Mexican Lives Matter
Here in my little community a bit north of Nashville, the updated hate has hit. Well, I say “little” because I’ve lived in New York, Boston, the Bay Area, and Houston. It’s actually the seventh largest city in Tennessee. And I say “updated” because hate has always been here.
Tennessee is, after all, the birthplace of the original Ku Klux Klan. It was also the home-base for Nathan Bedford Forrest, the Confederate major general who captured Fort Pillow. Then, against all rules of war, he massacred hundreds of unarmed black troops who had surrendered. It’s now a state park forty miles north of Memphis.
This history hits close to home because another fort here in my town, Fort Defiance, was a regional center where many black troops were trained to fight for the Union cause. It is likely that many of the troops at Fort Pillow were trained here. They fought for their liberty from slavery, for their full rights as human beings in the land of their birth.
Well, today, a black neighbor came to my cottage to tell me he had seen teens walking around the neighborhood. He said they had been breaking windows and that he had seen them in the next door driveway. He didn’t identify them except to say that they had been spray painting something in “Mexican” in the neighborhood park, only a concrete stairway up from our homes.
The park was dedicated to my mom, a popular elementary school teacher and principal. From paying poll taxes in Arkansas, to teaching in segregated schools, to becoming a principal in desegregated schools in Tennessee, my mom had always advocated for justice.
I remember her experience of teaching a Latina child with long thick hair, hair so thick its weight sometimes gave the child headaches. She talked to the parents who refused to even trim it a few inches or distribute the weight in braids or pile it atop her head in a bun or pony tail. Periodically, especially during tests, mom would hold her hair up to give the child a break.
No, she didn’t report the parents. As a black woman, she knew what white-led agencies could do to destroy families. She also knew the child was growing quickly and this problem was likely to resolve itself. She loved children and worked with families as best she could, often doing home visits. Her park reflected that love.
It was designed with slides, climbing blocks, and, in the summer, water sprays for little kids. My heart always warmed to see parents with kids on bikes and in strollers heading to the park. Then, hearing them laughing with delight reminded me of how much mom loved kids. She had vetoed the idea of a basketball court, a stereotype suggested by local park authorities, because she wanted this to be a place for little kids, for families, not teens or men. Now, in addition to the play area, it has covered picnic tables, a few grills, and most recently, restrooms.
That house next door where the neighbor had seen the teens is Dad’s little rental property that is uninhabitable at present because a massive tree fell on it during a storm last year. I’ve been trying to get roofers in to repair it, but there have been disasters all over the region and when that happens FEMA funds get construction businesses flocking after cash. I should say “happened” because the current admin is cutting emergency funding (cf Huckabee Sanders in Arkansas).
Anyway, the alleged teens had spray-painted large purple penises on the driveway. I called 911 (there are no non-emergency numbers in my town). This was after I’d called a local constable my mother had taught. His mailbox was full, but he did call back. This was after I walked up to Dad’s house (also in the neighborhood) so home health nurses could change his big catheter bag for a small travel-size daytime model that strapped to his leg. I’d have to change it for a night bag any day we left the house.
I called the officer back and reported the crime. He was already aware because the startling (illegal and unconstitutional) “deportations” had triggered reactions all over the country and our red state. He said the teens he identified as Hispanic, had vandalized the restrooms with the same purple penises and words like “Mexican Lives Matter” and “Fuck Americans.”
They’re fighting for their liberty from the de-facto slavery that undocumented status brings, fighting for their full rights as human beings in the land of their choice.
It was ironic.
My mom was a black woman who stood up for everyone, always. Yet her park was being desecrated. But still, as her daughter, and knowing how even the best among white people can jump to conclusions about people of color, I stood up for the teens.
“We can’t really say for sure that they’re Hispanic,” I urged, gently, “because nobody’s seen them. And anybody can put anything in any language and put the blame on somebody else. ”
“That’s true, but Hispanics live in the neighborhood,” he replied.
“But this has always been a diverse neighborhood. They’ve been living here for some time and we’ve never had a problem before.”
“But that was before all these deportations. They’re causing problems all over the country.”
“I see your point there, but still…”
“Well,” he added in his Tennessee drawl, “we’ll come on by and see if anybody’s got purple paint on their hands.” We both chuckled, relieved at defusing the incipient tensions.
He was right, though. Blocking paths to legal status, grabbing people out of their homes, sending them or their children to lord knows where — even if they’re legal residents or even citizens — could upset people. Ya think?
But while he took the simplest path, I recall that in the Black Lives Matter protests, violence came in three main forms, including 125 police incidents identified by Amnesty International: overreactive police (Buffalo NY), white supremacist agitators (Oakland CA, Minneapolis MN), and opportunist looters with no known affiliation to the movement.
Plus, in addition to these recollections, I still believe in due process. I remember the history of extra-judicial lynchings here in my state. I recall Trayvon Martin and Ahmad Arbery and Sean Bell and Sonya Massey and…and…and…
My neighbors are going to look at their camera footage. I think I’ll put a camera out as well. If the constable and the neighbor are right, I’ll be conflicted about prosecution. Things are still somewhat legal and constitutional here, so I don’t think ICE will scoop in. But if it looks like that might happen, I’m not sure I would press charges.
I’m no softie. I’ve pressed charges against black caregivers who have stolen my parents’ money. They’re in prison. But we were paying them (through an agency) and they betrayed my elderly parents (a Vietnam War vet and an elementary school teacher) who had worked hard for every penny while raising four children, two with special needs. None of these caregivers’ rights had been forestalled. They just stole because they could.
This was different. Injustice is rampant. Cruelty and fear are even worse. Legal immigrants I know personally are leaving the US. Citizens are having trouble renewing their passports. Other citizens at the border are being interrogated about their political activities. I’d rather suffer a few purple penises than see someone in a Salvadorean concentration camp.
Meanwhile, as primary caregivers, I’ve got to take Dad to the cardiologist and check on why the roofers for his tiny rental property seem to have ghosted me and why the plumbers we’ve been loyal to for years now expect nearly $2000 in one lump sum for work. If we use a credit or debit card, they’ll charge 3% extra. Sigh.
