Adelante

On a recent, steamy July evening in Hoover, Alabama, the moderator closed a meeting at the Adelante Alabama Workers Center by asking those of us assembled to volunteer to place our bodies and our white privilege between undocumented immigrants and governmental authorities. The substance of the remark was not a surprise; we had come to the meeting sponsored by the Center and the Alabama Coalition for Immigrant Justice to learn how to accompany and be helpful to undocumented immigrants at required check-ins with Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) and at court appearances unrelated to immigrant status, but the dramatic characterization of the evening’s purpose was an effective wake-up call after two hours in hard folding chairs, and it both sobered and excited me.

Even while growing up in a rundown housing project of converted barracks north of the airport in Birmingham, Alabama, I knew that white skin made me privileged. My contact with black people was limited in the place Dr. Martin Luther King called the most segregated city in America, but, particularly after the Supreme Court’s school desegregation decision in 1954, issues of race hung in the air like smog, permeating all public discourse. Coming of age in the early 1960s, I naively believed for a while that guaranteeing civil rights for black Americans would relieve the sense of responsibility that many of my generation felt about “unearned” privilege. Today, while black citizens continue to experience inequality and injustices, Alabama officials have declared that southern hospitality does not extend to immigrants, documented or not. In 2011, the state legislature passed an oppressive immigration statute; more recently, then­ governor Bentley, ignoring his lack of enforcement authority, declared that none of the Middle Eastern refugees entering the country under an official, federal refugee program would be allowed to reside in Alabama. The local atmosphere, as well as my experience in a graduate program at the Institute of American Indian Arts, have raised my sensitivity to issues of race, ethnicity, and privilege to an all-time high

I did not believe that my body would be at risk, so no physical courage was required to say yes, but I felt glued to my uncomfortable chair. After leaving a long career as a lawyer and a healthy share of community activities twelve years ago, I edited my life to bare bones and have refused new commitments. I had had enough of confrontations and conflicts for two lifetimes. I chose a life of solitary pursuits – reading, writing, and yard work – and limited company – family and kindred spirits. Since the presidential election of 2016, however, I had been considering a different future; perhaps being a good neighbor and friend as requested was the door to it. While others were asking questions or crowding the two computers to volunteer, I mentally reviewed the evening.

The Center is located in a small house at the edge of a once-residential neighborhood disrupted by the building of I-59. I arrived to find the small parking area full. A greeter introduced himself, parked my car for me in a tight spot on the street, and graciously offered his arm.

“Tell me the best English word for adelante,” I said. My search had yielded several. “Forward!” he answered, as we climbed, I somewhat unsteadily, a steep, grassy bank.

The meeting room, filled to capacity, was the former living/dining area of the house and opened onto a deck for overflow. The training was presented by informational talks, demonstrations of a court appearance for a traffic ticket and an ICE check-in, and a question and answer period. A simultaneous translation system for English and Spanish insured understanding of the presentation. Most of the current volunteers, like me, speak little, if any, Spanish, and we were assured that it was not necessary.

I learned that, after an initial arrest for lack of required immigrant documentation, a person with a “permanent” local address may be released with a regular check-in schedule. Apparently, this is discretionary. There seemed to be no clear path to properly documented status or deportation. This lack of due process drove the lawyer in me crazy, and I asked a few questions, but I had to put that concern aside and focus on the role of accompanier– providing transportation, help with forms and questions, support and comfort. It appeared that the worst thing that could happen was an on-the-spot decision of ICE to detain.

Volunteering would move me out of my comfort zone, but I realized I had received the most polite, not to mention useful, request or demand about my white privilege ever directed at me. It was an offer I could not refuse.

Two weeks after volunteering, I agreed to accompany Anna to her initial check-in at the local ICE office. At the Center I met a small, pretty woman with jet black hair and a face so free of lines that I would be surprised later to learn she is over sixty. She knew only a few words of English, and I was relieved that she had brought along a bilingual neighbor, Carlos, who made the introductions.

“She says she is very nervous,” Carlos translated, when Anna spoke her first words since saying hello.

“Tell her ‘me too,”‘ I responded. ” We are learning together.”

When we arrived at the destination indicated by my GPS, it was not  clear which of the nondescript, three-story, brick buildings perched on a hillside below street level housed ICE. Finally, we spotted “Immigration” on a small sign on the ground floor of one building and made our way into the parking area. Few cars and no people were visible in this low-traffic area.

I was not told the particulars of Anna’ s status; I knew only that it did not allow her to remain permanently in the United States and that an application for a more secure status was pending. I was not told how she entered the country or came to the attention of ICE. She had received a letter listing items to be produced, and we reviewed each of them in the car. The instructions provided that all cellphones had to be turned off, so the three of us left our phones in the car to avoid questions. Before we could open the office door completely, a loud voice stopped us.

“You can’ t bring bags in here!” The voice belonged to a tall, stony-faced officer posted inside.

When we returned from stowing our purses, she barked again: “10:30 or 11:00?”

I thought the officer could take a lesson from the TSA officers who also have routine but very important jobs, but I simply answered, “11:00.”

She handed Anna a clipboard with a form attached and directed the three of us to a seating area where a few others were waiting. The questions were ordinary but still unsettling.

We mulled over “Have you ever used any other name?” Should Anna write the full name shown on her passport? It is longer but not “other” as I know that term would ordinarily intend. Our hesitation is the kind of craziness that overtakes a person when she is unsure of the good faith of a process or the people in charge of it.

“Have you ever been married, Anna?” I asked.

”No,” she replied, and we settled on “no” for the answer. After all, she would be showing her passport.

When Anna was called, all three of us approached, but only two people were allowed behind the waist-high wall. Fluent Spanish trumped privilege. From my seat adjacent to the interview area, I could hear the questions and answers and watch the fingerprinting. The clerk seemed warm. She smiled. They all shared a joke I did not catch. When, after about fifteen minutes, Anna and Carlos rejoined me, I realized that I, with nothing at stake, had been holding my breath during most of the interview.

In the car the mood was lighter, almost giddy, as we buckled up. Just outside the parking lot Anna made a little cry, and I stopped. She had forgotten to get a signature from the clerk on her excuse for absence from work that morning. We agreed that a copy of the signed appearance form with date and time of appearance would suffice, and the good mood resumed.

Back at the Center, I wished Anna good luck, and she hugged me. We drove away in separate directions, Carlos, I imagined, to drop Anna at work and go home for some sleep before his night shift, and I to my quiet house.

I do not believe Anna needed me, and I know that my privilege, which is as immutable as the condition that gives rise to it, is no less after this small event. But I believe Anna was glad to have me, and I was happy to have been with her and to know that she was safe. Until next time.