On Monday my sister and I took to the streets of Los Angeles to document
history. We walked miles, pedaled boulevards, marched routes and sang songs of
protest in solidarity with all immigrants that came out on May 1st.
Despite the lower figures reported in the LA Times, I am certain there were at
least a million people on the streets that day.
CNN anchors like Jack Cafferty and Lou Dobbs would like us
to believe that the march was meaningless—thousands of contemptible illegal
human beings wanting more than they deserve. I am a citizen and so is the
housekeeper with whom I spent the morning marching down Broadway. I met others
who are not citizens, but whose children are fighting in the United States
Military in Iraq.
I heard stories of students who came to this country as infants and whose
temporary residence status will expire when they graduate from high school this
spring. Children without Social Security do not qualify for student aid and
must make the decision between staying here in the United States and skipping college,
or going back to study in their countries of origin at the expense of possibly
never seeing their families again. I saw Teamsters and police officers, politicians
and teachers, DJ’s and singers, religious figures and entire families, marching
for a human solution to the complex problem of undocumented workers in the United States. Everyone
carried flags – red for courage, white for purity, and blue for justice.
Size matters. The simultaneous work stoppages on Monday
brought our two ports, Long Beach and Los Angeles, to a near
standstill. Our Central Valley fields were
emptied of farmworkers. There was an unprecedented unity among employers and
employees, including growers who demonstrated their solidarity with idle
tractors and farm equipment left alongside Highway 101 in silent protest. The
farmworkers on Monday created the largest agricultural work stoppage on record in California,
even greater than the Grape Strike of 1973.
At the end of the day, after Mayor Villaraigosa and Dolores
Huerta, after the sun had begun its western descent below the horizon, after
“If I Had a Hammer” and several prayers, when we began to notice the distance
we had walked in our calves and thighs, my sister and I packed our cameras and
backpacks and got on our bicycles and headed home down an empty and quiet
Wilshire Boulevard.
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