war – didn’t make him stay. He needed money to survive and he wasn’t finding it there.

Separately, my parents left the country in 1978 and began their illegal voyages, walking through mountains, dirt and mud to cramp into vans and big rigs with other immigrants headed on the same path. They made their way to the City of Angels.

For 11 days, my mom traveled through Guatemala, Mexico and into the United States. She paid three smugglers working together $900 to take her from El Salvador to L.A. My mom and 21 other immigrants walked from Tijuana to San Diego for 10 hours. Struggling to walk through the hills and mountains, several immigrants collapsed from exhaustion. After making it to San Diego, there was still the trip to Los Angeles. She and 80 others cramped into a hot and humid big rig. People fainted and almost suffocated. However, when the truck reached San Clemente, immigration officials stopped it for 25 minutes. They knocked on the truck and asked if anyone was there. The immigrants remained silent.

My mom arrived to a parking lot in downtown L.A. She shared an apartment with six other women. There are only two options for immigrants: working in a factory or housekeeping. But at a factory she would have been easily caught and it paid very little. She became a housekeeper for wealthy families, something she still does.

Throughout my dad’s trip, he met men who played folk songs to keep them positive about their journey to America. Arriving to Tijuana, he found a smuggler and crossed rivers and mountains into San Diego. He arrived to the same apartment my mom lived in. Landing his first job as a brick layer, he made $2.50 an hour, which was substantially more than what he used to make. However, the boss didn’t find his work satisfactory and started yelling at him: “Get out of here you f-ing Mexican!” Starting in 1979, there were random raids in Hispanic-dominated areas. My dad recalls one weekend of fun that ended in his deportation. There was a party in the apartment, and my dad, mom and aunt were sitting outside on the apartment steps. An immigration van came and they ran. My dad was hit in the head, dragged off and deported. He came back a couple of months later and found a job as a mold-maker in a factory where he still works after 30 years.

They became naturalized citizens in 1996. Gaining legality, they were able to cast their first votes for President Bill Clinton.

Looking at how my parents desperately wanted to leave their third-world country, I can’t blame them or others like them from wanting to come to America, legally or not. Should they come here legally? Yes, but how easy and possible is that? It can take years. I have a half-sister from El Salvador who has been waiting over 10 years just to get a Visa. With such animosity and anti-immigrant sentiment directed towards Hispanics, it’s a shame that we still blame a people who come for survival, the way past immigrants of different cultures and races did. In my case, my parents never went on welfare or asked for handouts, and still managed to own a home. My parents worked to own their home. They’re illegal journey made me who I am today and made what I’ve accomplished possible. I have an education and am a graduate thanks to them. Luckily I’ve surpassed any poverty my parents faced as children. We’re not the stereotype or the villains in this country like we’re made out to be. But because I’m “brown,” that’s the stigma placed on me. I know what it is to be brown, but maybe not to the extent of others who probably face more and much worse than I ever have. I recently heard of a proposed California ballot initiative for next year’s June election that would require parents to prove U.S. citizenship or legal residency to receive their child’s birth certificate. If they can’t, they would have to pay for a certificate acknowledging the child’s “Birth to a Foreign Parent.” Does that mean that because my parents weren’t lawfully here when I was born I wouldn’t be a considered a U.S. citizen? Does that mean future generations won’t get that chance? Through my parents experience, I’ve developed the empathy and sympathy to understand their plights. And such a measure is unfortunate, especially in a country that supposedly embraces differences and encourages economic prosperity.

–

Editor’s Note: Minority Dreams asked its readers and writers to submit personal immigration stories, explain why it matters and how it has shaped them individually. Juliette Funes recently graduated from Cal State Fullerton and is interning at the LA Times Calender Desk.

President Obama’s speech combines rhetoric with hope

There had never been an American president who gave a speech like President Obama did this morning to the shared world of America and Islam.

It was brave in its vulnerability.

The president of the United States stood alone at the podium of Cairo University, looked the world in the eye, and then hoped to speak something new into existence.

The president unraveled there a masterpiece of political art that I believe our children will study in history, political science and communications classes in years to come.

President Obama redefined the War on Terror as a war that brings the Middle East and America together.

He redefined it as a shared struggle. A jihad, not between the Muslim World and the West, but against those who dehumanize any of us.

The War on Terror, President Obama seemed to be saying, now recognizes the Arabs who have been killed by violent political extremists as much as any New Yorker on 9/11, any Israeli killed when a bomb is detonated or any Palestinian refused their identity and suffering as the Israeli settlements expand.

He spoke of a hope to see the same shared desires connecting Washington, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Egypt, Israel and Saudi Arabia.

But first we must stop being “defined by our differences,” he said. Because when we do, we “empower those who sow hatred rather than peace, those who promote conflict rather than the cooperation that can help all of our people achieve justice and prosperity. This cycle of suspicion and discord must end.”

I could see Dick Cheney and Osama Bin Laden cringing at their dislike for this attempted new reality.

But Obama went even further.

“America and Islam are not exclusive and need not be in competition,” Obama said as he tried to convince us that we are actually not just facing the same threats but also sharing each others achievements.

“Instead, Islam and America overlap, and share common principles – principles of justice and progress, tolerance and the dignity of all human beings,” Obama said.

No longer did I feel like it was us versus them, but just us.

Islam, President Obama proclaimed, has been part of America from the beginning. Islam has benefited the most honored areas of our society and its achievements.

Mosques are found in every state and “when the first Muslim American was recently elected to Congress, he took the oath to defend our Constitution using the same Holy Quran that one of our Founding Fathers – Thomas Jefferson – kept in his personal library.”

It is true that, “It’s easier to start wars than to end them. It’s easier to blame others than to look inward,” as the president said.

But if we can recognize that we are all living our lives based on the same principles of treating each other as we would wish to be treated, maybe we can reject notions those who have divided us try to force down our throats.

Maybe we can start by creating a better understanding of Islam and America and do it for each other.

Building Ourselves in America

As far back as I can remember, my family’s life has stretched across two parts of the world: America and the Middle East. We tore our hearts in two and buried them on opposite ends of the globe, traveling between them as we chased after a higher cause my dad labeled i’mar al-ard. Although the phrase doesn’t translate very well in English, it means something like “building the world,” and was my dad’s way of dedicating his life to doing something – anything – that would leave a positive impact on this planet he called home.

As he taught us later, building the world was a simple cycle in which we learned as much as humanly possible about the world we were in, while simultaneously working to make that world a better place. It was a wonderfully vague life plan that could adapt to any dream, take root in any soil. It would propel us around the globe, where we would meet all colors of people, and would (at least I hope) make us quite colorful as well. But my dad would never have dreamed, as he lay on his balcony in Syria watching the sky like a teenage Ché Guevara, that it would take him and his future family to America.

In preparation for his bit of building the world, my father spent his youth chasing knowledge the way he used to chase soccer balls in the alleys of Damascus. From the clutches of his family he ran to college in neighboring Halab. From a war that rained bombs in Halab he ran to Saudi Arabia to explore the uncharted territories of computer science. When machines didn’t satisfy his curiosity about the world, he set his sights on a place across the globe that was said to have enough libraries to satiate even Averroes. He and his wife packed all of their belongings in two suitcases, grabbed their two infants and jumped across a few continents and an ocean before landing in the middle of Chicago. They had nothing but those two suitcases, three thousand dollars in their wallets, and countless prayers to God – who they called by His Arabic name, Allah – that things would turn out alright.

My parents, when they set out, had no idea what was waiting for them in the country that was home to Hollywood and the White House. They would have been shocked to hear that they were going to stay there for over a decade, rather than the five years they had envisioned. They couldn’t foresee the Muslim communities that would take them in as long-lost cousins, my mom’s discovery of teaching and addiction to Burger King, my dad’s multiple lives as student, car dealer and activist, or their children’s mastery of English at the expense of the language of the Quran.

They didn’t know that a few years later they would make another life-changing trip, this time halfway across the continent, after my dad discovered an unmatchable political science program and a liberal Islamic Center in Los Angeles.  They would fall in love with the San Fernando Valley, which eased the pain of homesickness with of all the Muslims it held in its lap and with its mountains, sisters of the mountains that encircled Damascus. I only understood what they were talking about years later when I drove through Damascus for the first time, and felt a sudden pang for the LA home I’d left when I was fifteen.

By the end of my freshman year of high school, we had decided to move to the Middle East, this time to Dubai. With two master’s degrees and a PhD under his belt, my dad felt that the time for his formal education was over. It was now to be the era of building. Building bridges between the two parts of the globe dearest to him. And as for us kids, it was time for us to formally meet the other half of our hearts – the annual summer trips we’d taken back to the Middle East were not enough to make us Middle Easterners. So we carted ourselves off to Dubai, not knowing whether to laugh or cry the whole way there.

Years later in the Middle East, my family is still under the spell of i’mar al-ard: that endless cycle of learning and working. And we’re still torn between our two halves. My dad makes trips back to the U.S. once or twice a year, my brother and I are doing our undergrad at a local American university with our eyes on New York for work and grad school, and my mom is a lover of all things organic in the best tradition of California culture.

But while we’re each busy trying to build our own world, it’s important to stop and recognize what built us. Among the many forces in our lives, America had no small role in helping us with our i’mar al-nafs, our “building the self.” It is the privileges, challenges and pleasures of American life that made us who we are today. And from the many lessons America taught us, perhaps the most important one is this: new worlds can always be created from those already existing. It’s a lesson we hold tight to, no matter what part of this Earth we find ourselves in.

–

Editor’s Note: Minority Dreams asked its readers and writers to submit personal immigration stories, explain why it matters and how it has shaped them individually. Nour Merza is a regular contributor at Minority Dreams and keeps a blog at Crisscrossing Borders.

Obama, Chavez gesture shakes leftist beliefs

It had become so easy to be an angry leftist during the past 8 years.

But then President Barack Obama came along and shook hands with Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez.

It was so mature of the president of the United States to shake hands with someone with whom there was a history of tension. It confused me. I mean even JFK acted like a boy when he tried to kill Fidel Castro with explosive cigars.

And George Bush Jr. Well….

I had grown so secure being able to recognize America with it’s swagger. I didn’t recognize
America however, as its leader gracefully and maturely smiled while shaking hands with the communist leader, who was not accepting money as he pretended to not disagree with the U.S.

And yet as I smoked my Shisha and watched Al Jazerra, I turned to my friend and said, “I am so proud of my president.”

For a second, I turned my eyes to the floor and thought of something negative to say. Luckily, I found Pakistan in my file of useful unresolved complaints.

But it wasn’t like before. Something had changed.

In shock, I sat there as a libral Muslim now inspired by the American president. I then began to speak again.

I do not entirely agree with capitalism. But Barack Obama has caused me to believe that we can all contribute to our society.

President Obama, with that handshake, has allowed me to believe that as a Muslim socialist democrat, I am, too, worth a handshake. It also makes me think that the U.S. deserves the same.

With that gesture, I now think I should advocate my beliefs because it will serve the U.S., not because I hate the U.S.

I do not want to become an angry ideologue. I want to become a clear thinker who treats a capitalist as I would like to be treated.

There are many angry leftists who are still having a hard time balancing their beliefs with the new opportunities we are witnessing. They feel comfortable with their anger. It’s their identity.

But Barack Obama has inspired me to transform.

God willing, we as a nation will transform together.

–
Watch CNN’s coverage of Obama and Chavez here.

Interested in checking out Chavez’s recommended reading to Obama? Check it out on Amazon.

–
Credit: Abrahim Appel, 30, a freelance journalist residing in Fullerton, California. He recently acquired his B.A in Afro-Ethnic and American Indian Studies from Cal State Fullerton. He works as a live-in caregiver and is researching masters and PhD programs in Arab-Diaspora Studies or International Relations with an emphasis on ethnic relations while considering a career with the Peace Corps. Contact him at Abrahim AT minoritydreams DOT com.

US immigration policy more complex than white and blue

Let me begin by saying that there are two, distinct classes of jobs in the United State (or broadly, the West): “blue collar” labor jobs and “white collar” professional jobs. It is a common fallacy in argument for advocates on both sides to assume the term “job” is merely one type of work.

Obama’s administration is working towards legalizing the status of currently-unauthorized immigrants in the United States. I cannot stress enough that these immigrants are not white-collar workers; they are a majority blue-collar workers. This means the jobs they presently work are low-skill and low-paying. The Republican argument that illegal immigrants are taking away from American jobs in light of the current economic conditions, is a weak one. Americans losing their jobs today are primarily semi or full professionals - including venture capitalists booted from Wall Street. Due to the obvious gap in job qualifications, it is no wonder unemployed Americans are not taking to the streets protesting the shifts of illegal immigrants working as janitors, restaurant bussers, construction workers and the like.  We would much rather take state unemployment benefits and keep searching for a position that best matches our qualifications than to resort to blue-collar work.

It is also very important to understand the infrastructure of the American economy, the lifestyle habits of the West and how the two affect each other. Western nations, including the United States, tend to have smaller family sizes due to work schedules and other socio-economic restraints. This may seem like a menial fact, but in fact makes a great impact on our economy. The sheer size of the American economy demands for a large workforce. Given that American families do not produce enough children to off-set the demand of their economy, the United States needs immigrants to support the economic infrastructure.

There is also the questionable history of the US foreign policy that has resulted in instability and difficult living conditions in other countries. This includes unfair trading practices such as protectionism that is resulting in poverty abroad and American demand for drugs such as cocaine that continue to fuel drug wars in countries such as Colombia and Mexico. A majority of illegal immigrants are simply attempting to escape these conditions and better the lives of their families. Wouldn’t anyone? I am not, however, condoning illegal immigration into any state. We should respect the sovereignty of other states, inclusive of their laws of governance. If we are to live within a state, we must abide by its laws alongside its citizenry. But given the complexity of the issue of immigration and America’s dependence on it to sustain her own socio-economic identity, simply expelling illegal immigrants will not only negatively impact our own economy but our crucial ties with the international community.

–
Credit: Maha Kamal graduated with her B.A. in International Affairs from the University of Colorado at Boulder. She is currently preparing for her post-graduate studies in international law, business and diplomacy. Maha also enjoys learning new languages, painting and web design in her free time. You may reach her at maha.kamal@colorado.edu.

Obama changes strategy on Cuba, not philosophy

No, Barack Obama does not want to wear your Che Guevara T-shirt.

The recent policy changes toward Cuba are changes in strategy, not philosophy. America still seeks to destabilize the Communist thinking government.

But the Administration is switching ideological sides. It is admitting that decades of American policies toward Cuba began to make Uncle Sam look mean, old and out of touch. And maybe, isolation even helped the Communist government keep control of Cuba.

Remember, Obama is calm and flexible guy who likes to at least try to talk. He aims to make things more positive and see what happens.

And it looks like he was right about America being okay with that.

CNN recently said that its own polls showed that 64 percent of Americans were okay with lifting travel restrictions to Cuba. Another 71 percent were even okay with diplomatic relations between the two countries.

« Previous Page