The Atrocious Lingering of History

The atrocities of the past have a way of lingering. For those who have experienced oppression and persecution, the pain never goes away. That historical pain is often passed down to their descendants. Take for example the Zoot Suit (US Navy) Riots in the 1940s. My grand parents often talked about how they were treated like trash in California because they dared to dress differently and speak differently. In general, they dared to be different. For that, they were singled out as un-American. The Zoot-Suiters were stereotyped and vilified in the media. My grandparents recall being refused service in many stores and restaurants. In one instance, they were both beaten by the police and called dirty wetbacks. As I write this, I feel moved by my family’s history. I feel some of their pain. I feel anger.

I think people don’t always realize how powerful these stories are. Some view such narratives of the oppressed as “dwelling” on the past. But they aren’t dwelling. They are engaging. For me, they provided a way out of my own chaos. I grew up an angry kid. I was surrounded by drugs and gangs. I moved around a lot so I lived both in the barrio as well is in the burbs. In the barrio, I was angry because I saw things that no kid should see (e.g. my uncle beating my grandmother so he could take her purse to get money to buy crack; a best friend murdered, his head blown off at close range). In the burbs I was angry because Latinos were viewed as gardeners or servants of rich white people. I remember kids laughing at hardworking Mexicanos who were picking strawberries in the fields of Orange County. In an argument, they would call you a strawberry picker to provoke a fight. For some Chicanos, myself included, the anger was coupled with shame and a secret desire to distance ourselves from those Mexicans. These feelings proved too strong for me to handle. I went down a path that would have led me to jail or the grave. But I did finally find my way.

As I began to mature, the stories of the elders in my family began to make sense: my grandmother’s experience with de facto segregation in Roswell, New Mexico prior to moving to California; my Grandmother’s cousin’s (Nancy Lopez) struggle to become a pro-golfer despite racism; the struggle of my grandparents and my uncles and aunts to find a voice in the 1940s through the emerging Pachuco (Zoot Suit) culture; my family’s trials and tribulations as conquered peoples in the Southwest after “our land was stolen.” All these struggles had one lesson in common: be yourself no matter who doesn’t like it and no matter who tries to keep you down. This realization gave me the strength to choose a new path. As destiny would have it, I crossed paths with other people who had reflected strongly on the atrocities of the past and the anger they had in their own lives (Cesar Chavez, Ernesto Vigil, Carlos Montes, Rudy Acuna, Pat Marin, and many others). The atrocities of the past do cause pain in the present. But it is important to learn from them. Acknowledging them is a first step in the healing process for descendants of conquered peoples–we, the cockroach people.

For all these reasons, I was truly proud of our President yesterday. To acknowledge and engage the history of the Muslim world was not merely an act of diplomacy. He understood that the wounds in the Middle East run deep. He understood that rebirth is only possible through reflection. He reminded everyone of the good and the bad. He reminded us of the evils perpetrated by the US against Muslim countries. He reminded us of the horrors of the Holocaust and the ridiculousness of its denial. He also reminded us of the ridiculousness of fighting violence with violence through suicide bombing and other forms of terrorism.

Christians, Jews, and Muslims have more in common than we realize. It’s true that our painful history is what has kept us apart. But learning from each other’s painful history is also what will ultimately bring us together.