Racism in Indiana's St. Joseph County

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.