By Armando García
I've been an Indiana
resident for barely a year, living in St. Joseph County. I come from California
and Texas, states where the majority are people of Hispanic origin, or soon
will be respectively.
As I began to
familiarize myself with the area, and to live with the population around me, I
began to feel discriminated against for having brown skin by Both African
Americans and Anglos who predominate in the area.
The discrimination I
have witnessed in this region, which cases are evident in many other parts of
the country, is different in that the residents are not aware that Latinos are
already the majority minority in the U.S. They think bullying fellow residents
with brown skin is acceptable behavior. When these incidents of
discrimination occur, it should be obvious, and very marked in a
response, that abides by the civil rights and labor laws necessary so that the
affected party could receive justice.
I am reminded of
words, by Martin Luther King, Jr., I read some time ago in a poster, "...the
law cannot make a man love me, but it can keep him from lynching me, and I
think that's pretty important."
It was at the
beginning of 2019 when I began feeling discriminated against, by people staying
in a rehabilitation center, to which I was admitted shortly after losing my
right foot.
From comments like, "This
dining table is for people like us not for Mexicans; or, you can't
sit there, because we have it blocked it like a wall at the border."
Even incidents of leaving the night pan on me all night or not properly
responding to a call made me wonder if I was a low priority to some medical
staff. Or how about leaving me without giving me the medication on time. The
complaint was made, and although they said that the complaint would be
addressed, the practices continued. Finally, I was abruptly discharged from the
place.
Once a week, a
homecare provider does the home chores and helps me with my shopping. The
person is an African American person and I once asked her to please find me a
place to cut my hair. She found one near my home; when she attempted to make
the appointment, she was told that it was not necessary to make an appointment
that they would take walk-ins any time.
We went and when the
barbers -both African Americans- saw me entering their hair saloon, they looked
surprised. I said that I was there for a haircut, and they immediately told me
that I needed an appointment. To which my assistant told them that they
informed her that an appointment was not required. The situation was obvious, a
Latino entering a barber shop, for an exclusively African American clientele
was not welcome. I told the manager that I was upset about what was going on,
and that from that moment, I would never patronize an establishment that didn't
welcome Latino clientele; and we left.
In the Spring, I was
accepted at another site to continue my rehabilitation therapy. The site staff
and local patients seek me out to translate for them, given that I am
bilingual, and happy to help out. However, with each supportive
translation, the incidents of discrimination by other patients, mostly
white-skinned, rises like this: “Speak English, you're in America.”
"Don 't Speak Spanish when I'm around; it makes me feel like you are
talking about me.” When they hear us speak Spanish, these patients leave
the tables around us or walk away from us. Each week is more difficult: at
breakfast time, I eat totally alone. No one sits with me anymore at the table
the staff seats me at each day.
The other patients
bully me as they listen to me speak with an accentuated English, common for
being a first-generation immigrant. These non-Latinos express in a misused or
broken Spanish words such as ‘Houla”, “mi nou comprendou”, “espiko english, Panchou”.
It is worth noting that the television program most watched by the patients in
that place is “Gunsmoke,” known in Spanish as La Ley del Revolver,
where the main bandits are few American cowboys, and many Mexican, and Indian declared
outlaws. This is a show produced in this country when it was common practice to
use denigrating adjectives towards Mexicans. For example, the Lone Ranger
called his indigenous companion "Tonto," which means "Fool"
in English. Faced with this television influence, the patients see me as one of
those bandits, with a hat and sarape, crouched before the superior
white-skinned people. Without merit, they are forcing me into a box; a
box reminiscent of 1950s behaviors.
One of the local
social workers told me they would take action on the matter of this bullying,
but she begged me not to raise my voice or shout if another similar incident
happened.
In response to the
social worker, civil and labor rights laws were achieved thanks to raising our
voices, shouting in the streets, protesting and claiming our American rights
and our human dignity. I've been in this country as an American for over 40
years, and the struggle continues.
In the meantime, I
have chosen, as if it were forbidden to speak and complain, to play my minority
role: to corner myself with the few elderly, Spanish speakers in this rehab
center; accepting our condition of being one of the lowest valued
minorities in this county. I know that I have many legal options; I keep them
to myself until the time comes when they are needed. Meanwhile I must resist.
Armando Garcia
is a freelance journalist and well known for his work in various Hispanic media
in the United States. He is the founder of the magazine Nuestra America. He
lives in South Bend, Indiana.
