A D&S Special Report

Texas

The Forgotten Colonias: Covid-19 Poses Added Burdens for Unincorporated Immigrant Communities at the Border

Colonias in the El Paso area often lack basic services such as sewer systems, water, electricity and internet access. (Photo courtesy of Bethsaida Mondrago)

By Ayse Kelce

Two days after Texas Gov. Greg Abbot issued a stay-at-home order to curb the spread of Covid-19, a water main broke in an informal settlement, known as a colonia, near Clint and the U.S.-Mexico border, leaving residents without water for more than 14 hours.

“It was really frustrating because, remember, one thing we tell people is wash your hands,” said state Representative Mary Edna González, whose District 75 covers the Clint area, east of El Paso. “If you don’t have any water, and then all the stores are out of bottled water…It was just chaos.”

González, speaking during a Zoom interview on May 24, about 10 days after the incident, added that the lockdown had exacerbated the difficult living conditions, caused by a lack of basic resources, that residents of colonias had long faced.

Colonias are unincorporated neighborhoods around the U.S.-Mexican border that experience issues with accessing internet connections and potable water and often lack sewer systems, garbage pickup, paved roads as well as safe and sanitary housing. With the spread of the coronavirus, these largely immigrant communities are facing additional, unique challenges when it comes to accessing education, receiving Covid-19 relief from the federal government and getting accurate census counts.

States along the border, such as Arizona, California, New Mexico and Texas, have high numbers of immigrant populations and colonia settlements. Texas has the biggest population of colonias with around 500,000 people living in 2,294 colonias, according to research by the Federal Reserve Bank of Dallas.

Marcelino Navarette, 61, who lives in one of these incorporated neighborhoods around West El Paso, said access to water is an issue in his neighborhood as well.

“We haven’t had water here for the 22 years that I’ve been here. It is a little unfair for the representatives of El Paso or the county not to help us with regards to the water service,” he said in Spanish, after struggling to find a spot in his house where the phone connection would not be lost.

He explained that in his neighborhood, residents buy water from companies that deliver it in trucks, charging around $100 for about 1,200 gallons. “There’s mainly only two trucks that deliver water,” he said, adding that during the summer months, the wait time increases to get water. With the coronavirus, waits are already long.

Accessing water is not the only struggle for colonia residents. “We do have light in our homes, but around the streets, everything is just dark,” he said.

Unpaved roads are the only way to get to the colonias near Hueco Tanks, east of El Paso. (Photo courtesy of Daniel Navarette)

Colonias started forming in the 1950s for low-income individuals–most of them immigrants– seeking affordable housing in rural areas.

“The colonias are typically a response to wanting that same suburban house, but without the ability to get into the debt system that finances houses for the mass of consumers,” said Prof. Josiah Heyman of the University of Texas at El Paso.

Heyman, an anthropologist who is the director of UTEP’s Center for Interamerican and Border Studies, explained that colonias are often home to working class people like construction or service workers who manage to get together some money to purchase a piece of land and build a mobile house.

Navarrete’s son Dan, 34, was raised in the colonias from the age of 9. He agrees that his community needs easier access to water and internet connection the most, especially since the coronavirus lockdown forced residents to stay home.

“One of my cousins was going to school and they’re sending him all the classes online but he’s having a hard time getting access to the internet,” said the younger Navarrete. The cousin, who goes to high school in El Paso, returned to Juarez, Mexico, just across the border, after the schools closed because his parents were in Mexico and the sketchy internet connection in the colonias was not allowing him to catch up with schoolwork.

“I think it’s better for him over there because over here he won’t have access to the internet because the schools are closed, and the libraries are closed,” the younger Navarrete said. “There’s no way for him to access his homework,” the younger Navarrete said.

Dan Navarette currently lives in East El Paso in a mobile home with his wife and two kids and works in the oil fields in New Mexico.  He considers himself to be one of the lucky ones who still gets paid a minimum amount without having to go to work; due to the economic downturn caused by Covid-19, his company laid off many workers. “It’s a program that the company has,” he said, adding that most people in his community work in construction or warehouses. “They’ll lay you off for a month, but they’ll still pay you for it. Not your whole salary but something you can live off of.”

Along with infrastructure and internet issues, colonia residents also are mostly on their own when it comes to health care during this pandemic.

“In Texas specifically, we have done a really bad job of providing rural health,” González said. She explained that while Covid-19 testing is key to slowing the spread of the virus, many colonia residents were having difficulty getting to test sites.

She said that for some people, the closest site was 40 minutes away.

“So it’s 80 minutes away, back and forth. That’s just driving; most families don’t have cars or have one vehicle per family,” she explained. “Showing symptoms, there’s no way that they can even get 80 miles, especially if there are kids and there’s all this complexity. We have not done enough to do mobile sites.”

Marcelino Navarette said that even before the coronavirus pandemic, he had similar difficulties getting medical care. “Since the closest hospital or any access to medical services are so far away, sometimes it takes a whole day, even when you have an appointment because we have to drive,” he said. He explained that there were no clinics close to where he lives, and getting to and from the nearest hospital–a 15 mile drive–is very time consuming.

Texas’ efforts to inform Texans about the coronavirus pandemic also failed to reach the colonias, according to González. “I don’t think we’ve had enough bilingual communication,” she said. “The governor has been doing a lot of press conferences and they are sending out a lot of resources. But it’s all in English. More than 40 percent of the border colonias have limited English proficiency, according to the data shared by the Federal Reserve Bank of Dallas.

The coronavirus lockdown has worsened the economic hardships faced by residents of colonias, whose median household incomes are less than $30,000. According to Dallas Federal Bank, 73.1 percent of colonia residents are U.S. citizens, meaning that the rest, nearly 30 percent, were undocumented or not naturalized, making them ineligible for federal coronavirus stimulus funds. Additionally, married couples who file taxes jointly are also unable to access stimulus funding if one of them is an undocumented immigrant. This decision largely affects communities like colonias whose residents depend heavily on public assistance and where many families have various members with different immigration statuses.

Local politicians and non-profit organizations have stepped up to offer additional assistance for residents of the colonias, but they say not enough help is reaching people in need. The Border Network for Human Rights has been working with González to provide resources through private donations. González described their work as a “Band-aid situation.”

“Although we are appreciative of the trillions in stimulus funding provided by the federal government to date, few of the programs created provide relief for immigrant families,” González and five other state representatives wrote in a letter to their congresswoman, U.S. Rep. Veronica Escobar. “Their inclusion in stimulus funding is necessary to ensure that they too have the resources to stay home to slow the spread of Covid-19 without losing their livelihoods.”

“Immigrants, whether documented or undocumented, are part of the backbone of El Paso and communities across Texas and the nation,” the letter continued, thanking Escobar for her work in the Congress so far.

The coronavirus lockdown also could impede efforts to secure government funding for future improvements because it is making it more difficult for residents to participate in the 2020 U.S. Census. Getting accurate census counts also gets harder in the colonias as one third of the residents do not have citizenship.

“Some people that I know who don’t have any legal papers to be here…are very afraid of someone coming up to them and asking questions in their house,” Dan Navarette said. He added that he still has not received his census form in mail, but his parents who live farther from the city limits have.

The elder Navarette said that he had filled out the census, but he is not hopeful that having an accurate count will actually bring public services to his neighborhood since he has not seen any changes in many years.

Indeed, Navarette is an exception. The average census response rate in Texas is just 48 percent,” according to González. Her census efforts have moved online because of Covid-19 and the need for social distancing, mainly to platforms like Facebook and Twitter. Those efforts, however, are least likely to reach the colonias.

When asked about voting in the upcoming 2020 election, Dan Navarette laughed. “Right now for me, elections or voting are not in my mind. Right now, it’s about being safe and go buy whatever you need for groceries and come back home,” he said.

The younger Navarrete said that some colonias were 50 miles away from voting stations in schools, which discouraged a lot of people from voting in the past. His father added that local politicians informed them about where to go and vote, but it still was not enough.

“I don’t feel that it really makes a difference. Because for these 22 years that I have been out here, really nothing has changed,” he said.

 

 

 

 

Inside the Border Patrol: The Conflicted Identities of Immigration Enforcers

An agent patrols a checkpoint alone in El Paso. (Photo by the U.S. Border Patrol’s El Paso Sector Strategic Communications Branch)

By Annmarie Gajdos and  Juan Diego Ramirez

Born in Mexico, U.S. Border Patrol Agent Antunez served in the U.S. Army. After being deployed to Iraq in the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, he received his American citizenship. Described as both a proud American citizen and a lover of Mexico by his colleague Agent Sara M. Cabrera, Antunez is just one of the many U.S. Border Patrol agents who are responsible for policing an area that they also call home.

When asked about this complicated relationship, Agent Ernesto Mena said: “The job itself is a very difficult, challenging job. You’ve got to keep that in mind. We’re human beings. We’re here to do a job. And a lot of times it’s not very pretty.”

The U.S. Border Patrol plays an important social and economic role at the Southwest border. Agents, who are often members of a binational community straddling the U.S. and Mexico, deal with the compounded stress of a job that is both physically dangerous and mentally draining, and the stigma caused by the national outcry against Trump-era immigration policies. Frequently changing strategies and the effects of Covid-19 have further complicated their role.

During a Zoom presentation and interview in mid-April, two agents and an intergovernmental public liaison from the Border Police’s El Paso station described the work of what they said is a largely misunderstood government agency.

Often associated with U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), the Border Patrol is an agency within the Department of Homeland Security. It is responsible for protecting and enforcing immigration laws at the border, and also is in charge of maintaining traffic checkpoints, conducting city patrols and transportation checks. Officers work with local police departments to solve cases involving Amber Alerts and anti-smuggling investigations such as the concealment of narcotics. In contrast, ICE enforces immigration laws throughout the rest of the United States and is responsible for arresting and removing undocumented migrants.

A member of the border patrol’s All-Terrain Vehicle (ATV) unit patrols the border wall. (Photo by the U.S. Border Patrol’s El Paso Sector Strategic Communications Branch)

The Border Police is a federal police force whose mission is to “detect and prevent the illegal entry of aliens into the United States,” according to the U.S. Customs Department.  In the eyes of some of the American public, they are the face of anti-immigration policies. Described in a Sept. 15, 2019, article in the New York Times as a by and large “willing enforcer of the Trump administration’s harshest immigration policies,” the U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP) has been scrutinized by countless media outlets and American residents for its role in carrying out President Trump’s Zero-Tolerance and Remain in Mexico (MPP) policies. However, the agency’s role is most convoluted at the Southwestern border.

The CBP El Paso sector, which includes all of New Mexico and two counties in far west Texas, employs 2,400 agents. The force patrols over 268 miles of international boundaries. The job is not easy. Every agent must participate in the Academy in Artesia, N.M., in preparation for the job. The most dangerous part: Every officer patrols alone. With only 19,000 agents guarding all of the nation’s borders, a number that pales in comparison with the 35,000 officers employed by the New York Police Department alone, the agency’s aggressive recruiting program fails to meet its quota by more than 1,800 agents nationwide, according to Politico.

For those living along the border, joining CBP is considered a ticket to the middle class. With only a high school diploma, a starting agent can earn $55,800 a year plus overtime. This figure can grow to $100,000 in as little as four years. This is a promising option for individuals living in El Paso, where the 2017 median household income was $44,416, a figure 25 percent lower than the average median income in Texas.

Twenty percent of the residents in El Paso live in poverty. Thus, well-paying government jobs, ranking right below education in popularity, attract 8 percent of the workforce in El Paso. Fort Bliss, the second largest Army base in the country, is the largest employer in the El Paso metro area, contributing $23.1 billion to the Texas economy in 2017. The Department of Homeland Security’s Customs and Border Protection program employs more than 10,700 workers in the area, according to data compiled by the Federal Reserve Bank of Dallas.

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Another popular choice of employment, health services, increased by 28 percent from 2010 to 2017, thanks to companies like Tenet Health and Las Palmeras Del Sol Healthcare. But wages across all employment sectors in El Paso are still lower than the national average. Large corporations with the ability to employ many people have not yet moved into the area. “If you go to the Career Day in my local high school, all it is there is Mary González, State Rep, and Law Enforcement. There are no doctors, nurses, or anything else. It’s really just Law Enforcement. It’s the only opportunity given to a lot of these young people,” says Mary González, the State Representative for House District 75, an area just east of El Paso.

In the Socorro Independent School District, the second largest school district in El Paso, students who do not enroll in four-year colleges often choose a career in law enforcement.

“If you look at our state, at Dallas, San Antonio, Houston, that’s the triangle of our state; most of the major companies, Google, Apple, are relocating to that area,” said Hector Reyna, the school district’s Chief Technology Officer. “Unfortunately, our kids, when they graduate, the majority of them have to leave for those high-paying jobs.”

However, those who do not make this decision have a feasible alternative: joining the Border Patrol.

For members of the El Paso community, Border Patrol agents represent more than just uniformed officers. They are neighbors, friends and oftentimes the relatives of members of the larger Latino community.

“Almost everybody knows somebody who is an agent or has a family member, a father, a brother-in-law,” said Irene Mortensen, the Community Relations Officer for the CBP’s El Paso sector. “So, we are very integrated with the community and we do things to try to explain to the community what we do.”

“Most of our agents do have backgrounds or families from Mexico and some of them go on their weekends, they go visit their families and come back; but they do understand that a job is a job and the law is the law,” added Cabrera, an agent in El Paso who hails from Puerto Rico.

Despite the national stigma, members of the El Paso community respect Border Patrol agents. Agent Cabrera said: “If you have a family member that’s in it and you feel that need to serve your country and you want to do something better for yourself, it is a very big option. It is a very well-paid job so you can provide for your family. So that is very attractive to a lot of people. Also, they see us as part of the community.”

Border patrol agents detain migrants at the Southwest border. (Photo by the U.S. Border Patrol’s El Paso Sector Strategic Communications Branch)

Still, living in a binational community poses difficulties. Often times, agents must deal with criticism from the American public. Officers’ responsibilities also have changed immensely since 2014, when a large influx of immigrants from Central America began arriving at the Southwest Border. In 2019, 851,508 individuals were apprehended, with record highs from Guatemala (264,168), Honduras (253,795) and Mexico (166,458). Many long-time officers have witnessed a stark shift in their original responsibilities.

State Representative González lives two miles from the Migrant Detention Center in Clint, where over 700 children were held in cells over the summer of 2019. Border Patrol agents called her and alerted her to the crisis, just as they had informed their superiors. They told her that they were at capacity and that nobody knew what to do. A lack of resources and a lack of initiative from upper leadership initiated an onslaught of criticism against Border Patrol agents, who were poorly equipped to handle the challenges of the immigration influx.

“There’s some low points during the recent influx,” said Agent Ernesto Mena. “It was overwhelming. The number of people that we were dealing with was just astonishing. We’ve never seen this before in our lives.”

During this time, agents were furloughed. Those who remained on the job were expected to work for 69 days, despite a government shutdown.

The events playing out at the border over the past several years have taken an emotional toll on members of the force. The suicide rate for Customs and Border Protection (CBP) officers is 28 percent higher than that of any other law enforcement agency in the country, states Quartz. El Paso, with 7 reported suicides from 2007-2019, accounted for 15 percent of the CBP’s total suicides and had the third highest rate out of nine sectors, according to an internal government report acquired by Quartz.

Mexicans and Americans gather at the border for an annual binational mass organized by the Catholic Dioceses of Las Cruces, El Paso and Juarez; border patrol agents stand guard. (Photo by the U.S. Border Patrol’s El Paso Sector Strategic Communications Branch)

Officers received taunts and hate mail on a daily basis. In 2019, the President of the Agents’ Union received death threats.

Representative González: “These [Border Patrol agents] are still human beings, who are usually from low-income communities…You can’t say abolish ICE and not think about the Latino families that are part of that system too and were intentionally put in that system by larger forces.”

Concerns about the mental health of officers are evident. Officers are given Employee Assistance Program (EAP) services and a variety of free counseling services. In May 2019, the CBP requested an additional $2.1 million for the agency’s EAP program. But Agent Mena said: “We’re our own best support here. We spend so much time with each other. It’s just we know each other so well and when something’s not right, we pick up on the other person.”

Covid-19 had not made their job any easier. By closing borders to reduce the spread of the virus, immigrants encountered by the Border Patrol must be returned to their nearest port of entry. “It’s very difficult,” said Agent Cabrera. “Sometimes the way that you find out is the way that we find out. Right, you’re watching the news and all of sudden this comes up and then we’re like, oh, well, good, let’s wait for them to give us the guidance. It’s very difficult.”

 

The Pandemic Stymies Efforts to Help the Poorest Communities: Local Organizations that Provide Vital Social Supports Are Impeded by Social Distancing

Church volunteers sort donations and put together bags of groceries for Sacred Heart’s food pantry, one of the few in-person programs the church is maintaining during the pandemic. (Photo by the Rev. Stephen Pitts)

By Anacaona Martinez Rodriguez and Amanda Salazar

At the Sacred Heart Catholic Church in El Paso’s “El Segundo” neighborhood, just blocks from the city’s main border crossing to Juarez, Mexico, the Rev. Stephen Pitts worries how parishioners are faring without the many outreach services the church has had to stop, or scale back, under the state’s coronavirus stay-at-home order.

But he is most worried about the emotional toll that the lockdown is having on members.

“These people have survived the violence in Juarez; the fact that they can’t be together now is worse,” Pitts said during a video interview after the state went into lockdown to curb the spread of the virus on April 13. “That’s how they survive everything. I think there’s a lot of loneliness.”

For families at the border who depend on religious institutions and community activities in times of hardship, not being able to congregate and ride out the challenges created by the pandemic together has been particularly difficult, he said.

High school players from El Segundo Barrio Soccer Club compete in El Paso. (Photo courtesy of El Segundo Barrio Soccer Club’s Facebook page)

Organizers of El Segundo Soccer Club, which engages children in league sports and supports the families of its players, also have ceased all games and activities, including plans to take one of its teams to participate in the state championship.

“All of that just canceled right now,” said Juan Adame, one of the coaches of the soccer club, which started in 2011 and has grown to serve about 150 children, ages eight to 18.

“We never thought nine years ago something like this was going to stop all that,” Adame said. “The state tournament is very important for all these kids because it’s been the way that we’ve been kind of selling it to this team, to everybody. ‘If you win state, you’re going to be recognized.’”

Without being able to go to states, he said, the players have lost the possibility of realizing a high-profile win, possibly playing in college and then, just maybe, playing professionally.

Sacred Heart and El Segundo Soccer club serve one of the most disadvantaged neighborhoods in the country. According to U.S. Census data from El Segundo’s 79901 zip code, the average annual income of residents is $21,000, with 60 percent of the neighborhood living below the poverty line.

Pitts said a strong sense of community, ingrained in the parish and among most El Pasoans, has meant that people were willing to stay home during the pandemic and self-isolate to protect each other, especially the older or sick members of their neighborhood. But the lockdown has kept them from worship and other services the church offers.

Volunteers from the church’s food pantry distribute groceries. (Photo by the Rev. Stephen Pitts)

Due to the coronavirus pandemic, the church also has had to stop most of its outreach programs, which included citizenship and adult-education classes, except for the food pantry, which it continues to run.

Because many parishioners do not have internet connections, Sacred Heart has not been able to reach many people through its virtual services and masses. The church’s messages of hope are not reaching enough people, Pitts said.

Additionally, Efren Loya Gomez, an assistant religious director at the Sacred Heart, said many parishioners have reported having problems with landlords and employers during the pandemic.

“There was a lady that stopped me the other day to help her fill out a money order,” he said. “She told me her landlord told her she has to pay $25 dollars a day every day she was late with her rent. If not, he was going to evict her.”

Gomez said some parishioners were suffering economically because they face job losses and were not eligible for federal stimulus money because they were undocumented.  “With the pandemic, they’re suffering and they’re stressing out,” he said.

A mural depicting the rich history of Sacred Heart Catholic Church adorns side buildings along E. Father Rahm Avenue where many of the parish’s outreach programs are housed. (Photo by Vera Haller)​

El Segundo Soccer Club executive director Simon Chandler, who founded the league after coaching his own son on a community team, said his players also were experiencing anxiety during the pandemic.

“Their fears are very kid-like fears,” he said. “They’re worried about whether they’re going to pass sixth grade, seventh grade, eighth grade, what happens if they don’t do the work, that their computer doesn’t work. They have problems with the software and all that stuff.”

Chandler, who also works as the Community Schools Coordinator in the El Paso public school system, was a school teacher when he started the club, figuring it would be a good way to engage the kids in the low-income neighborhood where he taught and lived.

“As an educator, you’re always finding ways to kind of motivate your kids, to hook them into whatever you are doing and so soccer made perfect sense,” he said.

El Segundo is a predominantly Latino area; Chandler estimated that 90 percent or more of the people living in El Paso speak Spanish. Soccer, or fútbol as it is known to much of the world, is one of the most popular sports in Latin America, Spain and Portugal.

The soccer club has multiple teams for kids of all ages. The club also offers services for the members of the players’ families.

While their child or sibling is at practice, relatives can participate in one of the soccer club’s English language courses or citizenship classes. Those programs also have been cancelled due to the coronavirus and stay-at-home order.

Adame, whose younger brother Marcos, 18, has been playing with the Segundo soccer club since it began, said the club plays an important role in the players’ development.

Students from El Segundo Barrio Soccer Club, on their way to compete in last year’s state championships, pose on an Austin street. This year’s championship was cancelled due to the pandemic. (Photo courtesy of El Segundo Barrio Soccer Club’s Facebook page)

“It exposes the kids here to the outside world, not just in this community,” Adame said. “Even just taking them out to play on the East side of the city, just to take them [to] play every weekend, that’s sort of something big because a lot of parents don’t have a car here.”

Soccer was the way that the club drew the kids in, but it was never the ultimate goal.

“I’m thinking if there’s another word other than ‘family,’ but I can’t think of one,” Adame said. “That’s what it is. I arrived in this community at about 10 years old.  My mind is here, my heart is here. Now with this club, it’s my passion.”

The Making of a Crossover Politician: In A Rural Border District, State Representative Mary González Straddles the Partisan Divide

Despite her liberal-Democrat pedigree, Representative Mary González has developed bipartisan credibility in the Texas State House—a necessary trait in an overwhelmingly Latino, but socially conservative, district. (Photo courtesy of Mary González)

By Catherine Chojnowski and Jose Nieves Herrera

In 2013, Mary González, a freshman state representative, stood on the Texas House floor to give her first opposition speech. She was arguing against a bill that would weaken standards for colonias, unincorporated mostly rural communities that lack vital infrastructure, such as sewage systems and roads.

As she began her speech, a prominent Republican leader walked up behind her and held two fingers up in the air, signaling to other legislators that they should follow González’s lead and vote against the bill.

Winning the support of that Republican, Byron Cook, the former Republican Texas House State Affairs Committee Chairman, was key to defeating the colonias bill. It was also a sign that González, despite her liberal-Democrat pedigree, had developed bi-partisan credibility—a necessary trait in an overwhelmingly Latino, but socially conservative, district and one increasingly rare both in Texas and nationally. Representing a district that is neither completely Democratic nor Republican, Gonzalez has won support across ideological and party lines.

Texas State District 75 encompasses east El Paso County, and the towns of San Elizario, Socorro, Clint, Fabens and Tornillo. It includes six school districts and over 260 colonias.

González is an unlikely candidate for cross-partisan appeal: she is relatively young, 37, single, outspoken and openly a member of the LGBTQ community. Upon first being elected, she explains that she faced a certain degree of backlash from the community.

Initially, she said: “Nobody wanted to be my friend.”

González’s championing of agricultural issues and public education, however, helped her gain the support of her colleagues early on.

“She looks for ways to bridge divides, and she promotes policies that create conversations rather than push people into familiar camps,” said Representative Joe Moody, a colleague in the Texas State House.

González’s relationship with Byron Cook who would become her mentor also helped solidify her bipartisan credentials. One day, Cook told Gonzalez she was the same age as his daughter. “He said on this House floor, you are my daughter,” González recalled.

The two were an odd duo: “He’s this tall, skinny, older conservative Republican, and I’m this short, little, Mexican, fluffy Latina,” said González.

As a legislator, González strong support for public education, a key issue for both parties, also has won her bipartisan support. She authored House Bill 89, which mandated that school districts with high drop-out rates allocate part of their school funding “for developing and implementing research-based strategies for drop-out prevention.” Another bill authored by González,  created measures for assisting homeless and former foster-care students enrolled in public colleges and universities.

“I feel since I’m a rural Democrat, I’ve had a lot of opportunities to connect with some rural Republicans because we still have the same issues,” she said.

González, who lives in Clint, a rural town outside El Paso, has championed agricultural issues, including a bill mandating animal-tracking to identify the source of disease outbreaks among livestock, that have won her bipartisan support. (Photo courtesy of Mary González)

Currently serving her fourth term in the State House, she is a member of the appropriations and public education committees, and has served as vice chair of the Local and Consent Calendars Committee since 2019. This year, she also was appointed to the Legislative Budget Board, one of the most powerful boards in the state.

González, who once taught at the University of Texas at Austin and served as Assistant Dean for Student Multicultural Affairs at Southwestern University—she has a doctorate in Cultural Studies in Education—said her academic background helped her bring “different tools” to her job as a legislator.

González lives in Clint, a rural town just outside El Paso, where she grew up, and raises goats. In the legislature, she also has taken a leadership role on agriculture issues. For example, she co-authored a bill that enforced a strategic plan by the Department of Agriculture to prevent crop diseases and pests in the state, and has supported a bill that would mandate animal-tracking to prevent and identify the source of disease outbreaks among livestock. She also championed policies important to the dairy and pecan industries “because they would open up economic opportunities for her district,” said Moody.

“I end up creating these really interesting alliances with rural Republicans because of the work that I’m doing in agriculture,” she said. “When they need something in agriculture, they come to me to help them explain it to the Democrats.”

Despite her bi-partisan support, her gay identity has caused some tension among her constituents, on occasion, and she said that if her opponents had brought her gay identity to light during her initial election, she would have most likely lost. She compared the ongoing support of her constituents, despite ideological divisions, to her relationship with her father, who is a conservative Republican.

Border politics, however, is where González’s bi-partisanship ends; she strongly opposes Republican wall building. Although most of Gonzalez’s constituents identify as conservative, 90.6 percent are also Hispanic. Yet, many constituents know someone, or are related to someone, who works for the border police—a well-paying occupation in her district. When addressing issues relating to the border, González tries to maintain an objective tone; she said she tries to identify the “root of the problem,” while also trying to “highlight its complexity.”

A champion of public education, González regularly speaks to school children about the importance of voting. She says voter apathy is due to years of voter suppression. (Photo courtesy of Mary González)

One problem that continues to confound González is low voter participation. Out of the nearly 200,000 constituents in her district, only around 10,000 participated in the last primary election. Gonzalez ran unopposed in her district’s 2020 Democratic primary, and has run unchallenged by a Republican in the general election since first winning office.

González blames the lack of political interest to years of voter suppression that has “done so much over generations to tell people not to vote, not to care, not to know,” and a lack of cultural consciousness by those trying to engage potential voters with donations. In an attempt to engage the youth in political issues, she holds assemblies in schools throughout her district, reminding future voters that their participation can make a difference.

“I’ve been working very hard over the last decade to show that democracy is vital to the ways that we live and that there are good elected officials in the world,” González said.

 

 

 

 

Willivaldo Delgadillo, an Author and Activist, Reflects on Growing Up on Both Sides of the Border

The author and activist poses with friends in 1976. (Photo courtesy of Willivaldo Delgadillo)

By Sophia Carnabuci and Melissa Bacian

Willivaldo Delgadillo, a journalist, author and activist, was born in Los Angeles , but grew up in Juarez, Mexico. His parents were from Juarez, originally, but had immigrated to Los Angeles in the 1950s. Four months after his birth, in 1960, Delgadillo’s parents decided to return to Juarez; Los Angeles was a dangerous city at the time and Juarez was smaller. Having American citizenship, but growing up in Mexico, Delgadillo considers himself binational and bicultural. In this interview, Delgadillo discusses life and identity growing up on the border and his thoughts on Juarez/El Paso.

Delgadillo’s  writing is politically driven. He writes mostly in Spanish as a way to view the exploitation of violence through the lens of Juarez, as seen in his novel Garabato, and as a way to connect directly to the people there. Delgadillo lives in Juarez and teaches in the department of language and linguistics at the University of Texas, El Paso. This interview was edited for length and clarity.

Could you tell us about your experience growing up in Juarez/El Paso and what effect it had on your identity?

People from the United States and Mexico construct their identity in a different way. In the US, generally, it’s constructed around ethnic lines; you’re Mexican-American, Jewish-American, Muslim-American, African-American, etc. But in Mexico, you really are from the state where you were born, or the land; the place of birth really determines your identity.

I went to school in Juarez, elementary and secondary schools, but I was always aware I was an American citizen. Although I didn’t want to be an American citizen. Because I was going to school in Mexico, I felt that I wasn’t Mexican enough. Later on, I found the advantages of having an American passport; back then it was really easy to go back and forth for me. I belonged to both parts of the city. When I was growing up, you didn’t really need to show your passport when you went to the United States. You could just say “American citizen” and that was it.

[The border police] might ask where you live or where you were born, but if you were trained to answer those questions, you could go across even if you weren’t an American citizen. I trained my friends from my neighborhood in Juarez who weren’t American citizens, to go across and say “American” and to answer those key questions.

El Paso had these venues where famous groups like Kiss or Yes came to play. Groups from the 70s. A couple of us were American citizens and the rest of them weren’t. But we all said “American” and we successfully went across [the border.]

Delgadillo recalls vacations he would take with his grandmother at Torreon, a town across the river from Gomez Palacio, connected by a bridge. He and his grandmother would frequently cross the Nazas River, which divides the two towns by bus.

Once I asked my grandmother, how come we weren’t required to show a passport? Because it was like Juarez/El Paso, right?

So, in a way, I thought of bridges and rivers as borders where you had to somehow identify yourself. I saw that Juarez/El Paso were part of the same thing. You just had to say “hello” or make some signs, some gesture to be able to get authorized to get over to the other side. I grew up with that idea of thinking of the border as both a fence but also a bridge.

What were some of the positives and negatives of growing up this way?

For Delgadillo, going to high school in El Paso was like being on the TV set of James at 15, one of his favorite shows.  (Photo courtesy of Willivaldo Delgadillo)

After I went to secondary school in Juarez, I went to high school in El Paso, not to Bowie High School, which is right on the border, but to its rival, Jefferson High School. Jefferson and Bowie are rivals in sports. But in both schools, most of their students are Mexican-American. People in Bowie High School were more comfortable with their identity as Mexican or Chicano. They were mainly from working class families and didn’t have any problems with being Mexican, being identified as Mexican, for better or worse.

But people in Jefferson High School, they were a little different. There were all these people who were from Juarez, like me. The mainstream student at Jefferson High School identified himself or herself as Mexican-American not as Mexican not as Chicano but as Mexican-American. Not Hispanic yet, but Mexican-American. That meant that they were more assimilated. But they were also middle class  Everyone aspired to be Mexican-American.

That was a struggle for people like me who came from Juarez because we didn’t speak the language that well. It was good in a way because we were challenged to learn the language and to learn high school rituals– sports, homecoming or assemblies. These were things that we didn’t really have in Mexican schools.

For me, this was like being part of a TV show. Back then there was this show called James at 15 and it was about James being in high school. I was 15. When I saw that on TV, I saw lockers and hallways and classrooms. When I started going to Jefferson High, for me it was like the TV set of James at 15. Because now I had my locker, and I had these hallways that looked like regular American high school hallways. And each high school had its library. Like really well-equipped libraries, even with books! I remember going to the librarian and I asked her, “So how many books can I check out?” And she answered, “Well how many can you carry?” And I said, “Really?” You know how now we’re panic-buying toilet paper? I did that with books. I put all these books in my backpack and carried them. So that was the good part.

The bad part was we were referred to as Juarenos; Juarenos was a way of putting you down. There was this whole discourse of people from another country coming to tap resources of Americans–even though [we] were American citizens.

I always defended my Juarez identity. But at the same time, I was interested in learning the language and I was interested in American literature and I was interested in music. So that was part of the border too on both sides and I was happy I was at a place where I could learn that. And also, that I was on the TV set of James at 15.

What changes have you seen since your years in El Paso as a high school student?

 Many things have changed. Now people in Jefferson High School are more like people in Bowie High School. They all have a sense of being Mexican because I’ve been back to give talks and stuff.

Delgadillo explains that there are far more students from Juarez going to school in El Paso these days.

The migration from Mexico to the United States really grew in the 90s and then in the 2000s for several reasons. One, because of NAFTA, and later because of the violence. But during these times, people felt compelled to stay in El Paso because of the violence or [for] economic reasons.

Now Mexican-ness in El Paso has grown. My students [at the University of Texas at El Paso] are mostly bilingual and bicultural. They speak Spanish really well. But they’re also really articulate in English. Whereas when I was growing up, if you spoke Spanish mostly, they would be like, “Oh he doesn’t speak English.” Or they would say, “Speak English!” But now, nobody says that. It’s not cool to say that because people don’t even question those things. If you go to a restaurant or a bar or whatever, the waiter is most likely is bilingual. There’s no stigma.

The mainstream is like “You speak Spanish?” “Yeah si que quieres?” and there’s no problem. It’s a more comfortable place to be Mexican in El Paso now. And that’s why I now call it “North Juarez.” Parts of El Paso are North Juarez because if you go there, you feel like you’re not in Mexico or the United States, you feel like you’re in some different place.

There are very conservative pockets and very progressive pockets, but I’m talking about the mainstream.

Another thing that has changed is that the binational population–people like me that go back and forth–that population has grown. Back then, people called me gringo; they knew I went to school in El Paso. I was mocked in Juarez too. But that stuff doesn’t fly. The legitimacy of people calling themselves fronterizo without being in a deficit, an identity deficit, has grown. Now it’s cool, it’s okay to be fronterizo [frontiersman].

When I finished high school and when I went to college and finished college, I was still living in Juarez. Only temporarily did I live in El Paso. So, I was really in Juarez and had my life in Juarez. I’m a Juarense.

How has the community reacted to the hardening of the border and new immigration policies under the Trump administration?

 Delgadillo explains the gradual shift in laws and policies as “episodes” in the history of the border. For example, the Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986 made it illegal to hire undocumented workers. He references Operation “Hold the Line” in 1993, which brought an influx of border police in concentrated areas along the border as a way to control the area and provide a “show of force.” Finally, he speaks about the 2000s, which were directly affected by 9/11 and the Bush administrations prioritizing of homeland security. First the Bush administration, and then the Obama administration, worked on a border wall.  

 This has been gradual. Now we have Trump with another wall. This “let’s build a wall” is just the latest episode of a longer story.

That has brought long lines to the bridge, and now we have to show our passports. The way the border is operated is like a military checkpoint. It’s like you’re going to a war zone. They have this thing called concertina wire; it looks like regular fence wire from afar, but it’s really aggressive. If you touch it, it cuts deep. It’s really dangerous. But most of it is symbolic; it’s just to make you feel like you’re entering this place of high security and high scrutiny. The border also has all these technological features like cameras and radars and sound detectors. It’s a policy of fear.

And of course, the excuse or the reason for all of this is drugs, right? The interception of drugs. But drugs keep going across!

I remember back then when I grew up and I was learning how to be a citizen in both countries. There were many things that I really liked in the United States and in the history of the United States. I was learning about how people in the United States fought for civil rights. How people in the United States fought against the Vietnam war. How students protested with these big marches—that was really inspiring to me. I really wanted to be a part of that political heritage.

But gradually, that spirit has been killed–by this instilling of fear. We have as Americans (I’ll speak as an American now), we have given up many of our rights, I think these hardened border policies are against people in the United States. We just thought this is against other people, but this is really against us too; you cannot see them as separate.

Another effect is that it changes the narrative of what Americans are all about. Each nation tells itself a story. In the United States, we’re a country of immigrants. We’re a pluralist society. We’re very respectful of freedom of speech and like I said earlier, our ethnic backgrounds. We’re a country who was always on the right side of human rights and on the right side of environmental justice. We’re no longer that guy. The problem is it’s not just with Trump, it’s just that the narrative of the country is changing.

We’re being led to accept that we don’t have to be the country of immigrants. We don’t have to be for justice in the world. Americans come first.

I’m talking about the narrative of the country and how we grow up and how we feel like we are being good Americans. A good American is someone who respects other people’s points of view, religious freedom, human rights, environmental justice, the vote, etc. That’s all relative now.