Featured The border wall separating Nogales, Arizona from Nogales, Mexico

How Do You Plead?

viewing through slats in the wall, children are playing
From the U.S. side of The Wall at Nogales, we see children playing at a Mexican school.

Author’s Note: In a Tucson, Arizona, courtroom, a dozen students and two advisers from Gonzaga University witnessed Operation Streamline – a controversial system of justice for migrants accused of entering the U.S. illegally. In less than three hours, we would see 72 individuals processed. Seventy-two times we would hear the judge repeat the same questions to people who did not speak English as a first language (some did not even understand the Spanish translation), and all but a few times, individuals were sentenced to time served and deported back to their homelands. Hearing the legal questioning and the confused answers became the cornerstone of my entire experience learning about the U.S. immigration and deportation system.

Candles are painted on slats of The Wall .
On the Mexico side of the wall in Nogales, candles are painted on bars – a sign of loss and a petition for awareness.


How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?

Yes.

An attorney sat with arms outstretched behind him on the bench, arrogance wafting off his puffed up chest. “I volunteer,” he says. Well so does the elderly woman in red — she knows the names of every person on the docket and what their conviction is and what might be done to help them when the attorneys and judges have gone home.

Inside the courtroom, a young girl’s age is argued by people who don’t know her in a language she doesn’t speak. She shrinks away in the presence of the two bulky white marshals who take her back to a stark room where they return her to shackles, and – who knows – maybe strip-search her for the third time that day.

How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?
Yes.

We visit a Border Patrol facility where an armed, green “guardian of the borders, America’s frontline” talks of “bad guys” – “unwanted visitors” – “a bunch a creeps” – “a pregnant chick” and the “community crap” his agency does.

Lizbet crossed the border at age 15. Sixteen years and two American-born children later, she is deported. Stuck. Separated from her sons who remain in Delaware while she sits in a cold 4th-floor room in a concrete building, spilling her heart to a bunch of Americans who aren’t sure what to do with her story.

Bullcrap. That’s what Nayelli did with her life in the States. She shoveled bullcrap. Took a job no U.S. citizen wanted – 12-hour days, 6-day weeks doing the disgusting jobs white people couldn’t handle, making more in one day than she’d make in a month back home. Having returned to Mexico voluntarily to care for a dying grandmother, she’s unable to get back to the States where her two young daughters wait.

How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty? 
Yes. 

Getting to the states legally is a mound of paperwork, money, too many people in power, money, so much at stake, so much ambiguity. But not for me. I can walk across the border on a drizzling gray morning without fear, then get in a car and have a great lunch at a taco truck and go on about my day.

Inside a warehouse stuffed with clothing and shoes and diapers and bandages, we pretend to be real people in that maze of immigration. A border patrol officer on a power kick. A twisted attorney. An employer looking for workers to make him money. A desperate mom, a fumbling dad, people offering their fate to others.

How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?
Yes. 

A fence of steel, rising up the hills and back down again. Space between slats where life in a community buzzes. It’s recess and children chase one another in a school yard while the late-morning shadows chase them, too. Unaware – perhaps – of what that metal monstrosity represents.

The wall – 654 miles of steel. A hearty person with a dream can go around or over or under, but only at great risk: being caught drug smugglers, turned in by citizen militia, or detained by Border Patrol, resulting in weeks to months in jail, and the stamp of “ILLEGAL.”

How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty? 
Yes.

 

The border wall separating Nogales, Arizona from Nogales, Mexico
The Border Wall at Nogales, Arizona and Nogales, Mexico. A new addition is the layer of steel mesh, intended to prevent the passing of items through from one country to the other. While an original goal was likely the prevention of drug traffic, an unfortunate consequence is the prevention of family members sharing meals together, which was previously a common practice for loved ones separated from one another.
Liberty and Dignity are painted on The Wall - border in Nogales, Mexico
On the Mexico side of The Wall in Nogales, people leave hopes for justice, liberty and dignity.

 

More to come at wordsncoffee.com as well as blogs from the students at gonzaga.edu

 

True Confession: I was ignorant (or, The Truth about Blacks’ journey to Civil Rights)

by Kate Vanskike

Let me be honest: Until the last decade or so of my life, I haven’t been incredibly interested in history. In high school and in college, it was simply a required class. In the latter, I’m embarrassed to say, history was the one course I nearly failed because I was taking way too many credit hours, working, participating in a musical and volunteering, and that was the class to take the fall. (My French class would have taken a fall too, if it weren’t for my mom doing my homework for me. Better put an ‘s’ on that confession in the headline.)

What’s my point? At age 43, I finally learned about the deep and twisted history of racism in our country. I learned that lynchings didn’t just happen “way back when” – they still occurred in MY lifetime. I learned that the civil rights movement didn’t end in the ‘60s when Lyndon Johnson finally signed the civil rights act a week after Martin Luther King, Jr. died for the cause. I learned that whites in America have continued to mold our history and frame the facts in such a way that they can feel better about themselves while slavery and racism still exist, just under softer terminology. OK, so we aren’t still “owning” people but our supremacy still flourishes while black families continue to teach their children to be cautious around whites.

I had to own up to all of these facts – and more – while spending a week this spring with college students on a trip to Montgomery, Alabama, where we were immersed in the history of our nation’s civil rights movement. Museum after museum after bloody museum called to my attention the horrible realities I missed in those history classes, whether due to my lack of interest or the lack of truth in our written records. In the evenings, the 10 students and two staff members in our group debriefed together – sometimes for two hours or more – processing what we’d seen and sharing our discoveries. Our discussions were academic and intellectual, but mainly painfully personal and vulnerable as we reflected on the natural biases we’ve carried, and ill-informed assumptions we’ve made.

As one student said, “It sucks to be honest with yourself.”

Indeed.

I grew up in a Missouri town, population 711, which had no black families. (Well, there was a black family once in the 20 years I lived there, but they didn’t stay long.) I went to a college that had approximately 10 black students. I moved to Spokane and lived in white neighborhoods and attended white churches. All the while, I learned from our (mostly-white) media about crime rates among blacks, little of it placed into context of the continuing harsh realities for blacks in America. (Consider the criticism of blacks taking to the streets following the deaths of Freddie Gray or Michael Brown.)

I don’t believe I’ve ever knowingly acted racist, but there is no excuse for my ignorance and the ways it has undoubtedly played a part in my thoughts and actions over the years.

And now … I have no excuses.

I have poignant encounters etched into my memory that won’t allow me to continue in ignorance. I have shared the dinner table with a professor who, at the age of 17, was a driver for blacks during the Montgomery bus boycott of the ‘60s. I have linked arms to sing “We Shall Overcome” with men who marched side by side with Martin Luther King, Jr.  – men who, by the way, feel our nation’s current situation is worse than it was during that era. I have listened to the barber who cut Dr. King’s hair share stories never recorded in our history books. I have looked deeply into the old, brown eyes of a black man who recalled not having been able to look a white woman in the eye. I have stood inside the home of Dr. King with a black woman who passionately impressed on all us that Dr. King’s greatest legacy was love, even when he answered 20-30 hateful, threatening phone calls daily. I have discovered more about Bloody Sunday and decades of violence against blacks than I wish was necessary, and I have stood by monuments erected for children who were victims of white pride and stupidity. I have also witnessed the fervent hope and faith of the black community intent on trusting the same God who abusive whites claimed to follow (which in and of itself begs further reflection).

I am ignorant no more. And that means I can no longer allow instinctive unjust thoughts to take root in my head. I can no longer assume that the mass incarceration of blacks is legitimate, or that African Americans have the same opportunities as whites, or that the slavery and racism and cruelty of the past has not continued to inflict pain on people today.

What I can and must do now is to continue the education, the discussion, and yes, the vulnerability, that 12 of us experienced during a life-changing week in Montgomery, Alabama. Because the question Dr. King asked more than 50 years ago still needs to be asked today: “Where do we go from here?”

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Go ahead, read the plaque. Michael Donald was lynched in 1981. Then learn about the Southern Poverty Law Center’s Civil Rights Memorial Center
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Nelson Malden, Dr. King’s barber, who remembers when white men in cars began following Dr. King to and from his personal activities, such as coming to the Malden Brothers Barbershop. 
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The bridge at Selma where “Bloody Sunday” took place. Details at the National Voting Rights Museum
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Jars containing dirt from the sites of hundreds of lynchings – an awareness project of the Equal Justice Initiative
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Dexter Avenue King Memorial Baptist Church in Montgomery, AL, where Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. pastored, preached and empowered people to take a stand.
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Shirley Cherry, tour director at the Dexter Avenue King Memorial Parsonage, where Dr. King and Coretta lived during the era of the Montgomery Bus Boycott and beginning of the Civil Rights Movement. And quite possibly the most powerful tour guide you’ll ever meet.
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This is me. Sitting at the table where Dr. King had his “Midnight Epiphany” – a confirmation that his leadership in the civil rights movement, no matter how costly, was right. 

DR398   (Our Dominican Vision Trip in 398 words)

a toddler peers through slats in a window to see visitors to her rural Dominican Republic home

Day 1
On the plane, drifting over clouds
And so it begins. We will play in unfamiliar settings and take in all the smells and textures that make up the tiny portion of the Dominican Republic which awaits us.

Day 2
On my bed, beneath a creaky ceiling fan
Sweat. Drips. Sopping wet. H-U-M-I-D is how you spell Dominican Republic.

Day 3
On the bus, heading to our first community
The intern announces, “It’s Terrible Joke Tuesday!”
Later, he says our gang of 6 participated more than last week’s group of 18. We attribute that to Senor Tim.

In a school room where the Village Savings & Loan members meet
A woman says, “We are grateful a thousand times a thousand – grateful for so many things. If we were to share them all, it would take days.”

Merengue musicians, with guitar and drum and guida.Day 4
On a balcony, surrounded by Dominican people, food and music
The Merengue starts, with guitar and drum and guida. They sing about the hard work of coffee growers. We clap and dance.

In a one-room church building, where children line the walls, eager to engage
The teacher leads a lesson on a familiar story: the birth of Jesus. Her emphasis is on a detail maybe we’ve missed before: “Jesus was born into nothing.”

Day 5
On the patio, while roosters call and shoo away the morning gray
Doves embark on playful races and the chants of a dozen birds are muted by the scuffing of tired feet. Morning has broken.

On a thickly forested mountaintop
A young boy and his father drive the oxen to haul logs – carefully selected trees removed for the health of the forest. 

Rosa, a most impressive farmer, shows the diversity of plants she has tended. Watching the chatter between gringos and her neighbors, she wraps her arms around a tree and smiles.

lush green farmed hills in Dominican RepublicDay 6
On a restaurant deck, over the lapping waves of the Caribbean Sea
We eat breakfast: four weary Americans and a cheerful Dominican named Chico.

How quickly bonds are made. With or without a common language, there is joy and understanding.

Day 7
On a bench outside Denver’s Union Station
Three new friends reflect on their good fortune: they have seen poverty and richness redefined by Dominicans. And they forge ahead as apostles of a gospel that blends care of the earth with care of those who inhabit it.


Written by Kate Vanskike, 
who journeyed to the Dominican Republic
with Amber Smith and Tim Busse to experience the work of Plant With Purpose, August 2016.
For more on how planting trees has helped diminish poverty, visit
www.plantwithpurpose.org.

My 2015 Review, by the numbers

10 Firsts

biking the shore of Lake Michigan in Chicago

Attending Zags basketball games
Vegan cooking
Taking a college class as an adult (critical thinking)
Producing Gonzaga Magazine from start to finish
Joined the board of Healing Hearts Northwest
Biking to work, and along Lakeshore Drive in Chicago
Hiking the Avalanche Creek trail at Glacier
21 miles in Spokefest
Serving as parent advisor for student council
Pneumonia

6 Firsts with Emily

10940586_10204726065966079_597742440051006259_n
Tubing at Bear Creek needs to become a yearly thing.

Nighttime sledding at Mount Spokane
Participated in a MLK march
Attending a college lecture on racism
Volunteering for SCRAPS (animal shelter)
Serving with Blessings Under the Bridge (homeless ministry)
Haunted Houses

5 Top Activities for Em

Students from Spokane International Academy at Washington Capitol

Started 6th grade at Spokane International Academy
Second season of softball (shortstop, slugger, All-Star)
Serving on Student Council
A weeklong trip without family to Olympic National Park
Trip to the capitol building in Olympia

5 Traditions Kept

water over rocks in crevasse

Family Camp at Camp White
Spending my birthday at Glacier National Park
Fall harvest at Green Bluff
Halloween
4 weeks of Christmas activities

1 New-ish Tradition Kept

Hosting an international visitor.  And I just have to say more about this.  Last year, we had a 14-year-old student from Japan for 3 weeks and she was delightful.  This summer, we had two medical students from Guatemala for a month, and they were so much fun and wove their way straight into our hearts.  We are somewhat leery to do it again, only for fear that our next visitors won’t be as wonderful as Saori, Ale and Julia.

Guatemalan friends at Spokane park

 

4 Fun Trips

Home by Kate Vanskike

Philadelphia – living history
St. Louis – all my parents’ favorite stomping grounds
Chicago – work and reflection, and biking downtown in the rain
San Francisco – Christmas road trip

5 Books Finished

“I’m in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection. But with Montana it is love.”

Unbroken (Laura Hillenbrand)
Midnight in the Garden of Good & Evil (John Berendt)
Travels with Charlie (John Steinbeck)
Tibetan Peach Pie (Tom Robbins)
The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
A Jesuit’s Journey through the Tumultuous 1960s (Paul Swift)

7 Books Started

Jesuit’s Guide to Almost Everything (Fr. James Martin, S.J.)
The Book of Wanderings: A Mother-Daughter Pilgrimmage (Kimberly Meyer)
Another Roadside Attraction (Tom Robbins)
In the Company of the Poor (Paul Farmer)
Tattoos on the Heart (Fr. Greg Boyle)
Just Between Us (Meredith Jacobs)
The Girl in the Spider’s Web (Stieg Larsson/David Lagercrantz)

1 Big Wish

Peace, in our hearts and in our world. Courage to defend what is right. Finding God in all things.  Assuming the best in people.  Laughing more. Drinking more spiced tea, eating more veggies, buying less crap, enjoying more music, saying thank you more, celebrating all that is good. Peace, in our hearts and in our world.
a metal sign reading Peace is covered in snow

Meeting Grampa in the Middle of Nowhere: a Montana Mystery

Many roads in Big Sky Country have become familiar to me over years of quick weekend getaways, but my favorites are the less traveled paths I take spontaneously without knowing where they will lead.  Oftentimes, a map doesn’t include these roads and there are no signs: this is the best way to explore Montana.

Part of the thrill is wondering whether my adventure may include running out of gas before finding civilization, and contemplating what that experience might be like with a toddler in the car. I was driving my old Explorer on one such excursion back in 2009, a vehicle that could plow through about anything but would guzzle fuel while doing so.  My daughter and I were on a winding dirt road through miles of ranchland when I began to wonder whether I might reach a dead end and have to retrace my path on fumes and prayer. Where I saw Grampa

As I topped the hill at this gorgeous point overlooking the Flathead River, I saw a man on a horse, walking another horse.  I stopped the car and waited for him to approach.

“Hey there,” I said.  “Can you tell me if this road will eventually take me out to a highway, or I do need to head back where I came from?”

He got off the horse and looked at my map, showed me where I was in the midst of blank spaces on the page, and told me where I would eventually come out.  Then, looking into the back window where he saw my daughter, he said slowly, “What are you doing way out here?”

“I just want to see Montana from the backroads,” I replied.

“Me too,” he said.  He was a trucker from Lewiston, Idaho, got laid off, and decided to buy two horses and pack them for a journey through the countryside up to Glacier. All the while we were chatting, one of the horses stuck its long nose through my window for a sniff inside the car and some friendly strokes on the nose.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Rusty.”

Figures.  My grandpa had a pony named Rusty.  Grampa and Gramma loved Montana, having started a family there before moving to the Midwest to farm. Years later, Gramma would tell me Montana still called to her.  It called to my aunts, too, who moved from Missouri back to the Wild West where they’d stay for the rest of their lives.  It had my number as well, beckoned me back with regularity; it anchored me, it connected with me, it always left me feeling at ease.

I was thinking about all of this when the traveler’s eyes met mine, and for an instant, he was Grampa, back in the flesh. 

He shook me out of my reverie saying I’d be on the highway before too long, and to enjoy the views along the way.  He winked at my daughter and called to Rusty to move along.

I stared ahead, a bit dazed, as if in the desert confusing reality with mirages.  Then I grabbed my camera and stepped out of the car to capture the image of the man with his horses walking on down the dusty road.

There was no one there, and the only picture I took was of the silky green river winding its way to the mountains.

Finding Ghosts and Beauty

Moon PassI have unfairly judged North Idaho.  Terms like “backwoods” and “redneck” most often come to mind, based on experiences during my five-year residency there—the same timeframe as my five-year marriage to a true North Idahoan.  I’ve written off the panhandle of the Gem State as a home for bigots and racists, with a smattering of California transplants who’ve successfully transformed some beautiful landscapes into well-known tourist spots.

While my sentiments still feel (somewhat) legitimate, I must recognize there are many well educated, thoughtful, open-minded souls residing there, and beyond those fine individuals, North Idaho mustn’t be written off.

For one thing, I love good, unadulterated wilderness, and there remains plenty of it in the state’s panhandle.  North Idaho has a collection of pristine lakes and rivers, and ranges of mountains and forests left to themselves, seemingly empty of capitalist commercial juggernauts ruining them for the sake of a buck.  No, here—where locals drive big trucks with fishing rods, rifles and dogs—the land is pure as it can be.

IMG_6417Take, for example, the St. Joe Scenic Byway and rugged Moon Pass through St. Joe National Forest.   Every twist and turn in the road delivers a new treat to behold—from marshes to road-side creeks to mountain-flanked riverbeds.  Moon Pass follows part of the old Milwaukee Line—which would be an adventure unto itself, even without the surrounding mountain views, thanks to its tunnels and single-lane trestles high above the valley floor.  Moss-covered rock walls tell where water rushes over in the spring and trickles down in summer.  There are picture-perfect picnic spots high above the river, where the only sound comes from the water itself and the air is so crisp and clean, you want to bottle it up to take home.

And then …

Then there are the ghosts.  The cedar ghosts.  Hollowed out shells of trees left standing since the big burn of 1910 when fire roared through the forest and the lives of countless acres of giants and dozens of human lives, too.  They were 300-500  years old when the fire scorched their trunks and snapped off their tops.  And here they stand – gray and cold and unmoving, but not dead.

Cedar Ghosts

Oh, not dead.  For something in them spoke to me.  They want to recognized, loved. They have stories to tell and I must listen.  Stories of a land called North Idaho that calls to be loved rather than labeled.

August 2013

How Thanksgiving Will Never Be the Same

Sao's hammock timeSaori, a 15-year-old Japanese student whose name we would botch throughout her three-week stay in our home, brought many unexpected blessings to us this summer. I knew I liked her when her profile indicated she liked camping and hiking, and I loved the initial emails we exchanged before she departed her home and came to ours. (“What I want to do with you are too many!” she wrote.)

We were told many things about “typical” Japanese students in advance of their arrival: they’re shy, they need to be shown to pull the blankets back from the bed or they will sleep on top of them instead of under, they will shut the water off during their showers to conserve water, and if you want to treat them to something reminiscent of home, serve some Ramen noodles.

By the very fact that they were embarking on this journey to America for a three-week language immersion school and cultural experience, we assumed they enjoyed adventure at least a little. Sao, as she let us call her for short, seemed to have no limits on her willingness to embrace every opportunity to do something new.

We broke her in to some good old-fashioned American fun with camping over her first weekend. Those three days on the river in North Idaho provided her with a litany of “firsts” that she won’t soon forget: sleeping in a tent, having a campfire, roasting marshmallows, eating s’mores, swimming in a river, attending a church service, and viewing a whole galaxy of stars on a crystal clear night away from city lights. She was open to anything Emily and Alex (aka Lewis and Clark) wanted to do, and I warned her that was a little dangerous, as I never know what plans they will devise. She grinned from ear to ear and said she didn’t mind. The three of them took a raft and paddled it along the shore over to a cove where they got into the water and fished by hand; they caught a small minnow they named Ponyo, much to Sao’s delight. She and Alex built a massive sand castle with a fortress and a moat, and Emily successfully talked her into trying out a variety of jumps and positions on the diving board and slide. Later as her time came to a close, she said this camping experience was the favorite activity of her time in America.

At home during the week, we enjoyed our conversations with Sao as she returned from school excited to share what she had learned. On her first day in class, she was thrilled to discover some of the many ways Americans say yes (uh huh, yeah, okay, sure) and we added to her list. Dad continually confused her with his usual array of colloquialisms and jokes that only produced blank stares. “Did you bring the kitchen sink?” (Does he want me to use his sink? Am I supposed to wash something?) “Are you up for all day?” (Am I up? What does this mean?) But the two of them connected when she indicated an interest in a topic he deeply loves: the American Western.

“What is ‘Western’?” she asked when she heard that her class would be celebrating Western day. Dad sat down with her and showed her a map of the U.S. and explained how gradually people explored the wide-open and Wild West. He opened a book and showed her pictures of corrals and old west towns. He showed her a short clip of cowboys at work on the movie “Lonesome Dove.” And she soaked up ALL of it. Her teacher later told me how proud Sao was on Western Day to know what chaps were, especially when no one else did. That day, they also made “Wanted” posters of themselves and learned some country line dancing with the help of their American friends.

TurkeysDuring the last week of school, the Japanese celebrated all the American holidays in one day. They made Valentines, had a BBQ for 4th of July, dressed up for Halloween and gave white elephant gifts for Christmas. The day culminated with all the host families coming together for a Thanksgiving feast. When Sao learned that her teacher would be carving a roasted turkey for us to eat, she was conflicted. I found this odd, as this was a girl who was willing to eat anything. (She loved Mom’s roast pork and tried everything that was served.) It was only later on the ride home that I learned why Sao chose to go meatless for that particular meal. Our neighborhood has a flock of turkeys that wander through our yard every morning, and she had grown quite fond of watching them. As we came up the hill to our house, I had to stop the car to let the family of turkeys cross the road. “Turkeys!” she exclaimed. “And you would EAT them?!”

We threw a party for Sao and several of her friends on their last weekend. They gorged themselves on sugar cookies and played a wide variety of games in the yard, along with having a water gun fight and jumping on the trampoline. Oh, the trampoline. She was so timid her first time on it, unsure whether she should really jump. She quickly got over that and enjoyed seeing Emily do flips and tricks. They even slept on the tramp a few times, woke up sopping wet once as the sprinkler system soaked through all their layers of sleeping bags and blankets. So many memories she won’t likely forget soon.

And as for me … I won’t forget the impact quickly either. Sao became an instant daughter to me. I was so excited to watch her grow in her comfort with speaking English and with doing things on her own around the house. She would play the piano and cook Japanese dishes for us, show the kids how to do origami cranes and use her kendama. Her voice always held enthusiasm and her eyes always shone with wonder.

May Sao never forget what chaps are. Or that the Q in Scrabble should always be used where one can make double or triple points (in her case, for “quill,” which also added a new word to her vocab). Or that demi glace sauce is French is that’s why no one at the local Safeway knew what it was. Or how wonderful an afternoon nap in a hammock can be, hanging between two tall pines near the river.  And how tasty huckleberries are, picked right from the bush. And how fast fiddlers in a Bluegrass band can play those violins.

And in return, may we always welcome youth exploring a foreign land and look for ways to bridge people across the globe. And consider it a blessing to share the great enjoyment of so many firsts, especially something as simple as viewing the stars, far, far away from the lights of Tokyo.

May we always remember a bright-eyed 15-year-old girl named Saori when we carve the Thanksgiving bird.