Xenophobia

Okay, so I’m sitting in my car this morning and randomly reach for my Oxford paperback dictionary. I decide, this fine stormy morning, to read all of the entries for the letter “X.” Don’t ask why. I’ve no clue. But I read every single one, and there were 24 of them to be exact –which is rather interesting considering the fact that the Greek letter “Chi” is the twenty fourth in the Greek alphabet. (Do you think Oxford just happened to chance on that one? Hmm. I don’t think Oxford and cute ever partner for anything linguistic.) One word hits home this morning. I sit. Read. Play with the thoughts for a while. I took Greek in graduate school. So, when I find myself at “xenophobia” I begin to wonder.

A compound word … xenos for “stranger” or “foreigner” and phobos for “fear.”. A fear of foreigners.

Ah, a classic word for life in the southland of America! I’m Puerto Rican. I didn’t grow up down here in the southeast. In fact, I remember as a kid growing up in New York’s South Bronx (hey, maybe I can still claim to be a “southerner”) that a lot of my black friends, yes- black! I never called them “African-Americans”, would always brag about “goan-dah-oon-sah-uff” and it wasn’t until years later, no joke!, that I finally realized they were “going down South” for the summer. What did I know! The only south I knew back then were the directions my grades were going in Mr. Lester’s class at P.S. 39.. He asked the class one day what “Watergate” meant. I shot my hand up like I was at an auction and proudly answered “Oh, those are games people play in the water, like water volleyball and stuff!” I’m sure that’s when the first “Duh!” was uttered in America. We’re talking the 1970s here.

Well, it’s 2004 now and I live in Birmingham, Alabama now. The story behind how I arrived here is a rather interesting one. Xenophobia does thrive here still, but as in most places across our nation it is taylor made for the region. A missionary to the xenophobic I am not. But I am Hispanic and live in a locale where the Hispanic community is in a neophyte stage developmentally. Here in Alabama if you are “Hispanic” it means you are Mexican. You cut grass or take jobs from citizens who are starving forlack of work but never quite manage to get in line for a job. If you are Hispanic it means you are part of a “problem” that local politicians can use as campaign fodder to garner support from confused and scared citizens who may have never crossed the borderlands of whitewashed suburbia. If you are Hispanic you belong in the fast food industry, serving up taco and chimichangas with just enough of an accent to be cute and authentic.

Here’s a twist for you. I live in a town where a mayoral runoff pitted two business men who have been vociferous in their commitment to deal with the illegal immigration issue in our city. Every article in the newspaper has zeroed in on their promise to deal with “these people”and “this problem” should they be elected into office. Hooray! Finally, we have some men who will take up the charge and jettison these illegals back to their homeland where they can rejoin a culture of poverty and be out of our hair once and for all. The ironic thing about all this is that BOTH of these men own construction businesses. They have subcontractors they hire for specific and skilled construction labor tasks. I’ll give you one guess where they get their zealous-to-work laborers. Viva Mexico!

There is an injustice, xenophobia, and racism that systemically runs deep here in this place I have chosen to live. I’ll stay here though. I like the weather, the history here is grist for the mill, and waitresses don't get histrionic here when I ask for sweet tea. Plus, they could use a few good Puerto Ricans from the South Bronx here in this place. Maybe within time some Alabamians will come to learn, embrace, dialog and respond rather than serve up their sentiments by way of reaction and unadulterated xenophobia.