And now, a Legal Migrant, too!

I’ve written a number of times about my long  quest for an FM-3, the Mexican visa given to foreigners who work, study, or live in Mexico. After going through almost the entire process in November and December, I had to withdraw my application in order to return home for the holidays. When I came back to Jalisco in January, I started over, wiser than last time and more circumspect. Although it didn’t go perfectly this time, I knew how to correct my errors much faster.

Last week, as I fumbled with some official-looking documents waiting for class to start, one of my classmates said to me, “so, are you Mexican yet?” Though an FM-3 doesn’t exactly make you Mexican–it’s a nonimmigrant visa–as of 9:45 this morning, I am now “Mexican”–today, I got my FM-3!

Oh, the joy I felt as I nuzzled my thumb into an ink pad to place my prints on so many papers. I didn’t even care that ID picture used in my visa is more mugshot than anything else. Who cares if I have to renew it in 12 months! It’s mine, and I got it without a lawyer. Also, now that I’m no longer a tourist, I can get my money back from the canceled application from December.

Just a quick update on my legal status–my busy, busy world beckons!

Beyond the binary of Mexico-United States

I realized today that many of my posts tend to boil down migration–the process, the experience–to a duality. I, the American, moved my life to Mexico, and as a result, my world is a constant push-and-pull between two poles: my native culture and language and the adopted language and culture I currently inhabit. It’s a convenient way to break down a complex set of feelings, misunderstandings and contrasts. But migration goes beyond the binary.

First of all, I’m not only an American, I’m also a Californian–I realized this when I went to college in New England. Furthermore, I’m a Silicon Valley-ite (silicon chip?)–I will be irritated if you assume I’m from Los Angeles. National identity isn’t the only one at play, or even the most important to me personally, but it’s the one people tend to assign me when I’m internationally located.

And I tell Americans that I’m in Mexico, but I tell Mexicans that I’m in Guadalajara, or Jalisco. The specificity matters. Our middle-class neighborhood, with its 7-Eleven and highway on its fringes, is worlds away from the highland pueblos where I’ve stayed in Chiapas (Mexico’s southernmost state). Paco, who hails from one of these pueblos, feels like something of a foreigner here in Guadalajara, too.

But what brought about this idea of complicating the binary, in fact, was not these regional and local nuances to how we understand ourselves. It was actually a Valentine’s Day date.

Let me backtrack a little. Just a year ago, on Valentine’s Day 2009, I was still in college and Paco was in Chiapas. We celebrated by reading the love letters we’d oh-so-old-fashioned-ly mailed each other, and staring at our respective fiancé/e’s faces on our laptops, thanks to the miracle of Skype. So this year, happily living at the same address, we were excited to celebrate the day with a little more pizazz. Our goal: see some live music. We looked up some potential locations, got dressed up, and discovered that BOTH of the bars we’d planned on turned out not to exist.

After doing our part to contribute to the wallets of three different taxi drivers, we ended up back where we had begun our trek, in the Colonia Americana–the ritzy neighborhood where the U.S. Consulate makes its home. We opted to have dinner at an Indian restaurant called Goa.

Another explanation needed: I am crazy about Indian food, and I’ve had a lot of good Indian food in my time (since I’m from the Silicon Valley, home to many immigrants from the Indian subcontinent). Paco, on the other hand, had never had Indian food before.

I have to admit, I was a little skeptical when we sat down. Was this going to be “authentic”?–although, never having been to India myself, I’d have to make this judgment based on the Indian food of the South Bay. Reading the menu was at once familiar and strange, seeing the names I knew “dal makni,” “palak paneer,” “mango lassi” followed by explanations in Spanish. I was paralyzed at how to ask for the dish labeled “butter chicken” on the menu: should I try to pronounce the English words in a Spanish accent? I opted to ask for “pollo de mantequilla,” to which the waiter said, “boo-ter chee-ken?”

I picked some of my favorite things for Paco to try them. Everything tasted good, but it all was just a little–different. And to me, different in a way that made me homesick. The samosas were bathed in a sweetish sauce, but I wanted them to arrive plain, ready for me to dip them in cilantro/mint chutney. The naan was just a little too thin, and a little too crispy. The mango lassi was just a little too heavy on the cardamom. And when we ordered mango kulfi for dessert, it arrived garnished with chocolate syrup, whipped cream and a cherry. I’m not opposed to anything with sugar in it, but it just didn’t seem right to combine something as exotic as mango kulfi with Hershey’s. I will say that I relish any opportunity to eat a maraschino cherry.

While we waited for these dishes to appear, Paco and I stared at the many decorations–the restaurant was positively covered in Indian handicrafts. We liked them, but I told Paco, “you know, I have never been to an Indian restaurant that was this decorated.” Thinking aloud, I mused that a Mexican dining in an Indian restaurant has certain expectations–of exotic, unfamiliar food. The decorations become part of the culinary journey, transporting you away from the usual. But in the Silicon Valley, most Indian restaurants are frequented primarily by Indians. They don’t need a folkloric Indian decor to appreciate the food, and the food isn’t exotic at all–it’s comforting.

And my expectations for what Indian food should be–where do those fall in spectra of accuracy or authenticity? Long before I learned Spanish or became interested in Mexico, I was in contact with Indian culture on a daily basis–through family friends and my classmates. Some of my dearest friends are Indian. So a less-than-fluffy naan stands out to me.

It’s even hard for me to talk about Indian things here in Mexico due to a simple translation quirk: the translation for “Indian” is hindú, that is, Hindu. I think this is because here, indio invariably refers to a Native/indigenous Mexican, although the term is not only scandalously incorrect but also often pejorative. So it’s not convenient to refer to Indians from India as “indios.” But for me, calling Indians from India “Hindus” just seems wrong. Hinduism is a religion, not a nationality, and in fact, it’s a religion that not all Indians practice. Talking about Hindu food (comida hindú) doesn’t sound right, but that’s what Indian food is called here.

Seeing the way another culture–Mexican culture, to speak in very general terms–condenses and interprets other cultures makes me wonder about the lenses and shorthands I use, without thinking twice, for cultures I learned about in the U.S. context. In Mexico, chino (Chinese) is a nickname given to people with “Asian features,” and it’s also a frequently used substitute for “Asian.” Both of these uses smart of racism to me. But who knows how many Taiwanese silently take offense to being labeled Chinese? Yet the distinction is often optional in U.S. parlance.

I don’t consider myself an expert on any culture, including the one I was raised in (and I wouldn’t even know what to call that culture, if it has a name). Maybe one day I’ll visit India, try “real” Indian food and find myself disappointed that it’s not Silicon Valley-style Indian food! But if we can recognize migration as a non-linear journey–not just from country A to country B, but a constant, whirring, spiraling transit among infinite mindsets and languages and moralities–we can leave “authenticity” aside as a figment of our imagination. Not even a very useful figment. We can pursue, futilely but doggedly, the endless realm of nuance–to learn of local particulars and forget about national-level generalizations.

Undocumented College Students and the American Dream

A few days ago, this article appeared in the New York Times. Rigoberto Padilla, a Chicago area college student and undocumented immigrant, generated publicity after being arrested for DUI and driving without a license–a charge that led to an deportation order. He came to the United States as a 6-year-old. It’s not a unique case: a few years ago, a classmate passed around a petition in my Spanish class to prevent deportation for an undocumented college student, arrested at the bus station when he couldn’t prove his citizenship.

Many people, even those who favor strict immigration policies, find these deportation orders senseless. The kids didn’t choose to come to the United States without papers–their parents did. They were raised in U.S. culture and speak English with an American accent. Deportation seems illogical, even cruel. According to the article, “Roy Beck, the executive director of NumbersUSA, a group that has staunchly opposed a legal path for the estimated 12 million illegal immigrants, said in an interview that he could support legal status for some young immigrant students.”

I think this tells us a lot about how we define “being American,” and also about how undocumented/illegal migration is philosophically ambiguous. “If you spend your formative years in the United States, you have a right to stay” seems to be the premise that makes us balk at deporting these students. “If you’re a child, it’s not your fault to have migrated illegally” is the other assumption.

But are we ready to place blame on those who chose to immigrate without papers? Indeed, crossing the border without papers is breaking a law. But most illegal activities correspond with some ethical wrongdoing. People who murder or steal are condemned not so much for doing something illegal, as for doing something that we consider morally wrong. The laws are in place to enforce that ethical belief. For many of us, crossing the border just doesn’t evoke the same moral reprehension.

Undocumented college students are, in a way, the success stories of undocumented immigration: they made it past obstacles of poverty, language difference, legal status, etc. into the respectability of higher education. With their degrees, we imagine them becoming professionals, fluent in both their native and adopted cultural norms. It’s easy to sympathize with them because they fit so neatly into the grand narrative of the American Dream: economic ascent as validation of national belonging. “Making it” makes you American.

But for the undocumented students who didn’t make it through high school, or crossed the border as preteens to start work, who didn’t learn English, or who decided to come here as adults–the American Dream isn’t so neatly reaffirmed. For those who don’t thrive in the ways that mainstream America values–assimilating and advancing–no crowd rallies to stop deportations.  Are they criminals, or are they simply doing their jobs? Do we deport them because they call into question the legitimacy of our beloved American Dream?

I strongly support the right of these undocumented students to seek an education. I only hope that we are not constructing a tiny elite of “good illegal immigrants” only to dismiss, denigrate and deport those who do not fit our ideals of a “true” American.

Us versus the Instituto Nacional de Migración, or How do you say “Bah Humbug” in Spanish?

I am in California now. I left Guadalajara early yesterday morning, almost exactly six months after I arrived. I’ll be heading back in a few weeks, but I think I’m still qualified to blog in the meantime. Part of being a migrant is the occasional trip to the home country, seeing what feels the same and what feels different.

I almost didn’t get to return to the United States. Since my last blog, my visa adventures went from frustrating to heartbreaking. On Monday, I went to the office again, this time with Paco, to turn in the last set of paperwork and payments for the student visa, and with my application for permission to leave the country while everything was being processed. Paco and I waited to speak with a licenciado (person with a college degree) so that I could make sure all my complications would be resolved. We watched as an older American man, cursing in English about the bureaucracy, waited with his lawyer. The lawyer apparently knew one of the licenciados, and he made this clear by a sort of “don’t you know who I am?” routine. The trick worked: they were seen immediately. I seethed and shot these rank pullers dirty looks. I really wanted to say a little too loudly, “I guess I should hire a lawyer if I don’t want to wait!”

When it came to be my turn (an hour later), Paco and I went into the office and sat down at the licenciado’s desk. As I explained my situation, the licenciado informed me, “you can’t leave the country.” My voice started to waver as I inarticulately tried to ask another question. Then the licenciado eventually added, “you can only leave if you withdraw the entire visa application process.” So either I was not going to be able to go to the States and see my family, or I was going to lose all of the money, trips, frustration and time I’d dedicated to getting the student visa. Faced with this decision, I started to cry–not just a little. As I was sobbing and blubbering, Paco tried to jump in and rescue me. The licenciado was clearly unmoved. Another woman in the office offered her advice.

“The problem is that you foreigners think you can just come in here and apply for a visa without knowing anything. Then you think you can leave the country whenever you want without asking us. You have to inform yourself. I empathize with your situation,” she told me sternly. I didn’t believe her professed empathy.

Through my tears, I responded, “look, I’m not making these mistakes because of cultural arrogance. It’s because of ignorance. There’s no information on the website, and nobody told me about these restrictions when I started the process.”

“The law says that ignorance does not excuse you from punishment when you break the law,” she said, and I kept crying. Later, I wished that I had said, “Ok, but if you actually want people to follow your laws, you might want to tell us what they are.” I’m sure this wouldn’t have helped at all, so I guess it’s better than I was unable to form a coherent and snarky rejoinder.

“Some people hire lawyers to help them,” she began. I interrupted, “If I were rich, I’d hire a lawyer too!”, and Paco sent me a telepathic message to shut up before we got kicked out of the office.

I didn’t know what to do, but unable to face not seeing my family, and realizing that changing my flight would be more expensive that paying the fees again (though not by much), I agreed to cancel the process. This meant more paperwork to fill out, and there were more obstacles in the way to authorize my departure. When another unfriendly bureaucrat started telling us that it would be impossible to give me the document I needed to leave the country, I started crying again, this time in front of everyone in the waiting room. It was horribly embarrassing, and I would have been sunk if I hadn’t had Paco there as my advocate. He talked when I could only whimper, and he told everyone “thank you” when I was too angry to express gratitude.

It would have saved me time, money, and emotional well-being if I had never set foot in the office at all. I could have stayed on my tourist visa and started the process in January if I were accepted into the master’s program. I thought a lot about what the woman had said to me: was it arrogance that made me think I could do this without asking? She said that I should have consulted with one of the licenciados before even beginning the process. But I realized that when I first visited, I didn’t even know that there were such people or that you could ask for help. There are no pamphlets, no guidelines, and every person tells you something different, and often the next person you talk informs you that the previous one was wrong, but now it’s your problem.

It wasn’t a total failure, because I did leave the country. When I return, I’ll be issued the same tourist visa after filling a form out on the plane, and then I’ll try again for the student visa. I dread dragging myself back to that office, especially since I made such a scene. I cry easily, but not often in public. Now I’ll have to face all the bureaucrats again, watch the people with lawyers get the VIP treatment, and make the same photocopies and the same payments all over again.

Paco and I were talking about the difference between Mexican and U.S. bureaucracy. I likened it to the difference between torture and a quick death. When Paco applied for a visa, it was a brief, horrific and unfair “no, and don’t ask again.” It was expensive, and it was over in two hours. On the other hand, I made so many visits, talked to so many people, dealt with errors, organized papers, and jumped through multiple hoops only to also get a “no,” but unlike Paco, I can try again (Paco won’t be issued a visa until he has a “strong tie” to Mexico, which we think means “earns a big salary in Mexico”). I think both systems are stacked against people without a lot of money and without legal help.

When I think about couples that are from the same town, or even the same country, I feel like everything must be so easy for them: they have the same native language! They don’t need to visas or passports to meet each others’ families! The sting of these barriers flares up when we go against bureaucracy without success. Back in California, I sit in my childhood home, and I feel Paco’s absence acutely. He’s not here only because of an unfair system that doesn’t see us or our situation. Even though our families have given us our blessing to love someone from a different country, our governments have not.

I know that there were officials who did care and showed concern when they saw me crying: not everyone sees me as just another cow among endless cattle to be processed (turned into hamburgers?). I also know that Paco will someday be eligible for other, non-tourist visas that will likely be more successful. Getting what you need out of a bureaucracy requires persistence and patience (and money), and giving up is the only way to really fail.

I talked about California. “I really do want to see that bridge,” he said. “What bridge?” “You know, that famous one.” “El puente portón dorado?” I offered, “the Golden Gate Bridge?” “But the bridge isn’t golden, it’s red,” he protested. I’d never really thought about that. “I guess it’s kind of an orange-red,” I suggested. “You can call yellow things golden, but not red,” Paco told me. As a little girl, I’d thought the same thing about goldfish. “I’d like a picture of us on that bridge,” he said.

I know we’ll take that picture one day, but I wish it were sooner.

Conquistadores, Coffee and Student Visas

I find it comforting, strangely, to be bogged down with papers and reading in December–it feels normal to me. The cycle of newness, stress, projects, sudden ends–the semester way of life. Of course, it all happened so quickly in this pre-Master’s boot camp.

It’s not over yet, but I’m in the final stretch. I’ve been learning about things I wouldn’t seek out on my own, but the information will help me be a better researcher, I hope. The theory and philosophy behind “social science” isn’t riveting, but it also is something I’d never really pondered until now. I wrote an essay last week about a Spanish conquistador who wreaked havoc on Western Mexico in the 1530s, based on a colonial-era account of his adventures. Although it was hard to understand (imagine reading 16th century English…in Spanish!), it reminded me of why I love history so much: the detective aspect, and the idiosyncrasies that make you feel connected to people who died centuries ago. In the colonial text I mentioned–a letter to the King of Spain–the final sentence read, “Everything I say here is true, and to prove so, I sign my name here.” And the below, the editor comments “[There is no signature].” So we actually don’t know who wrote the letter! How mysterious, strange and wonderful! Of course, besides the geeky pleasure of history, there’s also the uncovering of horrors. The conquistador in question tended to torture and kill, both indigenous people and his fellow Spaniards.

I still have three more essays to write: a book review, to be crafted in perfect, succinct prose to prove that I listened in Advanced Writing; an interpretation of a document–I picked a speech given by an indigenous student at a ceremony a few years ago; and a comparison of various theories and approaches to social science (I plan to write this one hyped up on coffee, pretending that I care).

Besides academic endeavors and sitting around not accomplishing things, I’ve been in the process of getting a student visa. So far, I’ve been to the National Institute of Migration (the government office where these things happen) a total of four times. The first time, I got the information about what paperwork I needed to file–it wasn’t online. The second time, I turned in the paperwork. The third time, I returned to pick up the visa, but I was given a letter saying that the bank statements I’d provided weren’t in my name. Except they were. So I waited for two hours to speak with an official, who agreed with me that the statements were indeed in my name, and told me to come back the following day, Friday, to pick up my visa. I went on Monday instead to give them a little more time, but I was informed that the document still wasn’t ready. Since it’s about a 45 minute bus ride to reach the office, I was pretty unhappy about this, especially since the delay was in no way caused by an error of mine. I hope that the fifth visit will finally yield a visa. It seems particularly unfair that Paco and I, as a couple, have to wrangle with two different countries and their bureaucracies! But as Paco reminds me, they ARE going to give me the visa. That’s the difference.

The Migration office is an interesting place, though. I don’t see foreigners very often in my day-to-day wanderings, but there are plenty to be found at the Migration office. I saw a group of blond Mormons (telltale short sleeve dress shirts), and American businessmen. A young, pregnant woman, apparently East Asian, listened to her Mexican lawyer ramble. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I noticed his gold chain, white socks, brown loafers, pale blue jeans, and his mouth, chewing gum as if the pace of his jaw could expedite the bureaucracy.

One benefit of making the trek to downtown Guadalajara is the Café Estancia. It has Wifi and a place to plug in my laptop, so I can write in my favorite work environment: caffeine fueled, consuming something with sugar, not tempted by the distractions of home, the cat, or other people. It’s not quite the same as my favorite American coffee shops–no weird music or muffins (instead, they serve “brawnies”–brownies!).  There’s a poster on the wall that says “Una mujer es como una buena taza de café: la primera vez que se toma, no deja dormir.”  I think I preferred the bizarre local art that adorned my usual haunts in the States. Still, it helps me revive the glory days of college, the mornings and afternoons spent in coffee shops writing my senior essay.

Unfortunately for me, I can’t continue this blog post, since I actually have to write those essays I mentioned. Luckily for you, your reading ends here!

And now some thoughts on immigration from…the Ayn Rand Institute?

Well, I don’t know too much about Ayn Rand. I’ve never read her books, and I am not sure that I want to. She sounds like an intriguing person, but from what I’ve read about her, I would expect the views coming from her Institute to be ones I wouldn’t agree with (their goals being “to promote the principles of reason, rational self-interest, individual rights and laissez-faire capitalism”). But I found my way to a video of the President of the Ayn Rand Institute, Yaron Brook, offering his views on immigration. (Video 1 and Video 2).

Arguing that the government’s role should be limited to protecting citizens from bodily harm, Brook advocates an open-border policy that allows anyone to enter legally except “terrorists,” “criminals” and “people with infectious diseases.” He reasons that Americans’ hiring decisions should not be regulated, and the government is not responsible for creating or protecting jobs. By opening border crossings broadly, only those who fall into the categories of terrorists, criminals, and people with infectious diseases, would attempt to cross illegally. This smaller group could be more easily kept out (Brook suggests shooting at them), thus maintaining national security. He adds that migrants with high levels of education could more easily enter the United States, a boon to U.S. industry. Brook also says:

I believe that people who are today struggling and fighting to go to the United States are acting heroically. My standard of heroism is a person trying to make the best life they can for themselves. And a pregnant woman in Mexico who wants a better life for her child, and therefore is willing to struggle and do what it takes today to cross the border illegally into the United States, is heroically trying to make her life and her child’s life better by coming to America. I don’t think that should be condemned. I think, indeed, that should be praised. She’s a hero…by coming to the best country on Earth to make the best life that you can in the world today.

I agree that legal immigration should be more inclusive. But I don’t agree with Brook’s argument, nor his specifications on how to prevent illegal immigration.

First, this speech sugarcoats–or actually, completely omits–the reality of what it means to be a migrant from a poor country in the United States. Under his plan, though migrants would have legal status, the same stance that gives Americans that right to hire whoever they want would also allow U.S. employers to pay their workers whatever they want, or treat them however they want. Undocumented workers labor without the benefit of protection from the government–the minimum wage does not apply, nor do fair labor practices. Employers can insist on twelve hour days, seven days a week. With a hands-off government, even legal migrants would have no leverage to demand reasonable work conditions.

Second, I find Brook’s solution to discriminate between safe and unsafe migrants at best facile. How would migrants prove their lack of a criminal background? I’d imagine it would have to be some government document–another opportunity for a barrier-building bureaucracy. I’m not very impressed with U.S. officials’ ability to identify terrorists thus far, and it would certainly be very difficult to develop a mechanism to identify people as non-terrorists on a broad scale. And “infectious diseases”? Does he mean people with a cold?  I could see this very easily be used as grounds to discriminate against HIV-positive individuals. That Brook could comment offhand that these people should be shot on sight–well, that plain disturbs me. He explains that these groups are not permitted entry for the danger they represent to American citizens. Yet in “weeding out” the undesired migrants, he proposes an impractical system easily manipulated to discriminate and exclude.

Despite these critiques, what Brook promotes something that is, in many ways, pretty close to what I believe in: straightforward and inclusive legal immigration. So why would I feel uncomfortable calling him an ally? I think the answer lies in the paragraph I quoted above. Ultimately, in this schema of “individual rights,” some individuals are more worthy than others. Brook justifies allowing migration by saying that it benefits American citizens: it’s good for the economy, improves national security, gives us freedom to hire whoever we want. The benefits of migration to the migrant are not relevant or convincing to his audience, who believe passionately in the pursuit of their own self-interest.

The potentially redeeming image of the pregnant Mexican woman is not an affirmation of the dignity of trying to provide for a family. Instead, it ennobles the migrant for aspiring to the superior reality that is the United States. He lauds the woman for realizing the merit of “the best country on Earth” and leaving behind the lesser land she came from. She is affirming the righteousness of Americans’ individual rights by seeking Americanness herself. The possibility that she imagines a good life for her child in Mexico–made secure by wages she earned in the United States–is not discussed, for it would confound Brook’s nationalist underpinnings.

And for this Mexican migrant, when individual rights come into conflict, hers will lose out. The American employer who underpays and overworks her is only exercising his individual rights, after all. And if she doesn’t stand for it, of course the employer has the right to hire someone who will. Because the employer has more power to start with, the employer’s individual rights always will have more clout.

What I do know about Ayn Rand is that her fervent belief in capitalism had much to do with early, unhappy years in the Soviet Union that turned her forever against Communism or anything that looked remotely like it. Ayn Rand was an immigrant of the “melting pot” type: she assimilated to the language, changed her name, economic system, and cultural traits of “mainstream” white Americans. Because in her worldview the pursuit of personal wealth is the noblest human activity, economically-motivated migration is ideologically impossible to oppose. But the logic of capitalism, for all the rags-to-riches stories it makes possible, is heartless. Though hard work can lead to wealth, billions of humans work very hard and earn very little. Capitalism isn’t the least bit fair. By refusing to acknowledge the injustice of an individual rights/capitalist system–however “well” it may work compared to other economic models–the Ayn Rand philosophy must also discriminate to make itself valid.

In the name of “Reason,” Brook invokes an open immigration policy not out of compassion for migrants, but as a confirmation of the goodness that is American capitalism. It is self-serving, which is just fine by Ayn Rand, who hopes that everyone will act selfishly. But without a level playing field, the idea of  “individual rights” condones and exacerbates gross injustice. Heroism is acting bravely on behalf of others, and not even Brook can deny this totally. After all, it is the unborn child in his heroine’s womb that makes her border crossing truly admirable–she acts not only for herself, but also, or mostly, for her baby’s sake.

I am very curious to read your reactions to this–criticism encouraged!

How do we feel about immigration?

In the spring of 2007, just days after I went to Mexico for the first time, the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency, or ICE, entered homes and detained 29 people in New Haven, Connecticut who did not have legal immigrant status. This caused a great deal of controversy, and recently, a group of students at the Yale Law School took the case of several of the detainees to sue ICE for the raids. If you want to read the whole story, click here.

I was actually more interested in the reader comments that followed the article, though. Any internet news fiend knows that, much like alcohol, the ability to comment anonymously lowers a person’s inhibitions. The comment section of an article covering any contentious issue is bound to become a forum for vitriol, absolutism, and name-calling among strangers–even if these disagreeing parties might never raise their voices to one another in a real-life conversation.

But when it comes to immigration, I am astounded by the hatred that Americans feel toward those who crossed borders without papers. The article about the ICE raids had a few meek statements of approval for the case. Far more prominent and prevalent were those categorically opposed to the immigrants’ case. Commenters offered the following remarks:

“Follow our laws, come here LEGALLY, and you have nothing to worry about. Go ICE!!!”

“The illegals should have NO rights since they are not citizens and should not even be in this country, let alone be able to file a lawsuit against the government.”

“Americans OVERWHELMINGLY DO NOT WANT ILLEGALS IN OUR COUNTRY.”

“these worthless criminal parasites need to be arrested again, jailed, fined, treated roughly and then deported in the back of a van stuffed with the rest of these thieving parasites”

“Our Government, past & present, Republican & Democrat, have allowed the invasion of 20 to 30 million criminals and uneducated peons which is the largest invasion of any Nation, at any time, by any means & in direct violation of Article IV, Section IV of our Constitution.”

How did you feel when you read these comments? I found myself wondering whether these people would say these things out loud. But I don’t know if it matters. If people think this way, it will guide their actions, their votes, and the messages they teach their children.

You may have noticed that in my blog, I call migrants who enter the United States without proper papers “undocumented.” Though this is gaining currency, most people use the term “illegal immigrants,” or as these commenters have shorthanded, simply “illegals.” There is a political distinction between the two terms. The concept of “illegal immigration” describes the process of entering a country outside of the legal path to do so: fine, that’s pretty accurate. But the idea that a PERSON can be illegal is what influences me, and others, to react strongly against the term. Committing an illegal act does not make you an illegal person. We do not call tax evaders, rapists, or murderers “illegal citizens.” I realize that insisting on another term might seem terribly “politically correct,” but the way we use words very much shapes the way we see the world. That’s why terms that were once standard are considered to be racial slurs inappropriate for use.

The commenters quoted above see undocumented immigrants as illegal human beings. This justifies the choice to call them “parasites” and to insist that they have no rights. If we replaced the word “illegal” with the name of a racial or religious group, these comments would be quickly and publicly condemned. “Illegal” is a code word to make racism seem like patriotism or respect for the law.

A few years ago, I heard a speech by a prominent Mexican academic on the topic of immigration. He said, “the problem with the liberal position on immigration is that they don’t have one. Conservatives know that they do not want immigrants in the United States, period. They see it as an issue of protecting American rights, jobs, and national security. But liberals don’t know what they want. They don’t necessarily want millions of undocumented immigrants to enter the country, either.” I’d add that it’s hard to support immigrants’ rights without risking accusations of anti-Americanism.

So therein lies the problem. If we reject the option of treating undocumented immigrants like criminals, what do we propose as an alternative? I think the fundamental premise of defending the rights of immigrants, regardless of how they entered the United States, is one of human rights. Whether a person is born in the United States or not, he or she has the right to work for a living wage and experience the basic freedoms of citizenship. If the Mexican economy is ill-equipped to provide all of its citizens with this living wage, does that mean that the United States must pick up the slack? I think many people would say, “that’s not our job. Let’s take care of our citizens first.” But what if research showed that the unequal economic relationship between the United States and Mexico was causing this lack of jobs for Mexicans in Mexico? Would we accept the responsibility then?  And if we are opposed to contributing to the human rights of citizens of other nations, then what are we doing in the Middle East? Why would we spend billions on “promoting democracy” in Iraq or Afghanistan, but prove completely unwilling to provide basic social services to Mexican citizens living and working within our borders?

Personally, I am glad that the Yale Law students took the case of the detained migrants. I don’t think it will make much difference in the end. I don’t think illegal immigration is a good thing, and I don’t think people should break laws. I would never encourage someone to cross the border without papers, if primarily out of concern for migrants’ personal safety. But I also don’t think that raiding the homes of working families is a good use of federal resources. I do not think immigration issues will be solved by deporting or building walls. Do I have a solution ready to go? I don’t.

But if my experiences have taught me anything, it’s that the injunction to “just come the States legally” is not as simple as it sounds. In fact, for all but the most educated and wealthy Mexicans, it’s next to impossible. If we don’t like illegal immigration, we need to make legal immigration a more user-friendly, egalitarian, inclusive process. If we don’t want millions of immigrants period, legal or not, then we need to look for ways to create jobs in Mexico so that those who migrate for work will not need to leave their families and homelands to earn a provider’s wage. Furthermore, making legal immigration viable allows for much more regulation, regulation that can help distinguish between narcotraffickers and ordinary people just looking for work.

I was thinking about the Minutemen, citizen vigilantes who patrol the U.S.-Mexico border hoping to scare off potential migrants. I wonder if they might come closer to achieving their goals if they invested in providing microcredit loans to rural Mexican families instead of buying rifles and spending days in the desert. After all, migrants do not come to the U.S. for kicks, and it’s hardly a happy experience working below minimum wage in an unfamiliar land. It’s not hard to imagine that those who had other options–like a viable small business–might never make the journey. A Minuteman “defending” the border says he wants to protect his family and his country. Wouldn’t it be more productive to achieve that goal while giving Mexican mothers and fathers the chance to do the same? Maybe it will take a long time to make Mexico a place where all families can meet their needs and achieve their goals. In the meantime, I think it’s only humanitarian to demand compassion, rights, and legal channels for immigration for any brave soul hoping to enter the United States looking to work.