Chinga Las Fronteras

I saw a lot going down on the streets of Seattle yesterday. It might have been the weather, which was beautiful, and brought everyone outside. Or maybe it was just that I forgot my earbuds when I headed out on my bike, which meant I spent the day immersed in the actual world around me, instead of a podcast… 

There was the toddler with tiny glasses who wobbled into my path on her tricycle as I pedaled through Judkins Park. A crew in orange vests unloading swaddled street trees from a truck -- with a guy on a mini backhoe digging the holes, a cigarette dangling from his lip. The Garfield Drumline practicing on the football field. Somebody carrying an enormous mirror across a parking lot. People were everywhere out there, whacking weeds, jumping rope, walking dogs. Sleeping on the parking strip next to an empty wheelchair. Cramming books into the library return slot. Chasing their friends around the playground with a pool noodle. The sheer variety was fascinating. I kept pulling over every five minutes to take notes so I could remember it all. 

Then, toward the end of the day, I saw something I knew I'd never forget: a triumphant woman ripping up her deportation paperwork outside ICE headquarters in downtown Seattle. 

Maru Mora-Villalpando, kick-ass immigration activist (and mother of one of Josie’s middle school besties), learned earlier this week that the government has dropped its case against her, and granted her lawful permanent residency. A small crowd of supporters had gathered to mark the occasion. Maru pulled out a sheaf of papers and explained that she’s been carrying these copies of her deportation proceedings with her everywhere she goes, so that if ICE ever tries to detain her she can prove that she's already being deported. She showed us the plastic folder her daughter had made for these precious pages, decorated with hearts and bears. “I fucking carried these things with me for nearly four years,” she said. “And I’m really happy to be rid of them!”

She tore them in half, then quarters, then eighths. Then she read from the immigration judge’s statement, which listed the many “positive factors” that led them to grant her “discretionary relief”:

The respondent is the mother of a 24-year-old US citizen daughter, Josefina. The respondent has a long presence in the US and has no criminal history. She is gainfully employed and is very active in the community advocating on behalf of the rights of immigrants. While the Court acknowledges that not everyone in this country may agree with the respondent’s message or tactics, she has the right to speak, and through such right she energetically carries on with one of this nation’s most cherished traditions, which is to advocate forcefully for one’s position through non-violent direct action. It is clear from the many letters of support in the record that her voice is a respected one in her community.

All of this is true, of course – and was roundly cheered by the crowd. But Maru was clear that this is not about her individual case, not about this one judge deciding this one respondent deserves to remain here, despite having overstayed her visa 25 years ago. She pointed out that if ICE has the prosecutorial discretion to drop this case, then they have the discretion to drop every deportation case. They have the discretion to free Ruben, Tien, Rene, Lam, Tony, Israel – migrants currently languishing in the Northwest Detention Center in Tacoma (where covid rates have spiked in recent months). They have the power to shut down all the detention centers. They could choose to welcome desperate Haitians at the southern border instead of blocking and harassing them. They have the power to do the right thing. And, Maru reminded us, it's our job to make them do it.

“This is Native land, right?” said Maru. “This is Duwamish land, and the Northwest Detention Center is on Puyallup land. At the end of the day, this is not about countries, it’s about our right as human beings to go where we need to go to be safe. So fuck borders. Chinga las fronteras.” She starts up a chant: “Fuck ICE! Fuck ICE! Chinga la Migra! Chinga la Migra! Louder! Make sure they can hear you on the 21st floor!" She tilts her head back and belts it out. "FUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKK IIIIIIIIIIIICE!” 

When we had finished (for now) carrying on one of this nation's most cherished traditions, I hopped on my bike and headed towards home. People were still out there, everywhere I looked, doing all the ordinary, magical stuff humans do. One of them would be getting her green card soon, and going to visit the family she hasn't seen since 1996. One of them I knew there were stories like that playing out all around me, and I felt connected to them in a way I haven't in quite a while. Fuck earbuds. Chinga las auriculares.