"Mr. Vargas:
As founder and former state chairman of the Nebraska Minutemen, now merged with the Nebraska Tea Party, I was positively impressed by your interview with Bill O'Reilly. If I understand your situation correctly, you [were] brought into the United States by your parents when you were a young child, and they chose for whatever reason to do so in a fashion that avoided our immigration law. You now refer to yourself in your blog as "an undocumented American," which I believe is a fair and accurate assessment."
Of course the two movements intersect. Which is precisely why I instantly thought of James Baldwin upon hearing the president's welcome (though inevitable) embrace. Baldwin, arguably the most influential writer of the civil rights era, was African American and openly gay at a time when America wrestled with the black part and all but ignored the homosexual part. Baldwin came in full. He spoke, wrote and challenged a largely white and largely straight America to see him as a human being deserving of equal rights. He evoked truths that resonate with other minorities, may they be Asians or Latinos or undocumented immigrants -- anyone who's considered a minority, anyone who's felt rejected and thought of as "the other" in America.
All my life I've been a minority. Though I have a Hispanic name, I'm actually Asian -- Filipino, to be exact. ("What are you?" is a question that usually greets me when I visit predominantly white towns, particularly in the Midwest and the South.) In high school, I came out as gay. Twelve years later, after spending my 20s feeling shameful and fearful, I came out for the second time as an undocumented immigrant. As I write this, I still remember the jolt I felt while reading the text of a speech Baldwin once gave.
"Before we can begin to speak of minority rights in this country, we've got to make some attempt to isolate or to define the majority," Baldwin said. "We cannot discuss the state of our minorities until we first have a sense of what we are, who we are, what our goals are, and what we take life to be."
He titled the speech "In Search of a Majority."
Diversity is destiny in 21st century America. More women will hold positions of power. African Americans will keep breaking barriers. Demographically, the country will look more Latino and more Asian -- most of them documented, many of them without papers. And more members of the LGBT community, of all colors, not just gay and lesbian but also transgender people, will continue to come out, insisting that they, too, be seen as fully human, capable of love and worthy of marriage. A different American majority is emerging, and what it means to be a minority in a country that will soon be minority-majority is being redefined.
As a gay undocumented American, my generation is indebted to pioneers like Baldwin -- to older generations of LGBT activists who, through tears and agony, fought to be seen and treated fully. I'm thinking of well-known icons like Harvey Milk, the first openly gay man to be elected to public office in California, and Larry Kramer, the AIDS activist who forever changed the way we advocated for our lives and our health. But I'm also thinking of lesser-known trailblazers like Barbara Gittings, who worked tirelessly to disassociate being gay with being abnormal (a fight she helped win when the American Psychiatric Association dropped homosexuality as a mental illness in 1972), and Frank Kameny, arguably the godfather of the modern civil rights movement. A lifetime ago, Kameny, who was fired from his job with the Army Map Service because he was gay, picketed the White House, always in a three-piece suit, carrying signs that read "First Class Citizenship for Homosexuals" and "Homosexual Americans Demand Their Civil Rights." Those signs have become part of history, displayed in the Smithsonian. Kameny died last year, on National Coming Out Day.
In a profile for the Washington Post nearly seven years ago, Kameny, standing in his dusty attic and showing me his historic signs, told me: "The one thing that I want to be remembered for, if only one, is that in 1968, inspired by the slogan 'Black Is Beautiful,' I coined the term 'Gay Is Good.' "
To be sure, the fight for gay rights is far from over. Though Obama said he now supports gay marriage, he also pointed out that issue is to be decided by the states. The federal government still does not recognize same-sex marriage. It is illegal in some 44 states. Still, how I wish Kameny were alive to have watched his president acknowledged his full humanity.
]]>That was chief in my mind as the crowded ferry left Battery Park, the southern tip of Manhattan, and headed toward the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. I live in New York City. My dear friends Karen and Matt, visiting from Seattle during their daughter Bridget's spring break, insisted I come along. This was Bridget's first time seeing Lady Liberty. It was a first for me, too. Though my apartment is just a few subway stops from Battery Park, it was my inaugural pilgrimage to Ellis Island, the country's first federal immigration station, the "Island of Hopes, Island of Tears" where nearly 1 in 3 Americans can trace their European ancestors during one of the largest migrations in history. In the early 1900s, some 5,000 new immigrants arrived at Ellis Island each day in search of a better life. Most didn't speak English; they needed translators to pass a basic literacy test. Many had little to no money. All told, between 1892 and 1954, about 12 million people were inspected, registered and welcomed to America.
Nearly 60 years after the island's closing, America is faced with the migration of another 12 million people -- this time immigrants without papers, not just from Europe but from all around the world, especially Mexico. Today, the U.S. Supreme Court reviews Arizona's immigration law, SB 1070, which at the time of its passing was the strictest anti-illegal immigration bill in modern U.S. history. If the high court does not strike down the controversial provisions at the heart of the Arizona law, anyone who's suspected of being undocumented can be stopped and asked for papers; police, without a warrant, can arrest anyone they believe is deportable; and immigrants without papers are guilty of a state crime.
This is more than a "show-me-your-papers" law. Within immigrant communities, not just in Arizona but across America, SB 1070 is shorthand for "They don't want us here." As the law spawned copycat legislation around the country -- five other states from Alabama to Utah passed similar bills -- SB 1070 has become synonymous with anti-immigrant fervor, with racial profiling, with being brown, with being Latino -- with being "the other" -- as a crime in a demographically changing America. The law has also galvanized the growing immigrants rights community like nothing else before it. Aside from undocumented immigrants, the American citizens who make up what I call the 21st century Underground Railroad of supporters -- people like Julie Erfle, who advocates for humane immigration policies even though her husband, a cop in Phoenix, was killed by an undocumented immigrant -- are standing up and speaking out. The case before the high court may be titled "United States v. Arizona." But more accurately, it's really "United States v. United States" because what's at stake is American identity itself -- how we define American.
Defining American, not coincidentally, has been a struggle for our country the moment it was founded. Even before America was America -- before the Declaration of Independence was signed and the Constitution was ratified, before Border Patrol and the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement were created -- this country has always been about the struggle between the natives and the newcomers, the old and the new. This was made abundantly clear as I visited, confronted and came to terms with Ellis Island. As one of the country's 12 million undocumented immigrants who call this country home, walking around the country's first immigration station was a deep, sobering experience. It was a reminder of why immigration must remain the purview of the federal government, not individual states like Arizona and Alabama. It was also a reminder of our country's history, of how America's immigration policies provoked a national debate during the late 19th and early 20th centuries after throngs of undocumented European immigrants were processed in Ellis Island.
On the second floor of the main building, under the exhibit "Peak Immigration Years," the public debate back then over immigration -- over "foreigners" who were crowding America, "foreigners" who were undermining American wages, "foreigners" who were taxing social service agencies -- eerily echoes our national consciousness now. Just replace "illegals" with "foreigners." Before talk radio and cable news facilitated our national conversation on immigration, the debate back then raged in editorial cartoons, "restrictionist literature" (a cover of an example from 1885 read: "Restrict All Immigration! Protect Yourself and Your Children Against Ruinous Labor") and even popular music. A song from 1923 called "O! Close the Gates" went like this:
"O, what will become of our country in a few more years to be
If foreign immigration isn't barred from the U.S.A.
Our flag they do not honor
Our rights they will betray
O! close the gates of our nation
Yes before that awful day..."
"When I give tours over at Ellis Island, I will often tell people, 'Think about how much has changed since then, but also think about how much has stayed the same,'" David Lawrence, a self-described "history geek," told me. He's a park guide and gives tours in both Ellis Island and Liberty Island. "The arguments that were going on back then, are the same arguments that we have now: who should be admitted in, who should be excluded, how do you determine that, what regulations should be in place."
History, indeed, is repeating itself. And Americans of all stripes -- from various backgrounds, undocumented and documented -- are standing together, in solidarity, to differentiate between the fair, welcoming America of Ellis Island and the unjust, un-American America of SB 1070.
Since finding out that I was undocumented when I was 16 years old, I've benefited from the kindness and generosity of American citizens. One of the earliest members of my Underground Railroad was Karen, whom I met at the local community newspaper that we both interned for in the late 1990s. Since she was older, she was in charge of me. She would tell me later that I was the very first person she was in charge of in a work setting. We became fast friends. I sang at her wedding. She and her husband Matt hosted my high school graduation on their yard. And they took me to my first trip to Ellis Island.
After telling their 8-year-old daughter about her family's immigrant roots -- Karen's grandfather came through Ellis Island from Holland, Matt's family came from Ireland and Scotland -- Bridget picked out some treats for me from a gift shop. Under the spring sun last week, the second-grader handed me an American flag, a pin that says "Ellis Island" and a golden coin that reads: "United States of America, A Nation of Immigrants."
She calls me Uncle Jose, and she says I'm her favorite immigrant.
Earlier this week Define American, a campaign I founded with a small but diverse group of friends, launched an ambitious effort that lives up to that promise: a Stories feature that enables any immigrant, immigrant ally or citizen to digitally share their story via videos, audio, photo or text.
We have a goal of collecting 500 stories -- yep, 500 -- in the next week, with multimedia testimonials that elevate how we talk about immigration. Among the first participants include entrepreneur and Occupy Wall Street supporter Russell Simmons and Internet pioneer Craig Newmark of Craiglist, in addition to Elisa Camahort Page, co-founder of the influential BlogHer network, and Hollywood director Chris Weitz, who followed up his blockbuster hit "The Twilight Saga: New Moon" with the must-see "A Better Life," which tells the story of an undocumented gardener and his American-born teenage son. Stephen Colbert, always good for a sharp laugh, recorded a video, too. Via Skype, I asked Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton how she defines American. In the coming weeks and months, we will continue to get videos from high-profile celebrities, politicians and technocrats. But some of the most touching videos have come (and will continue to come) from ordinary people -- documented and undocumented, of all ages and backgrounds, Democrats and Republicans -- whose lives are touched by illegal immigration yet whose voices are often inadequately represented in the media.
Take the story of Julie Erfle, a former journalist. Her husband Nick, a Phoenix police officer, was shot and killed by a previously deported undocumented immigrant in 2007. His death helped sparked the anti-immigrant wave in Arizona that culminated in the passage of SB1070 last year. People expected Julie, a white middle class woman, to ride the wave. Instead, she has called for the need for consensus and finding common ground -- for humanity.
Take the story of Victor, who I met a few weeks ago while on a reporting trip to Alabama, which surpassed even Arizona in passing the country's most draconian immigration law. Thirteen years ago, Victor crossed the border with his parents and settled in the South. He's 19 now, smart as a whip, the kind of student who earned the highest score during a citizenship test in his U.S. History class. "Even though I'm undocumented -- 'illegal' as many people say -- I love this country. I've studied the history of this country," he told me. He wants to be a history teacher, but he's not in college right now. Like most states, Alabama does not grant in-state tuition to undocumented students. Yet despite the challenges, he keeps a positive outlook. "I define American as the betterment of the self," Victor said in his video. "America to me is a country, as well as an idea, as a belief. A belief and a notion that you can move upwards."
Theirs are voices that we don't offer hear in such a polarized, controversial issue. Yet theirs are precisely the voices we need to hear to come up with common-sense, practical solution to our shared immigration problem. And it is, in fact, a shared problem. Illegal immigration is not just about undocumented immigrants like me who contribute to society and pay taxes. It's also about countless American citizens -- from principals to pastors, coaches to classmates, all members of the 21st Century Underground Railroad -- who are forced to deal with a broken immigration system that our government has consistently failed to fix. Using new technologies, undocumented immigrants like me and the citizens who aid us are increasingly telling the truth about our broken system. And by telling the truth -- by telling and sharing our stories -- we are standing up for justice, and for each other.
So tell your relatives, friends and co-workers to share their stories on Define American. And, while you're at it, please tell us your story, too, by answering these questions and sharing here: http://www.
How do you define American?
Why is America special to you?
What's your immigration story?