assignments public safety #1

O r i g i n a l A r t i c l e

C h a l l e n g i n g t h e b o r d e r p a t r o l , h u m a n r i g h t s a n d p e r s i s t e n t i n e q u a l i t i e s : A n e t h n o g r a p h y o f s t r u g g l e i n S o u t h Te x a s

A n g e l a C . S t u e s s e The Ohio State University, Ohio.

Abstract The escalating militarization of the US–Mexico border since the mid- 1990s has been well documented. This article explores one community’s resistance to it through ethnography of events that took place in El Cenizo, Texas at the turn of the millennium. Following the passage of a ‘‘safe haven’’ ordinance in 1999 declaring city officials would not reveal residents’ immigration status, residents endured the Border Patrol’s increased presence and abuse of power. In response, this border town founded a Human Rights Commission and spent the next 2 years collecting testimony and documenting the Border Patrol’s violations of residents’ rights. This resistance questioned the inequities inherent in the agency’s targeting of borderlands commu- nities and contested the erasure of its residents as social actors and citizens by reclaiming their rights. The discourses and practices employed in the struggle claimed a right to equality while simultaneously asserting a right to difference. My analysis engages this duality by exploring how the people of El Cenizo articulated it through both words and actions. The article contributes to an ongoing dialogue surrounding issues of rights, citizenship, immigration, and social movements and contributes to the growing body of ethnographies of the borderlands by offering a glimpse into the lives and activism of one South Texas immigrant community. Latino Studies (2010) 8, 23–47. doi:10.1057/lst.2009.46

Keywords: immigration; citizenship; human rights; Border Patrol; US–Mexico; activism

r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47 www.palgrave-journals.com/lst/

I n t r o d u c t i o n

In the summer of 2000 tensions peaked between the City of El Cenizo, Texas

and the United States Border Patrol. Residents of this border town were tiring of

the constant harassment and disruption of their daily lives that had been

mounting throughout the previous year, which spurred city officials to action.

City Commissioner Flora Barton met with an official of the Laredo sector of the

Border Patrol to discuss the problems. Over coffee, one morning she reflected on

their conversation:

y You know, [he came here to El Cenizo and] we had a meeting y . It

was in English, you know, and some in Spanish, and I just had to ask him.

I asked him, ‘‘All this time that you’ve been here, have you heard me

ask you if you were legal?’’ And he said, ‘‘No.’’ And I said, ‘‘Well, how am

I supposed to know that you really are a US citizen? Do you carry your

papers everywhere you go? Everywhere you go? If you want to go jogging

around five, six o’clock in the morning, are you going to carry your wallet

and everything with you?’’ He said, ‘‘No.’’ And I said, ‘‘Well here in El

Cenizo, if you go to the store, you have to carry your papers with you. If

you want to take just a dollar, or five dollars y you have to carry your

birth certificate and everything with you. If you have your mica1 to be a

legal resident, you have to carry the mica too, everywhere you go. And

I think that’s ridiculous.’’ And he said, ‘‘Yeah, it is ridiculous.’’ Because if

you’re walking, they stop you. If you’re in your vehicle, they stop you.

If you’re in front of your house or in the streets playing, they stop you.

They stop you from playing! They’ve never stopped my girls y But my

son? My [son’s skin] is a little bit darker, and they have stopped him a lot

of times. Now I hardly ever send him to the store because I’m afraid, you

know he’s growing up and everything, and if they don’t respect him, he

might not respect them back, and who’s gonna win? Not him. Not my son.

The United States Border Patrol has long been an imposing force along

the northern edge of the US–Mexico border. Following the passage of new

immigration legislation in 1996, the agency intensified its presence and

attempted to dominate, through fear, technologies and violence, the transna-

tional populations living in the area. In El Cenizo, residents intensely

experienced this presence through violations of their individual and collective

rights. Going beyond notions of legal status, in 1999 they began to organize to

curb such abuses. In the process they questioned state definitions of citizenship

and social membership and the role of the Border Patrol as enforcer of such

boundaries. While demands in this immigrant community focused on ‘‘dignity’’

and ‘‘respect,’’ the ethnography that follows demonstrates that its claims to

equal rights are rooted in residents’ recognition of their difference as inhabitants

1 The term mica is

used loosely in the

borderlands to

refer to a person’s

immigration

documents.

Stuesse

24 r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47

of the borderlands. This article chronicles El Cenizo’s collective resistance

movement to defend the rights of its borderlands inhabitants, illustrating that

simultaneous rights claims to equality and difference are not mutually exclusive;

rather, as this case shows, they sometimes go hand in hand.

L i f e a n d P o l i t i c a l P a r t i c i p a t i o n i n E l C e n i z o

El Cenizo sits on the banks of the Rio Grande on the outskirts of Laredo, Texas,

the most important trading port between the United States and Mexico since the

initiation of the North American Free Trade Agreement in 1994. Although

Laredo is the second fastest-growing city in the country, it is also the poorest,

and affordable housing is in short supply (US Census Bureau, 2001). In response

to the region’s growth and many immigrants’ desire to gain an economic and

citizenship foothold through homeownership, El Cenizo was formed in 1983 as

a ‘‘colonia,’’ a low-income, peri-urban settlement devoid of the most basic

of services and distinguished by a majority Mexican immigrant population

and ‘‘self-help’’ housing construction (Ward, 1999; Velez-Ibañez et al, 2002a;

Vélez-Ibañez et al, 2002b; Dolhinow, 2005; Núñez, 2006). For many years El

Cenizo’s residents lived without water, wastewater infrastructure and paved

roads. At the turn of the millennium they continued to lack many amenities

the average American takes for granted, including local law enforcement,

emergency medical services, a fire department and traffic signals. Most residents

have gradually built their own homes with the help of friends and family,

and the median household income in Texas colonias is estimated between

US$7000 and $11 000 annually (Border Low Income Housing Coalition, 2008).

El Cenizo has grown over the years from a fledgling settlement with

‘‘plantation’’ politics controlled by an oppressive Anglo developer into one of

the largest and most well-known colonias, today claiming a population of over

7000 (US Census Bureau, 2000). As they fought throughout the 1980s to hold

the developer accountable to his pledges to provide utilities, and, when these

efforts fell flat, learned to navigate the Texas legal system in demand of basic

services, El Cenizo’s residents gained valuable experience in community

organizing. They incorporated as a municipality in 1989, and 10 years later

began to use their status as a city – and the opportunities for local governance

this offers – when making collective claims to rights and resources. Due, in part,

to this history of struggle, El Cenizo residents live each day with an acute

awareness of society’s discrimination against them based on race, class, ethnicity,

language, and geographic location, and since the founding of their community

they have at times perpetuated and at others resisted these inequities.2

In 1999 El Cenizo received national and international press coverage in

response to its passage of two controversial ordinances. The first mandated that

all city business be conducted in the predominant language of the community,

2 For a more

complete

discussion of

colonias generally

Challenging the border patrol

25r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47

Spanish. 3

The second declared El Cenizo a ‘‘safe haven,’’ prohibiting city

officials from providing information about residents to outside parties,

including federal agencies such as the Immigration and Naturalization Service

and its law enforcement arm, the Border Patrol.4 The media paid great attention

to these initiatives coming out of a virtually unheard of Texas town, propelling

the community to the center of the ongoing debate over the meanings of being

‘‘American.’’ El Cenizo was accused of attempting to ‘‘drop out’’ of the nation,

and the people of El Cenizo were portrayed as a group of decidedly political

revolutionaries (Whitworth, 1999). The sense that this town had chosen to

challenge the nation’s unity prevailed in public opinion, and it seemed that the

Border Patrol agreed.

I first contacted El Cenizo’s City Hall in the wake of this sensational media

attention, interested in better understanding the history of the ordinances and

the motivations of the city’s elected officials in passing them. Throughout a

number of phone conversations with the Mayor and City Commissioners, they

repeated a simple message: ‘‘Why, instead of criticizing us, don’t people try to

help us?’’; ‘‘Small, low-income communities need help’’; ‘‘We have our doors

open to anyone who is willing y who can give us a hand instead of pointing

fingers.’’ In response to this analysis of the media’s actions and its tacit criticism

of the classic anthropological notion that one can be an unperceived and

apolitical observer who leaves little to no trace of one’s presence, I made plans

to spend the following summer in El Cenizo, conducting research while

volunteering at City Hall.

As a politically engaged anthropologist, committed to scholarship in dialogue

and collaboration with people organizing to change the conditions of their lives,

I found myself answering phones, designing letterhead, setting up computers for

office use, researching grant possibilities for the city and planning community

events.5 I spent much of my time supporting a group of young people organizing

to develop a local park so they could have a safe space to play (Stuesse and

Vielma, 2000; Stuesse, 2001). In the two following years, I made frequent visits

back to El Cenizo and served as a volunteer consultant for the city’s Human

Rights Commission. As an ‘‘observant participant,’’ I listened to and spoke with

residents at community meetings, at quinceañeras, on the streets, in their homes

and at City Hall (Vargas, 2006, 18). Volunteering with the city, I spent most

time with elected officials, city employees and active community members, a

methodology that enriched my data by offering me privileged perspective and

insight into the social processes under study.6

P r o t e c t i n g t h e N a t i o n ’s B o r d e r s

As Commissioner Barton’s quote above suggests, skin color plays a critical

role in the social hierarchies of the borderlands, and research has repeatedly

and El Cenizo’s

political history

specifically, see

Stuesse (2001).

3 I have written

elsewhere about

the predominant

language

ordinance, the

national backlash

El Cenizo endured

in its wake, and the

city’s response to

outsiders’ hateful

discrimination. See

Stuesse (2002).

4 The Immigration

and Naturalization

Service (INS) was

reconfigured after

the terrorist attacks

of September 11,

2001 as

Immigration and

Customs

Enforcement, part

of the newly

created

Department of

Homeland

Security.

5 For more on

activist research,

see, for example,

Gordon, 1998;

Hale, 2001, 2006,

2008; Harrison,

1991; Holland

et al, forthcoming;

Hyatt and Lyon-

Callo, 2003;

Paredes, 1993;

Sanford and Angel-

Ajani, 2006; Speed,

2008; Sudbury,

1998; Vargas,

2006.

6 Further discussion

of activist

anthropology and

Stuesse

26 r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47

demonstrated how race, language and dress marks individuals and communities

as targets for law enforcement and nativist sentiment (Chavez, 1997; Heyman,

1998; Lugo, 2000; Stuesse, 2002; Brotherton and Kretsedemas, 2008). If civil

society and the state perceive low-income, dark-skinned and Spanish-speaking

migrants to the United States as a threat to national unity, the physical border

with Mexico represents the fissure, where the ‘‘Third world’’ leaks into and

contaminates the ‘‘First’’ (Alvarez, 1995; Chavez, 1997; Anzaldúa, 1999). Since

its creation in 1924, the US Border Patrol has existed to ‘‘guard’’ this

border, to protect ‘‘us’’ from the ‘‘invader.’’ In fact, Guillermo Gómez Peña

suggests that, ‘‘for the North American the border becomes a mythical notion

of national security. y . A place of conflict, of threat, of invasion’’ (Fusco,

1989, 55). At the turn of the new millennium, this statement rang truer than

perhaps ever before.7

Border Patrol activity intensified at the close of the twentieth century,

largely owing to increased funding initiated by the Illegal Immigrant Reform

and Immigrant Responsibility Act of 1996. This legislation drastically

increased the number of Border Patrol agents, funded the construction of a

triple-layer fence at the border from the Pacific Ocean eastward, instituted a

biometric system of immigrant identification and provided state-of-the-art

equipment for the apprehension of illegal border crossers, among other

initiatives. In the years following its passage, US Border Patrol agents began

to wield some of the most sophisticated technologies in the world, including

motion and heat sensors, night vision scopes, stadium-style search lights, and

covert air, land, and sea patrols. This process has been referred to as the

‘‘militarization’’ of the border. By the late 1990s the Border Patrol began to

favor ‘‘blockade’’ measures, seeking to stem the flow of immigrants into urban

areas. They were given names that conjure up thoughts of combat and defense,

such as El Paso’s ‘‘Operation Hold-the-Line,’’ San Diego’s ‘‘Operation Gate-

keeper’’ and Southern Arizona’s ‘‘Operation Guardian’’ (Dunn, 1996; Cornelius,

2001). Even the National Guard was called in to ‘‘defend’’ threatened points

along the border.8

Anthropologist Michael Kearney has drawn a direct link between the

implementation of such militaristic strategies and a heightening sense of the

border as nationalist peril, stating, ‘‘These new forms of discipline correspond

to a movement from an offensive jingoist nationalism to a nationalism on

the defensive, a shift from a nationalism of expansion and domination

to a defensive nationalism concerned with a loss of control of its borders’’

(Kearney, 1991, 60). Whether or not these strategies actually curb illegal

entry into the United States, they do create a public sense that the govern-

ment is working hard to protect its citizens. In fact, the creation of such

an impression may be the ultimate goal, as truly curbing undocu-

mented immigration could prove disastrous for the US economy. Several

scholars have pointed to these tensions in arguing that US immigration

my experiences as a

politically engaged

researcher can be

found in Stuesse

(2001, 2008).

7 For a different

ethnographic

perspective on the

contemporary

institution of the

Border Patrol, see

Maril (2004). For

more on Border

Patrol history, see

Lytle Hernandez

(2010).

8 Similar efforts

continued to

increase

exponentially as

widespread

concern for

‘‘national security’’

grew in the months

and years

following

September 11,

2001. Most of the

events I explore in

this article take

place before 9/11

Challenging the border patrol

27r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47

enforcement serves as a ‘‘symbolic politics’’ purposefully lacking in efficacy

(Calavita, 1994; Andreas, 1998; Heyman, 1998; Heyman, 2008; Stuesse,

2010). Other immigration theorists have noted that, while the United

States is happy to have migrant bodies as labor power, it is the person-

hood, the rights that come attached to humanity, that are denied (Perea,

1997; Chang, 2000; De Genova, 2002; Flores, 2002). Thus, the government

must appear in the public eye to be blocking migrant entry to the United

States without actually affecting the flow of workers dictated by transnational

capitalism.

As important as the images of the Border Patrol produced for

mainstream consumption, the increased technological intensification of

the Border Patrol conveys a sense of power that enables the federal

government to more rigidly control borderlands populations. These practices

do not simply affect undocumented migrants. They create a constant

sense of anxiety and apprehension among communities throughout the

borderlands, regardless of residents’ immigration status (Lugo, 2000;

Núñez and Heyman, 2007).9 This analysis is supported by sociologist

Julia Sudbury, who argues that fear has been a key variable in the political

mobilization of minorities over time, wielded as a ‘‘critical weapon in

controlling black women and preventing them from organizing’’ (Sudbury,

1998, 85–86). Likewise, fear is used to control the attitudes and actions

of perceived ‘‘less-’’ or ‘‘anti-American’’ populations in the borderlands.

El Cenizo is one such community, and in and around the city, the Border

Patrol is omnipresent.

F o r g i n g C o m m u n i t y a m i d B o r d e r P a t r o l I n t i m i d a t i o n

As a result of the increase in technologies and manpower, by the late 1990s

more and more people in the Texas border region were being stopped,

questioned and harassed by Border Patrol officials. Perhaps ironically,

often these are Mexican American agents interrogating and intimidating

other Mexican American and Mexican individuals. When one considers the

very low percentage of non-Mexican descendants living in this part of

South Texas, coupled with the knowledge that Border Patrol agents earn

$34 000 a year plus overtime – far above the average salary for the region,

the irony dissipates. The Border Patrol, although dominated by Anglos, operates

through individuals from diverse backgrounds. In El Cenizo, the agency’s

presence notably increased in late 1998, shortly after a new city administration

took office. This concurrence sparked rumors throughout the first part of

1999 that local officials were providing tips about and names of undocumented

residents to federal agents. In a symbolic statement to allay these fears and

establish a trusting relationship with residents, in August of 1999 the

or immediately

thereafter, and I

therefore limit my

analysis of border

enforcement and

community

resistance to the

pre-9/11 world.

9 Citing the

American Friends

Service

Committee’s

Immigration Law

Enforcement

Monitoring

Project,

borderlands

scholar Josiah

McC. Heyman

refers to this as

‘‘the ‘cotidianidad’

(everydayness) of

the INS’’

(American Friends

Service Committee,

1990; Heyman,

1998).

Stuesse

28 r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47

administration passed an ordinance declaring El Cenizo a ‘‘safe haven.’’ The

legislation states:

El Cenizo was created from a long heritage of immigrant families. In

order to create better unity between the community and the governing

body the city council has enacted this ordinance disallowing any city

employee or elected official to disclose the national origin, immigration

status, or citizenship of any of its residents to any agency or individual.

Violators are subject to termination or impeachment. (City of El Cenizo,

1999)

By enacting the ordinance, the administration declared that they were in no

capacity to either ask or tell regarding any resident’s legal status. This action,

along with the simultaneous passage of ‘‘predominant language’’ legislation,

attempted to create a stronger sense of community and a more participatory

democracy in El Cenizo. In an interview I conducted with then-Mayor Rafael

Rodrı́guez in the weeks following the passage of the ordinance, he explained,

‘‘I have no idea what percentage of our residents are undocumented, and I don’t

care. They’re paying their taxes just like everyone else, and our role here is to

serve the community.’’ In his eyes, citizenship or legal residency was not the

issue at hand; rather, fulfilling one’s shared responsibilities as a resident of the

city was grounds for social membership.

The notion that all residents, regardless of legal status, are members of the

community and possess valid claims to rights is prominent in the politics of El

Cenizo and is central to the concept of ‘‘cultural citizenship.’’ Such affirmation

is key, for, as numerous scholars have suggested, it is only through their

struggles to be recognized as members of the nation and as holders of rights

that minority groups have at times achieved recognition (Ong, 1996; Benmayor

et al, 1997; Rosaldo, 1997; Dagnino, 1998). In fact, as cultural citizenship

theorist William Flores illustrates, because of their cultural differences,

minority groups’ struggles for equal rights have often entailed demands

that go beyond those made by dominant society: ‘‘Each group has had its

own particular needs and struggled for specific sets of rights that have

expanded the rights of the entire society’’ (Flores, 2003, 296). In other words,

claims for full membership in society, while demanding equality, are

often accompanied by claims to difference. Such is the case in Mayor

Rodrı́guez’s comment, above, in which his recognition of El Cenizo residents’

unique geographical location and immigration status is paralleled by his call

for equality. In this way, peripheral groups become ‘‘new’’ citizens, not only

‘‘demand[ing] existing rights, but creat[ing] new ones’’ in the process (Flores,

1997, 258).

The safe haven ordinance was rapidly and widely criticized for ‘‘wrongfully

encourag[ing] disrespect for law enforcement,’’ potentially ‘‘lead[ing] to

Challenging the border patrol

29r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47

dangerous confrontations,’’ and ‘‘hobbl[ing] progress rather than provid[ing]

relief’’ (Houston Chronicle, 1999). In retrospect, Mayor Rodrı́guez felt people

misunderstood the city’s intent and that his administration may have made a

mistake in using the words ‘‘safe haven’’ in the legislation. As we chatted at dusk

one evening, sitting side-by-side in wrought iron rocking chairs on the cement-

slab patio behind his home, he explained, ‘‘ ‘Safe haven’ means ‘puerto seguro.’

El Cenizo is not a ‘puerto seguro,’ it’s a peaceful community. ‘Puerto seguro’

is as if you were covering something up; giving people asylum. We are just

trying to live calm and peaceful lives.’’ In the wake of the negative press

coverage, some residents began to criticize their elected officials for passing

the legislation, yet their sentiments did not echo those of the press. Rather,

there was a quiet murmur spreading around town that by virtue of living in El

Cenizo, the controversy might make them even greater targets of the country’s

obsession with immigration control. During a break from work at City Hall

one afternoon, I asked Commissioner Barton to tell me more about the concerns

arising within the community. She explained that some people ‘‘felt

uncomfortable because they worried that they were gonna have more

harassment towards their children and their family members when it came

to the Border Patrol.’’ Unfortunately, the skeptics were correct, and

residents became quickly aware that the Border Patrol had heard the city’s

declaration.

In the weeks that followed, Border Patrol agents initiated a campaign, in the

words of Mayor Rodrı́guez, to ‘‘harass and intimidate the residents of El

Cenizo.’’ They erected a temporary checkpoint on Zapata Highway, the road

traveled daily by El Cenizo residents who work in the nearby city of Laredo,

and stopped every vehicle that passed for approximately four hours. Curiously,

the checkpoint was situated so as to stop traffic in the southbound lanes of the

highway – likely those people on their way home to El Cenizo after a day of

work in Laredo. Northbound traffic, which would contain vehicles heading

away from the border, passed undisturbed. ‘‘It’s just suspicious,’’ resident

Miriam Cantú confided. ‘‘Why would they stop the traffic heading south? It’s

like they want to remind us who’s in charge.’’ Cantú wasn’t alone; in fact,

I heard several El Cenizo residents label this action as an act of intimidation

against them and their families.

In addition to the suspicious checkpoint, community perceptions suggested

that vehicle stops by roving patrols increased dramatically. As a result, the

county-run Community Center in El Cenizo stopped allowing undocumented

children to ride in its vans and buses for fear of being held accountable for not

being able to produce papers for all passengers. One focal point of the Border

Patrol’s vehicle detentions was the county’s public bus service, El Aguila. Many

El Cenizo residents, particularly those with more precarious economic

situations who cannot afford a vehicle, depend on El Aguila on a daily basis

to get to and from Laredo. Quoted in a legal essay publicizing and analyzing the

Stuesse

30 r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47

Border Patrol’s searches of El Aguila, an anonymous resident described a

typical scene:

When the bus came up to the turn, just before the highway, the Border

Patrol car used its lights and sirens to pull the bus over. It was seven

o’clock and I was on my way to work that morning. This was the third

time I was aboard El Aguila when it was stopped. Two armed Border

Patrol officers boarded the bus and announced that they were going

to check for illegal aliens. The officers proceeded to tell every passenger to

present documentation indicating residence or citizenship. They did not

ask, they demanded. I told myself this time it was going to be different

because I would refuse to provide documentation; after all, I was a United

States citizen and had the right to remain silent. The Border Patrol officers

did not take my exercise of rights well; they hassled and insulted me

until they were convinced that I was a United States citizen. (Ortiz, 2000,

290–291)

Detainments typically lasted between 20 and 45 minutes, and passengers

missed appointments and even lost jobs for consistently arriving late. Moreover,

those residents without papers lived in constant fear of being deported, and

some quit their jobs or moved elsewhere, where their presence would be less

visible. This ethnography supports Núñez and Heyman’s analysis that popula-

tions of smaller and more rural borderlands communities face greater levels of

entrapment than more urban locales owing to the Border Patrol’s manipulation of

their more limited transportation options (Núñez and Heyman, 2007).

In addition to patrolling the highways, the Border Patrol also increased its

presence in the city of El Cenizo, a tangible threat to many who could look out

their windows at virtually any hour of the day to see one of the agency’s official

white and green trucks speeding up and down the streets. Many residents

commented on the hostility they felt from agents. One mother recalled that once

she saw a Border Patrol vehicle parked in front of her house, so she approached

it and said, ‘‘Excuse me, may I help you?’’ The agent curtly replied, ‘‘I’m not

asking for help,’’ and turned away. ‘‘How,’’ she asked, ‘‘are we supposed to trust

and respect a person in uniform when we receive no respect in return? When we

know that if we are in need we will have to show proof of US citizenship before

getting help?’’

In a letter written to a Laredo chapter of the League of United Latin American

Citizens (LULAC) the following spring, Mayor Rodrı́guez detailed specific

actions of the Border Patrol that intimidated the residents of El Cenizo,

including parking in front of Kennedy Zapata Elementary School when parents

drop off and pick up their children, entering private properties and peering into

windows, and routinely stopping individuals walking down the street, requiring

them to prove their citizenship status. He also described a case in which Border

Challenging the border patrol

31r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47

Patrol agents looking for a fleeing suspect detained, handcuffed and nearly

arrested a 15-year-old boy right in front of his home. The officers were

preparing to take him away for deportation until neighbors managed to

convince them that the boy did indeed live at the residence and was a US citizen.

At a meeting of the Lawyers’ Committee for Civil Rights Under Law of

Texas – Immigrant and Refugee Rights Project, which Border Patrol officials

attended in San Antonio in 2000, Commissioner Barton candidly asked one

agent if the increased harassment came in direct retaliation to the passage of El

Cenizo’s safe haven ordinance. His response shocked her. Upon her return from

the meeting, she recounted to me:

He actually replied, ‘‘What do you expect? What do you expect from us?

How do you think we’re going to see you now after what you did?

You know, you do something like this and we’re gonna have to act on it.’’

And I said, ‘‘Excuse me? Are you really admitting this?’’ And that’s when

he stayed quiet (Figure 1).

Figure 1: El Cenizo and its Human Rights Ordinance, ‘‘tasty little morsels’’ for the Border Patrol.

Source: (El Mañana de Nuevo Laredo, 2000).

Stuesse

32 r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47

D e m a n d i n g R e s p e c t : T h e F o r m a t i o n o f U n i d a d y F i r m e z a

The Border Patrol’s actions throughout 1999 and 2000 instilled fear and

uncertainty in the residents of El Cenizo. These abuses of power, blatantly

disregarding federal regulations stipulating that Border Patrol officials must

establish ‘‘reasonable suspicion’’ before detaining an individual, attempted to

dominate the entire community – US citizens, legal residents and undocumented

persons alike. In resistance to this marginalization and erasure of legitimacy – as

citizens, social actors and legitimate members of their community – residents

organized to demand accountability from the Border Patrol.

In the summer of 2000, El Cenizo residents began to speak out. Sandra

Martı́nez, a grandmother in her late forties who was born and raised in

California, lives with her extended family in a decaying home and in numerous

broken-down vehicles scattered across her lot. Martı́nez says that because she

refuses to send her grandchildren to live in the streets, she does not qualify for

state or federal aid programs that might help improve her living conditions. One

hot and dusty afternoon, she shared with me her experiences of nearly being

deported because Border Patrol agents refused to accept her birth certificate as

valid. Once released and back at home, she endured their daily ridicule and

persecutions until she finally built a fence around her yard so they could no

longer enter. Commissioner Barton questioned these and similar actions:

Why should I have to carry my birth certificate and those of all my

children when I walk to the store in the evening to buy a gallon of milk?

In Austin or Chicago or Alabama no one is expected to be able to prove

their citizenship at every hour of the day, and just because we live near

the border doesn’t mean we should be treated any differently than the rest

of the country in this respect.

Throughout the summer, similar discussions about individual and collective

rights of people living in El Cenizo could be heard in private homes, local

businesses and City Council meetings.

During my time there, I sought to grasp how people in El Cenizo thought

about the ‘‘rights’’ they were invoking. In a community meeting, one resident

stated:

In reality, there are many of us living in the United States, young and old,

who don’t know our rights as human beings. Some people have even

died without ever knowing they had human rights. Our human rights are

taken away from us and violated, and we don’t even know what they

are or how to defend them. It is only when you understand the law, when

you know that you do have rights, that you can say, ‘‘Wait, what is this?

My rights are being violated.’’

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Statements such as this revealed a recognition of the existence of an intangible

group of rights to which residents of El Cenizo felt they did not have access.

‘‘Rights’’ seemed to represent an abstraction to which they believed they were

collectively entitled, but out of which they were being cheated owing to their

lack of understanding of the protections available to them under US and

international law. Violations of these rights were not understood in the abstract,

however; they were felt through concrete experiences, such as those illustrated

throughout this article.

In response to local outcries against the intensified harassment and abuse by

the Border Patrol, a small group of longtime residents formed a group, which

they named Unidad y Firmeza por Nuestros Derechos Humanos (Unity and

Strength for Our Human Rights). This organization was comprised mostly of

individuals active in local politics, and thus had a big impact in terms of political

force and consciousness raising. It was slow to attract membership, however,

and the group wondered whether residents’ fears of being singled out by the

Border Patrol for belonging to a controversial organization might make them

reluctant to officially join. Especially for individuals without documentation,

taking this step entailed a risk that few were willing to take.

Despite limited participation, Unidad y Firmeza quickly initiated a campaign

to educate residents about their rights. The group collaborated with attorneys

and law clerks at Texas Rural Legal Aid’s (TRLA) Colonias Project to produce

an informational packet that neighborhood children delivered to every

doorstep. The bilingual bulletin included an open letter to the residents;

information on immigrants’ civil and political rights; a ‘‘Know Your Rights’’

card to hand to an official in the event of detainment; and an anonymous ballot

for an informal election. The ballot asked specific questions related to one’s

personal knowledge of abuses at the hands of the Border Patrol and polled

people about the role they thought the city government should play in

addressing these abuses. A section of the letter to the residents implored:

Unidad y Firmeza por Nuestros Derechos Humanos is a group recently

formed in response to the growing number of people, ourselves and our

families included, who hold one degrading experience in common: we

have been victimized by the Border Patrol, our Constitutional rights

and ‘‘guarantees’’ violated y . We have a right to a life free from these

abuses y . In order to prevent these abuses from reoccurring, we have

joined together y . But without your help, change is impossible y . Please

help us make El Cenizo, our city, a city of peace and not one of abuse.

The returned ballots overwhelmingly voiced strong support for the movement,

and many articulated humiliation experienced at the hands of the Border Patrol.

Several directly identified race as the key factor motivating disregard of

their rights.

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34 r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47

Unidad y Firmeza sought to raise public awareness and create a community-

based group through which people could organize against the Border Patrol’s

erasure of their rights. These aims echo those of another borderlands

community described by Flores, in which people chose to respond to abuses

by creating a ‘‘reverse’’ Border Patrol, complete with green cards and ‘‘illegal

alien’’ buttons. These acts of political significance, like the formation of Unidad

y Firmeza, allow persecuted immigrant groups to abandon their role as ‘‘passive

onlookers forced to hide’’ by recasting them as ‘‘political subjects acting upon

and changing power relationships’’ (Flores, 1997, 272–274). In this way,

Unidad y Firmeza represented one path toward local empowerment, serving

both as a venue for anonymous voices to share their concerns and as a more

formal platform from which citizens could pressure elected officials to take an

official stand against the Border Patrol’s actions.

E l C e n i z o ’s H u m a n R i g h t s C o m m i s s i o n

By the end of the summer Unidad y Firmeza had convinced El Cenizo’s

governing body to establish an official Human Rights Commission to act as

mediator between the community and the Border Patrol. The city created a

five-member committee to:

y monitor and review law enforcement activity, handle citizen com-

plaints, and recommend action to protect and promote the interest, rights,

and privileges of persons in this jurisdiction; to avoid strife and unrest; to

preserve the public safety, health, and welfare; and to secure for all persons

in this jurisdiction freedom from discrimination. (City of El Cenizo, 2000)

The Commission was to act as an independent civilian review board that

would conduct investigations of human rights abuses by the Border Patrol and

make recommendations to the city based on its findings. The legislation stated

that it intended to ‘‘restore legitimacy of the law enforcement institutions of

democratic governance by clearly articulating the limits of their authority.’’

The original five members of the Commission included two longstanding El

Cenizo residents and outspoken community activists – to ensure it remained

accountable to local people – and three high profile individuals external to

the community (a Laredo attorney, a psychotherapist and founder of a local

LULAC chapter, and a popular religious leader and director of Catholic

Missions in several area colonias) to situate the Commission within a thick

web of allies. Creating the Commission from a network of local leaders lent

legitimacy to its actions, a critical move for the group that would represent

El Cenizo’s claims for space, rights and recognition before the state and

civil society.

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In late 2000 and throughout 2001, the Human Rights Commission worked,

in collaboration with TRLA, to build partnerships between El Cenizo residents

and students from Saint Mary’s School of Law in San Antonio, Texas. The

Commission trained and ‘‘deputized’’ these volunteers, and in resident-student

pairs they went door-to-door collecting testimonies. The first complaint received

by the Commission, alleging that a resident was held at gunpoint by a Border

Patrol agent, received coverage in the Laredo Morning Times:

The sun hadn’t risen yet when Jesús Olivares saw the flashing lights in his

rearview mirror. It was just another morning for the 44-year-old father,

who pulls down extra cash delivering the Laredo Morning Times after his

night shift at the gas station. He was tossing newspapers into a darkened

ranch road when the agents stopped his truck, Olivares said. Then, he said,

an agent held a gun to his head and questioned him. ‘‘It was like I was a

criminal – it was terrible y I was angry and frustrated and scared.

I couldn’t even talk.’’ (Stack, 2000)

The article encouraged others to come forward, and by early 2002 the

Commission’s deputies had collected over 40 personal testimonies describing

human rights abuses at the hands of the Border Patrol in El Cenizo.

The Commission then collaborated with legal advisors and scholars,

including myself, in the preparation of the first draft of its report. The United

Nations’ 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights provided a framework

around which residents’ complaints were organized (General Assembly of the

United Nations, 1948). The themes included several that are central to basic

human rights, such as freedom, dignity, life, liberty, security, family, home, and

privacy, and rejected arbitrary arrest and detention and cruel, inhuman,

and degrading treatment. The draft report documented outrageously blatant

abuses of authority, including an account of two adolescents who were waiting

at the bus stop when they were pushed to the ground, handcuffed and held

at gunpoint by an agent; a report of a teenage boy who was run over by a Border

Patrol vehicle, which then abandoned the scene; a story about a woman riding

the public bus whose newborn baby was taken from her when she couldn’t

produce proof of citizenship; and the testimony of a man walking down the

street who was detained and handcuffed to a bench in the back of a Border

Patrol vehicle for hours while the agent drove in circles around the city, and he

slipped back and forth across the bench as the handcuffs cut into his wrists until

they were swollen, bloody and almost completely numb.

The draft also included complaints that on the surface appeared less egregious,

such as the Border Patrol’s habitual detainment and search of public busses

described above; sitting for hours at a time in front of someone’s private home;

brandishing weapons in public spaces; and one account from a woman who

answered a knock at her door at 3:00 a.m. only to encounter an officer asking for

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36 r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47

a cup of coffee. Although these episodes may appear innocuous or fail to violate

US laws, taken as a whole and contextualized within the historical and political

milieu of the US–Mexico border, it is clear that they endanger the Universal

Declaration of Human Rights’ most basic protections, including the rights to

personal security, freedom of movement and residence within the borders of each

state, special protection of children, and freedom from physical and verbal abuse.

The Commission held a public hearing in El Cenizo, inviting residents to

share their testimonies in person and allowing the Commission to further

analyze the complaints. Although a handful of individuals came forward at

the hearing, most complainants were unwilling to speak publicly for fear of

reprisal. Those individuals who did testify brought to life the powerful stories

of abuse that the Commissioners had previously only read on paper. The act of

public testimony may have also represented a ‘‘coming to voice’’ for some of

the victims. Social movement scholar Patricia Hill Collins highlights the

significance of such actions when she writes that the breaking of silence is a

‘‘moment of insubordination in relations of power, of saying in public what had

been said many times before [in private]’’ (Collins, 1998, 50).

Following the hearing, the Commission pledged to finalize its findings and

release a public draft of its report. However, over time the composition of the

Commission had shifted, with few of the original members remaining. Attempts

to replace them had proved largely symbolic, as the new members were

unfamiliar with and disconnected from the Commission’s history. Although it

had worked over 2 years to thoroughly document a wide range of human rights

abuses, much of its momentum during this period came from the energies of

students and supporters, including myself, external to the Commission. When

the time came for the Commissioners to act, they were unable to agree upon a

set of recommendations for the city. Some felt the report should include strictly

the ‘‘facts’’ of people’s testimonies, whereas others believed their role was to

make a more principled statement and policy recommendations based on the

Commission’s findings. Amid the discord and distance from the Commission’s

creation, a report was never produced. Moreover, the Commission was unaware

of any similar efforts emerging in other areas, and was thus poorly positioned to

draw upon or fuel the work of others seeking to monitor and reform law

enforcement in the borderlands.10 Despite the Commission’s failure to bring its

written findings to public light, its unfinished work plainly illustrates that,

through both de jure and de facto policies, the US Border Patrol’s practices in El

Cenizo are in grave danger of violating provisions of international human rights law.

B o r d e r l a n d s I d e n t i t y, S o c i a l M e m b e r s h i p a n d S t r a t e g i c D e p l o y m e n t o f R i g h t s D i s c o u r s e

The Commission’s anticlimactic finale notwithstanding, perhaps the greatest

theoretical lessons from this struggle are to be found in the process itself. It is

10 The American

Friends Service

Committee, the

Texas Civil Rights

Project and the

Border Rights

Coalition/Border

Network for

Human Rights

are a few

organizations that

potentially could

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important to remember that collective resistance movements like that of El

Cenizo take place amid very basic struggles of everyday survival. Historian

Thomas Sugrue reminds us that ‘‘economic and racial inequalit[ies] constrain

individual and family choices, y [setting] the limits of human agency’’ (Sugrue,

1996, 5). At the same time, we must keep in mind that, because communities

like El Cenizo are battling over issues vital to their very survival, their residents

are also precisely the people who ultimately ‘‘do not have the luxury not to fight

back’’ (Kelley, 1997, 158). With these necessities and constraints in mind, then,

how might we understand and explain El Cenizo’s collective resistance? In a

world where notions of rights have been historically compartmentalized into

discrete, clean categories, finding a framework through which to make sense of

this borderland community’s claims to rights is challenging, as its articulation of

rights cuts across and through traditional categories. Just as ‘‘y so-called

border people are constantly shifting and renegotiating identities with

maneuvers of power and submission, y often [adopting] multiple identities’’

(Alvarez, 1995, 452), within these multiplicities they also strategically wield

manifold discourses on rights as deemed advantageous to their struggles.

‘‘American, Mexican, Chinese, Black, Japanese, in God’s eyes we are all

equals,’’ Mayor Rodrı́guez once announced at a city meeting. The elected

officials of El Cenizo, in representation of their constituency, carefully framed

their struggle using the dominant liberal discourse of equal rights, asserting that

all individuals are created equal and using the non-threatening concept of

‘‘respect’’ to assert their claims. This theme emerged throughout my research:

‘‘We got their attention to actually move forward in trying to get the agents to

respect the people. y we’re not stopping them from doing their job, we just

want respect!’’; ‘‘We’re gonna have to make them understand that we’re human

beings, like everybody else. You know, we’re no animals ... . We’re human

beings’’; ‘‘We’ve just got to make them stop the abuse, because this is not a joke.

I mean, we get no respect at all. Why can’t they roll down their windows and be

friendly? Even our children feel threatened’’; ‘‘You know that what we are

asking for is not a big thing! We aren’t telling [the Border Patrol] not to do their

job at the river. That’s fine. But if they’re going to come just because they want

to see who they can catch y . No, no, no. The main thing is just to show us a

little respect.’’

Many liberation movements in the United States since the mid-twentieth

century have utilized what Chela Sandoval has called the ‘‘equal rights mode of

consciousness in opposition’’ (Sandoval, 1991). By suggesting that all

individuals are created equal, that differences are only skin deep, the discourse

of equal rights allows peripheral groups to ‘‘demand that their own humanity be

legitimized and recognized’’ (Sandoval, 1991, 12). This is, in part, strategic, as

minority communities often recognize that their claims will be more readily

accepted if they emphasize their similarities with, as opposed to their differences

from, dominant society. By speaking of equal rights, then, residents of El Cenizo

have helped El

Cenizo’s Human

Rights

Commission link

its efforts with

similar work

elsewhere for

broader impact.

See, for example,

Border Network

for Human Rights

(2005). For a

discussion of

some of the

limitations of

local organizing,

see Orr (2007).

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38 r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47

seek to legitimate their claims in the eyes of the state and civil society by

explaining and defending themselves with the same liberal discourse embraced

by large sections of the population.

Blanca Silvestrini reminds us that claims for equality under the law are not

always made in opposition to claims to difference; rather, she argues, Latino

cultural citizenship often entails a ‘‘quest for multiple paths’’ (Silvestrini, 1997,

53). In the case of El Cenizo, as residents assert an entitlement to equal rights,

we can also discern a claim to difference in the very demands they make. By

speaking out both behind closed doors and in public, by forming a community

organization to act on the problems they collectively identify, and by pressing

their elected officials to systematically compile and analyze their experiences of

abuse at the hands of a government agency, El Cenizo residents critique a social

and political institution that not only intimidates on the individual level,

but also excludes on the collective level based on race, economic status,

geographical location and cultural attributes such as language – all identity

markers that set borderlands communities apart from dominant US society.

In demanding that Border Patrol agents ‘‘do their job’’ at the border but not

interfere with peaceful life in a borderlands community, El Cenizo residents’

difference from dominant American society – their liminal status as inhabitants

of the borderlands – reveals itself as central to their rights claim. How might the

Border Patrol fulfill its mandate directly north of the border without pursuing

people based on racial and cultural difference? I asked many in El Cenizo this

question, and though it was never completely resolved, Commissioner Barton’s

response attempted to reconcile the conflict by redefining what makes a person

‘‘illegal’’:

The main thing that we’re doing is that we just want the Border Patrol to

respect the residents, either way, if you’re legal or illegal or an ‘‘alien’’ or

not an ‘‘alien,’’ you know, if you’ve gotta do your job, do it. But why don’t

you work where the people are crossing [the river]? Crossing the street

from one house to the other doesn’t make you an illegal person. What

really makes an illegal person is when you cross the river. And that’s the

people they’re supposed to be asking for their papers. Not the people that

live in El Cenizo. Because they’ve struggled so hard to get what they have

right now. Their homes, their lots, their cars, their children’s education.

Especially their children. And I don’t see why we have to be harassed all

the time. I just don’t see the picture. If somebody would explain to me why

we have to be harassed if we live in the US, because we are a part of the

US, you know. If we live here, why do we have to be harassed? Do it

another way.

This reconception of an ‘‘illegal’’ body as one in the process of border

crossing, but not those in residence just steps north of the border, effectively

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attempts to reshape the modus operandi of the Border Patrol, and hence, the

regulatory practices of the state in US society.

In fact, El Cenizo’s collective resistance challenges the very role of the

government and the limitations set by the state upon borderlands communities,

thus moving beyond the discourse of equal rights and liberal multiculturalism

at the very moment they embrace it. This strategy exemplifies a trend in

minority claims to rights:

At the same time that they assert and defend their differences from the

nation as a whole and other groups within it, the ethnic and ‘‘identity’’

groups and other new social movements of the past two decades have

tended to appeal to universal standards of equality, justice and rights,

as the basis of their collective claims against the state for recognition of

equal rights, cultural value, and economic opportunities on a par with

those of other groups within the same state. Differentiation at one level

thus begets uniformization at another, and relativistic assertions of

difference give rise to appeals to universal principles. (Turner, 1997, 281)

El Cenizo’s strategies illustrate how a liberal discourse of equality can become

rearticulated into more radical goals with transformative potential through faith

in the very principles of the system already in place, those of democratic

governance. Stemming from the community’s desire for all residents to be

considered full members of society, equal to people living anywhere else in the

country, the City Council passed the ‘‘safe haven’’ ordinance. This legislation,

passed by an elected body to increase confidence in the city administration and

participation in local decision making, falls well within accepted boundaries of

discourse on liberal governance. Over time, however, the legislation gained

transformative potential that was ultimately able to articulate a radical

challenge of the border, pushing at the very limits of a dominant but contested

social construction while all the while reaffirming its position through the tropes

of equality and democracy. In this way, though never completely escaping the

bounds of hegemony, people in El Cenizo demonstrate how marginalized

communities might challenge the state through creative use of the system

itself. They tack back and forth; they are within, yet beyond. They claim a right

to equality and right to difference, implying that ‘‘difference shall not constitute

a basis for inequality’’ (Dagnino, 1991, 15; Benmayor et al, 1997; Silvestrini,

1997). They illustrate a path forward that allows them simultaneously ‘‘to claim

and to deny their specificity,’’ to borrow the words of Nancy Fraser as she

grappled with what she called the ‘‘redistribution-recognition dilemma’’ (or,

later, the redistribution-recognition-representation triad) of people subject to

intersecting forms of economic, cultural and political injustice (Fraser, 1997, 16;

Fraser et al, 2004).11 In their struggles with the Border Patrol for dignity and

respect, residents of El Cenizo transcend liberal notions of citizenship by basing

11 For a critique of

and alternative

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40 r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47

their practices and claims to rights on their sense of belonging and community

membership, or cultural citizenship. In this way, their rights claims attempt

to create a space within the existing system while at the same time striving to

reshape it.

L e s s o n s

What lessons or policy recommendations might we glean from this ethnography

of struggle at the US–Mexico border? First, El Cenizo residents’ experience

demonstrates the need for all Americans, particularly those in positions

of power in the federal government, to rethink our country’s policies of

immigration enforcement. Those who ‘‘guard’’ the border can never turn a

porous, living and breathing space into a sterile, impenetrable wall. Beliefs to

the contrary have led to the existence of an institution that relies on a myriad

of ethnic, classist and racial profiling tactics in order to carry out its mission

in borderlands communities and beyond. Not only is this sort of profiling

prohibited under federal law, but any policy that has the effect of terrorizing

a particular segment of the US population must be interrogated and

reconsidered.

Second, El Cenizo’s experiences offer important lessons for municipal

governments and local law enforcement. The city’s elected officials took

courageous steps in asserting that their principal responsibility is to ensure the

safety and wellbeing of local residents. While more and more municipalities in

the post-9/11 United States have begun to collaborate closely with immigration

officials, others have passed resolutions stating that the enforcement of

immigration laws is outside the purview of their abilities (Major Cities Chiefs

Immigration Committee, 2006; National Immigration Law Center, 2008;

U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, 2008; U.S. Immigration and

Customs Enforcement, 2009). Like El Cenizo’s administration, those who

have rejected calls to embrace immigration-related duties recognize that

their ability to protect and serve their residents would be hindered were

they to take on the responsibilities of the Border Patrol, as it would

damage their relationships with residents and make it less likely that

individuals would report crimes or cooperate with law enforcement for fear

that they would be turned over to immigration authorities. Indeed, local

bodies choosing instead to act as immigration officials have reported such

problems, and would be wise to consider alternative policies such as those

enacted in El Cenizo.

Finally, El Cenizo’s experience demonstrates the importance of locally rooted,

community-led initiatives to hold elected officials accountable. As this

ethnography illustrates, such initiatives may be strengthened by cultivating a

diverse web of allies or by collaborating with politically engaged activists or

solution to

Fraser’s

‘‘dilemma,’’ see

Honneth (2004).

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41r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47

researchers who can contribute technical support, labor power, political capital,

or other forms of knowledge and resources to the organizing effort. Moreover,

El Cenizo offers an example for other communities looking to cultivate social

membership, responsibility or a sense of belonging regardless of formal

citizenship status. The path taken here, of reclaiming a people’s simultaneous

right to equality and right to difference by appealing to standards of

international human rights, could be used as a model and adapted to local

needs throughout the borderlands and beyond.

By contesting the marginalization and oppression of borderlands peoples, El

Cenizo’s politics challenge United States citizens to broaden their accepted

notions of ‘‘Americanness’’ and membership in society to include communities

that have traditionally been excluded from such formulations. And as migration

to the United States shows no sign of dissipating in the foreseeable future, such

communities might be better understood as spaces that represent ‘‘normality’’ in

our increasingly transnational world:

The borderlands are just such a place of incommensurable contradictions.

The term does not indicate a fixed topographical site between two other

fixed locales (nations, societies, cultures), but an interstitial zone of

displacement and deterritorialization that shapes the identity of the

hybridized subject. Rather than dismissing them as insignificant, as

marginal zones, thin slivers of land between stable places, we want to

contend that the notion of borderlands is a more adequate conceptualiza-

tion of the ‘‘normal’’ locale of the postmodern subject. (Gupta and

Ferguson, 1992, 18)

By attempting to bring to the center what has long been liminal, Gupta and

Ferguson empower us to work to re-humanize immigrant and borderlands

communities in the eyes of dominant society.

Today we can see more clearly than ever that ‘‘the US has thrived not because

of its efforts at cultural homogenization, but despite them’’ (Flores and

Benmayor, 1997, 5). El Cenizo’s struggle with the Border Patrol, although

locally specific, couched in liberal discourse, and adhering strongly to notions

of equality and democracy, nevertheless affirms this community’s pride in its

cultural difference and challenges the limits imposed by civil society and

the state on groups deemed peripheral. Leaders in El Cenizo are forging

community, advancing participatory democracy, and asserting their status

as equal members of society in the United States both in recognition of and

despite their differences from dominant society, and these lessons speak loudly

at the local level and beyond. We have much to learn from such activism

from below, as it has the potential to positively effect social change, not

only in the lives of El Cenizo residents, but throughout the country and the

world.

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42 r 2010 Macmillan Publishers Ltd. 1476-3435 Latino Studies Vol. 8, 1, 23–47

A c k n o w l e d g e m e n t s

I am indebted to the people of El Cenizo for allowing me to participate in and

document their struggles for rights and respect, and to UCLA’s Institute for

Research on Labor and Employment and OSU’s Kirwan Institute for the Study

of Race and Ethnicity for their support as I prepared this article for publication.

Richard R. Flores, Charles R. Hale, Israel Reyna, and the anonymous

reviewers for Latino Studies provided critical feedback on earlier drafts, for

which I am especially grateful. I am responsible for all translations herein, as

well as any errors. I use pseudonyms throughout, except in cases of public

officials who granted me permission to publish their names.

A b o u t t h e A u t h o r

Angela C. Stuesse currently holds a postdoctoral fellowship at the Ohio State

University’s Kirwan Institute for the Study of Race and Ethnicity. Her academic

areas of interest include activist research, neoliberal globalization, migration,

race, labor and human rights. She received her PhD in Anthropology from the

University of Texas in 2008. Her dissertation, Globalization ‘‘Southern Style’’:

Transnational Migration, the Poultry Industry, and Implications for Organizing

Workers across Difference, is based on research carried out in rural Mississippi

from 2002 to 2008. Previously, she conducted politically engaged research in

the borderlands community of El Cenizo, Texas. Her work has been supported

by the Ford Foundation, the Social Science Research Council, the Woodrow

Wilson Foundation, and the School for Advanced Research (SAR), among

others. Her publications include articles in Human Organization, Estudios

Migratorios Latinoamericanos and Text, Practice, Performance, and a chapter

in the 2009 edited volume, Latino Immigrants and the Transformation of the

US South.

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