About Casa Grande and CCA

It has been nearly two months since my trip to the southwest. I think about it often. A few significant experiences remain to be written about. One was the shortcut past Casa Grande Ruins National Monument. That was an emotional day.

I left Tucson for the last time the Saturday morning, the very next day after my trip to Buenos Aires Wildlife Refuge. I can’t quite describe my feelings of grief as I descended the back wooden staircase outside, from the upper story of the large house, to the small gravel lot behind Pima Friends Meeting in Tucson. I opened the trunk of the white Honda Sonata rental car and filled it, realizing I had no idea when I would ever be back. The feeling escalated into a mild exasperation when I wasn't able to find someone to pay for the room. People were having meetings downstairs all morning. I did not feel I could interrupt.

Committee work in Friends meetings is often conducted on Saturdays, and those sorts of gatherings are sometimes planned around larger events, such as a quarterly business session. They can last a long time, but usually break for lunch. I walked into the downstairs back door very quietly. Since my mother is a Quaker minister, I am experienced at getting attention when needed without being too disruptive. I hoped someone would leave the meeting room to use the bathroom or have a drink, or get something from their car. Then I could ask who to pay. They didn’t. I sat on the side porch, logged into my bank account, and scheduled a payment to be mailed on the next business day. They could see me through the window. Nobody came out. I felt unjustifiably neglected, but I get like that sometimes. I was told later by email that people “usually put it in the drop box by the front door.” I wondered if people who visited my home meeting ran into such frustrating, somewhat insignificant dilemmas.

When I got into the car, as I turned on the ignition, the tears came. I just cried for a little while. I took one last look at the meetinghouse, and pulled out of the lot. I drove away from the park where Pablo had given me the CD he made. I drove up Interstate 10. I thought of the cross I had carried just a week ago, and wondered where along Interstate 10 the young man whose cross I had carried had been found. I wondered if someone might be there along the road now, just out of sight. After some miles, I felt a strong urge that I sometimes have, for no reason, to take the next exit, and just drive. It was a beautiful, quiet, November Saturday morning in the desert, without a lot of traffic.

The road I pulled off onto was Route 87. I did not want to end up in the middle of nowhere, so I pulled out the map of Arizona I had saved on a previous trip and packed in my computer bag. (No GPS for this 1980’s pizza and buffalo wings delivery girl). The road went to Phoenix. Part-way-there was a notorious brown spot jumping out at me – a National Monument. Yes!

I can’t entirely describe these feelings I have. They are related to the “Quaker knowing,” intuitive-like knowledge I’ve written about before, and sometimes stronger. There is no audible voice, but the words are clear in my mind: “Go this way.” I made note of the approximate distance, and of the part of Mesa I would be arriving into. I recognized the names of some of the streets from driving around my first days in Phoenix. I tucked the map away and drove on.

There were miles upon miles of ripe cotton. I stopped and took a picture. A little further on, off to the left, a red Farmall tractor was kicking up dust, pulling a small harvester. My husband, Bruce, loves Farmalls, and my father did too. I wanted to stop again, but thought I might never make it back to Phoenix if I kept stopping to take photos. My eyes scanned fields, wondering if an immigrant might be sleeping under a large tree, or if they might hide in the local barns. And then I saw it, and a shock went through my whole being.

Picture at this news story link:

http://archive.pahrumpvalleytimes.com/2008/Sep-03-Wed-2008/news/23608276.html

It was the prison. I just had not expected it. It was not on my map. After the week's experiences, there it was, rising out of my pastoral road trip. Immaculate, enormous, and not a soul in sight. The letters, CCA, were on the front of the building. I considered pulling over to take a picture, but the thought of security watching me photograph them through cameras turned my stomach. I mean, I felt ill. If I pulled over, it would more likely be to vomit, I realized, because the physical reaction was that strong. I was shaking, and holding my steering wheel tightly by the time I passed it all. I did stop in the next town; Elroy maybe, and bought a cup of coffee and a donut. My hands were still shaking as I took the money out of my worn, leather, one-pocket zip wallet at the gas station. I had been carrying the old thing, full with my passport card, license, credit and debit cards, and change in a SPIbelt from some old half marathon a few years ago. A SPIbelt is an elastic belt, convenient for marathoners, with zip-pockets, and can be worn over or under clothing. I had just worn it under my clothes into Mexico twice. The young cashier was friendly. Everyone in town seemed friendly, and I wondered how many of them worked at the prison.The shaking subsided.

Finally, I got to Casa Grande. Admission was surprisingly free, because of it being Veterans Day weekend. But I had to take my coffee back out to the car. They did not permit food or drinks. I had my last 5K T-shirt on, and it flouted Wheeling, WV's Ogden Classic. A woman passing me started talking in a very fake “hillbilly” dialect to the people with her, accentuating the bigoted tone of this entire experience. I felt sad and disgusted with the ignorance, and annoyed that some people still found humor in that.

I browsed the museum, then sat and watched the movie prior to the next tour. I took pictures of the display of kinds of building structures in the museum for Bruce, because he likes to construct from raw materials. I could not shake the image of the prison during the entire movie; and as I sat there in the dark, listening to the story of the ancestors of the people who lived here, a quiet, simmering rage filled me. I wondered how many of the descendents of those who lived here were down the road, incarcerated, for simply crossing a political line, drawn by who? And for what? I looked around me, taking note that there was only one tan-skinned family in the room. By the time the movie was over, I was fighting tears, so enraged; wondering what everyone else visiting was here to see; what would they take away? Then we went outside. 

The square holes were for the solstices and equinoxes.

We walked around the structure. To know that this was once one of the largest settlements of native Americans, and their central community structure, left a deep impression on me. How dare we! How dare white people move to this area freely, live here a year, and feel entitled to this place enough to build a prison and incarcerate people whose ancestors lived here thousands of years ago! How dare we! To think that some of the largest prisons for immigrants in the U.S. are right at the very heart of the ancestral grounds of many of the people we put in them is hienous. This is NOT a “free country,” for anyone except those who exploit.

We go vacationing, and look at hieroglyphs, and we don’t understand what they mean, on any level whatsoever.

I keep thinking back to Jan de Hartog’s story about Friends during WWII, in his book, “The Lamb’s War.” It is fiction, but the story that comes to mind most is about the witnessing of Nazi’s killing Jews indiscriminately, and of making their loved ones watch and lose control, for sport. I’ve thought of that often through the years. In the same train of thought, I think of Shane Bauer, imprisoned in Iran, falsely accused of spying while hiking in the mountains near Iran. I think of what he experienced, and his looking into the U.S. prison system when he got home, and writing about it.

http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2012/10/solitary-confinement-shane-bauer

The family and friends of those imprisoned in Iran began a fast for their release. This fast inspired one of the first immigrant rights groups I joined, the Facebook group, Starving for Justice, that led to my taking this trip. I fasted for Shane and his friends, but also with this group, for the immigrants imprisoned in the U.S.. Each week we fasted one day per week, and kept going with it for months. So many people are willing to support people like Shane, an American citizen imprisoned unjustly in a Middle Eastern country, but are unwilling to see or believe the atrocities and injustices being committed here, within our own borders, by us.

Casa Grande left its mark on my soul.

I walked back to my car, indefinably outraged, and drove along the two-lane highway, all the way back to Mesa. I found my way to my son’s home. He and his girlfriend were comfy on their couch, watching TED talks on the television, and working on their laptops. I brought in my luggage, then sat on the easy chair next to them, and turned on my laptop also. An oriental woman on the television was talking about a woman with a ripped vagina from childbirth causing a fistula to her urethra. The uncontrollable leakage and stench inspired her community to leave her to be killed by dogs. This happened somewhere in Asia. She was able fight the dogs off, then crawl to a neighboring town where her fistula was ultimately repaired. And then she made a difference by starting a fund for women in remote places, who had such fistulas caused by childbirth to be repaired. What an odd story for such a day, but a relevant one.

My life is very full and busy. I live over a thousand miles from the border. I came home to my own financial and personal instabilities to deal with; to friends and family talking about their own winter vacations; and to a profound disillusionment with those around me. I came home to people complaining about their employer because they couldn't get the schedules they wanted; to foreigners seeking health care in a city hospital; to drug users losing control while trying to get help. But what was stuck in my vision was images of desperate, despondent, hard-working farmers with blistered feet, who would do anything in the world to be able to have those issues. I am also disillusioned with myself. If someone put me in prison today, I’m positive they could “break” me in a very short period of time, but what would they prove, other than their own inhumanity? What do we prove by putting desperate people in prison for crossing a border? Who are we helping? It is not ourselves, and it is not them. We know people can be broken. I have been thinking a lot since my trip about what it is I am going to do to fix what is happening to so many people.

People I Met In Tucson and Nogales

I have been wanting to write a blog post on some of the noteworthy people I met on this trip whom I have not mentioned, or only mentioned briefly. I do not have pictures of most of them. 

Ulisses

Ulisses
Ulisses was helping out at Grupos Beta, the Mexican Border Patrol. I've mentioned before that Grupos Beta is very different from the U.S. Border Patrol, because they rescue people. Grupos Beta also operates a shelter where deportees can stay for up to three days. On the Friday I went to Nogales, Larry Trent took me to the shelter. The same men I saw in the morning at El Commodor, the cafeteria, were mulling about, brushing their teeth. We gave them cookies and gum that Larry had brought. Ulisses went with us from there to visit the grave of Jose Antonio Elena Rodriguez, the 16-year-old who was shot near the border fence in Nogales. He asked me to take his picture, after Larry told him who I was, and why I was there. Since this picture was taken, Ulisses has tried to cross the border again, and is now in detention. 
 
Marla Conrad 
Marla greeted me with a smile when I was inside the El Commodor cafeteria. She shook my hand, and introduced herself as the Social Worker. Her official title on her card states Migrant Advocate/Volunteer Coordinator for Kino Border Initiative, which is the organization that runs this cafeteria and service for deportees that the U.S. dumps off. I realized immediately the enormity of her job, and I felt honored that she took the time to speak with me when so many people she served were in need. I was also amazed at her pleasant, unhurried demeanor, and her genuine smile. She gave me her card. She is one person who helps immigrants understand their legal rights and what services are available to them.

Christa
Christa was a young EMT who volunteers at El Commodor sometimes. She was there the day I was there, and had come with a group of college students from Flagstaff who were fulfilling academic requirements by volunteering there. She had brought a first-aid kit with her, containing ibuprofen, acetaminophen, aspirin, ace wraps, bandages and other important items. She asked me to confer with her when treating an older man's very bruised feet, what would be the best course of action, and on which pain medication would be most appropriate for him. He denied having allergies. We found ourselves discussing nausea, dehydration, potential liver and kidney problems, what his days ahead might look like and what might be the best advice for him; and I realized that the medical concerns were in a realm I had not experienced in practice before then. It was important to make him understand not to take too many pills at one time. She spoke fluent Spanish, and translated, permitting me to interact with several deportees. It was when I was working with Christa that I realized that I wanted to go back, and help these people more, and that in order to do so, I would need to learn a lot more Spanish. I would also need to understand the issues that went along with desert conditions and spending days in jail with no food. I felt happy here, and in my element, completely. Whether I go back remains to be seen though. Both of us were surrounded by men on the street outside the mission, and they were grateful, and concerned for each other. They had just been through despair together. Christa was showing me some things that could be done for that, and it felt good and right to be there. 

Trish Gehlen
Trish may not see herself as a significant person on this trip, but she was. She was a year ahead of me at the Friends (Quaker) boarding school we attended, Olney Friends School, in Barnesville, Ohio. She has been living in Tucson since 1982, and works for the zoning board there. She offered her home to stay in while I was in Tucson. Even though I only spent one night there, the visit inspired thoughtfulness about aspects of this trip I otherwise may not have considered. When we were in high school together, I was on the student Spiritual Life Committee, when Trish brought forward a concern about the way religion was being presented to the students. At the time, I was an evangelical, born-again Christian, albeit a teenager. Several administrators and board members were also very evangelical, and had a mind that every student should be converted during their stay at the school. Her concern made me question what religion and spirituality were really about for people. I wondered whether trying to convert everyone was a good idea, if it were accomplishing the opposite effect of deterring them from the Christian religion entirely. 

Over the years, her courage for bringing such a heartfelt issue has come back to me numerous times, for different reasons. We were not close at Olney, but we were close and connected to some of the same people from the school, and from Columbus, Ohio. Religion is very much a part of the immigration issue because most of those advocating for humane treatment of these people come because of a religious conviction about it, or give religious arguments for doing so. Many who argue against some of the basic immigrant rights have religious stands in other political areas but seem to be able to separate their politics and religious precepts on this issue. The other place available to me for boarding in Tucson as an alternative to a hotel was the Pima Friends Meeting guest room. Although people in that meeting were involved in immigration issues, none of those people were able to make contact with me during the two nights I stayed there; or at the meeting-for-worship that I attended. I knew they were around though. Trish provided me with a familiar face, with a room with pictures of more familiar faces tacked to a bulletin board, and with the subtle but profound comfort in knowing that spiritually, we had probably come to much more common ground over time. Relaxing in a chair in her living room, talking about people we both knew, and having her dog slobber on my pant leg made me feel much more at home. Understanding that we were on more common ground brought me comfort and confidence in a city I had never visited. 

My room at Pima Friends Meeting

On the wall at Pima Friends Meeting

Cotton crocheted dishcloths left on my desk at Pima Friends Meeting. My son took some of these to Kenya as house gifts. My husband's mother made them personally for him to take. I was charmed to find some made by others, as a hint to do my own dishes.

Sherrie Miller
Sherrie was the caretaker at Pima Friends Meeting. I emailed with the clerk, Jane Kroesen, and Sherrie, prior to and after my stay there. Her daughter was helping her do laundry when I arrived. Sherrie made my stay comfortable despite being down with a cold and despite some general, somewhat significant household issues. The room at the meetinghouse was a quiet haven to gather my thoughts, and to write about these experiences while they were fresh in my mind. I deeply appreciated the space that was not a hotel room, and the Quakerly hospitality far from home. 

 

I didn't know who the man was carrying the crosses, but Pablo is in the white shirt next to him.

Pablo Peregrina
Pablo walked in front of me, and then behind me, for much of the 8-mile 13th Annual Dia de Los Muertos Pilgrimmage. We walked from St. Johns church to San Xavier, where we laid to rest crosses and souls of those who were found dead in the desert in the last fiscal year.  He is a musician who sings border songs. Joel Smith arranged several of these experiences for me, and walked with me nearly the entire way. Joel currently manages the Humane Borders water runs. He told me that he met Pablo after hearing him play several years ago, and that it was Pablo who first engaged him in helping Humane Borders filling water tanks as a volunteer. The day I returned from Sasabe, Mexico, Pablo drove from south Tucson to Pima Friends Meeting in north Tucson, to sell me two of his CD's, which are not available online. He told me a little bit about each song on the CD's, sitting in the grass in the park across the road from the meetinghouse. His songs are meaningful and heartfelt. He told me that he will play his music for travel expenses, in order to share what is happening along the border. I realized that many of the events that transpired to bring me to Tucson might not have happened without Pablo. 

I've written about Joel Smith and Larry Trent in previous posts. They organized most of the events on this trip for me. I was touched by many others, and their names and faces surface in recollection of the trip. Apart from Joel and Larry, these were the primary people who influenced my experience, however, and I want to dedicate this post to them, in gratitude.