Louis J. Rodriguez's "This Memory Begins with Flight" is his memory as a child of crossing the Mexican-American border. This short story is a traumatic experience for his mother, who is forced to go the the United States by her husband who claims, "I'd rather starve here" rather than return to Mexico. Ciudad Juarez, the border city they are leaving, is a notoriously dangerous space and it is through a struggle for power in this city that Rodriguez's father is wrongfully imprisoned, abused, and refused visitors. His criminal charges? Stealing school funds--an accusation made purely to have him lose his job as a school principle and the power he had accumulated. Power, even that which belongs to a school principle, is dangerous.
Power makes the border a violent space. Even in the most "safe" and controlled situations, it is a violent space. Why? Because whoever has the authority to police the border space has complete control over those who are there. When you are at a political border, personal rights are irrelevant and completely subjected to the security officer with the badge. Detainment, unlawful searches of belongings or the body, threats (personal or structural), and bribery are all common. You may be singled out at any time (an embarrassing and frightening experience) whether it be because of your clothing, your attitude, your race, your accent, or even just "randomly". Random, we might remember, is often not arbitrary but an excuse. If you do try to resist the power hierarchy in the borderland, if you do try to argue with the guard who humiliates you by making open accusations unless you submit, then you are automatically the threat. You, who law and order should protect, are at the mercy of a law that is unfamiliar.
Now imagine living in this space, like Rodriguez's family. Imagine spending every waking moment in a space that constantly threatens you unless you comply. Survival is based on fitting in and not upsetting the precarious balance that is the power dynamic. This is the experience of many border towns, particularly (but not exclusive to) on the Mexican side of the border fence. The sheer amount of violence in Juarez is astounding if you look at statistics. Drug cartels, gang violence, political corruption, police corruption and frightening levels of femicide, to name a few. There are online sources that proclaim it the most violent city in the world. I watched a film in a third world course called El Traspatio or Backyard which is the true story of Juarez "where since the mid-90's thousands of women have gone missing or turned up as sun-burnt corpses in the desert" (IMDB). It made me want to vomit. Repeatedly. Femicide in Juarez, is explicitly connected to gangs which target young indigenous women who are moving to larger cities to work in factories, often resulting in rape, murder and the sale of body parts into the black market organ trade. The emptied bodies are disposed of in the desert or on streets as a display of power. Control and power are not governed, except by violent means.
Is it any real wonder that people who live under constant threat of violence choose to cross borders, however dangerous it might be? There is violence, undoubtedly, on the other side. But there is also the hope that once a line has been drawn between yourself and the chaos, that there is a measure of safety.
In the short story, his mother tries to return to Mexico to escape the racism that she is subjected to in America, but is ultimately she is unable to out of fear. Leaving without her husband cannot be an option because of the violence and hardship she will be subjected to Mexico should she return as a single mother. To her, the border does not offer protection because on either side she is the other, the single mother, the female immigrant, the unbelonging. Rodriguez claims that in the United States, "she was unable to talk, and when she did, no one would listen" (6), and as a result, he and his siblings tried to assimilate rather than be similarly positioned. "That river, that first crossing, was the mother of all crossings" (6) but the border persists because there are social, class, racial, and internal borders that continuously define the 'us versus them' mentality.
The entire story is told with a certain amount of apathy from the eyes of the child narrator, which I find particularly fascinating:
Up to this juncture, it's been like being in a storm--so much instability, of dreams achieved and then shattered, of a silence within the walls of my body, of being turned on, beaten, belittled and pushed aside; forgotten and unimportant. I have no position on the issue before us. To stay in L.A. To go. What does it matter? I've been a red hot ball, bouncing around from here to there. Anyone can bounce me. Mama. Dad. Rano. Schools. Streets. I'm a ball. Whatever. (7)
I don't particularly think it is because of the age of the narrator that this apathy exists. Rather, it is the lack of control, the lack of power over his own situation. Travelling, crossing borders, means the same thing for him in either direction because in any case there is the same loss of control. His mother probably feels the same way once she realizes she can't leave the country with out her husband. There is an unspoken violence in being uprooted--however positive that move might be. The act of leaving your "home" is violent and controlled by whoever has the power to cause you to leave. Even the most personal choice of leaving is instigated by something.
I remember a lot of travelling when I was a child. Moving to X or Y country were often equally interesting to me because I had no real idea of the difference between them. Any decisions made were made in my interest but not really with my involvement. I was always excited to move, and indeed enjoyed it, but in many ways I can identify with the red hot ball. Bouncing here or there was an act caused by someone else. And to a large degree, I still am "just a ball" being bounced here or there by outside obligations such as school, family, work etc. I certainly don't regret growing up crossing borders, but I think it is a lie to say that it doesn't change you.
I forget who said it first, probably Gloria Anzaldua in La Frontera, but whenever you cross a border you lose a piece of your self. The question I have is: what do you gain?
11.30.2011
11.27.2011
Negotiating Nationality
Thomas King's "Borders" is a personal story about getting trapped in the borderlands because of King's mother refusing to identify with a Canadian or American nationality. This relates quite nicely to what I said yesterday regarding a refusal to acknowledge geopolitical borders that create countries. It's important to recognize that borders as we understand them today didn't always exist and the people that were on the Americas before European colonization had absolutely no voice when it came to white people deciding to draw them. Be aware, I use the term white loosely.
King says that giving up and just complying with the border security's demands "would have been easier" (137). Sure it would have. But that doesn't make it right. The arbitrary nature of borders are just that: arbitrary. It is so often forgotten that they don't actually exist, and that the only way they function is by social acceptance of them. "It would have been easier" to accept the border, but by resisting it, the narrator's mother actively challenges its very existence
Not labelling herself as a "Canadian" or "American" citizen, but as Blackfoot also does something interesting in this text. It resists the way that dominant ideology demands we identify ourselves. What does nationality mean, other than some form of ownership by the state? Not a lot. And yet, we are continuously asked to self identify with it, as though that proves something intrinsic about ourselves. By doing so, we perpetuate cultural and national stereotypes, and particular regional attributes that supposedly define us.
Take myself, for example. Only a few years ago my family discovered that my parents' marriage indicates that all of their children are eligible for Belgian citizenship (my father is the "real" Belgian in this case). Suddenly, with very little knowledge about the country, its politics, or even cultural values, I was a part of it. The word 'Belgian' appeared on paperwork and resumes where before, only Canadian had existed. Questions like "Does this change who I am?" and "Do I write Belgian-Canadian or Canadian-Belgian?" haunted me. Particularly that last one. I mean, one is alphabetical which seems right, but really my birthplace should take precedence shouldn't it? If anyone knows the proper answer, I'd love to hear it.
I came across George Melnyk's book poetics of naming a few months ago while researching for a paper, and he says that "a name is a metaphor for the self" which makes sense in some ways, because how we choose to define ourselves obviously indicates something, but in other ways I question it. Melnyk goes on to say that:
Personal names, how they come into being and how we relate to them, express all the dimensions and elements of language because they are metaphors for us, interpretations of who we are, in our culture(s), In personal names reside the totality of ourselves, our realities, the universes we inhabit both physically and psychically (2)
I think that the most important point here is Melnyk's reference to interpretation. Interpretation is based on perspective, and let's be honest, no one has the same perspective even if we'd like to pretend we do. So what happens when we are reduced to our nationalities? What happens when our nationality is what ultimately defines us at the border crossing and our personal ideas of ourselves are erased? Do we become part of the larger metaphor for the national self? What happens when we try to resist it?
What happens, very simply, is that we get caught in the borderlands. A name, a nationality, an identity even, is only valuable if those around you recognize it as such. I applaud Kings mother for having resisted the easier route, because it is acts like these that help to redefine the border. The border needs to be questioned. Not with the naive assumption that if we question it, it will change, but with the understanding that if we question and redefine it, the border becomes permeable.
The borderlands is a negotiable space, even if the reality of the border is undeniably under national control.
King says that giving up and just complying with the border security's demands "would have been easier" (137). Sure it would have. But that doesn't make it right. The arbitrary nature of borders are just that: arbitrary. It is so often forgotten that they don't actually exist, and that the only way they function is by social acceptance of them. "It would have been easier" to accept the border, but by resisting it, the narrator's mother actively challenges its very existence
Not labelling herself as a "Canadian" or "American" citizen, but as Blackfoot also does something interesting in this text. It resists the way that dominant ideology demands we identify ourselves. What does nationality mean, other than some form of ownership by the state? Not a lot. And yet, we are continuously asked to self identify with it, as though that proves something intrinsic about ourselves. By doing so, we perpetuate cultural and national stereotypes, and particular regional attributes that supposedly define us.
Take myself, for example. Only a few years ago my family discovered that my parents' marriage indicates that all of their children are eligible for Belgian citizenship (my father is the "real" Belgian in this case). Suddenly, with very little knowledge about the country, its politics, or even cultural values, I was a part of it. The word 'Belgian' appeared on paperwork and resumes where before, only Canadian had existed. Questions like "Does this change who I am?" and "Do I write Belgian-Canadian or Canadian-Belgian?" haunted me. Particularly that last one. I mean, one is alphabetical which seems right, but really my birthplace should take precedence shouldn't it? If anyone knows the proper answer, I'd love to hear it.
I came across George Melnyk's book poetics of naming a few months ago while researching for a paper, and he says that "a name is a metaphor for the self" which makes sense in some ways, because how we choose to define ourselves obviously indicates something, but in other ways I question it. Melnyk goes on to say that:
Personal names, how they come into being and how we relate to them, express all the dimensions and elements of language because they are metaphors for us, interpretations of who we are, in our culture(s), In personal names reside the totality of ourselves, our realities, the universes we inhabit both physically and psychically (2)
I think that the most important point here is Melnyk's reference to interpretation. Interpretation is based on perspective, and let's be honest, no one has the same perspective even if we'd like to pretend we do. So what happens when we are reduced to our nationalities? What happens when our nationality is what ultimately defines us at the border crossing and our personal ideas of ourselves are erased? Do we become part of the larger metaphor for the national self? What happens when we try to resist it?
What happens, very simply, is that we get caught in the borderlands. A name, a nationality, an identity even, is only valuable if those around you recognize it as such. I applaud Kings mother for having resisted the easier route, because it is acts like these that help to redefine the border. The border needs to be questioned. Not with the naive assumption that if we question it, it will change, but with the understanding that if we question and redefine it, the border becomes permeable.
The borderlands is a negotiable space, even if the reality of the border is undeniably under national control.
11.26.2011
Beginnings
I have always been fascinated by borders and particularly who is able or allowed to cross them. I grew up travelling around the world with my parents, going from school to school, country to country, ending up in Canada. I am now pursuing my MA in English, and borders have somehow followed me into my thesis proposal. Essentially, this blog is an academic as well as a personal exercise. Eventually, I need to write a major research paper or a thesis which will explore the notion of border crossing in literature. How people cross borders, when people cross borders, who is or isn't allowed to cross, where borders are, living on borders, and living the border. I think it is entirely possible to internalize the borderland, in performance, in literature, and in life. You might've realized by now I'm not limiting my study to the geopolitical borders, but something much broader. After all, not all people even acknowledge the geopolitical borders due to their arbitrary nature. Take Monique Mojica for example. At a conference this Fall in Toronto, she spoke very determinedly about the fact that borders that are enforced by politics and policing systems disrupt the indigenous understanding of belonging. Belonging is something that can transcend as well as be defined by borders. I agree with Mojica, but the fact is even if we don't believe in borders, we still encounter them- figuratively and literally- with startling frequency. How do we negotiate borders then? How do we even begin to define them?
It is obvious at this point that I have an exceedingly large number of questions and variables that I need to negotiate before I can really build an opinion. In order to answer some of these questions, my plan is to read relevant texts (starting with a pile provided to me by my supervisor) and blog about them. I hope an epiphany will occur eventually, but barring that, maybe at least a larger understanding. Simultaneously to this, I am going to attempt to be self reflexive, examining my own perspective as thoroughly as possible. Also, this is a practice in writing as I attempt to ease up on the academic language and just try get the bare bones out on the page. This way, I have a foundation to build on. It won't be an everyday thing, but I'll try to do what I can.
Since this is technically my first post, let's start off with a personal anecdote. The first time I ever crossed a border was when I was two weeks old. At this time, I was flown all the way from North Western Ontario to Malawi where my parents and older brother were living at the time. According to my parents, the Canadian government demanded a passport for my infant self, despite the fact that within months my facial features would undoubtedly grow unrecognisable. The passport itself would still be valid as my international identity for years, despite its infantile photo.
It is obvious at this point that I have an exceedingly large number of questions and variables that I need to negotiate before I can really build an opinion. In order to answer some of these questions, my plan is to read relevant texts (starting with a pile provided to me by my supervisor) and blog about them. I hope an epiphany will occur eventually, but barring that, maybe at least a larger understanding. Simultaneously to this, I am going to attempt to be self reflexive, examining my own perspective as thoroughly as possible. Also, this is a practice in writing as I attempt to ease up on the academic language and just try get the bare bones out on the page. This way, I have a foundation to build on. It won't be an everyday thing, but I'll try to do what I can.
Since this is technically my first post, let's start off with a personal anecdote. The first time I ever crossed a border was when I was two weeks old. At this time, I was flown all the way from North Western Ontario to Malawi where my parents and older brother were living at the time. According to my parents, the Canadian government demanded a passport for my infant self, despite the fact that within months my facial features would undoubtedly grow unrecognisable. The passport itself would still be valid as my international identity for years, despite its infantile photo.
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