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THE COLUMBIA HISTORY OF LATINOS IN THE UNITED STATES SINCE 1960

EDITED BY DAVID G. GUTIÉRREZ

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY PRESS NEW YORK

Columbia University Press

Publishers Since 1893

New York Chichester, West Sussex

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

The Columbia history of Latinos in the United States since 1960 / edited by David G. Gutiérrez.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 0–231–11808–2 (cloth : alk. paper)

1. Hispanic Americans—History—20th century. 2. Hispanic Americans—History—21st century.

3. Hispanic Americans—Social conditions. 4. United States—Ethnic relations. I. Title: History

of Latinos in the United States since 1960. II. Gutiérrez, David (David Gregory)

E184.S75C644 2004

973'.0468—dc22

2004041310

Columbia University Press books are printed

on permanent and durable acid-free paper.

Printed in the United States of America

c 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments vii Preface ix

Introduction. Demography and the Shifting Boundaries of “Comm-

unity”: Reflections on “U.S. Latinos” and the Evolution of Latino Studies

DAVID G. GUTIÉRREZ 1

1. Globalization, Labor Migration, and the Demographic Revolution:

Ethnic Mexicans in the Late Twentieth Century

DAVID G. GUTIÉRREZ 43

2. Social Polarization and Colonized Labor: Puerto Ricans in the

United States, 1945–2000

KELVIN A. SANTIAGO-VALLES AND GLADYS M. JIMÉNEZ-MUÑOZ 87

3. Exiles, Immigrants, and Transnationals: The Cuban Communities

of the United States

MARÍA CRISTINA GARCÍA 146

4. Central American Immigrants: Diverse Populations,

Changing Communities

NORMA STOLTZ CHINCHILLA AND NORA HAMILTON 187

5. Transnational Ties and Incorporation: The Case of Dominicans

in the United States

PEGGY LEVITT 229

6. The Other “Other Hispanics”: South American–Origin Latinos

in the United States

MARILYN ESPITIA 257

7. Gender and the Latino Experience in Late-Twentieth-Century America

PIERRETTE HONDAGNEU-SOTELO 281

8. From Barrios to Barricades: Religion and Religiosity in Latino Life

ANTHONY M. STEVENS-ARROYO 303

9. U.S. Latino Expressive Cultures

FRANCES R. APARICIO 355

10. The Continuing Latino Quest for Full Membership and Equal

Citizenship: Legal Progress, Social Setbacks, and Political Promise

KEVIN R. JOHNSON 391

11. The Pressures of Perpetual Promise: Latinos and Politics, 1960–2003

LOUIS DESIPIO 421

List of Contributors 467 Index 471

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

AS IS true with most anthologies, this collection of essays took more time to bring to press than I am sure any of its contributors had thought possible when they signed on to the project. I thank them all not only for their excel- lent contributions to the work but also for the patience, forbearance, and good will they showed the editor. James Warren at Columbia University Press was equally patient and encouraging, and I thank him for staying the course long enough to see the book come into being. I would also like to thank all the au- thors, as well as Roberto Alvarez, Bill Deverell, Jorge Mariscal, James Warren, and Michael Haskell for their excellent advice and editorial input, and Tony Grafton, Marc Rodríguez, Jennifer Houle, and the Shelby Cullom Davis Cen- ter for Historical Studies at Princeton for providing the financial support and rich intellectual environment that allowed me to complete work on the vol- ume in the 2002–3 academic year.

To the friends and colleagues who graciously invited me to take parts of this show on the road to share and debate some of the major ideas that inform the volume, I offer thanks. Tomás Almaguer at the University of Michigan; Steve Aron at UCLA, Roy Ritchie at the Huntington Library; Dean Frantisek Deak at the University of California, San Diego; Bill Deverell at the Division of Hu- manities and Social Sciences and the students in my immigration and ethnic- ity seminar at the California Institute of Technology; Susan Johnson, Camille Guerin-Gonzales, and Patricia Nelson Limerick at the University of Colorado, Boulder; Matt García and Peggy Pascoe at the University of Oregon; the site committee of the National Association for Chicano and Chicana Studies (NACCS)—especially Greg Rodríguez and Raquel Rubio-Goldsmith—at the University of Arizona; Elliott Barkan and the Immigration and Ethnic Histo- ry Society; Guadalupe San Miguel Jr., Joe Glatthaar, John Mason Hart, Luis

Alvarez, and Raúl Ramos at the University of Houston; Becky Horn at the University of Utah; Christina Jiménez at the University of Colorado, Col- orado Springs; and Ramón A. Gutiérrez and the Department of Ethnic Stud- ies at the University of California, San Diego all provided the collegial space to air and debate many of the issues that are discussed in these pages. And fi- nally, to my nuclear and extended families—Mary Lillis Allen, Luis Alvarez, Steve and Lori Buchsbaum, Al and Susan Camarillo, Mort and Maureen Dar- row, Bill, Jennifer, and Helen Deverell, Susie Golden, Luis and Rebecca Muril- lo, Bill Perry, Pamela Radcliff, Raúl Ramos and Liz Chiao, and, as always, my compañero on the beaches and in the trenches, Stuart Swanson, my heartfelt gratitude for your warm hospitality, good criticism, and spiritual support over a particularly rough stretch. I owe each of you one, at least.

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PREFACE

AT THE end of the last century and in the first months of the new millennium, newspapers and news magazines in cities across the United States began re- porting a remarkable phenomenon. “Nevada Jumps 66.3% in 10 Years: A Tripling of the Number of Latinos Led the Increase” read one headline. “His- panics Drive State Growth” read another. “Census Reflects Large Gains for Latinos,” “Latinos Add State House Seats Nationwide,” proclaimed others. “Hispanics Reshape Culture of the South” and “North Carolina’s Trade in Foreign Farm Workers Draws Scrutiny” read two others. “Mexicans Change Face of U.S. Demographics” and “Racial, Ethnic Diversity Puts New Face on Middle America” proclaimed two more. And more recently, in a news release that was as stunning as it was understated, the Census Bureau quietly an- nounced that as of July 2001, the United State’s population of Hispanic origin or descent had surpassed the African American population as the nation’s largest aggregate “minority group.”1 Of course, one could cite literally hun- dreds more such headlines and taglines in the American mass media of the past five or six years, and, slowly but surely, it seems that the message has started to sink in. Print and broadcast media outlets may have been slow to pick up on a trend that has been building in momentum for many years, but it is clear that Americans are finally awakening to a demographic revolution that has transformed—and continues to change—U.S. society in ways that will powerfully influence the economic, political, and cultural life of the Unit- ed States for the foreseeable future.

The Columbia History of Latinos in the United States Since 1960 is among the first major attempts to offer a comprehensive historical overview of the as- tonishing “Latinization” of the United States that has occurred over the past four decades.2 Bringing together the views of some of the foremost scholarly

interpreters of the recent history of Latinos in the United States, this collec- tion was designed from the outset to be a collaborative, interdisciplinary ef- fort to ponder, analyze, and provide context for these dramatic historical de- velopments. More specifically, our intent was to provide a broad overview of this era of explosive demographic and cultural change by developing essays that explore the recent histories of all the major national and regional Latino subpopulations and reflect on what these historical trends might mean for the future of both the United States and the other increasingly interconnected na- tions of the Western Hemisphere. Indeed, as the essays that follow amply demonstrate, while at one point it may have been considered feasible to ex- plore the histories of national populations in isolation from one another, all of the contributors to this volume highlight the deep transnational ties and in- terconnections that bind different peoples across national and regional lines. Thus, each of the chapters on Latino national subpopulations explores the ambiguous and shifting boundaries that so loosely define them both in the United States and in their countries of origin. In addition, the volume in- cludes five important thematic chapters addressing political and cultural themes that transcend national and intercultural boundaries while simultane- ously revealing some of the more salient sources of internal division among persons of Latin American descent or heritage. These chapters include explo- rations of Latino religion and religiosity; gender and changing gender systems; politics, political mobilization, and political organization; language, expres- sive culture, and cultural change; and Latinos and the law.

Contributors were selected from a broad spectrum of scholarly fields and intellectual perspectives, and represent broad expertise drawn both from tra- ditional, established fields of academic inquiry like history, sociology, law, and political science, as well as emergent, more explicitly politically contentious interdisciplinary areas of study such as gender studies, religious studies, cul- tural studies, ethnic studies, and comparative Latin American and Latino studies. Contributors were given wide latitude regarding the conceptual, methodological, and interpretive approaches they brought to their individual assignments. Indeed, my hope as compiler and editor was to bring together the work of scholars in different fields and in different stages of their careers in an effort to create a kind of dynamic tension between and among a variety of different perspectives and points of view and thus to reflect to the extent possible some of the tensions that so obviously characterize the social, cultur- al, and political life of Latinos in the United States today. In keeping with this approach, authors were asked to develop in basic outline the broad contours of the history of their topical areas of study but also to depart from historical convention where appropriate by engaging in informed speculation both

PREFACE

about contemporary trends and likely trajectories for the future. Finally, all of the contributors to the Columbia History of Latinos in the United States Since 1960 were also strongly encouraged to frame their analyses and write in a style that would be engaging and accessible to both specialists and a broader read- ing audience. By giving all the authors or groups of authors free rein in fram- ing their studies while also encouraging them to refrain from using the tech- nical academic jargon typical of their respective disciplines, we hoped to produce a volume that provides cutting-edge interpretations of the broad contours of the recent history of Latinos in the United States and one that also provides readers with insight into the major areas of contention and debate in Latino scholarship in the early twenty-first century.

Thus, as should be clear, the tasks faced by the individual authors in con- ceptualizing and executing their individual assignments were not as neat and straightforward as they might at first glance appear. On the most fundamen- tal level, each contributor needed to address the challenge of analyzing popu- lations that have been, and continue to be, in the midst of tremendous social flux and transformation. For example, while each author was charged with the task of recounting the recent histories of populations that currently constitute the pan-Latino population of the United States, we all were cognizant of the many ways the extreme geographic mobility of these groups—both within the boundaries of the United States and across international frontiers—raises conceptual and analytical challenges of a kind usually not faced by scholars studying more sedentary populations. Hundreds of thousands of Latinos con- tinue to move between the United States and Latin America and otherwise maintain strong organic ties to their communities, and this combination of physical mobility and deep ties to places elsewhere in the Western Hemi- sphere represent unique and fundamental components of Latinos’ social real- ity. Consequently, as all of the chapters that follow demonstrate in some de- tail, it is impossible to situate Latinos’ experience within the historical tradition of a single nation-state, whether that nation-state is their country of origin or the United States of America. Of course, the persistence of transna- tional ties has always been a fact of Latinos’ lives in the United States (and, to a greater or lesser degree, of other migrant populations), but the dynamism of Latinos’ more recent history requires that interpreters employ regional and multinational perspectives in attempting to analyze these restless and con- stantly shifting populations-in-motion. Similarly, while each author was charged with developing an analysis temporally focused on the last four decades of the last century, each was forced to grapple in his or her own way with the long reach of American economic, political, and military imperialism in Latin America over a much longer stretch of time. Thus, although each

PREFACE

contributor employed different points of analytical departure and emphasis, the historical legacies and contemporary specter of the United States’ ongoing colonial relationship with Latin America can be seen in each chapter.

On a related plane, it is equally important to emphasize from the outset the extent to which the history of racism in the United States and the troubled his- tory of United States–Latin American relations has colored and continues to influence scholarship on the subject under discussion. Each of us has been trained to aspire to professional standards of scholarly objectivity, but we all also recognize that the fields of Latin American and U.S.–Latino studies have always been arenas of intense intellectual and ideological contestation and de- bate around these and other areas of social hierarchy and social conflict. The essays that follow clearly reveal both the tensions inherent in these areas of in- quiry and the lack of consensus over conceptualization, theoretical framing, methodologies, and ultimate lines of interpretation that currently exists in the evolving field of Latino studies (an issue discussed in greater detail in the in- troduction that follows). Again, however, by juxtaposing our different frames of reference and lines of argumentation against one another, we hope both to help sharpen the ongoing academic debate about the recent history of Latinos in the United States and to provoke critical thinking and discussion about this rich and complex history among both academic and more general readers.

Most of the themes discussed in this preface are touched upon in chapter 1, which is my contribution to this collection. As both the largest Latino sub- population and the group with the longest continuous contact with American society, ethnic Mexicans have in many ways epitomized the Latino experience along the historical axes of both imperialism and neoliberalism. The first Mexican Americans were incorporated by imperial conquest—initially during the Anglo-American infiltration of Texas and other Mexican territories in the 1820s and 1830s and then as spoils of war during the Texas Revolution of 1836 and the 1846 to 1848 War of the North American Invasion (as it is known in Mexico to this day). Since the late nineteenth century, and increasingly over the course of the last century, Mexican American history has been character- ized by three major factors that have increasingly come to characterize other Latino populations in the United States: the steady penetration of U.S. eco- nomic interests into a neighboring Latin American nation; the growth of a multinational resident ethnic population within the boundaries of the United States caused both by natural increase and the extensive and ongoing incor- poration of foreign workers into the domestic economy; and the experience of racialization and discrimination in the United States by both native- and foreign-born components of that population. The abiding paradox of this troubled history is that although American economic and governing elites his- torically strove to maintain social, cultural, and economic distance between

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the ethnic Mexican minority (whether citizen, denizen, or alien) and the white Americans they considered to be their primary social constituents, U.S. poli- cies and practices over the course of nearly two centuries—and especially in the period since 1960—have encouraged the rapid growth of all subpopula- tions of ethnic Mexicans and the increasing de facto integration of the social, cultural, and economic systems of the United States and Mexico along a 2,000-mile border.

In their contribution, sociologists Kelvin Santiago-Valles and Gladys Jiménez-Muñoz argue along similar lines but focus more directly on the bald- ly colonial nature of the historical relationship between the United States and Puerto Rico. Indeed, in their incisive and highly critical chapter, Santiago- Valles and Jiménez-Muñoz argue that the current colonial relationship be- tween the United States and Puerto Rico should not be viewed as some kind of anomaly but rather should be seen as the predictable result of a self- conscious hemispheric and global policy to which the government of the United States has adhered for nearly 200 years. They develop their argument further, however, by pointing out the complicated ways that American impe- rialism historically has entailed more than the economic subordination and racialization of subject peoples, although these have clearly been crucial com- ponents of that relationship. From their point of view, the process of colo- nization, in both its classic forms and in its current neoliberal manifestation, has always also fundamentally involved the conceptual reduction and femi- nization of Puerto Ricans (and, by extension, of other Latin Americans and U.S. Latinos). When viewed from this perspective, the persistence of drastic inequality both between Puerto Ricans and other American residents of the United States and between the United States and the rest of Latin America is neither an accident of history nor a “natural” anomaly of uneven develop- ment but a symptom of the ongoing elaboration of an international division of labor largely shaped and driven by U.S. interests. Skillfully weaving togeth- er close analysis of social, economic, and cultural factors that have con- tributed to these historical patterns on the island, in Puerto Rican communi- ties on the mainland, and in Latin America generally, the authors offer a provocative and ultimately compelling synthetic interpretation of some of the most persistent and vexing issues in hemispheric social science research.

In some ways, the historian María Cristina García’s analysis of the recent history of ethnic Cubans explores the obverse effects of the United States’ larger historical relationship with Latin America. Although García points out that turn-of-the-century Cuban migration to the United States and elsewhere was driven by the same economic and political forces that characterized the United States’ relationship to other nations in Latin America (particularly Mexico and the Central American countries), Cuba was not annexed in the

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same direct manner in which Puerto Rico was seized after the Spanish- American War. Nevertheless, as García demonstrates, the United States as- sumed “informal” control of Cuban affairs after the war and maintained that control for most of the next half century—thus helping to establish the trou- bled relationship that has existed between the two nations ever since. The con- stant meddling in the internal affairs of the Cuban government, the establish- ment of a permanent U.S. naval base at Guantánamo Bay, and a long history of direct U.S. military interventions on the island since 1898 provide an indi- cation of just how firmly the United States either kept Cuba under its sway or otherwise closely monitored its internal affairs.

After Fidel Castro’s takeover 1959, this situation changed abruptly. As Gar- cía notes, whether Castro initially intended to strike an antagonistic posture with the United States remains an open question to this day, but as he con- solidated power on the island, thousands of anti-Castro Cubans either chose or were forced to depart Cuba for the United States. Thus began a very differ- ent kind of migration cycle. García carefully demonstrates how the predica- ment of the Cuban expatriates meshed well with the intensifying anticommu- nist American foreign policy of the time and thus paved the way for the very different treatment Cubans received as political refugees. Still, García docu- ments the difficulties of settlement and adjustment faced both by the initial groups of emigrants and those who came later. Although the special welcome extended to the first waves of Cubans in the form of relaxed immigration reg- ulations, job-training programs, and financial and educational assistance is well chronicled here, García skillfully illustrates just how heterogeneous the total influx has been, and just how complicated the circumstances surround- ing Cuban emigration and settlement—particularly for those who entered during and after the infamous Mariel influxes of the 1980s. Despite the recent sensation caused by the Elián González controversy, García is among a grow- ing number of scholars who emphasize the increasing class, cultural, “racial,” and political diversity of the ethnic Cuban population and who anticipate po- tentially surprising and unexpected developments in both Cuban American politics and the Cuban–American relationship in the twenty-first century.

Sociologist Norma Chinchilla and political scientist Nora Hamilton offer a sweeping chapter on the growth of the multinational Central American pop- ulation that echoes many of the themes explored in the previous chapters. Like the Cuban case, the mass movement of Central Americans to the United States since the 1970s and 1980s originated in the regional geopolitical turmoil that tore hundreds of thousands of people from their local communities and, eventually, from their homelands. Again, like the other contributors, Chin- chilla and Hamilton carefully trace the different ways the penetration into the region of U.S. economic and military interests in the late nineteenth century

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gradually pulled developing Central American nations into the North Ameri- can economic and political orbit. In a story that was repeated in nations around the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean basin, the authors map the processes that led North American corporate interests to invest in a variety of enterprises ranging from cattle and oil to plantation export crops like coffee, bananas, and cotton. Of course, U.S. strategic interests in securing an intero- ceanic canal early in the twentieth century added to the United States’ grow- ing sense of proprietorship in the region.

In any case, the reorientation of the Central American regional economy toward export markets started a chain reaction of widespread social instabil- ity, displacement of rural and urban workers, and eventual population move- ment. As more and more arable land fell under the control of local oli- garchies (often representing a small, interlocking set of prominent families), the stage was set first for a massive wave of rural-to-urban internal migration and then, gradually, for increased rates of transnational migration. As with Mexico, the sporadic eruption of indigenous uprisings over the course of the twentieth century added to the flows of both economic migrants and politi- cal refugees. Up until the late 1960s, migration from Central America to the United States was moderate, but with the eruption of new waves of violence in the face of unrelenting displacement and repression—often aided and abetted by the actions of the U.S. government—the rate of migration north- ward exploded in the late 1970s and 1980s. As Chinchilla and Hamilton demonstrate, the bulk of the largest émigré populations from Honduras, Guatemala, El Salvador, and Nicaragua originated during this long period of regional instability and violence.

Given the broad diversity and recentness of the Central American migration, Chinchilla and Hamilton’s analysis raises some provocative questions about the future trajectory of this rapidly expanding pan-Latino population. While many, if not most, of the Central American migrants who originally entered the United States in the 1980s and early 1990s may well have planned on re- turning to their nations of origin, the persistence of economic and political in- stability in Central America and the broadening social networks the migrants have established in the North have created yet another constellation of vibrant Latino subcultures in the United States. Thus, while Central Americans main- tain strong and abiding transnational ties to their homelands—and through their remittances continue to contribute huge amounts of foreign capital to the economy of the region—their future increasingly appears to be tied to that of the United States. That their patterns of settlement have often increased ten- sions with already-established Latino populations adds another dimension of uncertainty. Thus, as with other Latino populations comprising significant numbers of low-skilled and indigenous workers, whether the future involves a

PREFACE

process of gradual socioeconomic integration and upward mobility or, con- versely, will reveal yet another example of the “segmented assimilation” of Central Americans into a growing pan-American underclass remains very much an open question.

Sociologist Peggy Levitt’s discussion of the recent history of Dominicans in the United States adds other intriguing dimensions to the complex history of Latino migrants and settlers. As the opening paragraphs of her essay illustrate so dramatically, the deep transnational ties that have bound migrants from the island to receiving communities in the United States are fundamental components of life at both ends of the international circuit of migration. In- deed, due to the extension by the Dominican government of dual citizenship to its expatriate population, the republic’s second-largest concentration of voters now resides in New York City, and its last president, Leonel Fernández, spent most of his life in New York before winning the presidency in 1996. Levitt’s essay—and the larger body of research from which it builds—demon- strates that while Dominican migration is a relatively recent phenomenon, the historical combination of the island’s development under a series of autocrat- ic governments, the concentration of land ownership into the hands of a tiny local elite, and the domination of the republic’s economic affairs by the Unit- ed States all deeply influenced subsequent patterns of both permanent immi- gration and circular migration from the island to the United States.

Levitt’s work stands as a strong case study of how the forces of globalization and chronically uneven regional economic development in the hemisphere have simultaneously stimulated the mass migration of underemployed work- ers to places where they hope to find work while also fostering the mainte- nance of strong transnational ties among migrants. Indeed, as is the case for ethnic Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, and perhaps some other Latino subpopula- tions, many Dominicans have come to see circular migration as a rational life strategy that fosters the development of organically linked Dominican com- munities in both nations. Building on her previous work and the work of other migration scholars, Levitt argues that as complex migrant networks linking the Dominican Republic to the United States have thickened over time, the continual circulation of people, goods, communication networks, and remittances have helped to join the two countries into a single transna- tional “social field.” Levitt is careful to point out that the existence of such common social fields does not imply that the Dominican Republic and the United States are somehow fading away as distinct national entities. Nor does she diminish the important development of what are now thriving and grow- ing permanent Dominican American communities in the northeastern Unit- ed States and elsewhere. However, by carefully exploring the many ways that the activities of Dominicans’ everyday lives now transcend national borders

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(whether those activities include travel, the sending of remittances, the main- tenance of intimate and engaged family ties, or voting in American, Domini- can, or both nation’s elections), Levitt’s analysis provide insight into the ways the forces of the global market continue to undermine discrete, bounded nation-states while greatly strengthening the many economic, social, cultural, and political ties that bind human beings across currently constituted nation- al borders. As she notes in the essay’s conclusion, “these widespread, endur- ing ties also challenge conventional understandings of the determinants of in- equality, civic engagement, and community development.” The dramatic example of Dominican Americans voting and standing for elective office in Dominican elections may well represent an extreme case of transnationalism at work, but the current situation may well also represent a harbinger of trends that will become much more commonplace in the Western Hemi- sphere and elsewhere in the world in the near future.

Marilyn Espitia’s chapter on the migration, settlement, and growth of South American peoples adds more layers of complexity and ambiguity to the recent history of Latino peoples in the United States. Although South Ameri- cans have been emigrating in small numbers to the United States since the days of the California Gold Rush, it is only recently that their numbers have begun to rise to significant levels. As Espitia notes, while the dynamics of South American migration, settlement, and adjustment are similar to those of other Latin American and U.S. Latino groups, clear differences exist as well. The most obvious and significant of these are the higher aggregate socioeco- nomic characteristics of the population of South American origin. Of course, broad status variations exist in the growing multinational South American population in the United States, but, generally speaking, most South Ameri- can immigrants enter the country with higher levels of education, job skills, and class standing than virtually all other Latin American subpopulations. (As a result, South Americans also tend to enter the United States through offi- cially sanctioned immigration channels and appear to have much lower rates of undocumented migration than do the other populations, especially Mexi- cans and Central Americans). Espitia argues that these distinct characteristics may well have important effects on the manner in which Latinos of South American origin or heritage eventually come to identify and situate them- selves vis-à-vis other residents of the United States. Whether they eventually choose to meld into mainstream structures of society or, as Espitia suggests, explore a new, cosmopolitan sense of latinidad is one of the most intriguing questions in contemporary Latino studies research.

Like Espitia’s contribution, sociologist Pierrette Hondagneu-Sotelo’s chap- ter, the first of this volume’s thematic essays, broadens the framework of analysis away from a single nationality or geographic group by exploring the

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theme of changing gender relationships among Latinos in the U.S. context. Like all other authors in the volume, Hondagneu-Sotelo argues that the con- struction and ongoing transformation of gendered relationships among Lati- nos cannot be considered in isolation. From her point of view, to even begin to comprehend the ways gendered systems change over time requires discus- sion not only of the dynamics of gender construction in the United States and in the “sending” nations of Latin America but also awareness of the many pro- found ways that global economic change and the emergence of international political movements—especially the rise of feminist critical thought since the 1960s—have together influenced socially constructed definitions of what is considered “feminine” and what is considered “masculine” in modern life. Given the way gender systems and gender roles have shifted and evolved over the past half century, the author cautions readers not to assume that sharp di- chotomies necessarily exist between “traditional” relationships in sending re- gions of Latin America and a more “modern” situation in the United States. Arguing instead that gender roles and sexual orientations are subject to con- stant contestation and negotiation between and among men and women, Hondagneu-Sotelo attempts to situate her analysis in the broadest possible historical and regional context. Still, building on her own extensive previous research in the area of migration and gender, Hondagneu-Sotelo suggests that the process of transnational migration itself often helps reconfigure gender re- lationships in significant ways, as women and men are often forced by cir- cumstances beyond their control to adjust and adapt to rapidly changing so- cial environments. From her standpoint, gauging “progress” in gender relationships is, therefore, an extremely complicated process involving assess- ment of a broad range of variables and gender, family, and sexual stereotypes (like the persistence of machismo and marianismo) in cultural settings in both Latin American nations and in the United States. In the end, however, Hondagneu-Sotelo cautiously suggests that gender roles in various Latino subpopulations in the United States have gradually become more flexible— and perhaps even more egalitarian—over time.

This sense of guarded optimism is also present in Anthony Stevens- Arroyo’s far-ranging essay on the recent history of Latino religion and reli- giosity in the United States. Like Hondagneu-Sotelo, Stevens-Arroyo, a pro- fessor of religious studies, grounds his analysis of changing patterns of Latino religious orientation and practice in social, cultural, and political trends that transcend national boundaries. Indeed, much like the other contributors, Stevens-Arroyo argues that it is impossible to separate Latino religious histo- ry and the deep religious beliefs held by so many Latinos from the political and intercultural currents that have otherwise shaped their lives so deeply since the 1960s. In this piece, Stevens-Arroyo argues that when combined with

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the politicization that occurred in the 1960s among Mexican Americans (pri- marily in the Southwest) and Puerto Ricans (primarily in the Northeast), the steady demographic growth of the pan-Latino population laid the founda- tions for a massive “resurgence” in Latino religiosity (importantly, he notes, among both Catholics and Protestants). He carefully traces the ways the reli- giously inspired cursillo movement inflected the campaigns of César Chávez and the United Farm Workers Union in the West and converged with Puerto Rican activism in the East to compel deep change in both the American Catholic Church and in many Protestant sects. The author argues that church institutions, officials, and laypeople have served as vital intermediaries (for both social integration and resistance) between established Latino communi- ties and newcomers from Latin America. Indeed, Stevens-Arroyo’s analysis of the origins and evolution of the Latino religious resurgence since the 1960s in some ways provides a powerful counterpoint to more pessimistic analyses in this volume by demonstrating the complicated ways that successful faith- based grassroots efforts have continued among Latinos even in the face of their systemic marginalization and outright repression. With the explosive growth of the Latino population since 1980, it seems certain that grassroots, ecumenical, faith-based political mobilizations based in religious practices ranging from traditional Catholicism to indigenous and Afro-Caribbean spir- itualism will continue to play important roles for U.S. Latinos and that they may well also provide the basis for building a stronger pan-ethnic solidarity among the various populations in the new century.

Frances R. Aparicio follows a similar tack in her exploration of the intricate- ly complicated terrain of Latino cultural production and expression in the United States. As with the book’s other contributors, Aparicio, director of the Latino and Latin American Studies program at the University of Illinois, Chicago, foregrounds the colonial context in which Latino cultural expression in the United States has unfolded. Within this colonial context, she argues, one must pay special attention to the role expressive culture plays as both enter- tainment and as a site in which identity is played out, empowered, and re- formed—sometimes in opposition to dominant norms and practices and sometimes in conjunction with them. Thus, in this subtle and penetrating analysis, Aparicio explores the ways different forms of Latino cultural expres- sion serve to mediate between conflicting social formations and traditions while also sometimes being appropriated, co-opted, and absorbed by U.S. cor- porate interests. And here Aparicio exposes the crux of the matter. Building on insights raised by other Latino cultural critics and developed in her own previ- ously published work and ongoing research, Aparicio carefully explicates the manner in which Latinos are locked in a continuous struggle to express them- selves in their own idioms, forge new identities, and maintain a distinctive

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PREFACE

sense of Latino or Latin American aesthetics in the face of the inexorable ho- mogenizing pressures of the U.S. consumerist juggernaut. The cultural ten- sions, modes of resistance, and syncretism that are expressed in Latino letters, music, art, and performance thus speak to the very essence of the Latino expe- rience in the United States. As Aparicio notes, these different modes of “Lati- no expressive cultures . . . exhibited the effects of the push and pull of the forces of mainstreaming, integration, and institutionalization, on the one hand, and new and continuous oppositional forces, on the other, that explored new forms of identity and urged resistance to assimilation.”

Many of these same tensions and ambivalence resonate throughout legal scholar Kevin Johnson’s essay on Latinos and U.S. law. In the increasingly ambiguous and potentially dangerous current political and legal environ- ment of the United States, the tortured historical relationship of Latinos to the U.S. system of law and jurisprudence has once again come into sharp re- lief. In this piece, Johnson explores the uneven history of Latinos’ interac- tions with three crucial and overlapping areas of American law: immigration and nationality law; civil-rights litigation and jurisprudence; and the long and contentious legal struggle to gain access to public education. While Johnson, a professor of law and associate dean at the University of Califor- nia, Davis, School of Law, acknowledges that the U.S. legal system has often proved a powerful ally in Latinos’ efforts in these areas, he emphasizes the manner in which nearly two centuries of discrimination continue to shape and color the Latino experience even after the civil-rights revolution of the 1950s and 1960s. Drawing on close readings of relevant case law and legal his- tories, Johnson plots the checkered history of Latinos’ intimate involvement with U.S. immigration law and policy in the last half of the twentieth centu- ry. Johnson’s analysis in this area is consistent with that of other immigration scholars in pointing out that while the United States has asserted its sover- eign right to protect its borders, government agencies have long either looked the other way or actually cooperated with U.S. businesses as they actively re- cruited and employed huge numbers of both officially sanctioned and unau- thorized immigrant workers. Johnson explores the many implications of this profound contradiction in the areas of employment and naturalization and the potential social and political integration of Latinos into American socie- ty. In the arena of civil rights in the U.S. legal context, Johnson traces recent gains and setbacks in areas including search and seizure (an area that often involves “racial profiling” by law enforcement authorities), political asylum, and the increasingly contentious issue of language usage and rights, and he speculates on the extent to which the recent growth of the Latino population may help break the traditional formula that has long equated “civil rights” with white–black relations in the United States. In the final section of the

PREFACE

chapter, Johnson explores the recent history of the Latino struggle to gain ac- cess to all levels of public education, beginning with a brief review of the mixed legacies of the famous 1954 Brown v. Board of Education decision and ending with an analysis of the political challenges of bilingual education, the alarming resegregation of Latino students in the public schools since the 1980s, and the future of “affirmative action” in education and the workplace. With the recent Supreme Court rulings on the legality of such approaches (in the crucial “reverse discrimination” cases brought against the University of Michigan), this and the other general areas of Latino concern will remain es- pecially sensitive for the foreseeable future.

Political scientist Louis DeSipio concludes the volume with some important and insightful reflections both on the recent political history of Latinos in the United States and on what the future might hold for Latinos in American pol- itics. From the outset, DeSipio brings sharp focus to the issue of what the Chi- cano political scientist Rodolfo de la Garza in another context has called “el cuento de los números” (roughly, “the myth of the numbers”—or the myth that increasing population numbers automatically equal rising political power). Analyzing both population and voting data since the 1960 national elections, DeSipio argues that although the Latino population obviously has grown tremendously over that period, its political influence has not kept pace. More importantly, DeSipio goes further and questions whether dramatic pop- ulation increases will necessarily translate into increasing political clout in the near future. Carefully building his case from both historical and contempo- rary sources, DeSipio argues that the same structural forces that limit partici- pation in traditional American politics generally may well be even more in- fluential in the Latino example. It has long been recognized that age, socioeconomic status, education levels, language proficiency, and other basic social-structural characteristics strongly influence political participation (or nonparticipation) in American politics. As is noted in more detail in the in- troduction, with an extremely youthful demographic structure, comparably low aggregate levels of education and job skills, and a disproportionate share of the nation’s poor, the Latino population meets all the predictors for com- parably low levels of political engagement and activity. Add to this the glaring fact that at least 40 percent of the Latino population are noncitizens—and thus ineligible to vote—and the full dimensions of the obstacles Latinos face in achieving their full political potential become clear. Indeed, DeSipio goes so far as to note that in the cold calculus of winner-take-all American electoral politics, the apex of Latino political participation and efficacy may well have already occurred, during the Nixon–Kennedy campaign of 1960. His disquiet- ing assertions, contrary to common sense, that Latinos simply do not matter in most elections, provides much food for sober thought and reflection.

xxi

PREFACE

This is not to say that there have not been recent signs of more positive movement. As DeSipio notes, with the extension of provisions of the Voting Rights Act to Latinos in 1975 (the act had been designed primarily to empow- er African Americans when first passed in 1965), Latinos have gradually seen increased representation in all levels of government. The recent debate held in New Mexico between Democratic Party presidential candidates provides fur- ther evidence of this. Moreover, population growth and increasing political sophistication have resulted in the emergence of powerful lobbies and political-education groups, such as the Southwest Voter Registration Project and the National Council of La Raza, and the establishment of important na- tional civil-rights advocates in the Mexican American Legal Defense and Ed- ucation Fund (MALDEF) and other similar organizations—and these trends probably will continue in the future. DeSipio also notes that at a less visible and yet in some ways more interesting level, the involvement of Latinos in faith-based organizations, the sporadic mobilizations of resident aliens (as oc- curred during the debate over California’s Proposition 187), and the recent spike in the unionization of certain sectors of the Latino workforce (for ex- ample, among laborers, dry wallers and other construction workers, hospital employees, janitors and other service workers, and a small minority of farm workers) at the very least provide intriguing glimpses of avenues for potential social and political empowerment in the future. In addition, on another level, the increasing level of remittances from Latin American expatriates, increas- ing numbers of dual nationals among Latino residents, and other strong forms of continuing connection between emigrants and their places of origin may be signs of the emergence of new, if still inchoate forms of political ori- entation, mobilization, and action among Latinos.3 Still, for the foreseeable future, as DeSipio and virtually all of the contributors to this volume have to some degree argued, the peculiar structural features of American politics en- sures that Latinos will remain much less influential in U.S. political life than their aggregate numbers would seem to suggest. Whether Latinos’ collective actions in the United States translates into a new era of empowerment, inte- gration, and participation—or results in a process of deepening social and po- litical destabilization in both the United States and Latin America—will sure- ly be one of the single most critical social and political questions of the twenty-first century.

xxii

PREFACE

NOTES

1. See U.S. Census Bureau, “Census Bureau Releases Population Estimates by Age,

Sex, Race, and Hispanic Origin,” United States Department of Commerce News, 21

January 2003.

2. In this preface and my other contributions to this volume, the term “Latino” (and,

in a few cases, “pan-Latino”) are rather arbitrarily used to describe all inhabitants

of the United States (of both genders) with at least one parent of Latin American

heritage or descent, regardless of formal citizenship or nationality status. For rea-

sons discussed in more detail in the introduction, one should not assume, howev-

er, that a consensus exists about the conceptualization and definition of the “Lati-

no” population. Similarly, although I am fully aware of pitfalls of sexism and

“heterocentrism” in academic discourse, in the interest of keeping the text clear of

the constant use of wordy or awkward constructions such as “Latina/os,” “Latinos

and Latinas,” “Latino/a men and women,” and the most recent neologism,

Latin@, I have chosen to use the masculine form of the noun, except when specif-

ically referring to women of Latin American origin or descent. In those cases, the

feminine Spanish term, “Latina,” is used. Each of the other authors in the volume

was asked to choose a consistent form for their treatment of ethnic, national, and

gendered labels. As I hope this preface makes clear, the umbrella term “Latino,”

like all markers of ethnicity, nationality, citizenship, and/or gender, has become

increasingly freighted and unwieldy in a period of accelerating economic global-

ization, transnational migration, and an ongoing academic debate over gendered

language in all contexts. For similar reasons, the term “Hispanic” is almost com-

pletely absent from this volume. This problematic term was appropriated for use

by the federal government in the 1970s as an easy way to impose an orderly,

bounded category onto a population that otherwise was profoundly diverse—and

whose putative members do not necessarily think of themselves in the same cor-

porate terms. The term has gained some popularity among people interested in

accepting the U.S. government’s logic, but few individuals of Latin American ori-

gin or heritage use the term as a primary self-referent, whereas most recognize

“Latino” as a loose and general marker for what is perceived as the larger linguis-

tic/historical/cultural community of greater Latin America. It is imperative to note,

however, that most Latinos continue to identify first with national origin (howev-

er distant that origin might be) and then with pan-ethnic designations such as

“Latino” or “Hispanic.” In addition, as discussed below, it is also important to note

that significant numbers of immigrants originating in Latin American nations tend

to self-identify as members of indigenous groups and thus have problematic rela-

tionships with dominant populations in their regions of origin. For illuminating

discussions of the social complexities and political implications of the ongoing de-

bate over nomenclature, ascription, and self-identity, see articles on the topic in the

special issue, “The Politics of Ethnic Construction: Hispanic, Chicano, Latino . . . ?”

in Latin American Perspectives 19, no. 4 (Fall 1992); Sharon M. Lee, “Racial Classifi-

cations in the U.S. Census, 1890–1990,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 16, no. 1 (January

1993): 75–94; Suzanne Oboler, Ethnic Labels, Latino Lives: Identity and the Politics of

(Re)presentation in the United States (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press,

xxiii

PREFACE

1995); and Clara E. Rodríguez, Changing Race: Latinos, the Census, and the History

of Ethnicity in the United States (New York: New York University Press, 2000). For

a broader, comparative discussion of these issues, see Melissa Nobles, Shades of Cit-

izenship: Race and the Census in Modern Politics (Stanford: Stanford University

Press, 2000).

3. For an intriguing glimpse into the prospects for and limitations in pan-Latino

transnational organizing and mobilization, see Cross-Border Dialogues: U.S.-Mexico

Social Movement Networking, ed. David Brooks and Jonathan Fox (La Jolla, Calif.:

Center for U.S.–Mexican Studies, University of California, San Diego, 2002).

xxiv

PREFACE

THE COLUMBIA HISTORY OF LATINOS IN THE UNITED STATES SINCE 1960

INTRODUCTION

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES

OF “COMMUNITY”: REFLECTIONS ON “U.S. LATINOS”

AND THE EVOLUTION OF LATINO STUDIES

DAVID G. GUTIÉRREZ

IN 1960, at the beginning of the period under examination in this volume, few observers of American society—including Americans of Latin descent them- selves—thought of Latinos as part of a discernable “minority” population. Of course, people in the Southwest were aware of the regional presence of a signif- icant ethnic Mexican minority, and residents of the Northeast recognized how much the Puerto Rican population had grown in the years since World War II. But beyond the fact that Puerto Ricans and Mexicans came from “mixed-race” backgrounds, spoke Spanish, tended to be Roman Catholic, and seemed to share certain aesthetic affinities, there was little awareness of larger connections that transcended the different national-historical and regional backgrounds of these populations. For their part, most Americans of Latino descent tended also to focus on the regional- or national-origins dimensions of their individual and collective senses of identity, orientation, and affiliation. Little empirical research was done on the question of the cultural identity and national orientations of various Latino populations, but what there was seemed to indicate that, like other immigrant and/or ethnic groups in U.S. society, the largest of these groups—Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans—thought of themselves broadly as either “hyphenated Americans”; as expatriate members of the coun- tries or regions of origin; or, for a smaller number, as members of an indigenous minority (such as the descendants of Spanish settlers in California, Colorado, New Mexico, and Texas). Few apparently viewed themselves as members of a larger historically or culturally related pan-ethnic or multinational entity.1

The demographic revolution of the last four decades of the twentieth cen- tury has very much changed the dynamics of identity and social orientation

among various Latino subpopulations. Not only have the resident ethnic Mexican and Puerto Rican populations exploded over that period, but their numbers have been greatly augmented by the addition of millions of other people of Latin American origin or descent. As these populations have ex- panded and become more geographically dispersed, Latinos of all national origins, heritages, and class backgrounds now reside and intermingle in a broad range of different urban and rural settings in communities across the United States. Indeed, the pan-Latino population has grown so quickly and in so many different regions of the country that the full effects of these striking new trends have yet to be completely understood. In some cases, rapid Latino population growth and dispersal has resulted in increased levels of conflict be- tween Latinos and non-Latinos (again, in both urban and rural locales)—and in a palpable increase in intraethnic friction and competition. The latter points of contention are often rooted in class differences but can be predicat- ed on linguistic, national, and perceived “racial” and cultural differences. It is important to note that in other cases, however, the expansion of pan-Latino communities has prepared the ground for very different kinds of social inter- actions. For example, in the increasingly ethnically complex, cosmopolitan social settings of places like New York City, Chicago, Houston, Los Angeles, and San Francisco, the intermeshing of different Latino subpopulations has laid the foundations for the emergence and ongoing evolution of a strong sense of latinidad—a collective sense of cultural affinity and identity deeply rooted in what many Latinos perceive to be a shared historical, spiritual, aes- thetic, and linguistic heritage, and a growing sense of cultural affinity and sol- idarity in the social context of the United States.2

In discussing some of the major dimensions of the dialectical tension be- tween the psychology of conflict and the dynamics of community formation, which has long represented one of the central, unresolved paradoxes of Lati- no life in the United States, I hope with this introduction to explore the na- ture and implications of that paradox, introduce the main themes of the vol- ume, and, in the process, provide some of the larger historical contexts in which to frame the chapters that follow.

THE CHANGING DEMOGRAPHIC STRUCTURE OF THE PAN-LATINO POPULATION

To a large degree, all the essays in this volume are ultimately reflections on the significance of demographic change in recent U.S. and Latin American histo- ry.3 Indeed, as data from the 2000 U.S. census has slowly been released and analyzed over the past few years, even professional demographers have ex-

INTRODUCTION

pressed surprise about the breadth and depth of the transformation of the American population that occurred in the decade of the 1990s. The census re- vealed that more immigrants entered the United States between 1990 and 2000 than in any other ten-year period of American history—including more famous epochs of transnational migration such as the Irish famine immigra- tion, the great influx of German immigrants in the 1840s and 1850s, and the mass migrations from Asia, Mexico, Europe, and Russia that occurred be- tween the 1880s and the 1920s. The motivations underlying such massive transnational movements of humanity have not changed much over time. Drawn by the perception of political stability and economic opportunity in the United States and propelled from their countries of origin by massive pop- ulation growth, political turmoil, war, chronic poverty, and, more recently, by the ravages of the international drug trade, new immigrants entered the coun- try by the millions. All told, more than 8.6 million new immigrants entered the United States between 1990 and 1999, joining an already immense popula- tion of the foreign-born. By 2001, the Census Bureau estimates that there were more than 30 million foreign-born people living within the boundaries of the United States. When immigrants’ U.S.-born children are counted in the mix of new Americans, the numbers are even more stunning. Demographers esti- mate that the combined population of first- and second-generation residents reached nearly 56 million people by 2001—or one of five inhabitants of the United States.4

Of course, while the demographic explosion in the foreign-born and their children has been particularly dramatic, these figures are but the most recent manifestations of much longer social and demographic trends. The sources of these dramatic, long-term shifts in population are complex, but much of the ongoing demographic transformation of American society can be traced to the explosive population growth in Latin America since 1960. Up until about 1950, the populations of Latin America and the United States were roughly comparable, but since then the Latin American population growth rate has far outstripped that of Anglo North America. For example, between 1960 and 2000, the population of Latin America jumped from a little more than 218 mil- lion to more than 520 million. By contrast, the populations of the United States and Canada together grew from about 199 million to just under 307 mil- lion over the same period. Even with a steadily declining birth rate in Latin America, demographers predict that these hemispheric population patterns will hold well into the future. According to estimates generated in a recent United Nations study, Latin America’s population is expected to reach 802 million by 2050.5

On the U.S. side of the equation, shifting demographic balances over the last four decades are also attributable in part to fundamental changes in

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

American immigration laws and policies resulting from the passage of the landmark Hart-Celler Immigration and Nationality Act Amendments of 1965. The Hart-Celler Act greatly liberalized U.S. immigration policy by abolishing the harshly discriminatory national-origins quota system that had been the foundation of U.S. immigration law since the 1920s. Under the old system, which was developed in the 1920s to grapple with what was widely perceived at the time to be an alarming increase in the immigration of “racially inferi- or” populations to the United States, potential immigrants from Western Eu- ropean nations were given de facto priority, while immigration from much of the rest of the world was severely limited by the imposition of tiny quotas on “undesirable” nations, in some cases amounting to no more than 100 peeople per country.6 By removing national-origins limitations, lifting more specific, long-standing bars against potential immigrants from Asian nations, priori- tizing occupational criteria, and reinforcing the general principle of family re- unification as the bedrock objective of U.S. immigration policy, the INA Amendments of 1965 cleared the way for a dramatic shift in the composition of immigrant populations coming to the United States.

The results of the policy can be seen by the clear change in the composition of immigrant flows over the last four decades of the twentieth century. Whereas in 1960 75 percent of all immigrants to the United States came from Europe and only about 14 percent from Asia and Latin America, by the end of the century that ratio had been inverted. In 2000, only 15 percent of the foreign-born population of the United States originated in the nations of Eu- rope—the vast majority, upward of 77 percent, originated in the nations of Latin America and Asia.

The most striking immediate effect of the dismantling of the discriminatory national-origins quota system in 1965 was the steady proportional increase in migration to the United States from Asia. After years in which Asians had been systematically excluded from immigration to the United States because they were deemed racially “ineligible to citizenship,” people of Asian and Asian American origin or descent now represent the fastest growing segment of the overall American population. In conjunction with this trend, however, immi- gration from Latin America has almost kept pace with the pan-Asian influx over the same period. Passage of the Hart-Celler Act initially dampened Latin American immigration for a short time in the late 1960s (because formal nu- merical ceilings on migration from the Western Hemisphere were imposed for the first time as part of the reform package), but this proved to be but a short deviation from longer-term historical trends. The huge and growing demand for labor in the United States during the war in Vietnam, aggressive U.S. eco- nomic policy and practices abroad, and the persistence of political and eco- nomic instability in Latin America, which many analysts have argued was ex-

INTRODUCTION

acerbated by U.S. foreign policy and economic practices, eventually combined to stimulate significant immigration flows. With the intensified restructuring of the global economy that commenced during and after the Arab oil embargo of the early 1970s, the impetus for mass migration increased even more.

Again, aggregate migration statistics provide a rough indication of the di- rection of these general trends. In 1960, there were fewer than one million foreign-born Latin Americans in the United States. In the decade of the 1960s, however, more than a million additional Latin American immigrants entered the country through legal, officially documented channels. In the 1970s, an- other 1.4 million came. In the 1980s, with Mexico in economic turmoil, civil wars raging in Central America, and many other Latin American nations torn by social, economic, and political strife, the number of officially authorized immigrants jumped to 2.8 million. Between 1990 and 2000, the trend turned upward even more dramatically, and at least 4.6 million Latin American im- migrants legally entered the United States. It is critical to note, however, that throughout this period, the officially authorized and acknowledged immi- grant flow was always augmented by, and at times almost certainly exceeded, by the constant circulation into and out of U.S. territory of millions of unau- thorized, “illegal” migrants—some of whom were temporary sojourners, but many eventually became permanent residents.7 Although it is impossible to tell exactly how many undocumented migrants settled permanently in the United States (current estimates put the total at nearly 8 million), clandestine immigration has long been a major source of the growth of the permanent U.S. Latino population.

As it has grown over the years, the foreign-born Latin American population in the United States has also become increasingly diverse (for reasons dis- cussed in greater detail below, migration from Puerto Rico must be consid- ered as a separate case). Whereas most immigrants from Latin America his- torically originated in Mexico, over time, influxes from Central America, the Spanish-speaking Caribbean, and, most recently, from the South American continent have all added increasing numbers to the mix. In 2000, Mexico con- tinued to have the largest emigrant component of all Latin American groups in the United States, with an estimated foreign-born population of at least 8.8 million. The multinational Central American population, with an estimated 1.948 million people, represents the second largest group of foreign-born res- idents. Because a significant number of Central Americans clandestinely en- tered the United States under duress and outside of official channels, it is dif- ficult to generate precise enumerations of the different nationality groups, but the Census Bureau estimates that approximately 765,000 originated in El Sal- vador, 372,000 in Guatemala, 250,000 in Honduras, and 245,000 in Nicaragua. The 1990s also saw a significant increase in the number of immigrants coming

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

from the Spanish-speaking nations of South America. In 2000, out of a com- bined population of approximately 1.876 million people (counting Portuguese-speaking Brazilians), the largest numbers of South American im- migrants originated in Columbia (435,000), followed by Peru (328,000), Ecuador (281,000), Venezuela (126,000), Argentina (89,000), and Chile (83,000). Of the Spanish-speaking regions of the Caribbean, Cuba (with 952,000) and the Dominican Republic (with 692,000) had the largest foreign- born U.S. populations.8

Of course, these new Latin American immigrants have joined a large pop- ulation of Latino origin or descent already living in the United States. This native-born population has a complex history as well. As noted previously, a small number of Americans of Latin American heritage trace their ancestors to the Spanish colonial era (ca. 1598–1821) and the early Mexican Republic (1821–1848) in the territory that now encompasses the states of Texas, New Mexico, Utah, Colorado, Nevada, Arizona, California, and parts of other states. When these territories were annexed by the United States as the spoils of the U.S.–Mexican War in 1848, the Spanish-speaking residents who came with the conquered lands (numbering somewhere between 75,000 and 100,000) became the first generation of Mexican Americans and thus the foundation of the current pan-Latino population.9 However, a far larger pro- portion of the pre-1960 pan-Latino population traces its origins to a series of migrations that occurred at different times over the course of the twentieth century and originated either in Mexico or Puerto Rico. In the Mexican case, the mass movement of migrants into the United States was stimulated by the deepening poverty of the Mexican countryside (which was exacerbated by the increasing domination and resulting reorientation of the Mexican economy by the United States and major European nations) and the concomitant in- crease in the demand for labor in the American Southwest in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. The eruption of the Mexican Revolution in 1909 and 1910 helped to push hundreds of thousands more Mexicans into the Unit- ed States. The vast economic disparities between the two nations guaranteed a steady northward influx of laboring migrants over the course of the twenti- eth century. Indeed, with millions of Mexicans displaced from their lands and wages in the United States ranging anywhere from ten to fifteen times higher than those available in Mexico in the first half of the century—with the ex- ception of the Depression decade of the 1930s, when Mexican migration slowed to a trickle—the mass movement of people north from Mexico that began in the late nineteenth century has continued largely unabated ever since. Largely as a result, the combined population of Mexican Americans and Mexican immigrants in the United States reached approximately 3.5 million by 1960.10

INTRODUCTION

For reasons discussed in more detail below, the growth of the Puerto Rican population on the U.S. mainland has even more complicated origins. The ac- quisition of Puerto Rico after the defeat of Spain in the Spanish–American War of 1898 raised many of the same questions that emerged after the Mexican –American War in the Southwest, but, as in the earlier case, Puerto Rico also became a permanent possession of the United States. After some years of in- tense political debate, Congress granted Puerto Ricans U.S. citizenship in 1917. Puerto Ricans began migrating to the U.S. in significant numbers soon there- after, and the movement from the island to the mainland intensified in the years following World War II.11

The cumulative effects of the combination of American economic imperi- alism in Latin America and subsequent migrations from the region can be seen in the exponential growth of the combined Latino population in the last half of the twentieth century. Between 1960 and 1970, the combined pan- Latino population (of all nationalities) grew modestly from just under 7 mil- lion, or about 3.9 percent of the U.S. population, to more than 9 million, or about 4.5 percent of the total. By 1980, however, driven by a combination of higher rates of officially sanctioned and unsanctioned migration, high rates of natural increase in the resident population, and significant improvements in population enumeration techniques, the Latino population jumped to at least 14.6 million people. By 1990 the number had grown to 22.35 million. Accord- ing to the latest estimates, there are now close to 38 million Latinos in the United States, who represent almost 13 percent of the U.S. population. As noted above, in January 2003, the U.S. Census Bureau announced that some- time in 2001, according to its best estimates, the combined Latino population had finally surpassed people of African American descent as the largest aggre- gate “minority” population in the United States.12

Population growth of this magnitude has also significantly affected the spa- tial distribution of Latinos in the country. Since the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, most Latinos were located in population clusters in the border states, southern Florida, and the New York and Chicago metropolitan areas. In recent years, however, the population has dispersed to the extent that Latinos can now be found in significant numbers in virtually every state of the union, including Alaska and Hawaii. Ethnic Mexicans, with a combined U.S.- native and foreign-born population of nearly 21 million, or about 58.5 percent of the total, continue to represent the largest subpopulation of U.S. Latinos, though their numbers have gradually dropped a bit in relation to other groups. Reflecting a more general trend among Latinos, in the 1990s signifi- cant numbers of ethnic Mexicans began to move away from their traditional concentrations along the U.S.–Mexican border and the western states to new areas—especially the Midwest and Deep South.13 For example, there are now

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

more than a half million ethnic Mexicans in metropolitan Chicago and more than one million in the state of Illinois. The most remarkable example of the internal migration of ethnic Mexicans, however, has occurred in the Ameri- can South. Indeed, the highest rate of Mexican population growth between 1990 and 2000 (augmented by smaller numbers of other Latinos) occurred in the American South, where their numbers in many states tripled or even quadrupled.14

With a population of at least 3.4 million in 2000 (somewhere between 9 and 10 percent of the total), Puerto Ricans have the second largest Latino subpop- ulation on the U.S. mainland. Puerto Ricans remain concentrated in New York and in the urban areas of the greater Northeast, but there are now also signifi- cant population clusters in Florida, Illinois, and California.15 The multination- al Central American population constitutes the next largest group of Latinos. Like Mexicans, most Central Americans (whose combined numbers represent about 5 percent of the total) live in the West, especially in southern California, but there are also significant population clusters of different nationality groups in Washington, D.C., Miami, New York, the San Francisco Bay area, and Houston, Texas. Following Central Americans, Cubans and Cuban Americans represent the next largest Latino subpopulation. Numbering approximately 952,000 foreign-born and another 360,000 Cuban Americans, their combined population accounts for about 4 percent of the U.S. Latino population. South- ern Florida, where the first waves of anti-Castro refugees settled in the early 1960s, still contains 70 percent of the ethnic Cuban population. Dominicans constitute the next-largest Latino subpopulation. The nearly 765,000 Domini- cans of native and foreign birth are even more geographically concentrated than Cubans, with the overwhelming majority living in New York, New Jersey, and other northeastern states. Finally, Spanish-speaking U.S. residents of South American origin or heritage, who had an estimated combined popula- tion of at least 1.3 million in 2000, tend to be much more dispersed than other Latino groups, although significant concentrations of different nationality groups can be found in traditional areas of pan-Latino concentration such as New York City, Chicago, southern Florida, and California.16

These numbers are obviously significant by themselves, but it is also im- portant to note that because of their youth and comparatively high rates of natural increase, the huge number of Latinos currently present in the United States will continue to shape U.S. population growth even if immigration rates decline in the future. In aggregate, the current Latino population is generally much younger than the native U.S. population and as a result has a much higher proportion of individuals in their childbearing years. In 2000, for ex- ample, the estimated median age of Latinos was only 25.9 years (24.2 for Mex- icans, 27.3 for Puerto Ricans, 29.2 for Central Americans, and 29.5 for Do-

INTRODUCTION

minicans), compared to a U.S. national median age of more than 35 years.17

The dramatic effects of this age disparity can already be seen. Although Lati- nos currently constitute only about 13 percent of the U.S. population, in 2001 they already accounted for almost 20 percent of all U.S. births. Another way to look at the engine of demographic growth and change is to examine the structure of American families. According to a recent U.S. Census Bureau study, two-thirds of all Latino families with at least one foreign-born member reported having children in their households, compared to only 48 percent for families whose members were all U.S.-born.

As a result of these built-in multiplier effects at the national level, even the most cautious demographic forecasters see the pan-Latino population growing to at least one-quarter of the total population of the United States by the mid- dle of the twenty-first century. In states with the largest concentrations of im- migrant populations—California (with 26 percent of its total population), New York (19.8 percent), Florida (18.4 percent), and Texas (12.2 percent)—de- mographic projections are even more dramatic. In California, the state with the largest number of immigrants, the dramatically growing demographic weight of Latino children is seen with each passing year. In a state whose economy produces one-seventh of the total economic output of the United States and that also has the highest numbers of Latinos (rapidly approaching one-third of the state’s total population), Latino children of all nationalities already consti- tute more than half of the school-age population—and this percentage will continue to rise sharply for the foreseeable future. Another recent report re- vealed that as of 4 July 2001, more than half of all newborns in California were Latino. And overall in 1999, the proportion of what the Census Bureau terms the “non-Hispanic white” population of California dropped below 50 percent for the first time since the era of the Gold Rush. If current demographic trends hold, it is conservatively estimated that fully half of the Golden State’s popula- tion will be of Latino origin or descent by the year 2040.18

DEBATES OVER CONCEPTUALIZATION AND INTERPRETATION

While it is clear to most informed observers that a demographic transforma- tion of this magnitude has to be considered one of the great social develop- ments in both modern U.S. history and the broader history of the Western Hemisphere, scholars, social critics, policy makers, and ordinary people are deeply divided in their views about the ultimate significance of these trends. Indeed, depending on which end of the spectrum of interpretation one hears, these demographic developments are seen either as the latest chapter in a long and essentially benign history of immigration to the United States, and thus

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

not really a matter of concern over the long term, or, conversely, as a chilling manifestation of a radical shift in international relations that portends even greater demographic and negative economic change—and profound social instability—for the foreseeable future. The radical difference between these points of view speaks both to the complexity and peculiarity of the long, un- easy relationship between the United States and Latin America and to the dif- ficulties scholars face in interpreting the historical trajectory and broad social implications of that complex and uneven relationship. Thus, while it might seem that the dramatic growth of the pan-Latino population of the United States between 1960 and the beginning of the twenty-first century provides a completely compelling rationale for a book of this type, it is critical to note that enough disagreement exists about the putative subject of “Latino studies” to compel careful explication of the evolution of the debate about how best to conceptualize and characterize the recent history of U.S. residents of Latin American origin or descent.19

Much of the current debate over how best to analyze this diverse popula- tion derives from the complex colonial and postcolonial history of Spanish- speaking people in the Western Hemisphere. On the one hand, Latinos in the United States obviously are bound by a number of powerful historical and cultural ties. For example, Latinos share a Spanish-language heritage (despite the fact that many indigenous peoples in Latin America speak Spanish as a second language and a significant minority of U.S.-born Latinos do not speak Spanish at all20); a complicated and controversial legacy of both genetic and cultural creolization and mestizaje (a melding over the 500 years since initial contact of European, African, and indigenous gene pools and cultural traits and practices); a Christian tradition (largely Roman Catholic, but increasing- ly sectarian Protestant)21; and a common, if uneven history of national liber- ation from Spanish imperialism. Both native- and foreign-born Latinos also share a critical legacy in contending with the effects of a long history of U.S. imperialism in the hemisphere—and the integrally related experience of vary- ing degrees of discrimination in the United States.

The importance of these last two factors should not be underestimated. Dating almost from the creation of the United States, the general attitude of government officials and much of the American public toward Latin America has been, at best, one of ignorance and, at worst, one of disdain, if not out- right animus. Born out of a long historical tradition of white supremacy in the United States and the huge economic disparities that have always distin- guished the “Colossus of the North” from the nations of Latin America, over time this rather casual and informal sense of American disregard and disre- spect toward Latin America gradually ossified into a much harder system of invidious stereotypes about individual Latin American nations and their in-

INTRODUCTION

stitutions and about Latin American people and their cultures more general- ly. With Americans accustomed to deeply engrained ideologies of white su- premacy, a highly developed sense of their own nation’s cultural and eco- nomic superiority, and an almost evangelical sense of mission toward other nations of the world, it had become second nature by the middle of the nine- teenth century for both individuals of influence and much of the general pub- lic to attribute Latin American poverty, political instability, and general eco- nomic and infrastructural underdevelopment to what was widely perceived and argued to be the fundamental racial and cultural inferiority of Latin Americans themselves. It was no coincidence that such attitudes also tended to mesh well with American desires to dominate the economic and political affairs of the Western Hemisphere. By the turn of the century, the North American nation’s increasing economic and political domination of the hemi- sphere was widely viewed as a foregone conclusion and, indeed, as a “natural” outgrowth of the superiority of the American “race”—and of American insti- tutions, the American way of doing things, the American way of life.22

Such attitudes were manifest both in the patterns of American investment and business practices and in the closely related history of U.S. military inter- ventions in the region during the nineteenth century. For example, although the United States’ military conquest of Mexico’s northern territories in 1848 was justified at the time (and has largely been explained away today) by boost- ers of the ideology of the United States’ “Manifest Destiny,” most historians now view the war with Mexico as part of the same imperial impulse that un- dergirded the nation’s deep involvement with the institution of slavery and the systematic despoliation of indigenous peoples that occurred incident to “westward expansion.”23

The history of the United States’ relationship with Puerto Rico is perhaps even more telling in this regard. While the Spanish–American War of 1898 has been the subject of a long tradition of critical historical analysis that dates to the era of the war itself, there is an equally long tradition of explaining and justify- ing the imperial adventure that resulted in the permanent or expediently tem- porary annexation of Puerto Rico, the Philippines, Guam, and Cuba as part of the burden a reluctant United States had to bear as an emerging world power.

Faced suddenly with an overseas empire that stretched over several thou- sand miles, the United States government confronted monumental questions involving, among other things, budgetary considerations and constraints, the issue of its own extraterritorial constitutional authority, and most of all, the best means to administer far-flung colonies whose populations differed fun- damentally from the United States in language, culture, and political tradi- tions. In the case of Puerto Rico, at least, the territorial issues at hand were fairly straightforward. The island of Puerto Rico was ceded to the United

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

States after Spain’s defeat in 1898 (along with the Philippines, Guam, and the Northern Marianas). After intensive debate between imperialist and anti- imperialist interests in the Congress, American leaders decided that maintain- ing permanent sovereignty over the fractious Philippines was untenable, but they made it clear that Puerto Rico would remain in the American political, economic, and military orbit. But the questions surrounding the eventual dis- position of the inhabitants of Spain’s former territories were much more com- plicated. This was particularly the case with Puerto Rico.

During the debate that unfolded in the years immediately following annex- ation, the U.S. Supreme Court weighed in on these questions in a famous se- ries of decisions that collectively became known as the “Insular Cases.” To the present day, legal scholars continue to analyze the ultimate constitutional, political-philosophical, and moral implications of these complex, even arcane, decisions, but with regard to Puerto Rico, the Court was fairly clear. The Court ruled that since Puerto Rico had been acquired by the United States as what the justices deemed an “unincorporated territory” of the United States, the inhabitants of Puerto Rico had not gained full protection of the Constitu- tion (even though they had become American “nationals” once the island was annexed) and were entitled only to those rights explicitly granted them by the U.S. Congress.24

Although the executive branch and most members of Congress apparently believed that the permanent annexation of the territories implied that their inhabitants would eventually become American citizens, the Court’s decision in the Insular Cases established once again that the formal legal status of U.S. citizenship did not necessarily mean the same thing for everyone. Citing the “plenary power” granted Congress by the Constitution (in general, the power the Constitution bestows on Congress to regulate commerce and establish the “rules of membership” both within the borders of the United States and in any territories subsequently acquired by the nation), the Court ruled that Congress had virtually unlimited authority to determine what the content and quality of citizenship status would entail.25 Thus, even though Congress even- tually decided to grant Puerto Ricans U.S. citizenship in 1917, it was clear from the outset that virtually no one in Congress envisioned granting the mixed- race, Spanish-speaking Puerto Rican population rights equal to those enjoyed by white Americans. In fact, as one of the leaders of the debate in the Senate put it at the time, most members of Congress intended to grant Puerto Ricans “only those rights the American people want[ed] them to have.”26 In other words, the congressional leaders who pushed through the citizenship legisla- tion apparently envisioned that the citizenship extended to Puerto Ricans would have the same second-class quality and content that had been bestowed on Mexican Americans in the aftermath of the Mexican War nearly seventy

INTRODUCTION

years before. One of the foremost scholars of the convoluted history of Puer- to Rican citizenship puts the issue clearly:

By bestowing citizenship upon the inhabitants of the island, Congress pro- claimed the future of Puerto Rico to be something other than national in- dependence and thereby sought to resolve the question of how the United States would deal with this part of its empire. Accordingly, the citizenship granted was not complete . . . The very word “citizenship” suggested equal- ity of rights and privileges and full membership in the American political community, thereby obscuring the colonial relationship between a great metropolitan state and a poor overseas dependency. But the creation of a second-class citizenship for a community of persons that was given no ex- pectation of equality under the American system had the effect of perpetu- ating the colonial status of Puerto Rico.27

Thus, while the Congressional leaders who granted U.S. citizenship to Puerto Ricans recognized the strategic importance of the island and desired to effect control over its material resources, they were intent on establishing dominion over the island without having to deal with the daily administrative details over what was widely perceived as yet another potentially troublesome “race problem.” After more than a century of American domination of Puerto Rican affairs, the ambiguous current “commonwealth” status of Puerto Rico demonstrates that the colonial relationship established at the turn of the twen- tieth century continues to a significant extent to the present day. Obviously not an independent nation, but neither a state of the federal union, Puerto Rico remains in a kind of juridical limbo.28

But just as the annexation of what is now the American Southwest in the 1840s almost immediately exposed the exquisite contradictions and profound inequities inherent in the extension of formal citizenship to a large number of nonwhite people in the nineteenth century, the inherent contradictions of the United States’ actions in Puerto Rico quickly became apparent in the early years of the twentieth. Indeed, one of the lasting ironies of the government’s action at the time was that even though congressional leaders obviously ex- pected to be able to control Puerto Rico as an insulated colonial possession, an- other Supreme Court ruling soon revealed the Pandora’s box that Congress had opened by extending what it had thought to be an inferior brand of citi- zenship to the island’s inhabitants. Nearly a decade after the last of the Insular Cases, the Court ruled in the case Balzac v. Porto Rico (1922) that while it was true that Puerto Ricans on the island did not have the same constitutional standing as “ordinary” U.S. citizens (based again on the logic that Congress had ultimate authority to decide what specific rights people in unincorporated

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

territories were to enjoy), the Congress’s conferral of citizenship on Puerto Ri- cans automatically also allowed them the unfettered right to migrate to the continental United States. More importantly, the Court ruled further in Balzac that, once there, Puerto Ricans were eligible “to enjoy every right of any other citizen of the United States, civil, social, and political.”29 Thus once again, as in the Mexican American case, despite the best efforts of political leaders to im- pose strict controls on the subordinate populations acquired through con- quest, the labyrinthine logic of American law inadvertently opened up to those populations both the right of unrestricted movement within U.S. territory and potential avenues of resistance and redress as U.S. citizens.

Puerto Ricans soon took advantage of this ironic oversight by exercising one of the most basic rights of American citizenship—that of free movement within the territorial boundaries of the United States and its possessions. Con- sequently, beginning soon after the 1922 ruling, but especially after the Great Depression, increasing numbers of Puerto Ricans began moving to the conti- nent. Slowly growing from just 11,811 in 1920, the number of Puerto Ricans on the U.S. mainland jumped to almost 70,000 in 1940 and to 226,000 just ten years later.30 By the 1960s, spurred by the massive social dislocations caused by the economic restructuring of Puerto Rico under the U.S. government’s “Op- eration Bootstrap” (a massive social welfare program designed to stimulate economic development and blunt the effects of Cuban-style socialism in the Caribbean), huge numbers were moving in both directions between the island and the mainland. Indeed, as Kelvin Santiago-Valles and Gladys Jiménez- Muñoz note in their contribution to this volume, circular migration between the island and the mainland during this juncture eventually became such a central part of Puerto Rican life that by 2000, the number of Puerto Ricans liv- ing in each locale was comparable, with about 3.4 million residing on the con- tinent and 3.9 million living on the island.31

THE “BIG STICK”: THE IMPACT OF U.S. FOREIGN POLICY AFTER 1898

The Puerto Rican case is perhaps the most dramatic example of the gulf be- tween intentions and outcomes in U.S.–Latin American affairs, but American business practices and U.S. leaders’ consistently heavy-handed applications in Latin America of the Monroe Doctrine (and Theodore Roosevelt’s famous “corollary” to it) have had similarly mixed, and often unintended historical results. As it was applied over the course of the twentieth century, the politi- cal logic of the Roosevelt Corollary—especially his assertion that the United States had the inherent right “to the exercise of an international police power”

INTRODUCTION

in the Western Hemisphere—was similar to U.S. actions vis-à-vis Puerto Rico.32 Based on an abiding faith that as the dominant political, military, and economic power in the hemisphere, the United States had the right not only to bar interference by other world powers but to unilaterally meddle in the in- ternal affairs of virtually any nation in the Western Hemisphere, the Roosevelt Corollary to the Monroe Doctrine has been the bedrock of U.S. policy toward Latin America for more than a century. Indeed, in the view of one prominent historian of U.S.–Latin American affairs, the policies followed by Roosevelt and subsequent American administrations in the Western Hemisphere have long served as the basic general template of U.S. foreign relations and “exem- plified [many of the] central themes of post-1890 U.S. foreign policy—a will- ingness to use force to obtain order, an emphasis on a special U.S. responsi- bility to guarantee stability in Latin America and Asia, and a belief that Anglo-Saxon values and successes gave Americans a right to conduct such for- eign policy.”33

Following what has long since become an all too familiar logic, and despite the many dissenting voices raised over time both in Latin America and with- in the United States, the regional political manipulation and direct U.S. mili- tary intervention behind the eventual annexation of the Panama Canal Zone, at least two major American military incursions into Mexico during the Mex- ican Revolution, and a long series of other military interventions in Cuba, the Dominican Republic, Haiti, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, and elsewhere have been similarly explained away as the unfortunate necessity of a great and benevolent power finding it reluctantly necessary to impose order and the rule of law over people who obviously were unable to do this for themselves and, worse, who were seen as standing in the way of the inevitable march of world civilization. More recent interventions in Latin America, ranging from the CIA-orchestrated Guatemalan coup of 1954 under Eisenhower, the Bay of Pigs debacle in 1961 under Kennedy, the landing of U.S. Marines in the Dominican Republic in 1965 under Johnson, the violent overthrow of Salvador Allende’s government in a coup in 1973 under Nixon and Henry Kissinger, and the sor- did string of overt and covert U.S. interventions in Central America during the Reagan administration, have been couched in official circles in much the same way, with the additional rationale, of course, that the U.S. was now also combating the spread of communism in the Western Hemisphere. As will be discussed below, since the 1970s and 1980s the United States’ neoliberal eco- nomic policies and other dimensions of “globalization” have been explained (or explained away) in similar terms.34

The combined effects of nearly two centuries of such policies and practices have been felt with brutal force by ordinary Latin American people, but the most insidious long-term legacy of this imperial tradition may well be the extent to

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

which the constant exertion of U.S. power in Latin America has influenced per- ception (and thus subsequent analysis) by perpetuating the negative stereotypes of Latin Americans and, by extension, of U.S. Latinos. Just as earlier examples of the systematic conceptual reduction of different indigenous groups to a generic category—first “Indians” and then the similar rendering of individual enslaved African peoples to the category “Negro” (or worse)—had the long-term effect on popular thought of both stripping people of color of their individuality, cultural distinctiveness, and internal differences and largely erasing them from the Amer- ican polity, American imperial practices in the Western Hemisphere have had a similar effect in obliterating Latin Americans’ national and cultural differences and transforming them into an internally indistinguishable, racialized popula- tion that is, by definition, inferior to the people of the United States (or more ac- curately, the “white” population of the United States).35

But just as American society’s attempts to deal with the legacies of slavery and the decimation of indigenous peoples created deep contradictions and festering long-term tensions in American social and political life, the incor- poration of large numbers of Latinos into the United States established simi- larly ambiguous and socially destabilizing legacies. As has already been seen, the clearest example of this was the bestowal of U.S. citizenship on ethnic Mexicans and, later, Puerto Ricans. In a society in which for much of its his- tory the rights of full citizenship were reserved only to those deemed members of the “white race,” the granting of U.S. citizenship in 1848 and again in 1917 to people who clearly were not white muddled the categorical definitions and labels that were critical in determining the shape and reproduction of the American social hierarchy.36 Over the long run, the presence of Mexican American citizens, and later, the extension of citizenship to Puerto Ricans, helped to confound the extant American racial hierarchy by providing glaring exceptions to a system of formal membership that had long been based on deeply held notions of white superiority. Bestowal of formal national citizen- ship clearly did not—nor does it now—guarantee equal rights or equal op- portunity in a social system that is otherwise predicated on the autonomous workings of global capitalism, but despite the best efforts of legislators to maintain the racial hierarchy of the United States, the mere presence of Lati- nos as permanent members of American society simply deepened the contra- dictions of their status in the United States, and provided subsequent grounds for the intensification of political activism among them.

Since the 1960s, the tensions and contradictions created by these circum- stances have played out in new ways in different arenas. On the one hand, the federal government and local authorities have been compelled to contend with the increasing political agitation by various groups of Latinos—especial- ly Mexican Americans, Puerto Ricans, and Cubans—to have their particular

INTRODUCTION

political concerns and needs as American citizens addressed. In this manner, these groups—and, lately, Latino groups of more recent origin in the United States—have had real incentive to organize themselves as “ethnic Americans” of Latin American descent (or, as the government has labeled them, as “His- panics”).37 Thus, in the 1960s and 1970s the passage of voting-rights legisla- tion, the establishment of bilingual/bicultural educational programs and the institution of other curriculum reforms in public education, demands for the extension of affirmative action programs in the workplace and in higher edu- cation, and the founding of centers for Chicano, Puerto Rican, Cuban, and pan-Latino studies in certain locales in the United States all speak to the grow- ing numbers and increasing political influence of U.S. citizens of Latino de- scent. Similarly, the creation of increasingly powerful ethnic lobby and advo- cacy groups such as the League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC), the National Council of La Raza, the Congressional Hispanic Caucus, the Na- tional Association of Latino Elected and Appointed Officials (NALEO), the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund (MALDEF), and the Puerto Rican Defense and Education Fund are also powerful manifestations of the ongoing corporate organization and political mobilization of different groups of Latinos. These trends also reveal the complicated ways in which the lure of American consumerism and the power of traditional structures of American race relations have combined to encourage members of otherwise disparate groups to conceive of themselves, organize, and make claims against the state as aggrieved “minorities” within the U.S. polity.38

THE DIVERSITY OF LATINO POPULATIONS

On the other hand, however, it is critical to remember that despite all their common cultural bonds, the similarities of their experience of American im- perialism and capitalism abroad, and their common, intrinsically linked ex- periences of systematic discrimination once within the boundaries of the United States, the pan-Latino population has never been politically or social- ly monolithic—indeed, the population is today more diverse than at any point in modern history. This internal heterogeneity, which can be seen across a broad range of variables, thus must also be taken into account in any attempt to conceptualize and analyze the collective histories and contemporary expe- riences of the rapidly growing pan-Latino population of the United States. It also raises profound questions both about the likelihood that Latinos are nec- essarily destined to coalesce into a self-conscious, pan-ethnic political force that cuts across class lines—and about their future relationships with com- munities and countries of origin in Latin America.39

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

Latino heterogeneity has played out in a variety of ways in recent history. For example, simply assessing the different dates of entry into the United States of the various Latino subpopulations often reveals much about their current cultural preferences and practices, class standing, median age and fer- tility rates, levels of education and language proficiency, political orientations and general sense of position within American society, and a broad range of other factors. As mentioned above, the vast majority of Latinos—especially Mexicans, but smaller numbers of other groups as well—trace their families’ histories to one of many economically motivated migrations that have oc- curred over the past hundred years, and their varied political and cultural ori- entations and attitudes reflect that long and complicated history. Another sig- nificant, although much smaller group traces its forebears’ presence in territory that is now the United States to the Spanish colonial era of the sev- enteenth and eighteenth centuries and the California Gold Rush of the 1840s and 1850s. More recently, an even less remarked immigrant group comprises the increasing number of “mixed-heritage” and indigenous peoples from Mexico and Central America—such as the Garifuna, various groups of Afro- Latinos, and a huge array of native peoples ranging from different groups of Mayan peoples to Zapotecs, Mixtecs, Purépechas, Tarahumaras, Yaquis, Miskitos, and many other indígenas who have migrated from Mexico and Central America. While members of all these groups are technically “Latino” by dint of their nationalities (that is, as formal citizens of Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, and so on), they often speak Spanish as a second lan- guage (if at all) and can be as profoundly alienated from the dominant soci- eties of their home countries as they are from that of the United States. The same can be said of the smaller numbers of different Quechua- and Aymara- speaking peoples who have recently migrated to the United States from An- dean South America.40

Once established in the United States, the tremendously diverse origins, so- cial histories, and primary cultural orientations of all these groups have creat- ed tensions and fissures between and among the various Latino subpopula- tions that often override their many commonalities and affinities. That Latin Americans can be of any nationality, ethnicity, or class standing and that they range phenotypically from “white,” “black,” “brown,” “Asian,” “Indian,” and any combination of these adds both to the confusion and potential sources of tension in the pan-Latino population in the U.S. context. At the same time, however, the constant social admixtures over the years of immigrant Latinos with one another, of native-born Americans of Latino descent with each other and with newer immigrants, and, of course, of Latinos with “non-Latinos” often create rich ground for comity, exchange, and partnering—especially in the bustling, pan-Latino communities of places like New York City, Wash-

INTRODUCTION

ington, D.C., Miami, Chicago, Houston, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. Commenting on the many layers and complexities that both natives and im- migrants face as they mingle and build evolving communities in the United States, one observer has recently noted that in such contexts,

similarities and differences meet, and the result is an unusually complex common sense, in which people are forced to move from one [identity] classification system and one sense of narrative plot to another, sometimes on a daily basis. Not only do people move from one system or set to an- other, but the proliferation of classification systems and narrative plots within which a single person can be placed means that people constantly mix different systems and plots to make sense of the perceived “other.”41

Indeed, the ways in which different groups of U.S.-native and immigrant Lati- nos react—and are allowed to react—to the traditional processes of racializa- tion and what might be termed “minoritization” in the American political context constitute one of the great unanswered questions raised by the explo- sive growth of the pan-Latino population. In other words, how their own senses of personal and collective identity and “race” interact with the power- ful socializing forces of life in the United States will undoubtedly be a source of tension between Latinos and non-Latinos (as has already been seen in cities where large Latino and African American populations come into contact)— and among Latinos themselves. The constant dynamic tension between peo- ples who share such deep cultural affinities and otherwise have so much else in common adds yet another dimension to an ever more complicated social, cultural, and political matrix. For the foreseeable future, making sense of this complexity will be one of the major challenges facing scholars of Latinos— and socially and politically aware people both in the United States and Latin America.42

Of course, on yet another level, analysis and interpretation of this great Lati- no drama of displacement, physical mobility, settlement, and continuous de- mographic combination and recombination has been deeply colored and fur- ther complicated by the ideological and conceptual legacies of the larger history of immigration to the United States—and of the powerful tropes of “assimila- tion” and the great American “melting pot” that have been central components of American national mythology since the days of Tocqueville and Crevecoeur. Most scholars of immigration and ethnicity have largely rejected the once- dominant paradigm of “straight-line assimilation”—the idea that immigrants and their children slowly but surely “lose” their original cultures and replace them with “American” (read “United Statesian”) values and orientations on their way to the socioeconomic and national political “mainstream.” But to the

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

present day, the powerfully homogenizing notion of assimilation obviously maintains a central place in both official discourse and popular thinking about immigration to the United States. In many ways, the continuing power of such notions is understandable. Part an ideological prescription about what should happen to immigrants and part a quasi-empirical, modernist description about what historically has happened to immigrants, this centerpiece of American national mythology has become, in the apt words of one scholar, “an enduring talisman of the American dream.”43 Given the centrality in the popular imagi- nation and official discourse of the United States as an egalitarian “nation of immigrants,” such deeply rooted assumptions about the appropriate mecha- nisms involved in the social, economic, and political incorporation of immi- grants and “ethnics” speak not only to the presumed social trajectory of immi- grants and their children but, on a much more profound level, to fundamental beliefs about the very nature and character of U.S. society.

But once again, the rapid growth of the increasingly heterogeneous pan- Latino population of all national, ethnic, class, and phenotypical combina- tions over the past forty years—some circulating through U.S. territory and some settling permanently—has threatened what one social critic has called the “American gospel” about what has happened historically and what is like- ly to happen to immigrant and ethnic populations in the future.44 The debates currently simmering in American politics over volatile issues ranging from af- firmative action, to bilingual education, reparations for slavery, and the very definition of both “race” and “culture” in contemporary American life are all emblematic of these fears and tensions.45 Needless to say, the events of Sep- tember 11, 2001, have heightened these fears for many people. The contempo- rary salience of the analytical and ideological tensions created by the uncer- tainty about whether the pan-Latino population will meld into American society in the manner most Americans like to think previous generations of immigrants did, or whether, because of their large numbers, their proximity to their countries of origin, and the degree of their cultural differences, they are destined to change American society in unfamiliar and potentially irrevo- cable ways, will be one of the central political and social questions of the twenty-first century.

As the different perspectives informing the essays in this volume indicate, the history of Latinos over the past forty years has probably done more to sharpen these questions than to answer them. On the one hand, as mentioned previously, some argue that Latinos are on a social trajectory that is, in the main, similar to previous immigrant and ethnic groups. From this standpoint, it is only a matter of time before members of the current Latino population and their U.S.-born children become part of the “mainstream” of American life. To support this thesis, proponents point to clear signs that a small but sig-

INTRODUCTION

nificant segment of the Latino population has entered the American middle class, a trend that some observers argue represents an indication of ongoing Latino integration into the American bourgeoisie, if not full-blown sociocul- tural assimilation into society as “Americans.” Some socioeconomic and pop- ular cultural trends seem to support this view, if only tentatively. For exam- ple, despite the economic recession of the first years of the new millennium, it is apparent that dimensions of American life for some segments of the Latino population appear to have changed dramatically for the better. Latino entre- preneurship is booming. Advertisers are increasingly committed to tapping into a rapidly expanding Latino consumer market segment that is currently estimated to be well in excess of $500 billion per year. Spanish-language media networks are also expanding, and a variety of Latino artists, writers, enter- tainers, and athletes ranging from Sandra Cisneros, Richard Rodríguez, Oscar Hijuelos, and Victor Villaseñor in literature; John Leguízamo, Carlos Santana, Los Lobos, Jennifer López, Ricky Martin, Christina Aguilera, Shakira, and the late Selena in the entertainment industry; to Oscar de la Hoya, Sammy Sosa, and Alex Rodríguez in professional sports, have obviously garnered the atten- tion of and “crossed over” to a broad and growing audience that includes Latinos and increasing numbers of “non-Latinos” as well.46

More general socioeconomic data indicate that at least some ordinary Lati- nos are also reaping the material benefits of these trends. For example, ac- cording to U.S. Census data, median Latino household income reached $31,663 in 1999, the highest level ever recorded.47 Depending on the income and occupational definitions used, other studies have suggested that anywhere between 23 and 30 percent of the Latino population has attained what the gov- ernment defines as middle-class status, with 14 percent holding managerial or professional jobs, which, if true, represents a huge leap from the 1960s.48 Na- tionwide, the 2000 census also reported that Latino home ownership rates rose from about 41 percent in 1990 to 46 percent in 2000.49 Some go further to suggest that Latinos’ racial self-identification provides another bit of evi- dence indicating a general trend toward “assimilation.” For example, when queried about their “race” in the 2000 census, almost 48 percent of Latinos surveyed identified themselves as “white.” While it is difficult to cull from such raw census data precisely what respondents meant by this response, and whether they correlate their racial self-image with a sense of increasing inte- gration into American society, the response does raise questions about the ex- tent to which at least some Latinos consider themselves a “racial minority” in the traditional American sense of the term.50 This issue is, of course, compli- cated further as increasing numbers of the Latin American educated, techni- cally trained elite (primarily from South American nations, but with smaller numbers from other countries as well) come to the United States to work and

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

live. How such individuals—and their U.S.-born children—choose to sustain a relationship with their countries of origin (if they do at all) and situate themselves vis-à-vis U.S. Latinos and other social segments of the receiving society remain some of the more intriguing unanswered questions in Latino research.51

On the other hand, however, many scholars and social critics have argued that to focus primarily on elite migrants and the upwardly mobile segments of the resident pan-Latino population and to infer from the experience of this small group that Latinos are on a collective trajectory toward “assimilation” is to ignore the fact that the vast majority of both native-born and immigrant Latinos continue to toil in the bottom rungs of what has steadily become a more internationally integrated, but increasingly segmented and starkly po- larized economy. And, as Arlene Dávila has pointed out in a series of impor- tant recent studies, the ongoing commodification and “multicultural encom- passment” of Latinos as part of the American consumer marketing juggernaut has added even more layers of mystification to the true socioeconomic straits and prospects of most Latinos in the United States.52 Adherents of this criti- cal point of view tend to advance a much different kind of argument, insist- ing instead that globalization has blurred the distinction between the “do- mestic” and “international” economies to the detriment of working populations on both sides of the frontier dividing the “developed” world from the “developing” world. Indeed, some have gone so far as to argue that the in- tegration of labor markets across national borders, the related trend toward the “outsourcing” of manufacturing and assembly processes to workers in “Third World” nations, and the general expansion of the so-called informal or gray economy (that is, licit and illicit economic activities that occur outside regulation of the state) have had the long-term effect of moving the border be- tween the United States and Latin America northward, as millions of Spanish- speaking workers on both sides of the border toil for poverty-level wages in a radically restructured global economy.53

The blurring of the distinctions between “citizen” and “alien” caused by the emergence and elaboration of the new international division of labor that has crystallized in recent years can readily be seen on another plane in the rapid expansion of so-called “mixed status” families in the United States. Indeed, for many years now it has not been at all uncommon to find officially un- sanctioned “illegal” immigrants, legally sanctioned “permanent resident aliens,” individuals on tourist or student visas, and U.S. citizens (either native- born or naturalized) all living in the same neighborhoods and, in some cases, under the same roof, and this trend obviously intensified during the 1990s. Given the jumbling together of people of all these statuses caused by the mas- sive movement and settlement of populations within and across national bor-

INTRODUCTION

ders, this development is not all that surprising. As in previous periods of mass global migration, as large numbers of immigrants settled in communi- ties in the United States and elsewhere in the world, they naturally formed bonds of friendship and sociability, established business and romantic part- nerships, and eventually produced offspring. Although not readily visible, this ongoing social process of partnering between “aliens” and “natives” inevitably complicated population demographics and contributed to an even greater jumbling and erosion of a system of categories that otherwise has long been based on the fundamental legal and political distinction between “citizens” (that is, individuals considered to be legally vested members of the American polity) and those who, by dint of their birth and noncitizen status, are con- sidered “outsiders”—no matter how long they have lived in the United States. In the post–September 11 political environment of the nation, the tensions as- sociated with such arrangements have almost certainly increased and, de- pending on how the U.S. government eventually decides to deal with the pres- ence of large numbers of noncitizens in American territory, may well develop into something of political crisis in the not so distant future.54

The growing significance of the implosion of the underdeveloped world into the developed world can be seen in other ways as well. For example, the rate of Latino poverty is double that of the general population and has per- sisted at roughly that same level for more than a quarter century.55 Latinos in aggregate experienced some slight socioeconomic gains in the boom years of the early 1990s, but in 2000 nearly one-quarter of all Latino heads-of- household earned income that placed their families below the U.S. poverty line (defined by the federal government as $17,463 per year for a family of four).56 Children are particularly hard hit by the stubborn persistence of poverty in Latino communities. In 1993, more than 53 percent of all Puerto Rican children and 40 percent of children of Mexican origin or descent lived in poverty, and the poverty rate may actually have worsened since then.57

The negative cascading effects of such material circumstances are manifest in a number of related areas of Latino life. For example, life under such material- ly and socially impoverished circumstances has obviously exerted negative pressure on the educational opportunities and potential academic achievement of Latino students. High school dropout rates for both Latino immigrants and U.S.-born Latino students are a national disgrace, approaching 50 percent in many areas. In 2000, 43 percent of all Latinos had not graduated high school and less than 11 percent of all Latinos had graduated college (compared to 85 and 26 percent, respectively, of the non-Hispanic white population).58 As a re- sult of low levels of education, marketable job skills, and other forms of “social capital,” Latinos unsurprisingly remain tremendously overrepresented in low- skilled occupations in what increasingly has become a restructured “hourglass”

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

economy. For example, in 1990, when Latinos represented about 9 percent of the U.S. labor force, Latinos made up 13 percent of all service workers, more than 14 percent of the unskilled and semiskilled operator, fabricator, and la- borer category, more than one-fifth of all busboys, and fully 40 percent of all farm workers. The Latino occupational distribution is strongly gendered as well: in 1990, nearly 27 percent of all sewing machine operators and one- quarter of all domestic workers were Latina.59

More critically, evidence indicates that low levels of educational attain- ment, placement in dead-end occupations, and the general poverty associat- ed with life in the growing Latino underclass is not only persisting in the im- migrant population but is being inherited by the second, third, and even fourth generations of Latino Americans. That such circumstances do not simply reflect the skewing effects of large numbers of recent immigrants, ob- servers (including Santiago-Valles and Jiménez-Muñoz, in this volume) note that the socioeconomic profile of Puerto Ricans, who, as discussed above, have been U.S. citizens for nearly a century, is even worse than the general Latino population—whether they are long-term mainland residents or re- cently arrived from the island.

The stubborn persistence of poverty and the disturbing indications that im- poverished conditions are being handed down from one generation to the next have thus caused at least some analysts to argue for a significant recon- sideration of the applicability of the traditional American immigration para- digm to the Latino population. Although scholars continue to disagree about the specific lines of causation, a growing body of research indicates that while assimilation has been occurring for immigrants and their children, the process of assimilation is now very different from the mechanisms of adaptation that Americans traditionally have associated with the term. According to the the- ory of “segmented assimilation” developed over the past decade or so by Princeton sociologist Alejandro Portes and his colleagues, recent working- class immigrants—particularly those of color—confront a changing, seg- mented American economy (that itself has been shaped by the restructuring of the global economy) in which the overwhelming majority enters the lowest strata and tends to stay there over time. According to this theory of social in- equality, because recent working-class immigrants enter an evolving econom- ic structure that has been harshly polarized between low-skilled, low-status, low-paid occupations at the bottom, and very high-skilled, high-status, and comparatively high-paid technical and professional occupations in the upper rungs, the disadvantages immigrants bring with them tend to be reproduced in daily life. Since so many are trapped in blighted urban neighborhoods, im- migrants and their children subsequently become enmeshed in a cycle of poverty that tends to reinforce itself over time and thus negatively influences

INTRODUCTION

the life chances of even the U.S.-born. Needless to say, habituation to this kind of dead-end social position has obvious negative effects on social attitudes and on the propensity of Latinos to participate and the character of their partici- pation in the legal system, electoral politics, and other institutions of Ameri- can life.60 As one scholar describes this process of “dissonant acculturation”:

When [immigrants] enter the bottom of the ethnic hierarchy of drastic so- cial inequality, the forces of assimilation come mainly from the [existing] underprivileged segments of this structure, and this is likely to result in dis- tinct disadvantages, viewed as maladjustment by both mainstream society and the ethnic community. Such contextual differences mean that the paths to social mobility may lead to upward as well as downward outcomes. In the case of those that start from the very bottom, of course, the outcome is not so much assimilating downward as staying where they are.61

Many observers have responded to such arguments by insisting that if Latin American and other immigration were more strictly controlled and the economies of “sending nations” improved, then many of these negative struc- tural features would dissipate over time. Clearly, there is something to this ar- gument, since demographic and social capital factors such as nativity, lan- guage proficiency, education and job-skill levels, citizenship status, and length of residence in the United States all obviously influence individuals’ opportu- nities in an economy that is increasingly polarized between high-skilled occu- pations requiring extensive education and low-skilled jobs requiring little or no formal training. According to 2000 census estimates, a huge proportion of the Latino population (40 percent) is foreign-born and of very recent resi- dence in the United States: at least 43 percent of the total foreign-born Latino population entered the country in the 1990s and another 29.7 percent entered in the 1980s. Of this large group of recent immigrants, only 23.9 percent of those who entered between 1980 and 1989 and 6.7 percent of those who en- tered between 1990 and 2000 had become naturalized citizens of the United States.62 Largely because of this skewed demographic structure (and because of the comparative youth of Latinos), it is estimated that fully 60 percent of the entire resident Latino population is not eligible to vote in U.S. elections.63

But again, analysis focusing primarily or exclusively on immigrants as indi- viduals has a strong tendency to “blame the victim” rather than casting light on the increasingly complex structural relationship between transnational mi- gration and the ongoing reconfiguration of the hemispheric and global economies under neoliberal principles, thus distorting what is actually a much larger and more complicated set of issues.64 For example, while it has been tempting to many recent analysts to attribute the current structural position

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

of working-class Latinos to the downward pressure immigrants exert on ag- gregate socioeconomic conditions in the United States, it is important to con- sider immigrants and the entire process of transnational migration in the ap- propriate regional and global contexts. Since World War II, and especially since the early 1970s, transnational migration has occurred in an increasingly enmeshed hemispheric and global context in which markets, capital invest- ment, technology, production processes and facilities, communication and transportation systems, and labor sources have become functionally integrat- ed under “free market” principles established by global capitalists, often di- rected by American corporate interests in partnership with the U.S. govern- ment. Such globalizing practices have had decidedly mixed results for the developing nations of Latin America and the Caribbean. They have been im- plemented and are currently pursued in the name of international economic development, which in theory should help to suppress the outflow of immi- grants. But in reality, the long-term effect of neoliberal policies and practices since the 1970s in developing nations such as those in Latin America has been to reconfigure their economies in a manner that tends to stimulate both mi- grations within nations (usually from rural to urban areas) and, eventually, across international boundaries. As César Gaviria, the secretary-general of the Organization of American States, recently put it after meeting with U.S. Sec- retary of State Colin Powell, “Clearly, we live in a time when not only has our economic growth been seriously hampered, but also more and more ques- tions are raised about how our governments should act to overcome such ob- stacles. It has surely been a mistake to have believed that development is de- termined solely by economic factors.”65

The result of the convergence of these powerful forces has been to set mil- lions of people in motion over the past forty years. Moreover, by encouraging and sometimes absolutely compelling people to move in order to survive, ne- oliberal economic policies and practices have laid the foundations for the es- tablishment and maintenance of even more deeply rooted transnational cir- cuits and networks that tie communities in the United States to communities hundreds and even thousands of miles away in Mexico, the Caribbean, and Central and South America. Over time, these ties of mutual dependence have become self-sustaining.

When the volume of remittances sent back to countries of origin by Latino expatriates in the United States is considered, the growing importance of these self-sustaining ties is illustrated in sharp relief. Overall, Latino migrants sent more than $23 billion in remittances to Latin America and the Caribbean in 2000. By way of comparison, this amount dwarfed the $772 million in foreign aid that the State Department’s USAID programs granted the region. Remit- tances also exceeded by far the combined amount of loans extended by the

INTRODUCTION

Inter-American Development Bank (about $7 billion) and the $5 billion in loans extended by the World Bank. The impact on individual countries of this immense transfer of funds by immigrants to their communities of origin is dramatic. In 2001, for example, Mexican expatriates sent an estimated $9 bil- lion in remittances to their communities of origin in Mexico. If anything, the level of remittances sent back to other Latin American nations from expatri- ates abroad is even more arresting. When broken down by nationality groups, remittances to communities of origin from Latin Americans abroad were equivalent to 14.4 percent of the gross domestic product (GDP) of Nicaragua, 13 percent of El Salvador’s, and at least 10 percent of the GDPs of Ecuador and the Dominican Republic. According to a recent study on remittances con- ducted by the Inter-American Development Bank, remittances to communi- ties of origin from Latin American expatriates worldwide are expected to reach a stunning $70 billion by 2012.66

Yet another sign of the intermeshed patterns of hemispheric convergence and the growing disjuncture between older views of the distinction between nation- al citizenship and alienation and new transnational realities is the strong recent trend toward the extension of dual nationality to many Latin American expatri- ates by the governments of sending nations.67 The United States government has officially discouraged these developments, but to date, Columbia, Costa Rica, the Dominican Republic, Ecuador, El Salvador, Mexico, Panama, Peru, and Uruguay have all extended some form of dual nationality to their expatri- ates, and other nations around the world are considering similar moves. In fact, as Peggy Levitt points out in her contribution to this volume, in addition to the more limited rights other nations have extended their nationals abroad, the Do- minican Republic now extends to its expatriates both the right to vote and to stand for election to political office in absentia. Most nations have yet to take the radical step of extending the full panoply of political rights to expatriates living abroad, but the trend is clear. Cognizant of the billions of dollars of remittances that expatriates send to their countries of origin each year—and of the socially stabilizing effects of these continuous inflows of cash—Latin American govern- ments have in many cases been compelled to adjust their notions of nation- hood, sovereignty, polity, and community in the face of globalizing trends that are transforming national and international politics around the world.68

SOME CONCLUDING THOUGHTS

Until fairly recently, the many ironies of the United States’ hell-bent pursuit of neoliberal trade and economic policies have been lost on all but the most astute social analysts. But in the aftermath of the events of September 11, a

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

growing number of scholars, social critics, grassroots political activists, and nongovernmental organizations have begun to point out the increasing ten- sions and contradictions associated with globalization. The effects on both the domestic economies and the societies of sending nations are readily apparent. As mentioned previously, although neoliberal policies seemed to work for a time in stimulating economic growth in large Latin American countries, the historical unevenness of economic development and the current chaotic eco- nomic conditions in countries including Mexico, Columbia, Venezuela, Brazil, and Argentina have all caused serious reconsideration about the wis- dom of such policies. It has become apparent to a growing number of schol- ars and social critics around the world that such policies and practices have not only contributed to an accelerating internationalization of the labor force within U.S. borders but, by encouraging the continuing influx of underedu- cated, low-skilled, and comparatively impoverished workers, have also con- tributed to the polarization of income and wealth that has been an increas- ingly troubling feature of the class structures of both Latin America and the United States since the 1970s. In short, such critics argue that we may be wit- nessing a systemic institutionalization of hemispheric inequality that ab- solutely dwarfs anything that has come before.69

But the ultimate irony of these intertwined trends may well be that by help- ing to transform the fundamental demographic and social structures of na- tions over the length and breadth of the Western Hemisphere (and beyond), these economic patterns have also had the effect of eroding traditional notions of sovereignty in both the nations of Latin America and the United States and of undermining the concept of national citizenship more generally. In other words, by tolerating economic policies and practices that have intensified the process of globalization and the subsequent displacement and emiseration of growing numbers of people, the ruling elites of the United States and their “junior partners” in Latin America have contributed to an erosion of the in- stitution of national citizenship. The great irony here is that by making a vast and growing pool of both sanctioned and unsanctioned noncitizen workers a permanent feature of the labor force based in U.S. territory, and simultane- ously contributing to the constant expansion of a denationalized labor sector that is constantly in motion, following “outsourced” production facilities wherever they may alight in the global marketplace, governing national elites may well have prepared the ground for the eventual undermining of the basis of their own authority and legitimacy.

Although the persistence of such complex, constantly shifting circum- stances make it impossible to predict with any precision the social, cultural, and political trajectories that will emanate from the volatile combination of continuing demographic flux and massive economic restructuring in the

INTRODUCTION

Western Hemisphere, these ongoing developments raise profound questions about the current and future relationship between free-trade globalization and the prospects for democracy and ordinary people’s well-being in this vast region. Whether the tremendous social tensions created by these powerful on- going processes will result in a continuation of the United States’ ability to im- pose its will on the hemisphere’s people, socioeconomic structures, and poli- tics—and to the continued material and cultural impoverishment of millions of people on both sides of the border—or will eventually lead to an era of in- creasing protest, resistance, empowerment, and democratization fomented by groups and individuals no longer willing to tolerate political marginalization, economic exploitation, and elite-imposed cultural regimentation will surely be one of the most impelling social issues of the new century.

NOTES

1. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, very little empirical social science research had

been generated on the social, political and cultural orientations of the United

States’ major Latino subpopulations, and what was produced tended to situate

Latinos in both the ethnic-minority “culture of poverty” literature and the tradi-

tional narrative of American immigration history. For some representative exam-

ples of the dominant themes of the times, see, for example, John H. Burma, Span-

ish-Speaking Groups in the United States (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press,

1954); Oscar Lewis, La Vida: A Puerto Rican Family in the Culture of Poverty—San

Juan and New York (New York: Random House, 1965); Nathan Glazer and Daniel

Patrick Moynihan, Beyond the Melting Pot: The Negroes, Puerto Ricans, Jews, Ital-

ians, and Irish of New York City (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1963); and (in a

more balanced analysis) Leo Grebler, Joan W. Moore, and Ralph C. Guzmán, The

Mexican American People: The Nation’s Second Largest Minority (New York: Free

Press, 1970).

2. For recent discussion of evidence pointing to the expansion of a sense of latinidad

in the United States’ burgeoning pan-Latino population, see, for example, Gloria

Anzaldúa, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (San Francisco:

Spinsters/Aunt Lute Press, 1987); Ilan Stavans, The Latino Condition: Reflections on

Culture and Identity in America (New York: HarperCollins, 1995); Frances R. Apari-

cio and Susana Chávez-Silverman, eds., Tropicalizations: Transcultural Representa-

tions of Latinidad (Hanover: N.H.: University Press of New England, 1997); and

Juan Flores, From Bomba to Hip-Hop: Puerto Rican Culture and Latino Identity

(New York: Columbia University Press, 2000).

3. For the purposes of this book, “Latin America” refers to the predominantly

Spanish-speaking nations of the Western Hemisphere, including the Spanish-

speaking Caribbean. Although some scholars question whether places like Belize,

Guyana, Suriname, and Brazil should be considered part of Latin America, these

places are not included in this discussion because of their different (English,

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

French, Dutch, and Portuguese) linguistic and colonial heritages. Since 1960, fully

52 percent of all immigrants who have come to the United States are of Latin Amer-

ican origin, with 29 percent of all immigrants over that period coming from Mexi-

co alone. See Peter H. Hong and Patrick J. McDonnell, “Proportion of Immigrants

in U.S. Population Has Doubled since 1970,” Los Angeles Times, 7 February 2002;

and Reed Ueda, Postwar Immigrant America: A Social History (Boston: Bedford/St.

Martins, 1994), 163, table A7.

4. For discussion of the growing estimates of the foreign-born population of the Unit-

ed States, see Cindy Rodríguez, “Latino Influx Boosts Number of U.S. Immigrants

to All-Time High,” Boston Globe, 12 September 2000; Alejandro Portes and Rubén

G. Rumbaut, Legacies: The Story of the Immigrant Second Generation (Berkeley and

New York: University of California Press and the Russell Sage Foundation, 2001),

xvii; Robin Fields, “ ’90s Saw a Tide of New People,” Los Angeles Times, 6 March

2001; and Dianne A. Schmidley, U.S. Census Bureau, Current Population Reports,

Series P23–206, Profile of the Foreign-Born Population of the United States: 2000

(Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 2001).

5. See Jorge A. Brea, “Population Dynamics in Latin America,” Population Bulletin 58,

no. 1 (March 2003): 7, 10.

6. For general discussions of the evolution and troubled history of the national-

origins quota system, see John Higham, Strangers in the Land: Patterns of American

Nativism, 1860–1925 (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1955); Roger

Daniels and Otis L. Graham, Debating American Immigration, 1882–Present (Land-

ham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield, 2001); and Mae Ngai, Illegal Aliens and Alien Cit-

izens: Immigration Restriction, Race, and Nation, 1924–1965 (Princeton, N.J.: Prince-

ton University Press, in press).

7. See Betsy Guzmán and Eileen Díaz McConnell, “The Hispanic Population:

1990–2000 Growth and Change,” Population Research and Policy Review 21 (April

2002): 109–26; and U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service, Statistical Year-

book of the Immigration and Naturalization Service, 2000 (Washington, D.C.: U.S.

Government Printing Office, 2002), 14, table 3. The terminology used to describe

unauthorized migration into the United States has always been an area of intense

contention and debate. For those of a legalistic bent, anyone entering U.S. territo-

ry outside of officially authorized channels has broken U.S. law and is, therefore,

ipso facto an “illegal alien.” However, many scholars and social critics have argued

that since American employers have actively recruited and employed noncitizen

workers—and have often themselves broken extant U.S. laws in the process—the

issue of immigrant “criminality” should at the very least be placed in this context.

Most of the essays in this volume explore this issue in one form or another. For

more detailed discussion of the historical evolution and contemporary implications

of such debates, consult citations in note 6, above.

8. U.S. Census Bureau, “Profile of the Foreign-Born Population in the United States,

2000,” Current Population Survey (March 2000): table 3-4, “Country or Area of

Birth of the Foreign-Born Population from Latin America and North America:

2000.”

9. For analysis of the period of the change of sovereignty in the territory that is now

the American Southwest from the Republic of Mexico to the United States, see Al-

INTRODUCTION

bert M. Camarillo, Chicanos in a Changing Society: From Mexican Pueblos to Amer-

ican Barrios in Santa Barbara and Southern California, 1848–1930 (Cambridge,

Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1979); David J. Weber, The Mexican Frontier,

1821–1846: The American Southwest Under Mexico (Albuquerque: University of New

Mexico Press, 1982); Arnoldo De León, The Tejano Community, 1836–1900 (Albu-

querque: University of New Mexico Press, 1982); David Montejano, Anglos and

Mexicans in the Making of Texas, 1836–1986 (Austin: University of Texas Press,

1987); Ramón A. Gutiérrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away: Mar-

riage, Sexuality, and Power in Colonial New Mexico, 1500–1846 (Stanford, Calif.:

Stanford University Press, 1992); and Tomás Almaguer, Racial Fault Lines: The His-

torical Origins of White Supremacy in California (Berkeley: University of California

Press, 1994). For a larger synthetic discussion of the Spanish colonial enterprise in

North America, see David J. Weber, The Spanish Frontier in North America (New

Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1992).

10. For good overviews of the initial period of mass labor migration from Mexico, see

Carey McWilliams, North from Mexico: The Spanish-Speaking People of the United

States (Philadelphia: J.P. Lippincott, 1949); Mark Reisler, By the Sweat of Their Brow:

Mexican Immigrant Labor in the United States, 1900–1940 (Westport, Conn.: Green-

wood Press, 1976); and Lawrence J. Cardoso, Mexican Emigration to the United States,

1897–1931: Socio-Economic Patterns (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1980).

11. For overview discussions of Puerto Rico’s troubled historical relationship with the

United States, see, for example, Raymond Carr, Puerto Rico: A Colonial Experiment

(New York: Vintage, 1984); Divided Borders: Essays on Puerto Rican Identity, ed. Juan

Flores (Houston: Arte Público Press, 1993); Kelvin Santiago-Valles, “Subject People”

and Colonial Discourses: Economic Transformation and Social Disorder in Puerto Rico,

1898–1947 (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1994); and Frances Negrón-

Muntaner and Ramón Grosfoguel, eds., Puerto Rico Jam: Rethinking Colonialism and

Nationalism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997).

12. As virtually all the chapters of this volume make abundantly clear, the govern-

ment’s habit of imposing “minority” labels on populations that are, in fact, loose

aggregations of disparate peoples tends to obscure the inherent complexity of de-

mographic processes. More importantly, such practices have a strong tendency to

simplify and obfuscate the even more complex social dynamics occurring as a mat-

ter of course in an increasingly polyglot, multinational society. For further discus-

sion of the conceptual and political problems with this tendency, see the text below.

For contextual discussions of the raw population data that has recently garnered so

much publicity, see U.S. Census Bureau, “Resident Population Estimates of the

United States by Race and Hispanic or Latino Origin: July 1, 2001, and April 1,

2000,” United States Commerce Department News, 21 January 2003; and Lynette

Clemetson, “Hispanic Population Is Rising Swiftly, Census Bureau Says,” New York

Times, 19 June 2003. Although census enumeration techniques have improved over

the past several years, most demographers believe that official counts always miss a

significant number of people who are in the United States without official author-

ization. For discussions of political and methodological issues and recent best esti-

mates, see Frank Bean and Marta Tienda, The Hispanic Population of the United

States (New York: Russell Sage Foundation), 56–59; Harvey M. Choldin, “Statistics

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

and Politics: The ‘Hispanic Issue’ in the 1980 Census,” Demography 23, no. 3 (Au-

gust 1986): 403–18; and Mary M. Kent, Kelvin M. Pollard, John Haaga, and Mark

Mather, “First Glimpses from the 2000 Census,” Population Bulletin 56, no. 2 (June

2001): 14.

13. See, for example, Latino Workers in the Contemporary South, ed. Arthur D. Murphy,

Colleen Blanchard, and Jennifer A. Hill (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2001);

Micki Neal and Stephanie A. Bohon, “The Dixie Diaspora: Attitudes Toward Im-

migrants in Georgia,” Sociological Spectrum 23 (2002): 181–212; Raymond A. Mohl,

“The Nuevo New South: Hispanic Migration to Alabama,” Migration World 30, no.

3 (2002): 14–18; and Leon Fink, The Maya of Morganton: Work and Community in

the Nuevo New South (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2003). For

a good recent journalistic account of these trends, see Ken Ellingwood, “With Im-

migrant Boom, South Makes Translation: Police Are Learning Spanish to Accom-

modate the Growing Population from Mexico and Central America,” Los Angeles

Times, 27 May 2003.

14. For more detailed discussion, see David G. Gutiérrez, “Globalization, Labor Mi-

gration, and the Demographic Revolution: Ethnic Mexicans in the Late Twentieth

Century,” chapter 1, this volume. See also Patrick J. McDonnell, “Mexicans Change

the Face of U.S. Demographics,” Los Angeles Times, 10 May 2001.

15. For complex reasons discussed below, because the island of Puerto Rico is an

American possession and all Puerto Ricans are Americans citizens, they technical-

ly do not have a “foreign-born” component. Nevertheless, with a population of 3.9

million, the island of Puerto Rico continues to serve as an important source of mi-

gration (as opposed to immigration) to the United States.

16. See U.S. Census Bureau, “Profile of the Foreign-Born Population in the United

States, 2000”; Melissa Therrien and Roberto R. Ramírez, The Hispanic Population

of the United States: March 2000, Current Population Reports, P20–535 (Washing-

ton, D.C.: U.S. Census Bureau, March 2000); Population Reference Bureau, 2001

World Population Data Sheet (Washington, D.C.: Population Reference Bureau,

2001); and Leonel Sánchez, “Latino Population Young and Growing,” San Diego

Union-Tribune, 1 April 2001. For discussions of the ongoing diversification of Lati-

no populations in major urban areas, see, for example, Alejandro Portes and Alex

Stepic, City on the Edge: The Transformation of Miami (Berkeley: University of Cal-

ifornia Press, 1993); Roger Waldinger and Mehdi Bozorgmehr, eds., Ethnic Los An-

geles (New York: Russell Sage Foundation, 1996); Gabriel Haslip-Viera and Sherrie

L. Baver, eds., Latinos in New York: Communities in Transition (South Bend, Ind.:

University of Notre Dame Press, 1996); Michael Jones-Correa, Between Two Na-

tions: The Political Predicament of Latinos in New York City (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell

University Press, 1998); and Augustín Laó and Arlene Dávila, eds. Mambo Montage:

The Latinization of New York (New York: Columbia University Press, 2001).

17. See McDonnell, “Mexicans Change Face of U.S. Demographics.”

18. Currently, California’s non-Hispanic white population is about 47 percent of the

state’s total. See Schmidley, Profile of the Foreign-Born Population, 2; Dean E. Mur-

phy, “New Californian Identity Predicted by Researchers,” New York Times, 17 Feb-

ruary 2003; Melissa Healy and Robert Rosenblatt, “State Leads as Home to Immi-

grants,” Los Angeles Times, 5 October 2000; Leonel Sánchez, “State Sees New Latino

INTRODUCTION

Revolution Take Hold as Population Booms, San Diego Union-Tribune, 7 January

2001; and Maria L. LaGanga and Shawn Hubler, “California Grows to 33.9 Million,

Reflecting Increased Diversity,” Los Angeles Times, 30 March 2001. The relative

youth of the Latino population will play out in other ways as well. Indeed, because

of the gap in age and fertility rates separating Latinos from the non-Latino popula-

tion, the dependency ratio—the ratio of nonworking people (people younger than

fifteen and or older than sixty-five) to working-age people (ages fifteen to sixty-

four)—will continue to rise. As a consequence, even if immigration were to stop

today—an unlikely event in any case—the comparatively youthful Latino work-

force already in the United States inevitably will support a steadily rising propor-

tion of the aging general American population (especially baby boomers) over

time. For intriguing discussions of the potential long-term social consequences and

potentially far-reaching political implications of such demographic trends, see

David E. Hayes-Bautista, Werner O. Schink, and Jorge Chapa, The Burden of Sup-

port: Young Latinos in an Aging Society (Stanford, Calif: Stanford University Press,

1988); and William A. V. Clark, The California Cauldron: Immigration and the For-

tunes of Local Communities (New York: Guilford Press, 1998). Although these stud-

ies deal primarily with California, their conclusions are certainly relevant for other

areas of high immigration.

19. Indeed, the demographic revolution has stimulated a far-reaching reassessment

among scholars of the relationship between U.S. Latino studies, Latin American

studies, and “area studies” and the entire enterprise of the production of knowledge

in the humanities and social sciences in this era of intense globalization. For some

recent ruminations on the state of the debate over the conceptualization and con-

duct of Latino-studies research in this larger context, see, for example, Antonia

Castañeda, “Women of Color and the Rewriting of Western History: The Dis-

course, Politics, and Decolonization of History,” Pacific Historical Review 61, no. 4

(1992): 501–33; Frank Bonilla, Edwin Meléndez, Rebecca Morales, and María de los

Angeles Torres, eds. Borderless Borders: U.S. Latinos, Latin Americans, and the Para-

dox of Interdependence (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1998); V. Bulmer

Thomas and J. Dunkerly, eds. The United States and Latin America: The New Agen-

da (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1999); Adriana Estill, “Mapping

the Minefield: The State of Chicano and U.S. Latino Literature and Cultural Stud-

ies,” Latin American Research Review 35, no. 3 (2000): 241–50; Juan Flores, From

Bomba to Hip-Hop; Refugio I. Rochín and Dennis N. Valdes, eds., Voices of a New

Chicana/o History (Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 2000); Juan Poblete,

ed., Critical Latin American and Latino Studies (Minneapolis: University of Min-

nesota Press, 2003); Pablo Vila, ed., Ethnography at the Border (Minneapolis: Uni-

versity of Minnesota Press, 2003); Gilbert G. González and Raul A. Fernández, A

Century of Chicano History: Empire, Nations, and Migration (New York: Routledge,

2003); and José F. Aranda, When We Arrive: A New Literary History of Mexican

America (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2003).

20. Language issues are particularly difficult to track given the inherently dynamic and

uneven nature of the process of language acquisition and language loss. However,

recent estimates indicate that about one-quarter of the Latino population is func-

tionally monolingual in Spanish; about half functionally bilingual in English and

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

Spanish; and the remaining quarter is functionally monolingual in English. See

Calvin Veltman, “The Status of the Spanish Language in the United States at the

Beginning of the Twenty-first Century,” International Migration Review 24, no. 1

(Spring 1990): 108–23; Alejandro Portes and Richard Schauffler, “Language and the

Second Generation: Bilingualism Yesterday and Today,” International Migration

Review 28, no. 4 (1998): 640–61; Alejandro Portes and Lingxin Hao, “E Pluribus

Unum: Bilingualism and Loss of Language in the Second Generation,” Sociology of

Education 71 (October 1998): 269–94; Howard LaFranchi, “Will Bilingual Trend

Make U.S. ‘Habla Español’?” Christian Science Monitor, 30 June 1999; and Mireya

Navarro, “Is Spanish the Measure of ‘Hispanic?’” New York Times, 8 June 2003.

21. While it is true that an overwhelming proportion of Latinos and Latin Americans

at least nominally come from a Christian tradition, this heterogeneous population

also has a tremendously complicated religious heritage. For recent discussions of

this complexity, see Carol Ann Drogus, “Religious Pluralism and Social Change:

Coming to Terms with Complexity and Convergence,” Latin American Research

Review 35, no. 1 (2000): 261–70; David Lehman, “Religion in Contemporary Latin

American Social Science,” Bulletin of Latin American Research 21, no. 2 (April 2002):

290–307; and Anthony M. Stevens-Arroyo, chapter 8, this volume.

22. For an exhaustively researched and convincingly argued analysis of the evolution of

negative American political and social thought about Latin America and her peo-

ple over time, see Lars Schoultz, Beneath the United States: A History of U.S. Policy

Toward Latin America (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1998).

23. For discussion of some of the major effects of the rhetoric of Manifest Destiny on

popular ideology and perceptions of Latin America and Latin Americans in the

United States, see, for example, Ramón E. Ruiz, The Mexican War: Was It Manifest

Destiny? (Hinsdale, Ill.: Dryden Press, 1963); Reginald Horsman, Race and Manifest

Destiny: The Origins of American Racial Anglo-Saxonism (Cambridge, Mass.: Har-

vard University Press, 1981); Thomas R. Hietala, Manifest Design: Anxious Aggran-

dizement in Late Jacksonian America (New York: Cornell University Press, 1985);

David G. Gutiérrez, “Significant To Whom? Mexican Americans and the History of

the West,” Western Historical Quarterly 24, no. 4 (November 1993): 519–39; David

G. Gutiérrez, “Myth and Myopia: Hispanics and the History of the West,” in The

West: An Illustrated History, ed. Geoffrey Ward (Boston: Little Brown, 1996),

166–71; Sam W. Haynes and Christopher Morris, eds., Manifest Destiny and Empire:

American Antebellum Expansionism (College Station, Tex.: Texas A&M University

Press, 1997); and Joseph A. Rodríguez and Vicki L. Ruiz, “At Loose Ends:

Twentieth-Century Latinos in Current U.S. History Textbooks,” Journal of Ameri-

can History 86, no. 4 (2000): 1689–99.

24. The technical points of the Insular Cases remain the subject of intense legal debate

even today, but the Court essentially ruled that it was the mode of incorporation

that made the difference in the Puerto Rican case. The Court reasoned that the peo-

ple who came with the Mexican territories acquired by the United States at the end

of the Mexican War were explicitly granted elective U.S. citizenship under the

terms of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo (an international treaty ratified by the

U.S. Senate) and therefore gained the full protection of the Constitution (at least in

theory). But the Court ruled that since no such provisions were made for the people

INTRODUCTION

of Puerto Rico under the terms of the treaty that officially ended hostilities between

the United States and Spain in 1898, Congress had final discretion in determining

Puerto Ricans’ political and juridical status. Thus, as the Supreme Court subse-

quently ruled, the territories acquired after 1898 were considered “subject to the

jurisdiction of the United States, [but] not of the United States.” See Downes v.

Bidwell, 182 U.S. 244 (1901), 278, cited in T. Alexander Aleinikoff, Semblances of Sov-

ereignty: The Constitution, the State, and American Citizenship (Cambridge, Mass.:

Harvard University Press, 2002):, 23.

25. For an enlightening critical discussion of the convoluted history and legal applica-

tion of Congress’s “plenary power,” see Aleinikoff, Semblances of Sovereignty.

26. See José A. Cabranes, Citizenship and the American Empire: Notes on the Legislative

History of the United States Citizenship of Puerto Ricans (New Haven, Conn.: Yale

University Press, 1979), 6.

27. Cabranes, Citizenship and the American Empire, 6–7. See also, Aleinikoff, Sem-

blances of Sovereignty, 21–26, 74–94.

28. For incisive recent discussions of Puerto Rico’s anomalous relationship to the Unit-

ed States see, Christina D. Burnett and Burke Marshall, eds. Foreign in a Domestic

Sense: Puerto Rico, American Expansion, and the Constitution (Durham, N.C.: Duke

University Press, 2001); E. R. Ramos, The Legal Construction of Identity: The Judicial

and Social Legacy of American Colonialism in Puerto Rico (Washington, D.C.: Amer-

ican Psychological Association, 2001); and Ramón Grosfoguel, Colonial Subjects:

Puerto Ricans in a Global Perspective (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003).

29. See Balzac v. Porto Rico [sic], 258 U.S. 298, 308, cited in Cabranes, Citizenship and

the American Empire, 51.

30. For reasons discussed above, Puerto Ricans today are not counted as “foreign-

born,” but (in the tortured bureaucratic logic of American-style colonialism) as

“natives born in outlying areas.” For the growth of the mainland population of

Puerto Rican nativity, see Campbell J. Gibson and Emily Lennon, “Historical Cen-

sus Statistics on the Foreign-Born Population of the United States, 1850–1990,” in

Population Division Working Paper No. 29 (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Census Bureau,

1999), table 1, “Nativity of the Population and Place of Birth of the Native Popula-

tion: 1850–1990.”

31. Circular migration between the island and the mainland has become such a central

feature of Puerto Rican cultural life that Puerto Rican transmigrants have colloqui-

ally dubbed the circuit “el vaivén” (roughly, the coming-and-going or fluctuation

between places). For insightful recent discussions of the long-term implications of

the deeply ambivalent historical relationship between the United States and Puer-

to Rico, see Jorge Duany, “Nation on the Move: The Construction of Cultural

Identities in Puerto Rico and the Diaspora,” American Ethnologist 21, no. 1 (Febru-

ary 2000): 5–30; Luis Rafael Sánchez, “The Flying Bus,” in Images and Identities: The

Puerto Ricans in Two World Contexts, ed. Asela Rodríguez de Laguna (New

Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction Books, 1987), 17–25; Justine Daniel, “Migration and

the Reconstruction of Identity: The Puerto Rican Example,” in The Politics of Iden-

tity: Migrants and Minorities in Multicultural States, ed. Robert Hudson and Fred

Reno (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2000), 3–23; Virginia Sánchez-Korrol, “Puer-

to Rican Migration up in the Air: Air Migration, Its Cultural Representations, and

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

Me ‘Cruzando el Charco,’” in Puerto Rican Jam: Rethinking Colonialism and Na-

tionalism, ed. Frances Negrón-Muntaner and Ramón Grosfoguel (Minneapolis:

University of Minnesota Press, 1997), 189–208; and Kelvin Santiago-Valles and

Gladys Jiménez-Muñoz, chapter 2, this volume.

32. For a brief, but informative discussion of the assertion of the “international police

power” in the context of U.S. foreign affairs more generally, see Alexander De-

Conde, Ethnicity, Race, and American Foreign Policy: A History (Boston: Northeast-

ern University Press, 1992): 76–77.

33. See Walter LaFeber, The American Age: U.S. Foreign Policy at Home and Abroad,

1750 to the Present, 2nd ed. (New York: Norton, 1994), 235.

34. Of the immense body of scholarship in English discussing the implications of a long

history of U.S. political and economic imperialism in Latin America, see for exam-

ple, Schoultz, Beneath the United States; DeConde, Ethnicity, Race, and American

Foreign Policy; Walter LaFeber, Inevitable Revolutions: The United States in Central

America (New York, Norton, 1984); James D. Cockcroft, Latin America: History,

Politics, and U.S. Policy, 2nd ed. (Chicago: Nelson-Hall, 1996); William M.

LeoGrande, Our Own Backyard: The United States in Central America, 1977–1992

(Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1998); and John Mason Hart’s

magisterial Empire and Revolution: The Americans in Mexico Since the Civil War

(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002).

35. Again, there is an extensive body of published work that analyses these intertwined

processes. For some of the best-known examples, see Schoultz, Beneath the United

States; George M. Frederickson, The Black Image in the White Mind: The Debate on

Afro-American Character and Destiny, 1817–1914 (New York: Harper & Row, 1971);

Robert F. Berkhofer Jr., The White Man’s Indian: Images of the American Indian

from Columbus to the Present (New York: Knopf, 1978); Philip J. Deloria, Playing

Indian (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1998); and Walter D. Mignolo,

Local Histories/Global Designs: Coloniality, Subaltern Knowledges, and Border Think-

ing (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000).

36. Since the framing of the U.S. Constitution in the 1780s, citizenship generally has

been narrowly restricted to people deemed “white.” Obviously, African Americans

did not become citizens of the United States until passage of the civil rights acts and

ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment after the Civil War. Even then, African

Americans needed to engage in a protracted struggle over the next century to win

even a modicum of civil rights. The legal-juridical plight of other peoples of color

was similar. Most Native Americans did not become citizens of the United States

until 1924; most Asian immigrants were entirely barred from citizenship from 1793

until 1952; and the general system of racial exclusion in matters of immigration and

naturalization was not lifted completely until passage of the Hart-Celler Act in 1965.

The more general issue of birthright citizenship was not settled definitively until

1940 and remains a point of significant social, legal, and political contention and

debate. Still, throughout this period, defining who was “white” and who was not for

the purposes of defining citizenship and access to civil rights was always fraught

with ambiguity and contradiction, as the tortured history of Mexican American

and Puerto Rican citizenship amply demonstrates. For general discussions of the

convoluted history of racialized American citizenship, see Aleinikoff, Semblances of

INTRODUCTION

Sovereignty; James H. Kettner, The Development of American Citizenship, 1608–1870

(Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1978); Phillip E. Lothyan, “A

Question of Citizenship,” Prologue (Fall 1989): 267–73; Peggy Pascoe, “Miscegena-

tion Law, Court Cases, and Ideologies of ‘Race’ in Twentieth-Century America,”

Journal of American History 83, no. 1 (June 1996): 44–69; Ian Haney-López, White

By Law: The Legal Construction of Race (New York: New York University Press,

1996); Rogers Smith, Civic Ideals: Conflicting Visions of U.S. Citizenship in U.S. His-

tory (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1997); and Mae M. Ngai, Illegal

Aliens and Alien Citizens: Immigration Restriction, Race, and Nation, 1924–1965

(Princeton: Princeton University Press, in press).

37. For an excellent analysis of how this process is currently playing out among Cen-

tral American migrants and their children, see Nora Stoltz Chinchilla and Nora

Hamilton, chapter 4, this volume.

38. For an insightful recent discussion of these processes, see Jorge Klor de Alva, “The

Invention of Ethnic Origins and the Negotiation of Latino Identity,” in Challenging

Fronteras: Structuring Latina and Latino Lives in the United States, ed. Mary

Romero, Pierrette Hondagneu-Sotelo, and Vilma Ortíz, (London: Routledge,

1997): 55–80.

39. For provocative discussion of some of these issues, see, for example, Marta E.

Giménez, “Latino/Hispanic—Who Needs a Name? The Case Against a Standard

Terminology,” International Journal of Health Services 19, no. 3 (1989): 557–71; Felix

Padilla, “Latin America: The Historical Basis of Latino Unity,” Latino Studies Jour-

nal 1, no. 1 (1990): 7–27; the special issue on the dynamics of Latino identity forma-

tion of Latin American Perspectives 19, no. 4 (1992); Rodolfo O. De La Garza and

Louis DeSipio, “Interests, Not Passions: Mexican American Attitudes Toward

Mexico, Immigration from Mexico, and Other Issues Shaping U.S.-Mexico Rela-

tions,” International Migration Review 32 (Summer 1998): 401–22; Michael Jones-

Correa, Between Two Nations: The Political Predicament of Latinos in New York City

(Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1998); and Oscar Casares, “Crossing the

Border Without Losing the Past,” New York Times, 16 September 2003.

40. For discussion of the many intriguing questions raised by the recent migration to

the United States of indigenous peoples from Latin America, see, for example, Ca-

role Nagengast and Michael Kearney, “Mixtec Ethnicity: Social Identity, Political

Consciousness, and Political Activism,” Latin American Research Review 25, no. 2

(1990): 61–91; Michael Kearney, “Borders and Boundaries of State and Self at the

End of Empire,” Journal of Historical Sociology 4, no. 1 (March 1991): 52–74; Jacque-

line M. Hagan, Deciding to Be Legal: A Maya Community in Houston (Philadelphia:

Temple University Press, 1994); Gaspar Rivera-Salgado, “Mixtec Activism in Oaxá-

california: Transborder Political Strategies,” American Behavioral Scientist 42, no. 9

(June/July 1999): 1439–58; Felipe H. López and Pamela Munro, “Zapotec Immigra-

tion: The San Lucas Quiavin Experience,” Aztlán 24, no. 1 (1999): 129–49; Jeffrey H.

Cohen, “Transnational Migration in Rural Oaxáca, Mexico: Dependency, Devel-

opment, and Household,” American Anthropologist 103, no. 4 (2001): 954–67;

Stephen Lynn, “Globalization, the State, and the Creation of Flexible Indigenous

Workers: Mixtec Farm Workers in Oregon,” Urban Anthropology 3, nos. 2–3 (2001):

189–214; Nora Hamilton and Norma Stoltz Chinchilla, Seeking Community in a

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

Global City: Guatemalans and Salvadorans in Los Angeles (Philadelphia: Temple

University Press, 2001); and James F. Smith, “Mexico’s Forgotten Find Cause for

New Hope,” Los Angeles Times, 23 February 2001. For a broader comparative dis-

cussion of the emergence of contemporary indigenous-rights movements around

the world, see Ronald Niezen, The Origins of Indigenism: Human Rights and the Pol-

itics of Identity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003).

41. See Pablo Vila, “The Polysemy of the Label ‘Mexican’ on the Border,” in Ethnogra-

phy at the Border, ed. Pablo Vila (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press,

2003): 106–7.

42. For provocative discussions of this challenge, see Suzanne Oboler, Ethnic Labels,

Latino Lives: Identity and the Politics of (Re)Presentation in the United States (Min-

neapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995); Hortensia Amaro and Ruth E. Zam-

brana, “Criollo, Mestizo, Mulato, LatiNegro, Idígena, White, or Black? The US

Hispanic/Latino Population and Responses in the 2000 Census,” American Journal

of Public Health 90, no. 1 (November 2000): 1724–8; the essays in Poblete, ed., Crit-

ical Latin American and Latino Studies, 76–102; and Marilyn Espitia, chapter 6, this

volume.

43. Howard M. Sachar, A History of the Jews in America (New York: Alfred A. Knopf,

1992), 115.

44. See John O’Kane, “Class, Liberal Pluralism, and Counterhegemony,” Cultural

Studies 15, no. 2 (2001): 295–325. Although addressing a broader set of issues, the ar-

ticle is particularly germane to the discussion of working-class Latinos and other

workers in the United States’ so-called new economy.

45. Indeed, for all the many things revealed about contemporary American “race rela-

tions” during the political firestorm unleashed by former Senate Majority Leader

Trent Lott’s comments on the occasion of Senator Strom Thurmond’s one hun-

dredth birthday in December 2002, it is remarkable how much the fierce subse-

quent national debate about “race” in the United States continued to revolve

around a discussion of traditional white–black relations while virtually ignoring the

social implications of the presence of 38 million Latinos. For recent reflections on

similar issues from a very different point of view, see Hugh Davis Graham, Colli-

sion Course: The Strange Convergence of Affirmative Action and Immigration Policy

in America (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002).

46. Hispanic Business, a major monthly, has closely monitored these trends over the

past two decades. For positive discussions of Latinos’ economic trajectory, see, for

example, Tim Dougherty, “Star Power: A New Generation of Hispanic Pop Musi-

cians is Dominating the Mainstream” Hispanic Business (April 2000): 32, 34; Tim

Dougherty, “Media Markets Report: Breakout Year,” Hispanic Business, (December

2000): 46, 47; Robert R. Brischetto, “The Hispanic Middle Class Comes of Age,”

Hispanic Business (December 2001): 21–32. See also Rubén Navarette Jr., “Latino

Immigrants Have Done Just Fine in Pursuing Dreams,” Los Angeles Times, 28 May

2003. However, for contrasting—and decidedly more skeptical—readings of the

phenomenon of “crossing over,” the commodification of culture, and the general

dynamics of recent Latino cultural trends, see Arlene Dávila, Latinos, Inc.: The Mar-

keting and Making of a People (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California

Press, 2001); and Frances R. Aparicio, chapter 9, this volume.

INTRODUCTION

47. U.S. Census Bureau, Statistical Abstract of the United States: 2001, 40, table 37; and

Karen Robinson-Jacobs, “Brokers Investing Effort to Lure Minority Clients,” Los

Angeles Times, 6 August 2001.

48. See Robinson-Jacobs, “Brokers Investing”; and Barry R. Chiswick and Michael E.

Hurst, “Hispanics and the Labor Market,” in Hispanics in the United States: An

Agenda for the Twenty-first Century, ed. Pastora San Juan Cafferty and David W.

Engstrom (New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction Publishers, 2000), 175–94.

49. Although the Latino home ownership rate obviously was significantly lower than

the rate for what the Census Bureau terms “non-Hispanic whites” (which was

about 74 percent in 2000), some observers see these trends as yet more evidence of

the gradual assimilation of Latinos into the “American mainstream.” See Diane

Wedner, “Education, Employment Help More Latinos Become Homeowners,” Los

Angeles Times, 27 August 2001.

50. See Eric Schmitt, “American Standards of Living Up in the 1990s,” San Diego

Union-Tribune, 6 August 2001; and Guzmán and McConnell, “The Hispanic Pop-

ulation,” 117–22. For a fascinating, important, and significantly different reading of

the shifting meanings of “race” among Latinos in the United States, see Clara E. Ro-

dríguez, Changing Race: Latinos, the Census, and the History of Ethnicity in the Unit-

ed States (New York: New York University Press, 2000), especially 129–52.

51. For some glimpses at various dimensions of this complicated question, see Oboler,

Ethnic Labels, Latino Lives; Alejandro Portes, “Determinants of the Brain Drain,”

International Migration Review 10, no. 4 (winter 1976): 489–508; Edwin Meléndez,

“Puerto Rican Migration and Occupational Selectivity, 1982–1991,” International

Migration Review 28, no. 1 (spring 1994): 49–67; Christopher Mitchell, “Interna-

tional Migration as an Issue on Today’s Inter-American Agenda,” Journal of Inter-

american Studies and World Affairs 36, no. 3 (autumn 1994): 93–110; and E.

Luttwack, Turbo-Capitalism: Winners and Losers in the Global Economy (New York:

Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1999).

52. See Arlene Dávila, “Latinizing Culture: Art, Museums, and the Politics of U.S. Mul-

ticultural Encompassment,” Cultural Anthropology 14, no. 2 (1999): 180–202; Dávi-

la, Latinos, Inc.; and John Beverley, “Multiculturalism and Hegemony,” in Poblete,

ed., Critical Latin American and Latino Studies, 223–37.

53. For incisive articles that review recent scholarship along this vein, see Michael

Kearney, “The Local and the Global: The Anthropology of Globalization and

Transnationalism,” Annual Review of Anthropology 24 (1995): 547–65; Saskia Sassen,

Globalization and Its Discontents (New York: New Press, 1998); and Peggy Levitt,

“Transnational Migration: Taking Stock and Future Directions,” Global Networks

1, no. 3 (July 2001): 195–216. It is estimated that by 1990 nearly a third of all work-

ers in Latin America were employed in the informal sector. For discussion of the

explosive expansion of the informal economy in Latin America, see Alejandro

Portes, “Competing Perspectives on the Latin American Informal Sector,” Popula-

tion and Development Review 19, no. 1 (1993): 33–60.

54. For a provocative discussion of some of the complex social and political implica-

tions of the rapid growth of “mixed status” households, see Michael Fix and Wendy

Zimmerman, “All Under One Roof: Mixed Status Families in an Era of Reform,”

International Migration Review 35, no. 2 (summer 2001): 397–419. The diplomatic

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

impasse between the governments of the United States and the Republic of Mexi-

co regarding the status of the huge number of Mexican citizens currently residing

in the United States provides a stark example of the way the events of September 11

have complicated this situation. With nearly nine million Mexican expatriates

currently within the national jurisdiction of the United States, their status as

noncitizens presents both governments with what may eventually become an ex-

plosive political issue. This is, of course, to say nothing about the millions of other

noncitizens currently within the national boundaries of the United States. On the

increasing social and political tensions this has created since 2001, see Eric Licht-

blau, “U.S. Report Faults the Roundup of Illegal Immigrants After 9/11,” New York

Times, 3 June 2003.

55. See Jonathan Peterson, “Poverty Rate Falls to 11.3%, but Trouble Looms,” Los An-

geles Times, 26 September 2001.

56. Stuart Silverstein and Lee Romney, “Middle-Class Families Put in Economic Bind,”

Los Angeles Times, 6 August 2001. Since nearly 31 percent of all Latino families con-

sist of five or more members, the poverty statistics are even more distressing. See

Therrien and Ramírez, The Hispanic Population of the United States, 3.

57. Melissa Roderick, “Hispanics and Education,” in Hispanics in the United States: An

Agenda for the Twenty-first Century, ed. Pastora San Juan Cafferty and David. W.

Engstrom (New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction Publishers, 2000), 140.

58. Again, however, the internal diversity of the Latino population can be seen in the

fact that unlike the vast majority of Latinos, 80 percent of all immigrants from

South American nations have at least high school educations. For discussions of

these complex trends, see Heather Knight, “Graduation Rates Rise for Blacks,

Whites, Not Latinos,” Los Angeles Times, 1 August 1997; Gary Orfield and John T.

Yun, Resegregation in American Schools (Cambridge, Mass.: The Civil Rights Pro-

ject, Harvard University, 1999); Teresa A. Sullivan, “A Demographic Portrait,” in

Hispanics in the United States: An Agenda for the Twenty-First Century, ed. Pastora

San Juan Cafferty and David W. Engstrom (New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction Pub-

lishers, 2000), 15; Mireya Navarro, “For Hispanics, Language and Culture Barriers

Can Further Complicate College,” New York Times, 10 February 2003; U.S. Census

Bureau, Statistical Abstract: 2001, 139, table 215; and Marilyn Espitia, chapter 6, this

volume.

59. See U.S. Census Bureau, Statistical Abstract: 2001, 18. See also Grace Chang, Dispos-

able Domestics: Immigrant Women Workers in the Global Economy (Boston: South

End Press, 1990); Mary Romero, Maid in the U.S.A. (New York: Routledge, 1992);

and Pierrette Hondagneu-Sotelo, Doméstica: Immigrant Workers Cleaning and Car-

ing in the Shadow of Affluence (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001). Of

course, untold thousands more toil in similar occupations in the informal econo-

my, outside the purview of government officials and statisticians.

60. See, for example, Wendy K. Tam Cho, “Naturalization, Socialization, Participation:

Immigrants and (Non-)Voting,” Journal of Politics 61, no. 4 (November 1999):

1140–55. See also the detailed analysis on this issue and related questions by Kevin

Johnson and Louis DeSipio, chapters 10 and 11, respectively, this volume.

61. Min Zhou, “Segmented Assimilation: Issues, Controversies, and Recent Research

on the New Second Generation,” International Migration Review (1997): 999. See

INTRODUCTION

also Rubén Rumbaut, “The Crucible Within: Ethnic Identity, Self-Esteem, and Seg-

mented Assimilation Among Children of Immigrants,” International Migration Re-

view 18 (winter 1994): 748–94; and Marcelo M. Suárez-Orozco and Carola E.

Suárez-Orozco, Transformations: Immigration, Family Life, and Achievement Moti-

vation Among Latino Adolescents (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1995).

62. See Zhou, “Segmented Assimilation,” 999.

63. See Pew Hispanic Center and Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation, Fact Sheet, “The

Latino Population and the Latino Electorate: The Numbers Differ,” October 2002.

64. For some of the most egregious recent examples of this, see Richard D. Lamm and

Gary Imhoff, The Immigration Time Bomb: The Fragmenting of America (New York:

Truman Talley Books, 1985); Peter Brimelow, Alien Nation: Common Sense About

America’s Immigration Disaster (New York: Harper Perennial, 1996); Georgie Anne

Geyer, Americans No More (New York: Atlantic Monthly Press, 1996); and Patrick

J. Buchanan, The Death of the West: How Dying Populations and Immigrant Inva-

sions Imperil Our Country and Civilization (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2002). In

fairness, it should be noted that Buchanan himself has long been a fierce critic of

the spread of unfettered neoliberal economic policies and practices.

65. See Larry Rohter, “Latin Lands Don’t Share Powell’s Priorities,” New York Times,

10 June 2003. The recent deterioration of Mexico’s maquiladora industries—which

had grown dramatically in the first years of NAFTA but have lost at least 250,000

jobs over the past two years—provides further evidence of the structural shifts that

continue to unfold. See Gutiérrez, chapter 1, and Santiago-Valles and Jiménez-

Muñoz, chapter 2, this volume; and Juan Forero, “As China Gallops, Mexico Sees

Factory Jobs Slip Away,” New York Times, 3 September 2003. That the issue con-

tinues to smolder was made crystal clear during the sudden collapse of recent meet-

ings of the World Trade Organization in Cancún, Mexico, after protestors insisted

on being heard. See Kevin Sullivan, “Rich-Poor Rift Triggers Collapse of Trade

Talks,” Washington Post, 15 September 2003; and Juan Forero, “Brazil Pushes for

South American Trade Pact,” New York Times, 17 September 2003. For brief expli-

cations of a larger line of argument about the damaging effects of completely un-

fettered global markets, see, for example, Saskia Sassen, “U.S. Immigration Policy

Toward Mexico in a Global Economy,” Journal of International Affairs, 43, no. 2

(winter 1990): 369–83; Nestor Rodríguez, “The Battle for the Border: Notes on Au-

tonomous Migration, Transnational Communities, and the State,” Social Justice 23,

no. 3 (fall 1996): 21–37; Gustavo Esteva and Madhu Suri Prakash, Grassroots Post-

Modernism: Remaking the Soil of Cultures (London: Zed Books, 1998); W. I. Robin-

son, “(Mal)Development in Central America: Globalization and Social Change,”

Development and Change 29, no. 3 (July 1998): 467–97; Karen Brodkin, “Global

Capitalism: What’s Race Got to Do with It?” American Ethnologist 27, no. 2 (May

2000): 237–56; and Alejandro Portes and Kelly Hoffman, “Latin American Class

Structures: Their Composition and Change During the Neoliberal Era,” Latin

American Research Review 38, no. 1 (February 2003): 41–81.

66. See B. Lindsay Lowell, Rodolfo O. de la Garza, and Mike Hogg, “Remittances, U.S.

Latino Communities, and Development in Latin American Countries,” Migration

World 28, no. 5 (2000): 13–17; Tessie Borden, “Migrants’ Cash Builds Dreams in

Mexico,” The Arizona Republic, 21 June 2001; Mary Beth Sheridan, “Work Permit

DEMOGRAPHY AND THE SHIFTING BOUNDARIES OF “COMMUNITY”

Draws Flood of Salvadorans,” The Washington Post, 21 June 2001; Chris Kraul,

“Mexican Immigrants Sending More Money Home,” Los Angeles Times, 24 Sep-

tember 2001; Peter Gammeltoft, “Remittances and Other Financial Flows to Devel-

oping Countries,” International Migration 40, no. 5, Special Issue 2, (2002): 181–211;

and “Emigrants’ Remittances Still Going Strong,” Latin American Weekly Report—

02-05 (29 January 2002): 56–57, cited in Alejandro Portes and Kelly Hoffman,

“Latin American Class Structures,” 74.

67. The distinction between “dual nationality” and “dual citizenship” should be noted:

dual nationality usually implies the possession by emigrants of a smaller bundle of

rights in their countries of origin than the status of dual citizenship—which usual-

ly implies full standing in the society of a sending nation, including both the right

to vote and to stand in elections. While a growing number of nations are granting

dual nationality to expatriates, to date few nations have extended the full rights of

national citizenship to emigrants abroad.

68. See Michael Jones-Correa, “Under Two Flags: Dual Nationality in Latin America

and Its Consequences for the United States,” International Migration Review 34, no.

4 (winter 2001): 997–1030. For another recent example, see the discussion of the

growing importance of dual nationality in India in Amy Waldman, “India Harvests

Fruits of a Diaspora,” New York Times, 12 January 2003. For a broader, comparative

discussion of this global trend, see Linda G. Basch, Nina Glick Schiller, Cristina

Szanton Blanc, Nations Unbound: Transnational Projects, Postcolonial Predicaments,

and Deterritorialized Nation-States (Langhorne, Penn.: Gordon & Breach, 1994).

69. A study by the Congressional Budget Office found that in the period between 1977

and 1995, average after-tax income for workers in the United States fell for the bot-

tom two-fifths of the population (which, of course, included huge numbers of im-

migrants), was stagnant for the middle fifth, and rose for the upper 40 percent.

However, for the top 1 percent of the population after-tax income rose 87 percent.

See Isaac Shapiro and John Springer, “The Not-Rich Are Getting Not Richer,” Los

Angeles Times, 9 October 2000; and O’Kane, “Class, Liberal Pluralism and Coun-

terhegemony.” For broader discussions of the relationship of these trends to glob-

alization and transnational migration, see Portes and Hoffman, “Latin American

Class Structures”; Stephen Castles and Alastair Davidson, Citizenship and Migra-

tion: Globalization and the Politics of Belonging (New York: Routledge, 2000); and

Bill Jordan and Franck Duvell, Migration: The Boundaries of Equality and Justice

(Cambridge: Polity Press, 2003).

INTRODUCTION

ONE

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE

DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION: ETHNIC MEXICANS IN

THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

DAVID G. GUTIÉRREZ

IN SEPTEMBER 1999, in the small town of Dalton, Georgia, local citizens were treated to an unusual sight as hundreds, and eventually more than two thousand, Latinos lined the city’s streets for a parade commemorating el dieciseis de septiembre—Mexican Independence Day. Like most other towns in the deep South, Dalton had until recently a population demarcated by the old racial divide between blacks and whites. On this day in September, how- ever, with street merchants peddling tacos, pan dulce (sweet bread), raspadas (snow cones), and other Mexican delicacies, and other vendors hawking miniature Mexican flags, T-shirts, and bumper stickers proclaiming love for Zacatecas, Jalisco, and Guanajuato, the celebration provided dramatic proof of just how much Latin American immigration has transformed American society over the past twenty years. The Mexican presence in Dalton also pres- ents powerful evidence of the extent to which the ethnic Mexican and Latino populations1 have dispersed from their traditional concentrations along the United States–Mexico border to new places of settlement in every state in the union—including Hawaii and Alaska.2 Although the case of Dalton, Georgia, and other locales in the American South represent some of the more dra- matic and interesting recent developments in a Mexican and greater Latino diaspora that has been intensifying since the 1960s, the drama being played out here—and in hundreds of other towns and cities across the United States—is part of a sweeping social trend that is clearly one of the most im- portant in recent continental history. This essay is an attempt to contextual- ize and analyze the major features of the development of the ethnic Mexican population—the largest of the Latino subpopulations in the United States—

as it has contributed to an ongoing social and cultural revolution that shows every sign of defining the future of American society well into the twenty- first century and beyond.

LEGACIES OF CONQUEST

This essay is primarily concerned with the period since 1960, but it is impor- tant to address, at least in passing, the larger context of the historical presence of ethnic Mexicans in the United States. This history extends back for more than four centuries, beginning with the Spanish settlements in St. Augustine, Florida, and Santa Fe, New Mexico, in the late sixteenth century. Between this initial period of settlement and the late eighteenth century, small groups of Spanish-speaking colonists established footholds in a series of outposts ex- tending in a wide arc from Mexico City to Florida in the northeast; north to the Gulf Coast of Texas; northwest to Paso del Norte (present-day El Paso), the upper Rio Grande Valley of New Mexico, and the Gila River valley of Arizona; and, in the far northwest, to the coastal plain of California from San Diego to Sonoma. These northern territories, which became part of the Mexican Re- public after Mexico gained independence from Spain in 1821, included all or part of the present states of California, Arizona, Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, Col- orado, New Mexico, Kansas, and Texas. Mexico lost Texas in 1836 after the Texas Revolution, and the rest of the northern territories were annexed by the United States in the aftermath of the United States–Mexican War of 1846–1848, part of the United States’ long campaign of westward imperial expansion. In- cluded in this territorial annexation was a mestizo (mixed-race) Spanish- speaking population of approximately 75,000–100,000, concentrated in four major fingers of settlement: southern Texas along the lower Rio Grande and the San Antonio area; the upper Rio Grande Valley of New Mexico; southern Arizona around present-day Tucson; and coastal California. The population living in these areas represented the first group of Mexican Americans.

Although a significant portion of the contemporary Mexican American population can trace its roots to this first group, the overwhelming majority of persons of Mexican descent or heritage now living in the United States trace their roots to people who entered the United States from Mexico in one of several waves of migration over the course of the twentieth century. Most of the Mexican migrants who entered the United States in the first decades of the century came seeking economic opportunity. This first large group of labor migrants was recruited by employers after earlier groups of immigrant work- ers like the Chinese, Japanese, and Sikhs were barred entry to the United States by a series of restrictive immigration laws passed between the 1880s and

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

the early 1900s. Beginning in the 1890s, regional employers, who sought to re- place the unskilled or semiskilled Asian laborers that were so vital to regional economic development, began to employ increasing numbers of Mexican mi- grant workers in a broad range of jobs in agriculture and food processing, and in the mining, transportation, and construction industries.

Labor recruitment of this type contributed to a rapid increase in the popu- lation of ethnic Mexicans in the United States between 1900 and 1929, espe- cially after the eruption of the Mexican Revolution in 1910. Although the bulk of this population tended to stay concentrated in the border states (especially Texas and California), the demand for labor in the agricultural, transporta- tion, construction, and meat-packing industries and in heavy industries like steel and auto manufacturing also contributed to the establishment of new pockets of urban settlement in places like the agricultural areas of the Great Plains and Midwest and in industrial cities like Chicago, Detroit, and Gary, Indiana.3 Shifting racial categorizations and census techniques make it im- possible to know the precise dimensions of population growth during this pe- riod, but demographic historians believe that the total ethnic Mexican popu- lation grew from somewhere between 350,000 and 500,000 in 1900 to between 1 and 1.5 million in 1929.4

The onset of the Great Depression briefly reversed this upward demo- graphic trend. As millions of American workers lost their jobs after 1929, local, state, and federal government officials began a concerted set of campaigns to “encourage,” or compel, hundreds of thousands of Mexican nationals (along with an unknown but surely significant number of their U.S.-born children) to return to Mexico. Concerned with the well-being of its citizens and embar- rassed by the pervasive negative stereotyping of Mexicans in the United States, the government of Mexico often cooperated in these repatriation efforts. Again, repatriation statistics are sketchy, but these mass campaigns led to a re- verse migration into Mexico of at least 350,000 people—and probably many more—between 1929 and 1937. This reversal of the migrant flow proved to be short-lived, however, reflecting just how dependent the U.S. economy had be- come on Mexican workers. Indeed, once the United States mobilized for world war in the early 1940s, the demand for labor very quickly helped to reestablish the Mexican migration trends first seen thirty years earlier. How- ever, whereas much of the first period of Mexican migration could be attrib- uted to the more or less informal workings of the regional labor market (that is, largely outside the formal regulation of the government), in this new phase of mass migration after 1942, much of the labor migration from Mexico oc- curred by official contract under the auspices of a series of bilateral agree- ments that collectively became known as the Bracero Program (in Spanish, a bracero is one who works with one’s arms, or brazos).

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

The Bracero Program was originally designed to meet the increased wartime demand for agricultural and railroad workers, but after the war the program was extended several times in different versions. Over the next quarter- century, this “temporary” foreign labor importation program was responsible for recruiting more than 5 million workers to the United States. The terms of the various labor agreements prohibited contract workers from settling per- manently in the United States unless they first returned to Mexico and went through ordinary immigration application procedures, but the constant cir- culation of this volume of workers inevitably led to a steady increase of the number of Mexicans who settled in the United States. The Bracero Program also stimulated a dramatic parallel increase in the circulation of similar num- bers of undocumented workers who were drawn into the U.S. labor market outside of the official labor-recruitment channels. As braceros became famil- iar with life in the United States, they encouraged friends and relatives to try their luck in the north, again, often outside of the formal labor-recruitment mechanisms. Of course, U.S. employers who sought to avoid both the red tape and the contract guarantees of the program welcomed the renewed flow of unsanctioned Mexican workers. Thus, after the war, a number of interlocking factors contributed to a continuing increase in the ethnic Mexican popula- tion. The volatile combination of the constant circulation of a large number of temporary, legally sanctioned workers, a similar transnational circulation of even larger numbers of unsanctioned, “illegal” laborers, and the smaller, but still significant entry of thousands of Mexican immigrants through regu- lar immigration channels all led to the steady growth of the ethnic Mexican population. Combined with a high birth rate in the resident population, these factors contributed to a population increase of at least 73 percent between 1940 and 1950, and another 54 percent increase between 1950 and 1960.5 By 1960, the ethnic Mexican population of the United States had reached ap- proximately 3.5 million.6

THE AMBIGUOUS LEGACY OF THE 1960S

Although Mexicans had begun to disperse to different areas of the United States by this time, the majority of Mexican Americans and Mexican immi- grants—upwards of 80 percent—remained concentrated in their traditional cultural redoubt in the region along the United States–Mexico border: Ari- zona, California, Colorado, New Mexico, and Texas. Enclaves previously es- tablished in the Midwest, especially those in the Chicago metropolitan area, also experienced significant growth. The demographic structure of the popu- lation also changed as the immigrant-to-native ratio, which some demogra-

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

phers estimate to have been at least two- or even three-to-one in 1929, gradu- ally declined. By 1960, nearly 85 percent of Mexican Americans were Ameri- can citizens by birth. Despite this structural shift toward the native-born, however, it is important to note that a great many Mexican Americans main- tained strong ties to friends and relatives in Mexico—ties that by this time often extended over many generations.7 In addition, the presence in the Unit- ed States in 1960 of at least half a million Mexican nationals, an even larger number of U.S.-born children with at least one immigrant parent, and an un- known but always significant number of undocumented people, make popu- lation demographics much more complicated than they appear. Thus, while the majority of all ethnic Mexicans in the country in 1960 may well have been born and raised in the United States, a large percentage (45.2) either had at least one immigrant parent (29.8) or had been born in Mexico (15.4).8

The general socioeconomic profile of Mexican Americans and Mexican im- migrants in the early 1960s mirrored these complex demographics. In many ways, the poverty that had characterized the population at the turn of the cen- tury continued to beleaguer both Mexican immigrants and U.S.-born Mexi- can Americans. This persistent poverty stemmed from a combination of fac- tors. The constant entry of immigrants with low levels of formal education and similarly low job skills obviously contributed to the depressed socioeco- nomic conditions, but deeply rooted historical patterns of discrimination against ethnic Mexicans (regardless of citizenship status) also strongly influ- enced the situation.

Ethnic Mexicans’ structural position in American society starkly illustrated the complex ways in which historical patterns of discrimination interacted with the continual circulation of poor migrants and immigrants into the United States to keep both groups down. In 1960, ethnic Mexicans in aggregate lagged behind non-Hispanic whites in educational attainment by at least 5 years (7.1 years versus 12.1 years), and the gap was much worse in rural areas and among recently arrived immigrants. In turn, wage and occupational data reflected these low levels of education. Ethnic Mexicans of both nationalities, like other American minority populations, had partly closed the earnings gap separating them from non-Hispanic whites in the postwar economic boom between 1945 and 1960, but the average annual earnings of ethnic Mexican families remained nearly $4,000 lower than that of non-Hispanic whites ($7,120 versus $10,750) as late as 1969. The occupational structure of the Mexican and Mexican American work force reveals why this was so. By 1960, a small number of ethnic Mexicans (again, particularly U.S.-born males) had experienced some upward move- ment within the U.S. occupational hierarchy, but nearly a third of all male workers continued to toil either as unskilled laborers or as farm workers. An- other 24 percent worked in semiskilled occupations, and less than 10 percent

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

held professional or managerial positions. The female workforce showed a similar clustering at the bottom. In 1960, fully 26 percent of ethnic Mexican women employees worked in the service sector (primarily in domestic occupa- tions); another 25 percent worked as semiskilled operatives.9

The general socioeconomic profile of the ethnic Mexican population, for both nationalities and both genders, remained grim, but because aspiring middle-class Mexican Americans played key roles in various kinds of political mobilizations in the postwar United States, it is also important to note that there were signs that at least a small segment of the population had begun to make some halting socioeconomic strides in this period. A number of factors helped loosen the opportunity structure for ethnic Mexicans, women, and other minority groups in the years after 1945. Active service and civilian em- ployment in the U.S. military, new opportunities for employment in civil service and other government jobs, and especially veterans’ access to the edu- cational, job-training, and mortgage benefits that came with the newly passed G.I. Bill opened new windows of economic opportunity for some Mexican Americans. As a consequence, by the late 1960s, a small but steadily increasing number of Mexican Americans and an even smaller number of Mexican im- migrants began to gain entry into professional and managerial positions. Whereas less than one percent of ethnic Mexicans had been employed in the professions in 1930, the proportion of the labor force employed in profession- al occupations crept up to 2.2 percent in 1950, 4.1 percent in 1960, and 6.4 per- cent in 1970. The proportion of workers employed as managers increased at a comparable rate. The 1930 census indicated that just 2.8 percent of ethnic Mexicans were employed as managers, but the number in this important niche inched up to 4.4 percent in 1950, 4.6 percent in 1960, and an estimated 6.4 percent in 1970.10

SOCIAL AND CULTURAL CHANGE

The social and cultural life of ethnic Mexicans during this period mirrored both the tenuousness of their material circumstances in American society and the strong ties that continued to bind the resident population to communities throughout Mexico. As was true historically of other minority populations with significant immigrant and first-generation components, most ethnic Mexicans, particularly those in the working classes, lived in dynamic tension within the complex class and cultural milieu they encountered in the United States. Nevertheless, in other important ways, their concentration in segregat- ed urban barrios and isolated rural hamlets helped to create and maintain vi- brant regional variations of Mexican culture. Proximity to Mexico along the

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

2,100-mile border and the constant circulation of thousands of Mexican workers into and out of U.S. territory constantly reinvigorated the cultural mix. In this continually shifting cultural matrix, ethnic Mexicans of both na- tionalities maintained some Mexican cultural traditions and practices, adopt- ed American ones, and constantly combined and melded these and others into a broad range of local amalgams. Indeed, it was impossible for any ethnic Mexican who traveled in the United States not to recognize the strong cultur- al and historical affinities that bound them to their far-flung compatriots in different locales. At the same time, however, it was equally impossible to ig- nore the subtle and not-so-subtle intraethnic differences that made local cus- toms, religious practices, cuisines, musical tastes, and language patterns among Mexican immigrants and Mexican Americans in San Antonio distinct, say, from those in Chicago or Detroit or Albuquerque or Los Angeles.

For example, local preferences for música norteña (the popular folk music of northern Mexico) versus Texas swing or rock and roll, American football or baseball versus international fútbol (soccer), or local tastes for tortillas de maíz (corn) versus tortillas de harina (wheat flour) on the daily menu, all de- pended on the complex ways that specific local conditions interacted with mi- gration patterns to create unique cultural amalgams. The kinds of cultural choices people made and the regional cultural combinations that resulted de- pended on how a wide variety of variables, including population densities, education levels, language proficiencies and preferences, region of origin, and time of residence in the United States, all came together in local communities. Whether these processes of cultural change and differentiation within the United States were perceived as positive or negative depended on how per- sonal experience influenced an individual’s point of view. For some, the ero- sion of what individuals of both nationalities regarded as “authentic” Mexican tradition in the daily encounter with American consumerism was viewed with dismay. For others, such changes were viewed as an important and necessary part of their “Americanization” and thus played a role in setting them apart from people they considered to be culturally old-fashioned and provincial.

Of course, this kind of in-group tension and friction has long been familiar to Mexican people of virtually all backgrounds (and other immigrants gener- ally) and dates to even before the period of the first major population move- ments from Mexico to the United States. Indeed, in the 1910s and 1920s, some of the earliest observers of the ethnic Mexican population noted the tensions created by cultural change and exchange in the social context of the United States.11 In the early 1960s, propinquity to Mexico and the large-scale circula- tion of both permanent and temporary migrants into and out of the United States guaranteed that this kind of tension would continue to play itself out in ethnic Mexican enclaves across the country.

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

Perhaps the most persistent and compelling examples of this tension involved the inevitable conflicts that emerged between immigrant parents and their chil- dren, whether those children were born in Mexico or in the United States. Largely because the opportunity structure had begun to loosen in the early 1960s, Mexican American children generally had access to significantly more schooling than their parents and grandparents had. This inevitably increased the social distance between immigrants and their children. In addition, social- ization and acculturation in American public schools and the constant exposure to the cornucopia of creature comforts advertised or displayed in print media, radio broadcasts, and especially film and television deeply influenced the desires and aspirations felt most forcefully by the young. Thus, as much as some ethnic Mexican parents may have wanted to insulate their children from what they considered to be the threatening elements of consumerism, the siren call of American fashion, fads, and fantasy played a central role in the inevitable “Americanization” of both their children and themselves.12

The constant struggle between older and newer cultural practices and older and newer forms of sociability played themselves out in countless ways in everyday life, but they were probably most apparent in gender relations as men and women, husbands and wives, and children and parents engaged in a daily tug-of-war over appropriate gender roles and behaviors. Whereas some ethnic Mexican men tried mightily to preserve and reproduce the strict con- trol over “their” women that they remembered (or imagined they remem- bered) from some idyllic past either in the Mexican countryside or earlier in the United States, the process of migration and subsequent life in the States inevitably transformed gender dynamics in unpredictable ways. This was par- ticularly true when women entered the paid labor force. As more and more native and immigrant women entered the paid workforce, their increasing in- fluence over family purse strings and ongoing negotiations with men over the appropriate division of labor at home contributed to the erosion of patri- archic norms in many ethnic Mexican families. As sociologist Pierrette Hondagneu-Sotelo has noted in her published work and in her contribution to this volume, “while it is too hasty to proclaim that gender egalitarianism prevails in interpersonal relations among [ethnic] Mexican[s], there is a sig- nificant trend in that direction. . . . With the diminution of patriarchal gender relations, women gain power and autonomy, and men lose some of their au- thority and privilege.”13

But the breakdown of more traditional lines of authority did not come without cost. While countless ethnic Mexican parents tried to shield their children from what they considered to be the looser social and cultural mores in their daily lives in the United States, Mexican American and Mexican im- migrant children inevitably absorbed new behaviors along with fads, fashions,

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

and fantasies. Among these changing norms were freer association between boys and girls (up to and including sexual experimentation) and different kinds of leisure, entertainment, and amusements, which by the late 1960s in- creasingly involved the quintessential American world of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Most Mexican American children probably went through the pow- erful transition of adolescence without deep scars, but, like immigrant and ethnic children before them, significant numbers spun out into the demi- monde of drug abuse, gang association, crime, and social alienation.14 Like American parents of all ethnic and class backgrounds, Mexican and Mexican American parents in the 1960s struggled to adjust to the profound social forces that were inexorably transforming their children.

THE SHIFTING TERRAIN OF POLITICS

Perhaps the most dramatic of these powerful forces of social change was the rapid shift in politics that occurred during the 1960s. Before the mid-1960s, the political orientation and activities of the ethnic Mexican population strongly reflected the tensions and ambivalences associated with racially sub- ordinate populations with a significant immigrant component, particularly in the working-class majority. Historically, political involvement (or lack there- of) among ethnic Mexican workers varied greatly depending on the same kind of variables that shaped their cultural lives. Obviously, nationality, citizenship, and the fact that so many ethnic Mexicans were essentially economic refugees played central roles in shaping political activity. Proximity to Mexico and the belief of many Mexicans that they would some day return to la patria created a situation in which very few immigrants sought to become naturalized U.S. citizens. Lack of citizenship automatically disqualified hundreds of thousands of resident nationals from participation in American electoral politics.15 This is not to argue that immigrants were apolitical, but, as Louis DeSipio and Kevin Johnson argue in their chapters in this volume, lack of U.S. citizenship constrained the kind of “mainstream” political activities in which they could engage. In addition, in both the Mexican American population and among Mexican immigrants who sought to participate, socioeconomic factors con- strained potential political participation. For example, whether one read and spoke English, where one lived and for how long, and how well educated an individual was, all had significant effects on political behavior, and historical- ly these factors contributed to what were generally very low levels of “formal” political activity (that is, within the realm of traditional American electoral politics) among ethnic Mexicans. Consequently, until the late 1960s, when resident Mexican nationals did take political action, their activism often as not

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

involved basic bread-and-butter job-place issues in struggles over wages, hours, and working conditions.16

Among Mexican Americans of longer residence in the United States, polit- ical activity was a bit more varied. Mexican American citizens faced many, if not all, of the same deeply rooted patterns of prejudice and discrimination confronted by more recent arrivals from Mexico, but their status as American citizens at least potentially opened up more avenues for political mobilization and redress. This was particularly true in the years after World War II. As for- merly rigid social and economic barriers began to break down as a result of the combination of the continuing demand for labor, accelerating urbaniza- tion (more than 80 percent of all Mexican Americans lived in urban areas by 1960), and the return stateside of thousands of battle-hardened veterans, Mex- ican Americans began to assert themselves in the political arena with new force. In the late 1940s and 1950s, this trend was manifest in the establishment of several important Mexican American civil-rights and advocacy organiza- tions such as the American G.I. Forum in Texas (1948), and the Community Service Organization (CSO) and the Mexican American Political Association (MAPA) in California (founded in 1947 and 1959, respectively). The leadership of this new type of organization generally came from the ranks of an aspiring middle class and reflected a centrist, and sometimes even conservative, brand of activism, but most members of such groups were also deeply committed to pursuing political strategies designed to empower all ethnic Mexicans. By the late 1950s, Mexican American activists had honed their political skills by lob- bying for legislation, encouraging Mexican nationals to learn English and be- come naturalized citizens, organizing and registering voters, and, ultimately, by mobilizing for greater participation in electoral politics.

By the early 1960s, these efforts had begun to pay important dividends. Combined with the continuing activities of older groups such as the League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC), the civil-rights campaigns of the newly established organizations led to a series of key local victories in the na- tional effort to desegregate public facilities like theaters, restaurants, swim- ming pools and other recreational facilities, and, especially, schools.17 Similar limited victories were won in the areas of police brutality and harassment, jury selection, voter registration, and the “redlining” practices of real estate agents, mortgage brokers, and insurance companies. And finally, the establishment of “Viva Kennedy” clubs within the Democratic Party during John Kennedy’s run for the presidency, and the election to national office of the first handful of Mexican American candidates, such as Senator Joseph Montoya of New Mexico, Congressmen Edward R. Roybal of California, and Henry B. González and Kika de la Garza of Texas, signified the extent to which ethnic Mexicans were beginning to make themselves heard as actors in American

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

electoral politics. By the end of the decade, with the support of philanthropic organizations such as the Rockefeller and Ford Foundations, political activists established what today are probably the most important Mexican American civil-rights organizations, the Southwest Voter Registration and Education Project (SVREP), a critical regional political education and voter registration campaign, and the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund (MALDEF), a vital litigation and advocacy group molded on earlier African American civil-rights organizations such as the National Association for the Advancement of Colored Peoples (NAACP).

But as was true with the African American struggle for civil rights during this period, such limited successes had the paradoxical effect of stimulating the desire for even more fundamental change among different sectors of the nation’s ethnic Mexican population—particularly among the young. This de- sire manifested itself in different ways in different parts of the country. In vir- tually all cases, however, the movement toward more direct and immediate political action drew on a deepening sense of ethnic solidarity that grew out of a general frustration with both the pace and the direction of social change. As frustration grew by mid-decade, local protests began to erupt in widely scat- tered locales throughout the Southwest and, to a more limited extent, in Mid- western communities like Chicago, Detroit, and Madison, Wisconsin.18 Over time, these scattered local protests would coalesce into a more cohesive na- tional campaign that became known as the Chicano Movement.

Some of the first political flashpoints of the 1960s occurred in the area of rural northern New Mexico and southern Colorado and centered on the issue of land and land tenure. In these areas, local Mexican Americans (who tend- ed to term themselves Hispanos to signify their long presence in the region and to distance themselves from Mexican immigrants) began to organize in 1966 around claims that the federal government and private parties had illegally ap- propriated their ancestors’ lands in contravention of the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. These irredentist activists were led by a passionate and emotive former Pentecostal preacher, Reies López Tijerina, who argued that much of the public land that had been engrossed by private owners and the federal government in the region since the nineteenth century should be re- turned in common to the members of local communities who held Spanish- and Mexican-era land grants. The movement was quashed and Tijerina even- tually imprisoned by local authorities (for acts of violence occurring during the political protests of 1966–1969), but the drama of the land-grants move- ment served as a catalyst for the subsequent emergence of other kinds of mil- itant action among Mexican Americans elsewhere in the Southwest.19

For example, in Texas, where the second largest concentration (after Califor- nia’s) of ethnic Mexicans resided, local activists began stepping up organization

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

at about the same time, despite Mexicans’ facing there what was undoubtedly the most deeply entrenched prejudice and discrimination in the country. Ang- los and Mexicans had lived in close proximity in Texas longer than in any other region, but local Anglo residents had used violence or the threat of violence to control the Mexican population ever since the Texas Rebellion of 1836. Thus, more than elsewhere in the Southwest, ethnic Mexicans in Texas always had to be careful about the way they articulated political concerns. Nevertheless, as Mexican Americans began organizing in the Southwest in the early 1960s, te- janos (Texas Mexicans) were often in the vanguard of political agitation. One of the earliest examples of the growing militancy of Mexican Americans occurred in 1963 in the south Texas town of Crystal City, where tejano union activists forged an electoral upset that resulted in the unprecedented election of an all–Mexican American city council. Ethnic Mexicans had long constituted a ma- jority in Crystal City and the larger region of southern Texas (making up more than 73 percent of the region’s population in 1970), but the local Anglo minori- ty used poll taxes, gerrymandering, and outright intimidation to keep Mexican Americans locked out of elective office. The victory at “Cristál” (as the town was known by local tejanos) not only came as a shock to the local ruling elite, but it instantly helped galvanize Mexican Americans in other areas to begin to organ- ize and claim their rights. Building on the dramatic success at Cristál, student activists established a number of new militant organizations such as the Mexi- can American Youth Organization (MAYO) that pressed an aggressive civil- rights campaign against segregation, police brutality, and inferior education. As will be discussed below, these efforts eventually resulted in the creation of La Raza Unida Party—a Chicano third-party alternative to the extant American two-party system.20

In California, where the largest numbers of Mexican American and Mexi- can immigrants lived, the existence of distinct populations in urban locales and in the state’s vast rural hinterlands made ethnic politics even more com- plicated. Indeed, the establishment in the state in the 1940s and 1950s of new advocacy groups such as the CSO and MAPA in some ways symbolized both the tensions inherent in the rural/urban split and the increasing intersection of the political concerns of urban and rural ethnic Mexicans. That ferment came to a head as a result of César Chávez’s efforts to organize California farm workers in the early sixties. Chávez, who was born in Arizona but spent most of his early life as a farm worker in California, was recruited into a CSO chap- ter in San José in 1952. After several years as a CSO organizer, Chávez tried to convince the CSO board of directors to commit funds for a major new effort to organize farm workers into a strong union. When his efforts were rebuffed, Chávez resigned from the CSO in 1961 to devote his time to labor organizing. A year later, Chávez and his chief lieutenants, Dolores Huerta and Gilbert

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

Padilla, founded the United Farm Workers Union—the UFW—and initiated a critical new phase in Mexican American social and political history.

Chávez’s original plan was simply to employ CSO community-organization techniques to slowly build a membership base. But when Filipino farm work- ers led by Larry Itliong unexpectedly went on strike in September 1965, Chávez reluctantly decided to join the effort. In the process, Chávez began his almost legendary crusade against the forces of corporate agriculture in California. Facing overwhelming odds, Chávez and his organizers built a campaign that eventually captured the nation’s imagination. The UFW skillfully employed a strategy that combined traditional union organization tactics with an innova- tive and brilliant public-relations campaign. By combining philosophical ele- ments of his Catholic faith with the nonviolent political philosophy and tac- tics of the American transcendentalists, Mohandas Gandhi, and the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr., Chávez was able to mobilize support in the farm worker community. Over time, the UFW also built support not only among urban ethnic Mexicans, but also among politically progressive white Ameri- cans who otherwise would have had little or no contact with the impoverished and exploited farm workers. Chávez used a similar combination of tactics when he called for a national boycott of grapes in 1968. The boycott helped to broaden the UFW’s base of support by allowing people around the country to participate in the struggle, even if only indirectly.

Given the long history of the brutal exploitation of farm workers of all racial and ethnic backgrounds in the American West, Chávez’s successes in building the union and in publicizing the plight of Mexican Americans more general- ly were spectacular. Although even at its peak in the mid-1970s the union rep- resented only a small fraction of farm laborers, the victories the UFW achieved in the fields, packing sheds, and, eventually, in pathbreaking pro- worker legislation in California made Chávez the most famous Mexican American in the United States. More importantly, Chávez’s national visibility helped galvanize the ethnic Mexican population. For perhaps the first time in their long history, ethnic Mexicans had a positive, successful national role model to look up to, and this served as a powerful inducement for Mexican Americans and Mexican immigrants in all walks of life to reassess their own position in American society. When combined with the intensification of the African American civil-rights campaign symbolized by the emergence of the “black power” movement at about the same time, Chávez’s efforts, though obviously very different in tone, succeeded in fostering a new sense of ethnic pride and purpose among ethnic Mexicans of both nationalities. Consequent- ly, by the end of the 1960s many Mexican Americans and some Mexican im- migrants—particularly the young—began to fight aggressively for a more eq- uitable position in American society.

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

Examples of this new political and social aggressiveness began to be seen in widely scattered locales across the country. In California, direct, voluntary participation in the UFW campaign by college students, clergy, and ordinary people helped stimulate a new level of political consciousness and commit- ment. Indeed, as later events would demonstrate, direct participation in UFW activities during the 1960s and 1970s often served as a crucial training ground for a new generation of Mexican American political leaders, who began to as- sume power in more “mainstream” political pursuits in the 1980s and 1990s. Indirect influences, however, were probably more important over the long run. Once it was demonstrated that unconventional political tactics (i.e., po- litical action outside the electoral system) seemed to be effective, many ethnic Mexicans began articulating their grievances with new force.

One of the most dramatic manifestations of this shift occurred in the spring of 1968 when students in East Los Angeles–area high schools walked out of their classes en masse. For months, tensions had been building in the schools as students stepped up demands for a variety of reforms, including more ac- cess to college preparatory classes; the addition of bilingual, bicultural, and Mexican American history classes; the hiring of more Mexican American teachers, administrators, and counselors; and the serving of Mexican food in school cafeterias. When these demands were ignored or dismissed, more than 10,000 students walked out in protest. The famous Los Angeles “Blowouts,” which soon spread to other high schools in the Southwest, represented an im- portant turning point. For the first time, Mexican American students—who increasingly called themselves “Chicanos” as a sign of their newfound ethnic pride, independence, and militancy—emulated some of the tactics of mass civil disobedience that African American students had earlier employed in the South with such success. In the process, the students announced a new stage of Mexican American political activism.21

The political situation elsewhere in the country played out along similar lines. In Denver, for example, Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzales, a former local De- mocratic Party operative, reacted to his growing frustration with the pace of social change by abandoning the party and establishing a new organization he called the Crusade for Justice. The organization was originally designed to serve the needs of ethnic Mexicans in the greater Denver area, but when the group called for a national meeting of student activists, the Crusade and its leader suddenly became central players in the budding national movement. Convened in Denver in the spring of 1969, the First National Chicano Youth Liberation Conference marked the largest national gathering of Chicano ac- tivists to that point in time. Participants from the Southwest, the Midwest, and beyond attended workshops and cultural performances, compared notes on their experiences, and, most importantly, explored and shared a newfound

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

sense of cultural pride and political potential. Of course, the regional, class, and gender differences that otherwise divided the Mexican American popula- tion inevitably caused some tensions at the gathering, but, overall, partici- pants were energized by a newfound spirit of unity and common purpose.

This sense of solidarity was galvanized even more when the young Chicano poet Alurista, with contributions from other conference participants, marked the moment by composing a political manifesto he called “El Plan Espiritual de Aztlán” (The spiritual plan of Aztlán). The Plan of Aztlán sym- bolized the slow crystallization of political thought that synthesized trends of the previous few years. Alurista’s evocative statement of Aztlán, a mythical Chicano homeland roughly equivalent to what was by then the American Southwest, drew its power from a variety of sources: his interpretation of Aztec myth, the rhetoric of the land-grants movement in New Mexico, the recent intensification of political activism in urban barrios, and especially from the separatist, quasi-nationalistic rhetoric of the militant Black Power Movement. Declaring that the time had come for a proud mestizo people to claim its rightful heritage as natives of the Southwest—and to the more ex- tended “bronze continent” of North America—the Plan of Aztlán echoed the Black Panthers’ contemporary call for “self-determination,” “self-defense,” and “community control” of local institutions. But most of all, the Plan of Aztlán called for Mexican Americans to adopt an aggressive new form of cul- tural identity as “Chicanos”—that is, as persons of Mexican descent in the United States who consider themselves culturally and politically distinct both from white Americans and from mexicanos del otro lado—Mexicans from “the other side” of the border.

Alurista took some rather glaring liberties with his readings of Mexican na- tional history and the regional history of Spanish-speaking people in the Southwest, his emphasis on Chicano indigenousness, and his appropriation of potent Mexican cultural symbols, but his stirring poetic manifesto struck a chord with young Chicano activists, who returned to their homes intent on implementing the Plan’s political and cultural vision. This was particularly true in the areas of electoral reform and political organization. For example, in May 1969, just two months after the Denver conference, Chicano activists met in Santa Barbara, California, to expand the Plan’s principles into the area of education reform. Out of this meeting came “The Plan of Santa Barbara”— simultaneously a prototype plan for the establishment of Chicano studies pro- grams in colleges and universities and a call for the consolidation of the many student groups that had been established across the country into a single um- brella organization dubbed El Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlán (MEChA, or the Chicano Student Movement of Aztlán). MEChA remains the dominant Chicano student organization on campuses to the present day.22

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

Another important offshoot of the National Youth Liberation Conference was the establishment in various locales of local chapters of an experimental new Chicano political party—El Partido de la Raza Unida, or as it was popu- larly known, La Raza Unida Party (LRUP). Born in the flush of enthusiasm out of Denver, the establishment of LRUP was intended to break the stran- glehold that the traditional two-party system had imposed on Chicanos and other oppressed peoples in the United States. Once again, the formation of the party reflected the ambivalence of the political philosophies that characterized this period of mobilization. The rhetoric of the LRUP was often militant and even revolutionary, but the very fact that the party was organized with the in- tent of running Chicano candidates and educating other people about “Chi- cano issues” in the context of American electoral politics provides insight into the fractured nature of the enterprise.

The first chapter of LRUP was founded in Texas in May 1969 under the leadership of José Angél Gutiérrez. A year later, a branch of the party was es- tablished in Colorado under the leadership of Corky Gonzales, and, soon thereafter, several chapters of LRUP were established in different communi- ties in both northern and southern California. Again, although LRUP devel- oped as an offshoot of the call for unity and action that had emerged at the National Youth Liberation Conference, each chapter of the party strongly re- flected the particular exigencies that characterized each locale. In Texas, for example, strong concentrations of Mexican Americans (especially in the bor- der counties of southern Texas) allowed LRUP to leap immediately into local electoral politics and score a limited number of victories at the level of school boards and city councils in a number of places, notably Crystal City, Rob- stown, Eagle Pass, and San Marcos. In California, however, where the Mexi- can American population tended to be much more geographically dispersed, LRUP had a more difficult time establishing a foothold. Between 1971 and 1974, LRUP candidates in California were able to influence several local elec- tions, but the party could never mount an effective campaign in a statewide race because it failed to collect a sufficient number of voter signatures to qual- ify. By the end of 1974, the party was in decline everywhere, and by the end of the decade LRUP had effectively ceased to exist as a serious political alterna- tive in the Mexican American community.23

The brief rise and rapid descent of La Raza Unida Party provides an accu- rate reflection of the quick florescence and decline of the militant phase of the Chicano movement in the 1960s and 1970s. Born in a period of intense social and cultural ferment, the various elements that constituted the diverse move- ment clearly contributed to a number of positive and lasting changes in the status of ethnic Mexicans in the United States. At the most basic level, the ac- tivities of Cesar Chávez, the UFW, and the ancillary political movements that

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

erupted across the country after the grape boycott, placed Mexican Americans and Mexican immigrants on the national political map for the first time. Chi- cano activists never came close to exerting the same kind of moral pull on the public’s consciousness that their counterparts in the black-liberation and an- tiwar movements were able to achieve, but the movement probably did help to increase general awareness about the “nation’s second largest minority” and to intensify federal, state, and local governmental efforts on its behalf.24

The establishment of Chicano studies programs and the validation of Mexi- can American history as an area of academic inquiry—both directly attribut- able to movement agitation—were also powerful monuments to the coura- geous efforts of ethnic Mexican men and women to change people’s lives for the better. The argument can also be made that by providing a “radical” threat to the power structures of the status quo, Chicano movement activists almost certainly opened up more opportunities for “moderate” Mexican American politicians than would have existed without the mobilizations of the period.25

Still, in hindsight the trajectory of Chicano political activism in this period probably did more to expose the broad demographic heterogeneity, increas- ing class stratification, and deep ideological divisions within the ethnic Mexi- can population than it did to stimulate an enduring spirit of common cause among them. Most Mexican Americans and long-term resident Mexican im- migrants no doubt identified with and supported the efforts of student groups and organizations like the UFW—although the union’s long-held anti- immigrant stance clearly gave some Chicanos and mexicanos cause for deep concern throughout the 1960s and 1970s. But even at the height of the move- ment in the early 1970s, much of the ethnic Mexican population of both na- tionalities continued to be more concerned either with individual advance- ment or with the prosaic issues of daily economic survival, and thus they remained only dimly aware of broader political activities occurring outside of their state or their local community. More importantly, despite their enthusi- asm, most Chicano-movement activists tended to underestimate the moder- ate and even conservative political orientation of many of their intended con- stituents. While in hindsight it is difficult to dispute that militant activists accelerated the pace of social change in some areas of American politics (es- pecially in dismantling systems of de jure segregation and opening up the ed- ucational system to curricular reform and greater access for Mexican Ameri- can students), the fact remains that even at its peak, the rhetoric of militant Chicanismo, and even self-identification as “Chicano,” appealed only to a frac- tion of the ethnic Mexican population.

Another crucial flaw in the logic of militant Chicanismo had to do with the deeply contradictory implications of the movement’s stated objectives, partic- ularly with regard to educational reform. Efforts in this area were obviously

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

necessary, but very few activists seemed willing to recognize the instrumental nature of their demands for educational access and reform. While the rheto- ric of separatism and self-determination seemed to imply a radical, even rev- olutionary break with the dominant institutions and structures of American society, most of the demands of even the most radical activists centered not on the complete overthrow of the system, but rather on gaining increasing ac- cess to its benefits. To be sure, some activists—particularly those affiliated with various left-wing organizations such as the Socialist Workers Party and the Centro de Acción Social Autonoma (CASA)—attempted to redress this flawed logic by advocating a more class-centered analysis of the “Chicano condition” and by actively seeking to build working coalitions with Latinos and other “third world” peoples, but few recognized the difficulty of main- taining political energy in a situation in which some activists were seeking an ethnically separatist solution while others were hustling to gain access to bet- ter education, training, and well-paying jobs in the American economy. In short, despite the radical rhetoric of militants within various wings of the movement, very few seemed aware that mobilization around questions of ed- ucation and jobs was similar in kind to the earlier bourgeois activism that was the raison d’être of the conservative groups like LULAC and the G.I. Forum. This kind of ideological split continues to characterize politics in the ethnic Mexican population to the present day.26

On a different but related plane, even fewer political activists in the 1960s and 1970s acknowledged the profound implications of gender in their emerg- ing ideologies and daily activities. Until the mid-1970s, when women activists forcefully began raising the issue, few activists had the ability to recognize how deeply influenced they were by the predominant norms of patriarchy within the confines of traditional Mexican cultural practices. Indeed, as with their counterparts elsewhere in the national civil-rights and antiwar movements, most male Chicano activists tended to think of themselves as the primary ac- tors in and leaders of the movement while relegating women to subordinate roles—even when women were deeply involved in every aspect of communi- ty and organizational activities. To make matters worse, when Chicana ac- tivists—like their black, white, and Asian counterparts in the other social movements—tried to raise the issue of gender inequality within the Chicano movement, they were derided as irrelevant, castigated for undermining polit- ical unity, or simply dismissed and ridiculed for mimicking white feminists. Many men in the movement strongly believed that women’s primary respon- sibilities lay in supporting the men and in reproducing Chicano/Mexican cul- ture as sexual partners, mothers, and the primary caregivers and teachers of children. Needless to say, women activists like Elizabeth “Betita” Martínez, María Varela, Enriqueta Longauex y Vásquez, Marta Cotera, and others—

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

strong willed, articulate, and independent individuals who all had extensive prior grassroots organizing experience in groups such as the Student Nonvio- lent Coordinating Committee, Students for a Democratic Society, and other frontline groups—flatly refused to tolerate such attitudes and behavior. By the early 1970s, women were not only demanding equality within movement or- ganizations (as well as their fair share of leadership positions), but, more im- portantly, had begun to develop a critique of the male-dominated movement that would resonate for years after most Chicano groups had dissolved.27

MIGRATION AND DEMOGRAPHIC CHANGE SINCE THE 1970S

In the final analysis, however, Chicano activists’ general failure to recognize the central social, cultural, and political significance of mass migration from Mexico caused by ongoing global economic restructuring probably was the most serious flaw in a politics based on notions of ethnocultural difference. As mentioned earlier, despite the cultural, linguistic, and historical affinities that have always bound ethnic Mexicans across borders, relations between Mexican Americans, Mexican immigrants in the United States, and Mexicans in Mexico have always been deeply complicated by the subtle differences that members of all these groups perceive in one another. When ethnic Mexicans’ relationships with other Latinos are considered, the issues become even more complicated. These issues were largely subsumed in the United States during the Chicano political mobilizations of the 1960s and 1970s, but such tensions were apparent even then. For example, Chicano activists’ largely unexamined chauvinistic presumption that Mexicans in the United States would some- how eventually “become” Chicanos—or that they might want to in the first place—was often viewed as an insult by both working-class and elite mexi- canos. In fact, from the point of view of many Mexicans, militant Chicanos were little more than deracinated poseurs who had already become so Amer- icanized that the claim they were making to Mexican cultural “authenticity” was absurd on its face. At best, Mexican immigrants viewed with bemuse- ment Chicano militants’ widespread adoption and use of Mexican national and cultural iconography. At worst, such performances of “culture” were viewed as an affront.28 Thus, although many Chicano militants claimed to speak for a larger ethnic Mexican (and sometimes even a larger Latino) pop- ulation, national sentiments cut many different ways, with some mexicanos identifying with Chicanos, others fiercely maintaining a strong sense of mex- icanidad (individual and collective identity as Mexicans), others aspiring to become “American,” and many others simply trying to survive and prosper in what was often a harsh environment.29

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

This type of intraethnic tension has undoubtedly become more salient fol- lowing a tenfold increase in the number of Mexican immigrants between 1970, when there were 760,000 Mexican-born residents of the United States, and 2000, when that number had exploded to almost 8.8 million.30 Overall, the combined ethnic Mexican population of both nationalities in the United States had been growing steadily from both migration and natural increase since the 1940s, but the rate of increase began to spike sharply in the late 1970s and has continued on a steep upward curve ever since. The U.S. Census esti- mated that the resident population grew at least 60 percent between 1970 and 1980—from approximately 5.4 million to 8.8 million. By 1990, the population had grown to nearly 14.5 million people.31

Population movement and expansion of this magnitude has grown out of a number of complex intersecting trends in Mexico in the United States, but the massive economic restructuring on both sides of the border occurring in the 1970s and beyond provided the main catalyst behind the tremendous migra- tions that began at this time. In the United States, economic restructuring and the beginnings of a major reorganization of the social relations of production played central roles as catalysts to hemispheric mass migration and demo- graphic flux. Corporate agriculture, construction, garment and carpet manu- facturing, and other industries that traditionally relied on Mexican labor con- tinued to draw huge numbers of both migrants and permanent immigrants from Mexico in the 1970s and 1980s, but the rapid reconfiguration of the Amer- ican economy from one based on manufacturing, heavy industry, and Cold War defense spending to one skewed more toward high technology on the upper end, and services, manual labor, and labor-intensive manufacturing in the lower strata, stimulated a massive new demand for low-skilled foreign labor. At the same time, as competition in the international marketplace in- tensified after the oil embargo of the early 1970s, multinational firms redoubled their efforts to lower labor costs by moving their production facilities to devel- oping nations, like Mexico, with lower wages and taxes, fewer unions, and more lenient environmental and occupational safety requirements. In both cases, economic restructuring of this kind had the effect of stimulating even greater rates of migration as people around the world scrambled to find work.

On the Mexican side of the equation, the foundations of the massive migra- tion of the last third of the twentieth century were laid not by an extended pe- riod of depression but, ironically, by tremendous economic growth in the postwar era. Driven by more efficient exploitation of the country’s huge oil re- serves; massive investment in national public-works projects like roads, hydro- electric power, public transit, communications systems, and irrigated agricul- ture; and by infrastructural advances in public education, rural electrification, and health care, Mexico’s economy grew at a rate comparable to that of the

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

United States between the 1940s and early 1970s. But the paradox of the ex- tended period of explosive economic growth known as the “Mexican Miracle” was that while the standard of life improved for virtually all strata of Mexican society, the Mexican model of development—a volatile blend of import sub- stitution, political patronage and cronyism, and widespread government cor- ruption—never came close to creating the number of jobs necessary to meet the needs of a population that grew from just 19 million in 1940 to more than 48 million in 1970. The result was an increasingly unstable and economically polarized situation in Mexico in which the already wide gap between the rich and the poor steadily increased. Under these circumstances, the choice faced by millions of the jobless, whether to stay in Mexico or try one’s luck in the Unit- ed States, increasingly became viewed as a matter of sheer survival.32

In the early 1980s, that sense of desperation rose even higher for millions of Mexicans. A combination of a severe contraction in the international oil mar- ket, a crushing—and increasing—national debt, protracted deficit spending by the federal government, and the general inability of the Mexican economy to absorb the hundreds of thousands of new workers who entered the workforce each year led to the eruption of an economic crisis of historic proportions. By 1982 it was conservatively estimated that 25 percent of Mexican workers were jobless and fully half the workforce was chronically underemployed. At the same time, a series of currency devaluations in 1976, 1982, and again in 1987 se- verely eroded the buying power of Mexican consumers and investors. As a re- sult, the inflation rate increased precipitously, rising from an annual rate of 60 percent in the mid-1970s, to 64 percent in 1985, 106 percent in 1986, and 159 per- cent in 1987.33 As yet another gauge of the deepening misery of ordinary Mex- icans during the 1980s, infant mortality rose, and average daily caloric intake per capita dropped for the first time since the Great Depression.34

The combination of the Mexican economic crisis of the 1980s and the sky- rocketing demand for cheap labor created by economic restructuring in the United States laid the foundations for one of the largest and most sustained human migrations in history. It would be a mistake, however, to view these developments simply in terms of the classic “push-pull” model of immigra- tion. There were obviously many factors pushing and tugging on potential immigrants in the 1980s, but one needs to keep in mind the extent to which the circulation of workers traversing an ever expanding international labor market had already become a self-sustaining and integrated element of U.S.- Mexican relations even before the bracero era of the 1940s and 1950s. The in- tensification of labor migration flows since the early 1980s should be seen as but the latest phase of the historical circulation of labor that, on one level, was occurring between two distinct and sovereign nations, but on another, per- haps even more important level, was unfolding in an increasingly integrated

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

transnational labor market.35 The structural changes of the early 1980s stimu- lated a dramatic increase in immigration to the United States, but by that time migration had already become part of a well-established social process and survival strategy for hundreds of thousands of individuals. Over many gener- ations, families in Mexico developed strong bonds of mutual dependence with communities in the United States. In fact, by utilizing lines of communication and social networks that had been laid over many years between sending com- munities in Mexico and receiving communities in the United States, the mi- grants of the 1980s and beyond were simply following well-worn paths and utilizing well-established social networks to cross the border, find work and housing, and eventually support both themselves in the United States and their dependents in Mexico. In addition, just as previous generations of both permanent immigrants and circulating migrants had sent millions of dollars of vital remittances to family, friends, and business associates in their home- towns in Mexico, the new migrants either sent or carried remittances and goods back to their home communities in even greater volume—and thus closed the circle that has historically tied hundreds of locales in Mexico to their counterparts in the United States.36

All of this occurred even after Mexico implemented and expanded pro- grams like the Border Industrialization Program (BIP), which were designed to spur the kind of domestic economic development that would forestall such massive social dislocations. The BIP, which soon became known popularly as the maquiladora program, was established in 1965 in the aftermath of the de- funct Bracero Program to encourage economic growth and employment in the immediate U.S.-Mexico border region by permitting the establishment of various kinds of assembly plants built and operated by foreign firms. Mexico hoped to attract investment and increase employment opportunities by al- lowing foreign-owned companies to take advantage of lower wages as well as relaxed labor, safety, and environmental standards. Firms from the United States, Japan, Korea, Germany, and elsewhere jumped at the chance, attract- ed by the possibility of exporting part of their production processes “offshore” to this lower-cost environment. Growing from just a few plants employing several hundred workers in the 1960s, the program exploded thereafter. By the early 1970s, the maquiladora industry had become one of Mexico’s most dy- namic economic sectors. Manufacturing everything from processed food, shoes, clothing, and furniture to auto parts, prefabricated metal and plastic products, machine tools, and electronic components, the maquiladoras have played an increasingly important role in the economies of Mexico, the Unit- ed States, and the other postindustrial nations involved. Operating with 219 plants employing just 3,000 workers in 1970, by the mid-1980s the program had grown to 680 factories employing more than 184,000 workers. By the

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

mid-1990s the program had grown to 2,200 firms employing more than 700,000 workers.37 While there have been some signs that the post–Septem- ber 11, 2001, global economic slowdown has undercut maquiladora produc- tion for the first time since the program was established, the general trend since the adoption of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) in 1994 has been the steady expansion of this sector. By 2000, maquiladora pro- duction had grown to $83 billion per year, accounting for nearly half of Mex- ico’s exports.38

The maquiladora program has been lauded by the Mexican government as a model of economic development, but as Gladys Jiménez-Muñoz and Kelvin Santiago-Valles point out in their analysis of similar programs in the Caribbean in their contribution to this volume, the expansion of maquilado- ra industries in Mexico and elsewhere in Latin America in the 1980s and 1990s tended to obscure the extent to which this kind of reorganization of produc- tion reflected much larger and more pernicious international trends. On the most basic level, the expansion of the maquiladora sector was a manifestation of U.S. companies’ more generalized practice of reducing their reliance on comparatively expensive domestic U.S. citizen labor by exporting production processes to developing nations like Mexico.39 But the rise of maquiladora in- dustries in Mexico and the expansion of similar offshore plants elsewhere in the developing world also indicated a general—and much more radical—re- arranging of the international division of labor, characterized by a dramatic increase in the number of women hired to work in these plants. Part of a larg- er historical trend that had been developing from the end of World War II, the reorganization of production processes to exploit the cheapest labor drew un- precedented numbers of young, single women into the new assembly plants. To be sure, employers also experimented with using young men in some of these jobs, but the clear trend has been the widespread use of young women in the maquiladora labor force. Since the late 1980s, the proportion of female workers in the plants has fluctuated between two-thirds to three-quarters of the work force.

Scholars remain divided about the direct long-term demographic implica- tions of this kind of transnational reorganization of production, but most agree that by attracting workers to the border region from the Mexican inte- rior, the proliferation of maquiladora industries has not only added to the skyrocketing population of Mexico’s northern tier of states, but has also con- tributed to the uprooting of women and men from traditional occupations and attachments to the land, and thus the process, at least potentially, pushes them into the internal and transnational migrant stream.40 Whether there is a direct causal relationship or not, the fact remains that as female employment in the maquiladoras increased steadily in the 1980s and 1990s, the number of

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

women and children who emigrated to the United States also exploded, in- creasing to five times the number who crossed the border in the 1970s41

DEMOGRAPHIC TRENDS SINCE THE 1980S

The combination of these almost tectonic forces intensified after the 1980s and began a fundamental transformation of the social geography on both sides of the international frontier. It is obvious that when even the lowest wages in the United States are six to seven times what can be earned in comparable occupa- tions in Mexico, migration—often through illegal, unsanctioned channels— continues to be seen as the only means of survival for millions of Mexicans. Again, however, to fully understand the dynamics of regional transnational migration and demographic change over the past two decades, it is necessary to consider these developments as part of an increasingly integrated interna- tional system of labor exploitation that encompasses both sides of the border. One of the most critical dimensions of the use of this transnational labor pool is the continuing growth and internal movement of the population of Mexico, which by June 2000 had reached nearly 100 million. The population growth rate of 1.44 percent per year has dropped precipitously from the explosive 3.4 percent growth rate of the 1960s, but even then, the Mexican economy has been unable to absorb the working-age Mexicans who enter the workforce each year. This is especially salient when one considers that fully 36 percent of the Mexi- can population was under age 15 in 2000, which means that this cohort is en- tering both the workforce and reproductive age.42

Steady population growth, the expansion of the working-age population, in- creasing poverty in Mexico, the expansion of employment opportunities in the Mexican North, and the constant circulation of hundreds of thousands of other Mexicans into and out of the constantly expanding zona fronteriza (border zone) linking the two nations have combined to reconfigure regional demo- graphics. These developments have had the clear effect of creating a huge mi- grant staging area in northern Mexico while gradually also helping to “Mexi- canize” huge expanses of U.S. national territory on the other side of the border.

These trends are readily apparent in the dynamic binational zone along the 2,100-mile U.S.-Mexico border, which is now home to a surging population of 12.3 million people—6.5 million on the U.S. side and 5.8 million in north- ern Mexico. Between 1970 and 1990, the population of Mexico’s northern tier of states (Baja California Norte, Sonora, Chihuahua, Coahuila, Nuevo León, and Tamaulipas) increased nearly 60 percent, to more than 13 million people. Population movement northward during this period also helped to intensify the “twin cities” phenomenon, which was already well advanced on both sides

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

of the border. Extending from the Pacific Coast to the Gulf Coast, the explo- sive growth of twin cities like Tijuana and San Diego (the combined popula- tions of which increased from 974,000 in 1970 to 1.8 million in 1990), Ciudad Juárez and El Paso (which grew from 730,000 to 1.3 million over the same pe- riod), and Matamoros and Brownsville (which grew from a combined popu- lation of 190,000 to 365,000) all exemplified the powerful melding of the re- gional economy and the convergence of populations along the international frontier.43 The trend continued, and in some cases intensified in the 1990s. For example, although the local birth rate among residents in Tijuana, Baja Cali- fornia, was similar to the annual rate of growth for the rest of Mexico in the 1990s, the lure of migrants to the border boomtown from elsewhere in Mexi- co contributed to a average rate of growth of 5.4 percent per year between 1990 and 2000. Together, Tijuana and Ciudad Juárez in Chihuahua, the two largest Mexican border cites, grew by an astounding 65,000 and 50,000 persons per year, respectively, throughout the decade.44

On the United States side of the international frontier, the continued ex- pansion of the service sector, a concomitant growth in the informal economy, and the unexpected opening of new entry-level assembly, food-processing, construction, and manufacturing jobs in places like Nevada, Arizona, and Col- orado, and in southern states such as Oklahoma, Arkansas, Georgia, and the Carolinas, drew millions of sanctioned and unsanctioned workers from the staging area on the border and from the Mexican interior. Census figures un- derscore the scope of the population shifts that occurred between 1990 and 2000. Overall, the aggregate ethnic Mexican population of the United States grew by nearly 53 percent in the 1990s, from 14.5 million to nearly 21 million. Of this population, almost 9 million were people born in Mexico. Although the ethnic Mexican proportion of the total national Latino population shrank a bit from 1990, when they constituted 60.4 percent of the total, in 2000 ethnic Mex- icans still represented a majority (58.5 percent) of all Latinos—and 28 percent of all immigrants in the United States. The median age of ethnic Mexicans— just 24.2 years according to census data—guarantees that even if migration rates were to slow as a result of tightened U.S. border security after September 11, 2001, the population will continue to grow appreciably for the foreseeable future. As a result of this remarkable surge in population, more than 1 in 14 of all the inhabitants of the United States now claim Mexican origin or descent.45

The most striking feature to emerge from the 2000 census, however, may be the extent to which ethnic Mexicans have dispersed in significant numbers to new regional pockets of settlement. Most continue to reside in the Southwest (half of all ethnic Mexicans in the United States still live in the two states of Cal- ifornia and Texas alone), but the trend toward dispersal that was becoming ev- ident at the end of the 1980s had accelerated by 2000. Traditional destinations

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

in the West continue to attract Mexican workers, but the rate of growth has cooled a bit from the 1970s and 1980s. Between 1990 and 2000, California and Texas’s Mexican immigrant population grew by 35 and 47 percent, respective- ly. But other western states’ rates of growth far exceeded the two Southwestern giants. For example, the Latino populations (again, which were overwhelm- ingly Mexican) of Arizona, Colorado, and Nevada jumped 53, 58, and an as- tonishing 300 percent, respectively, in the decade. Rates of growth outside the Southwest were even more spectacular. Latino populations in the American South, which are also predominantly of Mexican origin, grew by leaps and bounds during the 1990s. Drawn to work in agriculture, food processing, meat and poultry packing, and textile and carpet manufacturing, and fleeing from what has become a hypercompetitive job market along the border, Latino pop- ulations doubled in the states of Mississippi and Virginia, tripled in Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, and South Carolina, and more than quadrupled in North Carolina. The 2000 census revealed similarly large increases in the Midwest (es- pecially in Nebraska, Indiana, Illinois, Ohio, and Iowa), where the Latino pop- ulation more than doubled.46

Thus, in summary, over the past decade the trend included slower but still steady population growth in existing Mexican population centers combined with explosive growth in new ones well away from the border. As existing bar- rios such as those in greater Los Angeles (which was 47 percent Latino in 2000), Tucson (36 percent), El Paso (77 percent), San Antonio (59 percent), and Chicago (26 percent) all expanded, new ones were created in a broad ex- panse of territory stretching from California’s great central valley through Nevada, Utah, and Colorado, and all the way to the Brownsville- Harlingen–San Benito metropolitan area on the Texas Gulf Coast. In addi- tion, New York City, whose Latino cultural landscape has long been domi- nated by Puerto Ricans and Dominicans, saw an influx in the 1990s whereby the ethnic Mexican population swelled to almost 200,000.47 By 2000, major cities on or near the border had all experienced even higher densities of Lati- no residents, and again, of course, most were of Mexican descent.48 More in- triguingly, significant numbers of Mexican migrants began to leave the border region for more distant destinations where Mexicans had seldom been seen before, including the Pacific Northwest (and Alaska, where more than 45,000 ethnic Mexicans live), the industrial Midwest, and the American South. De- cennial increases in places as different as Salt Lake City and Kansas City (up 133 percent and 105 percent, respectively, between 1990 and 2000), Seattle, Washington, and Grand Rapids, Michigan (up 105 percent and 136 percent), and Portland, Oregon, and Minneapolis–St. Paul, Minnesota (up 175 percent and 162 percent), underscore just how dramatic both ethnic Mexican popula- tion growth and dispersal have been in the 1990s. The fact that the top five

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

highest decennial percentage increases in Latino populations all occurred in areas not previously known to be destinations for significant numbers of Lati- nos (ranging from an astounding 694 percent in Greensboro, North Carolina, to 262 percent in Las Vegas, Nevada) offers further evidence of the depth of the demographic shifts that have unfolded in recent years.49

SOCIAL AND CULTURAL IMPLICATIONS: AN UNCERTAIN FUTURE

Given the contradictory forces at work in this rapidly changing social and cul- tural environment, it is difficult to predict the future trajectory of the ethnic Mexican population in the United States. On the one hand, it is clear that the people who are already in the United States are very likely to stay—and con- sequently will continue to change American society in unexpected ways. In new places of settlement—especially in the U.S. South—the long term effect of new cultural actors in a social setting previously defined by the polarity be- tween the black and white populations remains to be seen. Whatever occurs, southern cities may provide, for good or ill, a template for intercultural and interracial relations in the twenty-first century.

Nationally, the combination of the intertwined processes of massive demo- graphic flux, economic restructuring, and the steady expansion of Latino do- mestic consumer spending to at least $560 billion per year as of 2001 has al- ready radically transformed the social and cultural landscape of the United States to the extent that some regions of the country resemble places in Mex- ico. As predominantly Mexican neighborhoods have expanded in communi- ties that already had sizable Mexican and Latino populations, the ethnic in- frastructure that services these populations has grown apace. In traditional places of ethnic Mexican settlement in the border regions, like San Antonio, El Paso, Albuquerque, Tucson, and Los Angeles, existing belts of restaurants and bars, panaderias and carnicerias, nightclubs and dance halls, Roman Catholic parishes and storefront Protestant iglesias have all grown and become as ubiquitous as McDonald’s restaurants—distinctive features on the Ameri- can landscape.

At a less visible and yet no less important level, the demographic transfor- mation of U.S. national territory has also begun to exert obvious changes in patterns of cultural expression and cultural exchange in the United States. Of course, cultural syncretism has been a prominent feature in zones of Ameri- can/Mexican interaction since the early nineteenth century, but, until recent- ly, the predominance of non-Mexicans in the demographic mix tended to push Mexican cultural practices to the margins of American society. This is

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

clearly no longer the case. Over the past twenty years, the growth of the eth- nic Mexican population (in most cases in concert with other Latino groups) in locales across the Southwest and Midwest, and now into the South, has cre- ated a new social dynamic characterized by new forms of cultural expression and everyday practice. Examples of such shifts include the realm of the prosa- ic, such as the circulation of Mexican comic books and scandal sheets, the growing audiences for scandalous Mexican telenovelas (soap operas), the es- tablishment of Mexican weekend soccer leagues, the proliferation of restau- rants featuring regional Mexican cuisine, and nightclubs catering to regional Mexican and Latino musical and dance forms such as música norteña, conjun- to, roc en español, and salsa. But they also include the expansion of less visible but no less important complex cultural institutions such as compadrazgo (ex- tended fictive kinship networks of godparents) and the growing observance in ethnic Mexican families of traditional rites of passage such as the quinceañera, a celebration that simultaneously marks a young girl’s “coming of age” on her fifteenth birthday and a pledge to chastity until marriage.

These are but a few of the examples of the extent to which a deeply rooted bilingual, multinational cultural matrix has emerged and matured in the United States since the 1970s. As Frances Aparacio and Pierrette Hondagneu- Sotelo note in their contributions to this volume, there are many more exam- ples of this. Among the most spectacular is the explosive growth of Spanish- language broadcast media. Spanish-language recording studios, radio programming, and film production have been important parts of the social landscape of the U.S.-Mexico borderlands for most of the twentieth century, but the recent demographic transformation of the United States has stimulat- ed unprecedented growth in this sector of cultural expression and production. In 1974, for example, 55 American radio stations broadcast in Spanish at least half the time, and another 425 broadcast in Spanish less than half time. By 1980, these numbers had grown modestly to 64 and 436, respectively. By 1991, however, 185 AM stations and 68 FM stations were broadcasting full time in Spanish, and another 300 stations were broadcasting in Spanish for at least several hours each week.50 By 2000, the number of radio stations offering full time Spanish-language programming had jumped to 533, and the top-rated radio shows in both the massive New York and Los Angeles radio markets were in Spanish. Broadcasting everything from radio evangelism, talk shows, and infomercials, to music formats including salsa, conjunto, ranchera, tech- nobanda, and roc en español, it is likely that this upward trend will continue into the foreseeable future.51

Spanish-language print media and television broadcasting have also experi- enced dramatic upward trends. It is estimated that the Spanish-language press in the United States expanded from 355 to 550 dailies and weeklies between

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

1990 and 2000, an increase of more than 55 percent. Latino magazines (which are published in English, Spanish, and bilingual formats) showed similarly dramatic rates of growth from about 177 titles in 1990 to at least 352 in 2000. Over the same period, the number of Spanish-language or bilingual broadcast television stations jumped 70 percent to 53—and this number does not in- clude cable or satellite outlets. The growth of Spanish and bilingual media outlets reflects more than simply an increasing demand for reading material, news, and entertainment in the burgeoning pan-Latino population. It also demonstrates a growing awareness among corporate advertisers of the steady growth of the Latino consumer market. At the level of Spanish-language print media alone, sponsors spent more than $253 million in 2000, an increase of 207 percent from a decade earlier. Overall, expenditures among the top sixty advertisers targeting Latino consumers topped $2.2 billion in 2001.52

In the realm of politics, powerful changes have also been evident over the past decade. As Louis DeSipio points out in his contribution to this volume, one of the most important developments stemming from these recent socioe- conomic trends has been the steadily increasing level to which Mexican Amer- icans and other Americans of Latino descent are participating in American electoral politics. Since the mid-1990s, unprecedented numbers of ethnic Mexicans and other Latinos have applied for naturalization, registered to vote, and gone to the polls to make their voices heard. Latinos together made up only 5.2 percent of the American electorate in 1998. That rose to 7 percent in the 2000 elections, and voter participation is expected to continue to rise. These numbers are being brought to bear in halls of power across the politi- cal spectrum. Whereas there were only about 1,400 elected and appointed Latino officials in the U.S. in 1973, this number had grown to nearly 3,800 by 1989. By 1994 the number had grown to more than 5,400.53 In places like Cal- ifornia and Texas, the rise in Mexican American and Latino political influence has been even more striking. For example, in the 2000 elections in California, Latino candidates picked up 4 more seats in the state assembly to bring their total to 20 (compared to only 4 in 1991), which means that Latinos now hold 25 percent of all seats in the lower house of the legislature. In contrast, African Americans have only four members in the lower house.54

As impressive as these gains have been, however, one should be extremely cautious about drawing uncritical conclusions about the future trajectory of ethnic Mexicans in American society. At the level of politics, while it is true that ethnic Mexicans and other Latinos have recently begun to get more in- volved in electoral politics, increasing political involvement must be seen at least in part as a defensive reaction to what is widely perceived as a negative political environment symbolized, most notably, by the passage of California’s Proposition 187 in 1994, federal welfare-reform legislation in 1996, and the

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

continuing national debate over language issues in the United States. While there is no question that the ongoing demographic revolution has in some in- stances helped to increase multicultural awareness and appreciation in some sectors of American society, the fierce and sometimes violent backlashes that have erupted against Mexicans, Latinos, and other immigrants—even before the events of September 11, 2001—provide an indication of the continuing tension that the presence of large numbers of immigrants has stimulated and is likely to continue to produce in the future.55 It is also important to note that while voter registration rates and the number of Latinos actually voting are rising, ethnic Mexicans and Latinos still represent small political minorities, even in states where their populations are largest, ranging from a national high of 33 percent of the electorate in New Mexico to only 9 percent in the states of New York, Florida, Colorado, and New Jersey. The point is further il- lustrated when one notes that the Latino percentage of registered voters in the Southwestern giants of California, Arizona, and Texas are only 16, 10, and 19 percent, respectively.56 Moreover, given the youth, low level of education, lack of English-language proficiency, and noncitizen status of much of the ethnic Mexican and larger pan-Latino population, very few actually participate in American electoral politics. According to latest census estimates, nationwide in 1998, only 33 percent of Latinos reported that they registered to vote, and only 20 percent reported actually voting in that year’s elections.57 Given the dispersal of ethnic Mexicans and other Latinos into new areas of the South, Midwest, and Northwest, where their proportional numbers are even smaller, the question remains as to whether these social laboratories will produce ex- amples of new “melting pots,” or whether the class and cultural differences that currently divide Latinos from resident white—and black—residents will spark a whole new series of racial, cultural, and class tensions.

The precarious socioeconomic profile of the ethnic Mexican population should also give one pause about the extent to which a kind of benign multi- culturalism is inevitably changing American society for the better. It should also raise serious questions about blithe predictions that it is only a matter of time before ethnic Mexicans will “assimilate” into the “mainstream.” Some commentators, notably journalist Gregory Rodríguez, political pundit Linda Chávez, political scientist Peter Skerry, and others have argued that the emer- gence of a vital and growing Mexican American (and Latino) middle class over the past quarter century provides evidence that ethnic Mexicans are well on the way to replicating the upward path of previous immigrant groups like the Irish and Italians on their way to “becoming Americans.”58 And to a cer- tain extent they have a case. According to data from the 2000 Census, a sig- nificant middle class has in fact emerged among U.S.-born Mexican Ameri- cans. In Texas and California, the states with the highest concentrations of

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

long-term ethnic Mexican residents, the emergence of a sizable middle class stratum has been even more pronounced.59

These important trends should not be ignored in any analysis of the ethnic Mexican population, but it is also crucial to consider such data in context be- cause, as promising as these trends are to some observers, the fact remains that the overwhelming majority of ethnic Mexicans of both nationalities continue to toil in the bottom rungs of the American economy. Of course, the most ob- vious reason for this kind of skewing is the massive influx of undereducated and underskilled Mexican workers over the past twenty years. On the most obvious level, Mexican immigrants enter the country with levels of social cap- ital (such as education, job skills, and English-language proficiency) that are lower than virtually any other identifiable national group. For example, in 1990, three-fourths of all Mexican immigrants had not completed high school and only 3.5 percent of all Mexican immigrants had attended college. Given this profile, it not surprising that the incomes of nearly 30 percent of the Mex- ican immigrant population placed them below the poverty line.

But as important as recent immigrants are in exerting downward pressure on Latino social and economic indicators, it is also critical to recognize just how drastically the larger socioeconomic context of the reception of immi- grants has changed in the United States over the past forty years—a point that Jiménez-Muñoz and Santiago-Valles pursue forcefully in the chapter that fol- lows. Migration clearly continues to serve as a safety valve for Mexico’s un- employed, but the biggest difference recent immigrants face in the reconfig- ured U.S. economy is the changing nature of the job market and the larger opportunity structure they now face—and likely will face in the future. Whereas Mexican Americans and transnational Mexican migrants in the postwar era could reasonably expect to experience significant upward occu- pational mobility over the course of their working lifetimes due to the avail- ability of relatively high-paying skilled blue-collar jobs, after the mid-1970s, the structure of both the regional economy and the global economy changed to the extent that this was no longer the case for an increasing number of poor immigrants and their children.60 Today, Mexican immigrants enter a rapidly polarizing, tiered economy characterized by the simultaneous expansion at the top of highly skilled technical and professional jobs for highly educated people; the steady shrinkage in the number of semiskilled and skilled jobs in the manufacturing sector in the middle; and a dramatic expansion of semi- skilled and unskilled occupations in the lowest echelons of the economy, par- ticularly in the agricultural, service, garment-manufacturing, and basic as- sembly sectors, and especially in “casual” labor of all kinds—the low-end, part-time, and temporary work that has been an ever increasing part of the American economy since the 1970s.61 Another important characteristic of the

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

current period is the simultaneous expansion of “informal” activities at the bottom of the economy. The expansion of the informal economy (that is, both licit and illicit income-generating activities that operate largely outside the regulatory control of agents of the state) include smuggling and drug traf- ficking and an entire panoply of small scale “off-the-books” economic activi- ties ranging from recycling, street vending and entertainment, house cleaning, and baby sitting, to gardening, landscaping, and nursery work, and casual day labor on construction sites.62

Given the powerful correlation between education and job skill levels and earnings potential, it is not surprising that in the context of this kind of po- larized restructuring of the U.S. job market and larger shifts in the global economy, aggregate income levels for ethnic Mexicans (again, of both na- tionalities) have actually declined since the 1970s. Whereas mean household income for ethnic Mexicans had crept up slightly from $37,891 in 1979 to $38,741 in 1989, by 1999, the combination of a changing economy and mass migration had helped to erode this figure to $36,923.63 In California, where the largest concentrations of ethnic Mexicans continue to live—and where nearly 16 percent of the state’s population are noncitizens—the process of in- come and wealth polarization has been even more intense. Whereas in 1980 the top 5 percent of taxpayers (those earning at least $150,000 per year) re- ceived about 20 percent of the state’s total personal income, by 2000 the top 5 percent now earned 42 percent of personal income. For immigrants, the trend worked in reverse. In a state where a third of all the immigrants in the United States live and nearly 40 percent of all Mexican immigrants reside, the hourly wages of the bottom 70 percent of the labor force have steadily de- creased since the late 1970s.64

For many of the same reasons, poverty rates among Mexican immigrants and their children continue also to be alarmingly high. Although poverty na- tionwide dropped approximately 17 percent between 1993 and 2000, current- ly nearly 26 percent of all Mexican immigrants continue to live below the poverty line, and more than half have no form of health insurance. But the dire straits of so many immigrants represent only part of the story. More gen- erally, economic restructuring in the United States has accelerated the bifur- cation of the economy between a highly educated, highly skilled, and highly paid sector at the top and an increasingly dispossessed workforce at the bot- tom. Nationwide, this generalized polarization has resulted in a situation in which the bottom two quintiles of workers have actually seen their wages erode over the past twenty years.65

More ominously, recent research indicates that because of the cumulative, cascading effects of these structural changes, the children and grandchildren of immigrants may well be inheriting the disadvantaged structural position of

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

their forebears. According to a study published by the Public Policy Institute of California, first-generation immigrants earned from 61 to 86 percent less than did non-Hispanic white Californians in 1999. Second-generation Mexi- can Americans were found to have 35 percent higher wages than their parents, but the third generation was shown to have not improved on the second, and on average earned 25 percent less than did non-Hispanic whites.66 Of course, the daunting challenges that working-class ethnic Mexicans face have been ex- acerbated by the general erosion of the American public school system. As a result of the combination of deeply rooted patterns of “white flight” from inner cities to suburbs and the tendency of new immigrants to cluster in low- income residential areas, Latinos—and ethnic Mexicans in particular—are now the most educationally segregated students in the United States.67 Ac- cording to one important Harvard University study, between 1968 and 1995, the proportion of Latino students who attended schools whose student body comprised mainly minority students increased from less than 55 percent to 74 percent. Over the same period, the proportion of Latino students who at- tended hypersegregated schools that were 90–100 percent Latino increased from 23 percent to almost 35 percent.68 These patterns of increasing segrega- tion have had a series of serious interlocking cascading effects. At the most ob- vious level, since school funding is often tied to property taxes, and property taxes to local property values, schools in impoverished areas tend to be com- paratively underfunded and situated in blighted, high-crime areas. In turn, these characteristics have made classroom conditions so difficult—and dan- gerous—that many school districts have been compelled to offer what amounts to “combat pay” to young teachers willing to take on the monu- mental task of simply trying to reach and teach inner-city Latino students under extremely trying circumstances.

These conditions have given rise to a number of troubling trends among the ethnic Mexican and Latino students who are trapped in such school en- vironments. Although some students, with the support of their families, are able to exert the herculean effort it takes to overcome such constraints and continue their postsecondary educations, a great many others become so- cialized in underachievement and failure. In effect, such students, who often enter the education system with high hopes and aspirations, eventually suc- cumb to the culture of underachievement and social alienation present both in their schools and their home environments. Recent research indicates that the result for too many immigrant and native children of Mexican descent or heritage has been a long slide into a downward spiral in which their life op- portunities are constrained by the limits of their existence on the far margins of society, as underemployed high school dropouts, teenage mothers and fa- thers, or prisoners. As sociologists Alejandro Portes and Rubén Rumbaut

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

have noted of this process in their sweeping recent study of the children of immigrants:

Recently arrived immigrants confront these features of life in American cities as a fait accompli conditioning their own and their children’s chances for success. Because of their poverty, many immigrants settle in close prox- imity to urban ghetto areas. In this environment, they and their families are often exposed to norms of behavior inimical to upward mobility as well as to an adversarial stance that justifies these behaviors. For second- generation youths, the clash of expectations is particularly poignant when the messages that education does not pay and that discrimination prevents people of color from ever succeeding are conveyed by native peers of the same race or ethnic origin.69

At very least, such patterns over several generations suggest a troubling pat- tern of nonintegration among significant segments of the ethnic Mexican population of both nationalities. The chronic problem of the emergence of oppositional subcultures like inner-city gangs and the tremendous expansion of Mexican and Latino incarceration over the past two decades are yet more indications that these sectors of the population may well be trapped in the process Portes and his colleagues call “segmented assimilation”—that is, a process in which immigrants enter a depressed segment of the socioeconom- ic structure and tend to languish there over time. Although previous genera- tions of immigrants entered similar segments, the difference now appears to be the extent to which immigrants stay there and—because of a whole series of virtually impenetrable socioeconomic “ceilings”—pass on their disadvan- taged position to their children.70

Whether the socially pathological environment described by Portes, Rum- baut, and other scholars continues to dominate the lives of working-class eth- nic Mexicans of both nationalities in the coming years and decades is a ques- tion that will undoubtedly become an increasingly important issue not only to the growing ethnic Mexican population in the United States, but to all the in- habitants of both sides of the international frontier. Again, the social progno- sis on this pressing question is unclear. On the one hand, despite the deep un- certainties generated by the events of September 11, 2001, there is very little evidence that the kind of global economic developments that stimulated mass international population movements in the first place are going to change ap- preciably any time soon. The momentum that has so inextricably combined the U.S. and Mexican economies over the past four decades shows no signs of abating. If those trends continue in the region and in the overarching inter- national economy, it is likely that employers on both sides of the border will

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

continue to seek to exploit the services of the ever-expanding pool of disen- franchised transnational workers.

And even if the events of September 11 do result in a permanent tightening of border controls, the rapid growth of the native ethnic Mexican population, combined with the presence of millions of ethnic Mexicans, their children, and their children’s children on both sides of an increasingly integrated frontier zone will continue to present a vast social issue that will demand increasing in- ternational attention in the coming years. Still, at the same time, there are few signs that Americans yet view the explosive growth of the ethnic Mexican and greater Latino population with the sense of urgency that is so deeply felt in Mexico, in greater Latin America, and in expanding barrios across the United States. Whether the inhabitants of these communities are able to carve out a meaningful existence anywhere in the Western Hemisphere, or are socialized into what may well become a permanent underclass of marginalized, disaffect- ed, and socially disenfranchised people is a critical question at the beginning of the twenty-first century—and will remain so for the foreseeable future.

NOTES

1. In this essay, I employ the term “ethnic Mexicans” to refer to the combined popu-

lation in the United States of people of Mexican descent or heritage, regardless of

their actual nationality or citizenship status. When referring to Mexican immi-

grants or migrants I use the terms “Mexican,” “Mexican national,” or simply “mex-

icano.” When referring to American citizens of Mexican descent, I use the term

“Mexican American,” except in cases where I utilize the term “Chicano,” which de-

notes a Mexican American who has adopted a certain political positioning and

sense of identity distinct from both Mexicans from Mexico and Mexican Ameri-

cans in the United States. I hope that the text of the essay will make clear the sig-

nificance of these different types of self-referents.

2. For thought-provoking discussions of the recent “Latinization” of the American

South, see, for example, Esther Schrader, “Widening the Field of Workers,” Los An-

geles Times, 26 August 1999; Leah Beth Ward, “North Carolina’s Trade in Foreign

Farm Workers Draws Scrutiny,” Charlotte Observer, 30 October 1999; Hector

Tobar, “Living La Vida Buena in Georgia,” Los Angeles Times, 29 December 1999;

and Toni Lepeska and Ron Maxey, “Hispanics and Asians Changing Face of Mem-

phis,” The Commercial Appeal (Memphis, Tenn.), 1 January 2000.

3. For discussion of the establishment of these satellite populations, see Dionicio

Nodín Valdés, Al Norte: Agricultural Workers in the Great Lakes Region, 1917–1970

(Austin: University of Texas Press, 1991); Valdés, Barrios Norteños: St. Paul and

Midwestern Mexican Communities in the Twentieth Century (Austin: University of

Texas Press, 2000); and Zaragosa Vargas, Proletarians of the North: A History of

Mexican Industrial Workers in Detroit and the Midwest, 1917–1933 (Berkeley: Uni-

versity of California Press, 1993).

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

4. Accurately enumerating the ethnic Mexican population of the United States has al-

ways been a controversial issue. Because the U.S. Census Bureau constantly

changed both its population categories and its enumerating techniques, historical

demographers have been forced to estimate population trends over time. For pop-

ulation estimates and discussion of the statistical challenges involved in enumerat-

ing historic populations of ethnic Mexicans, see Charles Teller, ed., Cuantos Somos:

A Demographic Study of the Mexican American Population, (Austin: Center for

Mexican American Studies, University of Texas Press, 1977); Frank D. Bean and

Marta Tienda, The Hispanic Population of the United States (New York: Russell Sage

Foundation, 1987); and Myron Guttman, W. Parker Frisbie, and K. Stephen Blan-

chard, “A New Look at the Hispanic Population of the United States in 1910,” His-

torical Methods 32, no. 1 (winter 1999): 5–19.

5. These population increases occurred despite another major repatriation campaign,

“Operation Wetback,” conducted by the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Ser-

vice (INS) in 1954. According to INS statistics, at least one million Mexicans were

compelled to return to Mexico during this period. For discussion, see Juan Ramón

García, Operation Wetback: The Mass Deportation of Mexican Undocumented Work-

ers in 1954 (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1980).

6. From Richard Griswold del Castillo and Arnoldo De León, North to Aztlán: A His-

tory of Mexican Americans in the United States (New York: Twayne Publishers,

1996), 126, table 8.1.

7. For an excellent discussion of the persistence of these transnational ties, see Robert

R. Alvarez Jr., Familia: Migration and Adaptation in Baja and Alta California,

1800–1975 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987).

8. Leo Grebler, Joan W. Moore, and Ralph C. Guzmán, The Mexican American Peo-

ple: The Nation’s Second Largest Minority (New York: Free Press, 1970), 30.

9. Mario Barrera, Race and Class in the Southwest: A Theory of Racial Inequality (Notre

Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1979), 131; Vernon M. Briggs, Walter

Fogel, and Fred H. Schmidt, The Chicano Worker (Austin: University of Texas Press,

1977), 43–77.

10. Vernon M. Briggs, Walter Fogel, and Fred H. Schmidt, The Chicano Worker

(Austin: University of Texas Press, 1977), 76.

11. For examples of these early observations, see Paul S. Taylor, An American-Mexican

Frontier: Nueces County, Texas (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press,

1934); Emory Bogardus, The Mexican in the United States, University of Southern

California Social Science Series, no. 8 (Los Angeles: University of Southern Cali-

fornia, 1934); Manuel Gamio, Mexican Immigration to the United States: A Study of

Human Migration and Adjustment (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1930);

and Ernesto Galarza, “Mexicans in the Southwest: A Culture in Process,” in Plural

Society in the Southwest, ed. Edward H. Spicer and Raymond H. Thompson (New

York: Weatherhead Foundation, 1972), 261–97.

12. For perceptive analyses of the conflicting pulls young Mexican Americans felt in

their encounters with American consumer culture see, Vicki L. Ruiz, “ ‘Star Struck’:

Acculturation, Adolescence, and the Mexican American Woman, 1920–1950,” in

Building with Our Hands: New Directions in Chicana Studies, ed. Adela de la Torre

and Beatríz M. Pesquera (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 109–29;

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

Manuel Peña, The Texas-Mexican Conjunto: History of a Working-Class Music

(Austin: University of Texas Press, 1985); José E. Limón, American Encounters:

Greater Mexico, The United States, and the Erotics of Culture (Boston: Beacon Press,

1998); Matt García, A World of Its Own: Race, Labor, and Citrus in the Making of

Greater Los Angeles, 1900–1970 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press,

2002); and Marilyn Gardner, “New Country, Old Customs,” Christian Science

Monitor, 9 August 2000.

13. See Pierrette Hondagneu-Sotelo, “Overcoming Patriarchal Constraints: The Re-

construction of Gender Relations among Mexican Immigrant Women and Men,”

Gender and Society 6, no. 3 (September 1992): 393–415; and Hondagneu-Sotelo,

chapter 7 of this volume.

14. For discussion of the dynamics of social alienation among ethnic Mexican youth,

see Joan W. Moore, Homeboys: Gangs, Drugs, and Prison in the Barrios of Los Ange-

les (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1978); Martín Sánchez Jankowshi, City

Bound: Urban Life and Political Attitudes Among Chicano Youth (Albuquerque:

University of New Mexico Press, 1986); and James Diego Vigil, A Rainbow of Gangs:

Street Cultures in the Mega-City (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2002).

15. Until fairly recently, naturalization rates among Mexican nationals were among the

lowest of any identifiable population, ranging from only about 26 percent in 1950

(compared to a rate of 74 percent for all other nationality groups) to 14 percent in

1994. Although Mexicans represented by far the largest single immigrant group by

nationality between the 1960s and 1990s, they accounted for only 7.5 percent of all

naturalizations over that period. For discussion, see Elliott R. Barkan, And Still

They Come: Immigrants and American Society, 1920 to the 1990s (Wheeling, Ill.: Har-

lan Davidson, 1996), 106–7, 211; and Leo Grebler, “The Naturalization of Mexican

Immigrants in the United States,” International Migration Review 1, no. 1 (autumn

1966): 17–32.

16. For good historical overviews of ethnic Mexican political involvement through this

period see, Miguel David Tirado, “Mexican American Community Political Orga-

nization: The Key to Chicano Political Power,” Aztlán 1 (1970): 53–78; and Juan

Gómez-Quiñones, Chicano Politics: Reality and Promise, 1940–1990 (Albuquerque:

University of New Mexico Press, 1990). For an incisive recent examination of the

contradictions involved in Mexican American activism during this era, see Stephen

J. Pitti, The Devil in Silicon Valley: Race, Mexican Americans, and Northern Califor-

nia (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2002).

17. For discussion of these efforts see, Guadalupe San Miguel Jr., Let All of Them Take

Heed: Mexican Americans and the Campaign for Educational Equality in Texas,

1910–1981 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1987); and San Miguel, Brown, Not

White: School Integration and the Chicano Movement in Texas (College Station,

Tex.: Texas A&M Press, 2001).

18. For compelling recent discussions of political developments outside the South-

west, see, for example, Dionicio Nodín Valdés, Al Norte: Agricultural Workers in

the Great Lakes Region, 1917–1970 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1991); Valdés,

Barrios Norteños: St. Paul and Midwestern Mexican Communities in the Twentieth

Century (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2000); and Marc S. Rodríguez,

“Obreros Unidos: Migration, Migrant Farm Workers’ Activism, and the Chicano

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

Movement in Wisconsin and Texas, 1950–1980,” (Ph.D. diss., Northwestern Uni-

versity, 2000).

19. See Peter Nabakov, Tijerina and the Courthouse Raid (Albuquerque: University of

New Mexico Press, 1969); and Reies López Tijerina, They Called Me “King Tiger”:

My Struggle for the Land and Our Rights (Houston: Arte Público Press, 2000).

20. For good discussions of political events in Texas in the 1960s and 1970s, see Arnol-

do De León, Mexican Americans in Texas: A Brief History (Arlington Heights, Ill.:

Harlan Davidson, 1993), 122–35; and Armando Navarro, Mexican American Youth

Organization: Avant-Garde of the Chicano Movement in Texas (Austin: University

of Texas Press, 1995). See also Marc S. Rodríguez, “Obreros Unidos: Migration, Mi-

grant Farm Workers’ Activism, and the Chicano Movement in Wisconsin and

Texas, 1950–1980,” (Ph.D. diss., Northwestern University, 2000).

21. The shift from “Mexican American” to “Chicano” as a political self-referent during

this period was analogous to the shift from “Negro” to “Black” among young

African Americans at about the same time. For the significance of the school walk-

outs, see Juan Gómez-Quiñones, Mexican Students por La Raza: The Chicano Stu-

dent Movement in Southern California, 1967–1977 (Santa Barbara, Calif.: Editorial La

Causa, 1978); Dolores Delgado Bernal, “Grassroots Leadership Reconceptualized:

Chicana Oral Histories and the 1968 East Los Angeles School Blowouts,” Frontiers

19, no. 2 (1998): 113–42; and Ian Haney López, “Protest, Repression, and Race: Legal

Violence and the Chicano Movement,” University of Pennsylvania Law Review 150,

no. 1 (November 2001): 205–45.

22. The best single-volume analyses of these events remain Carlos Muñoz Jr., Youth,

Identity, and Power: The Chicano Movement (London: Verso, 1989); and Gómez-

Quiñones, Chicano Politics.

23. The best studies of the rise and demise of LRUP are Ignacio García, United We Win:

The Rise and Fall of the Raza Unida Party (Tucson: MASRC, University of Arizona

Press, 1989); and Armando Navarro, La Raza Unida Party: A Chicano Challenge to

the U.S. Two-Party Dictatorship (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2000).

24. Indeed, after years in which Mexican Americans had successfully fended off gov-

ernment efforts to define them as “non-white,” in 1970 MALDEF activists in Texas

were able to convince a federal district court to rule in Cisneros v. Corpus Christi In-

dependent School District (a ruling later upheld on appeal by the U.S. Supreme

Court) that Mexican Americans constituted an “identifiable ethnic minority with a

past pattern of discrimination” and thus were eligible for special federal protections

and redress. The ruling proved useful in the fight against segregation, but it also

had the paradoxical effect of “racializing” ethnic Mexicans in a new if largely unin-

tentional way. For brief discussions of this important case, see Guadalupe San

Miguel Jr., Let All of Them Take Heed: Mexican Americans and the Campaign for Ed-

ucational Equality in Texas, 1910–1981 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1987); and

Arnoldo De León, Mexican Americans in Texas: A Brief History (Arlington Heights,

Ill.: Harlan Davidson, 1993), 120–21.

25. For an insightful recent analysis of the rise and decline of the Chicano movement

in an important site, see Ernesto Chávez, Mi Raza Primero! (My People First!): Na-

tionalism, Identity, and Insurgency in the Chicano Movement in Los Angeles,

1966–1978 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002).

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

26. See, for example, Laura M. Padilla, “ ‘But You’re Not a Dirty Mexican’: Internalized

Oppression, Latinos, and Law,” Texas Hispanic Journal of Law & Policy 7, no. 1 (fall

2001): 59–113.

27. For discussion of Chicana feminist responses to sexism in the movement—and in

the ethnic Mexican community at large—see Alma García, Chicana Feminist

Thought: The Basic Historical Writings (New York: Routledge, 1997); and Paula

Moya, “Chicana Feminism and Postmodernist Theory” Signs 26, no. 2 (2001):

441–83. For a more general overview of some of the gendered dimensions and con-

tradictions of the movement, see Ramón A. Gutiérrez, “Community, Patriarchy,

and Individualism: The Politics of Chicano History and the Dream of Equality,”

American Quarterly 45 (March 1993): 44–72.

28. For discussion of some of the most important of these intraethnic conflicts, see

Tatcho Mindiola and Max Martínez, eds., Chicano-Mexicano Relations (Houston:

Mexican American Studies Program, University of Houston, 1986); and David G.

Gutiérrez, Walls and Mirrors: Mexican Americans, Mexican Immigrants, and the Pol-

itics of Ethnicity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995).

29. For explication of this theme see David G. Gutiérrez, “Migration, Emergent Eth-

nicity, and the ‘Third Space’: The Shifting Politics of Nationalism in Greater Mex-

ico,” Journal of American History 86, no. 2 (September 1999): 481–517.

30. Robin Fields, “’90s Saw a Tide of New People,” Los Angeles Times, 6 August 2001.

31. It should be noted, however, that some of the population increases that have been

recorded since the 1970s are due to more sophisticated and accurate enumeration

techniques.

32. For discussion of the impact of the period of postwar economic growth known as

“Mexican Miracle,” see Roger D. Hansen, The Politics of Mexican Development

(Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1971); and Colin M. MacLachlan and

William H. Beezeley, El Gran Pueblo: A History of Greater Mexico, 2d ed., (Upper

Saddle River, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1999), 382–420.

33. Michael C. Meyer and William L. Sherman, The Course of Mexican History, 5th ed.

(New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 678–88.

34. Dale Hathaway, Allies Across the Border: Mexico’s “Authentic Labor Front” and

Global Solidarity (Cambridge, Mass.: South End Press, 2000), 112.

35. For an insightful historical analysis of these trends over the course of the century,

see Raul A. Fernández and Gilbert González, “Chicano History: Transcending Cul-

tural Models,” Pacific Historical Review 63, no. 4 (1994): 469–97.

36. It is estimated that remittances sent to Mexico from nationals in the United States

increased from less than $3 billion in 1990 to more than $6 billion in 2000. Before

the events of September 11, 2001, Mexican expatriates in the United States were send-

ing $750 million per month—and were thus on a pace to remit more than $9 billion

to their communities in Mexico. Only international oil sales generated more foreign

exchange. See Chris Kraul, “Mexican Immigrants Sending More Money Home,” Los

Angeles Times, 24 September 2001. For larger contextual discussions of transnation-

al networks and the dynamics involved in migration circuits between the two coun-

tries, see Alejandro Portes and Robert L. Bach, Latin Journey: Cuban and Mexican

Immigrants in the United States (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985); Dou-

glas Massey, Rafael Alarcón, Jorge Durand, and Humberto González, Return to

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

Aztlán: The Social Process of International Migration from Western Mexico (Berkeley:

University of California Press, 1987); Roger Rouse, “Mexican Migration and the So-

cial Space of Postmodernism,” Disapora 1, no. 1 (1991): 8–23; and Bryan R. Roberts,

Reanne Frank, and Fernando Lozano-Ascencio, “Transnational Migrant Commu-

nities and Mexican Migration to the United States,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 22, no.

2 (March 1999): 238–267. Overall, immigrants in the United States remit to friends

and family abroad at least $30 billion each year. See, Susan Sachs, “Immigrants Fac-

ing Strict New Controls On Cash Sent Home,” New York Times, 12 November 2002.

37. Colin M. MacLachlan and William H. Beezeley, El Gran Pueblo: A History of

Greater Mexico, 2d ed., (Upper Saddle River, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1999), 460; David

E. Lorey, The U.S.-Mexican Border in the Twentieth Century (Wilmington, Del.:

Scholarly Resources, 1999); and Isidro Morales, “NAFTA: The Institutionalization

of Economic Openness and the Configuration of Mexican Geo-Economic Spaces,”

Third World Quarterly 20, no. 5 (1999): 971–93.

38. See Jonathan J. Higuera, “Why Maquiladoras Endure,” Hispanic Business (Novem-

ber 2000): 54; Chris Kraul, “Mexican Border Factory Output is Slowing,” Los An-

geles Times, 8 October 2001; and Diane Lindquist, “Maquiladora Mess,” San Diego

Union-Tribune, 28 October 2001. It is estimated that as a result of the 2001 global

economic downturn, Mexico’s maquiladora industry lost more than 200,000

jobs—many of which were relocated to Asian overseas markets with even lower

labor costs. See Diane Lindquist, “A Boost for Baja,” San Diego Union-Tribune, 22

February 2002. Still, while the maquiladora sector continues to adjust to global re-

structuring, post-NAFTA U.S.-Mexico trade has continued to grow, expanding

from $81 billion in 1993 (the year before NAFTA was implemented) to $247 billion

in 2000. See Chris Kraul, “Economic Downturn Deepens in Mexico,” Los Angeles

Times, 1 July 2001; Frank McCoy, “NAFTA Expansion Hits Traffic Jam,” Hispanic

Business (September 2001): 26; and Diane Lindquist, “Maquiladora Mess,” San

Diego Union-Tribune, 28 October 2001.

39. The practice of shifting production facilities to offshore sources has been a major

feature of globalization. According to recent estimates, of all worldwide produc-

tion, the share produced by workers employed by foreign firms increased from 11.6

percent in 1977 to 16.3 percent by 1990. See Evelyn Iritani, “In Global Economy, U.S.

Job Gains, Losses Know No Borders,” Los Angeles Times, 6 April 2001.

40. The proportion of Mexican goods exported to the United States after NAFTA has

risen to 88 percent as of 2001. At the same time, the number of U.S. jobs lost to

NAFTA since 1994 in the major industrial states of California, Michigan, New York,

Texas, and Ohio is estimated to exceed 250,000. For discussion of the potentially

profound social impacts of these trends, see Saskia Sassen, “U.S. Immigration Pol-

icy Toward Mexico in a Global Economy,” Journal of International Affairs 43, no. 2

(winter 1990): 369–83; Dolores Acevedo and Thomas J. Espenshade, “Implications

of the North American Free Trade Agreement for Mexican Migration to the Unit-

ed States,” Population and Development Review 18, no. 4 (December 1992): 729–44;

Enrique Dussel Peters, “Recent Structural Changes in Mexico’s Economy: A Pre-

liminary Analysis of Some Sources of Mexican Migration to the United States,” in

Crossings: Mexican Immigration in Interdisciplinary Perspective, ed. Marcelo Suárez-

Orózco, (Cambridge, Mass.: David Rockefeller Center for Latin American Studies,

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

Harvard University, 1998): 53–74; and Evelyn Iritani, “Latino Immigrants Pay a

Price for Free Trade,” Los Angeles Times, 12 June 2001.

41. See María Patricia Fernández-Kelly, For We Are Sold, I and My People: Women and

Industry in Mexico’s Northern Frontier (Albany: State University of New York Press,

1983); Susan Tiano, Patriarchy on the Line: Labor, Gender, and Ideology in the Mex-

ican Maquila Industry (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1994); Altha Cravey,

Women and Work in Mexico’s Maquiladoras (New York: Rowman and Littlefield,

1998); and Cirila Quintero Ramírez, “Migration and Maquiladoras on Mexico’s

Northern Border,” Migration World 28, no. 3 (2000): 14–18. See also Alfred Cor-

chado and Dianne Solís, “A Force of Change: Unprecedented Surge of Mexican Mi-

grants Altering the U.S. Economy, Politics and Culture,” Dallas Morning News, 19

September 1999.

42. As a partial consequence of such rapid population growth, the poverty rate in Mex-

ico rose more than 70 percent between 1990 and 1996, with an estimated 27 percent

of the Mexican population living in what one report called “extreme poverty.” See

“Census: Mexico Slows Population Growth,” San Diego Union-Tribune, 22 June

2000; James M. Cypher, “Developing Disarticulation Within the Mexican Econo-

my,” Latin American Perspectives 28, no. 3 (May 2001): 11–37; and William A. V.

Clark, The California Cauldron: Immigration and the Fortunes of Local Communities

(New York: Guilford Press, 1998), 30.

43. See David E. Lorey, The U.S.-Mexican Border in the Twentieth Century (Wilming-

ton, Del.: Scholarly Resources, 1999), 118, table 6–1, 126, table 6–2.

44. For discussion of the history of population booms in the border, see Oscar J.

Martínez, Border Boom Town: Ciudad Juárez since 1848 (Austin: University of Texas

Press, 1978); and Martínez, Troublesome Border (Tucson: University of Arizona

Press, 1988). For the contemporary era, see Sandra Dibble, “Boomtown,” San Diego

Union Tribune, 10 September 2000; and Tim Padgett and Cathy Booth Thomas,

“Two Countries, One City,” Time, 11 June 2001, 64–66.

45. See Patrick J. McDonnell, “Mexicans Change Face of U.S. Demographics,” Los An-

geles Times, 10 May 2001. Another way to gauge these population shifts is to con-

sider the profound impact they have had on “sending” regions in Mexico. For ex-

ample, although it remains an extreme case, officials have recently estimated that

fully one-half of the entire population of the Mexican state of Zacatecas now resides

in the United States. See Jennifer Mena, “Today in Santa Ana: Mexico’s 2006 Race,”

Los Angeles Times, 5 July 2002; Jennifer Mena, “Zacatecans Strive to End Emigra-

tion,” Los Angeles Times, 6 July 2002; Mary M. Kent, Kelvin M. Pollard, John

Haaga, and Mark Mather, “First Glimpses from the 2000 U.S. Census,” Population

Bulletin 56, no. 2 (June 2001): 14; and Betsy Guzmán, The Hispanic Population: Cen-

sus 2000 Brief (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Department of Commerce, U.S. Census Bu-

reau, Economics and Statistics Administration, May 2001).

46. For regional and national population growth trends see Hector Tobar, “Deep in the

Heart of Texas, the Popular Destination is Suburbia,” Los Angeles Times, 13 March

2001; Tom Gorman, “Nevada Jumps 66.3% in Ten Years, Census Shows,” Los An-

geles Times, 14 March 2001; and Betsy Guzmán, The Hispanic Population: Census

2000 Brief (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Department of Commerce, U.S. Census Bu-

reau, Economics and Statistics Administration, May 2001), 4, table 2.

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

47. For an insightful analysis of recent trends in New York City, see Michael Jones-

Correa, Between Two Nations: The Political Predicament of Latinos in New York City

(Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1998).

48. In 2000, the border-state towns and cities with the highest proportion of Latino res-

idents were: unincorporated East Los Angeles (an astonishing 97 percent); Laredo,

Brownsville, McAllen, and El Paso, Texas (94, 91, 80, and 77 percent, respectively);

and three other cities in California: Santa Ana (76 percent), El Monte (72 percent),

and Oxnard (66 percent). See Hector Becerra and Fred Alvarez, “Census Reflects

Large Gains for Latinos,” Los Angles Times, 10 May 2001; and U.S. Census Bureau,

Statistical Abstract: 2001 (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Census Bureau, 2001), 39, table 36.

49. The five metropolitan areas with the highest decennial percent increases in Latino

population were: Greensboro-Winston-Salem–High Point, North Carolina (Latino

population—62,000, an increase of 694 percent); Charlotte-Gastonia–Rock Hill,

North Carolina/South Carolina (77,000, a 622 percent increase); Raleigh-

Durham–Chapel Hill, North Carolina (73,000—569 percent); Atlanta, Georgia

(269,000—362 percent); and Las Vegas, Nevada (322,000—262 percent). For statis-

tics and discussion of these trends, see U.S. Census Bureau, Statistical Abstract of the

United States: 2001 (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Census Bureau, 2001), 39, table 36; and

William H. Frey, “Mini-Melting Pots: Census 2000,” American Demographics 25,

no. 6 (June 2001): 21–23.

50. See Frederico A. Subveri-Vélez, “Mass Communication and Hispanics,” in Hand-

book of Hispanic Cultures in the United States: Sociology, ed. Nicolás Kanellos and

Claudio Esteva-Fabregat (Houston: Arte Público Press, 1994), 329.

51. For the explosion in Spanish-language radio, see Alisa Valdes-Rodríguez, “Rocan-

roll!” Los Angeles Times, 8 August 2000; and Ernesto Lechner, “The Other Latin

Music,” Hispanic Business (July/August 2001): 88, 90, 92.

52. Tim Dougherty, “Breakout Year,” Hispanic Business, December 2000: 46; Kim

Campbell, “Demographics Drive the Latino Media Story,” The Christian Science

Monitor, 21 June 2001; Deborah Sharp, “Si Usted no Habla Español, Puede

Quedarse Rezagado—If You Don’t Speak Spanish, You Might Be Left Behind,”

USA Today, 9 May 2001; and “Spending Spree,” Hispanic Business, December 2001:

38, 40, 56.

53. Teresa A. Sullivan, “A Demographic Portrait,” in Hispanics in the United States: An

Agenda for the Twenty-First Century, ed. Pastora San Juan Cafferty and David W.

Engstrom, (New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction Publishers, 2000), 19.

54. See Maurilio E. Vigil, “Latinos in American Politics,” in Handbook of Hispanic Cul-

tures in the United States: Sociology, ed. Felíx Padilla (Houston: Arte Público Press,

1994), 99; Mark Z. Barabak, “Blacks See a Shrinking Role in California,” Los Ange-

les Times, 20 May 2001; and David S. Broder, “The Mobilization of New Ameri-

cans,” San Diego Union-Tribune, 23 May 2001.

55. See Juan F. Perea, Immigrants Out! The New Nativism and the Anti-Immigrant Im-

pulse in the United States (New York: New York University Press, 1997).

56. See John Marelius, “In Pivotal States, Latinos’ Impact May Ring Hollow,” San

Diego Union-Tribune, 8 October 2000.

57. See U.S. Census Bureau, Statistical Abstract of the United States: 2001 (Washington,

D.C.: U.S. Census Bureau, 2001), 40, table 37. See also, Manuel Pastór Jr., “Interde-

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

pendence, Inequality, and Identity: Linking Latinos and Latin Americans,” in Bor-

derless Borders: U.S. Latinos, Latin Americans, and the Paradox of Interdependence,

ed. Frank Bonilla, Edwin Meléndez, Rebecca Morales, and María de los Angeles

Torres (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1998), 29–30.

58. See, for example, Gregory Rodríguez, “The Democrats’ Fixation on the Aggrieved

Minority,” Los Angeles Times, 13 August 2000; and “Don’t Mistake the Parts for the

Whole in L.A.,” Los Angeles Times, 6 July 2001; Linda Chávez, Out of the Barrio: To-

ward a New Politics of Hispanic Assimilation (New York: Basic Books, 1991); and

Peter Skerry, Mexican Americans: Ambivalent Minority (New York: Free Press, 1993).

59. According to a recent analysis in Hispanic Business, 34 percent of all Latino heads

of household in California and 28 percent of Latino heads of household in Texas

were “middle income” earners (i.e., with earnings of between $40,000 and $140,000

per year). For discussion of national trends see, Robert R. Brischetto, “The His-

panic Middle Class Comes of Age,” Hispanic Business (December 2001): 21–30.

60. Between 1950 and 1996, such skilled jobs dropped from nearly a third of all jobs in

the United States to less than 15 percent. Over the same period, the low-paid serv-

ice sector expanded from less than 12 percent to nearly one-third of all jobs. An-

other gauge of the structural changes in the economy is the slowing rate of growth

of wages, salaries, and fringe benefits. Between 1950 and 1960, wages, salaries, and

fringe benefits grew by a robust 38.7 percent per full-time employee. In contrast,

between 1984 and 1994, growth in these areas was 7.1 percent. For occupational

shifts see Alejandro Portes and Rubén Rumbaut, Legacies: The Story of the Immi-

grant Second Generation (Berkeley: University of California Press; New York: Rus-

sell Sage Foundation, 2001), 57; and Steven Greenhouse, “Foreign Workers at High-

est Level in Seven Decades, New York Times, 4 September 2000. For changing rates

of compensation see Frank Levy, “How Big is the Income Dilemma?” in America’s

Demographic Tapestry: Baseline for the New Millennium, ed. James W. Hughes and

Joseph J. Seneca (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1999), 112. See also

Gladys Jiménez-Muñoz and Kelvin Santiago-Valles, chapter 2, this volume.

61. See Michael D. Yates, Longer Hours, Fewer Jobs: Employment and Unemployment in

the United States (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1994).

62. On the expansion and significance of the informal sector, see Informalization:

Process and Structure, ed. Faruk Tabak and Michaeline A. Crichlow (Baltimore:

Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000).

63. See Robert R. Brischetto, “The Hispanic Middle Class Comes of Age,” Hispanic

Business, December 2001: 21–32; and Robin Fields, “’90s Saw a Tide of New People,”

Los Angeles Times, 6 August 2001.

64. Dan Walters, “We May Have to Live with Stratification,” San Diego Union-Tribune,

9 May 2000; Melissa Healy, “U.S. Children’s Poverty Level Is Down 17% Since

1993,” Los Angeles Times, 11 August 2000; Peter H. Hong and Patrick J. McDonnell,

“Proportion of Immigrants in U.S. Population has Doubled since ’70,” Los Angeles

Times, 7 February 2002.

65. See Portes and Rumbaut, Legacies, 57; Daniel T. Lichter and Martha L. Crowley,

“Poverty in America: Beyond Welfare Reform,” Population Bulletin 57, no. 2 (June

2002): 1–36; and Jorge Chapa, “The Burden of Interdependence: Demographic,

Economic, and Social Prospects for Latinos in the Reconfigured U.S. Economy,” in

ETHNIC MEXICANS IN THE LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY

Borderless Borders: U.S. Latinos, Latin Americans, and the Paradox of Interdepen-

dence, ed. Frank Bonilla, Edwin Meléndez, Rebecca Morales, and María de los An-

geles Torres (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1998), 71–82.

66. See Mary C. Daly, Deborah Reed, and Heather N. Royer, “Population Mobility and

Income Inequality in California,” in California Counts: Population Trends and Pro-

files 2, no. 4 (May 2001) (San Francisco: Public Policy Institute of California). See

William A. V. Clark, The California Cauldron: Immigration and the Fortunes of Local

Communities (New York: Guilford Press, 1998), 74–82; and “California,” Migration

News 8, no. 6 (June 2002).

67. White flight has probably been most dramatic in California, which, coincidentally,

has the largest immigrant population in the United States. Indeed, in a trend that

has accelerated since the 1970s, the 2000 census reported that southern California’s

non-Hispanic white population shrank by nearly 12 percent. White flight from Los

Angeles County was even more pronounced, with the non-Hispanic white popula-

tion dropping by 18 percent over the same period. By 2000, non-Hispanic whites

represented only 41.4 percent of southern California’s population. Overall, the state

of California saw its non-Hispanic white population drop by 7 percent between

1990 and 2000. See Robin Fields and Scott Martelle, “White Exodus Attributed to

Economic Slump,” Los Angeles Times, 31 March 2001; and Geoffrey Mohan and Phil

Willon, “Population Abandons the Older Suburbs for Isolated, Affluent Fringe,”

Los Angeles Times, 30 March 2001.

68. Gary Orfield, Mark Bachmeier, David R, James, and Tamela Eitle, Deepening Seg-

regation in American Public Schools (Cambridge: Harvard Project on School Deseg-

regation, 1997), cited in Melissa Roderick, “Hispanics and Education,” in Hispanics

in the United States: An Agenda for the Twenty-First Century, ed. Pastora San Juan

Cafferty and David W. Engstrom, (New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction Publishers,

2000), 146.

69. Portes and Rumbaut, Legacies: 61. For a similar analysis, see Lichter and Crowley,

“Poverty in America,” 24–26.

70. In Los Angeles County alone, officials estimate that at least 112,000 young people

are either members of gangs or are gang “wannabes.” See Charlie LeDuff, “Los An-

geles Police Chief Faces a Huge Challenge,” New York Times, 24 October 2002.

GLOBALIZATION, LABOR MIGRATION, AND THE DEMOGRAPHIC REVOLUTION

TWO

SOCIAL POLARIZATION AND COLONIZED LABOR:

PUERTO RICANS IN THE UNITED STATES, 1945–2000

KELVIN A. SANTIAGO-VALLES

AND GLADYS M. J IMÉNEZ-MUÑOZ

INTRODUCTION

During the last twenty-five years the perennial and disproportionately high indices of poverty among Puerto Ricans in the United States continued to puzzle both social scientists and policy makers. Despite the growing numbers of highly educated Puerto Ricans within the United States, this second-largest U.S. Latino group nevertheless still fails to conform to the “immigrant model” of upward mobility and the “ethnic paradigm” of socioeconomic develop- ment. Prominent scholars like Marta Tienda and others have argued from the late 1970s to the present day that a satisfactory explanation for the growing so- cial disparities between most Puerto Ricans in the United States versus other Hispanic Americans and African Americans remains very much an open question.1

This essay suggests pursuing an alternate path that, with further research, could begin to satisfactorily unravel this riddle. By way of reconceptualiza- tion and extensive counterdemonstrations, we try to go beyond the limits of primarily concentrating on the continental U.S. arena, as most current re- search has done. Such barriers continue to confine even cutting-edge re- search that has identified the role of deindustrialization and the collapse of traditional manufacturing within the U.S. economy as the primary causes of widespread poverty among many Puerto Rican communities.2 What we have done is to place these brutal social and economic processes within the broad- er context of the massive changes in the global economy, which have been

most strongly influenced by the actions of the United States. Within this framework, we also suggest that the crude economic frameworks and short- term scope of most existing research models might be improved by examin- ing Puerto Ricans in the U.S. mainland as part of a world-historical process of colonized labor formation framed by the conflicting ways that Puerto Ri- cans have been narrowly incorporated and reincorporated within a con- stantly shifting world-economy.3

We understand the structural position of Puerto Ricans within the United States as part of a racialized, indeed colonial, pattern of labor exploitation.4

But we also believe it is necessary to explicitly link the subordinate racializa- tion of Puerto Ricans in the United States to their feminization over the his- torical long term. One of the principal features of racially subordinate popu- lations is that we are negatively associated with characteristics widely attributed to “women”: that is being capricious, irrational, excessively emo- tional, wayward, infantile, and therefore in need of guidance, control, protec- tion, supervision, instruction, and tutelage. Thus, whether male or female, the subordination of “lesser races” has included a complex process of feminiza- tion as well.5

Our emphasis here is on the colonial character of unevenly assembling global labor on the basis of deeply rooted sexual and racial hierarchies. What make such situations and populations colonial are the structural imbalances that reinforce and reproduce populations (in these markedly sexual and racial ways) as socially inferior or peripheral,6 holding those of European descent as the norm. Such imbalances result in higher rates of return for the racially dominant elites and short-term social benefits for the racially dominant la- boring populations. Hence, the colonial condition of Puerto Ricans in the United States is not a matter of simple negative stereotypes,7 but is rather a component part of the larger historical and contemporaneous world-system.8

Being part of a colonized or peripheral labor force is a relational and histor- ical condition, rather than an absolute situation marked by some universally fixed statistical threshold. The colonization or peripheralization of labor is de- fined by the deficit between the relatively larger amount of physical and men- tal energies spent during everyday socioeconomic survival versus the relative- ly lower formal income and the other relatively unfavorable living conditions of a racially subordinate population when compared to the general, and rela- tively privileged, conditions of the colonizer population. In the case of most Puerto Ricans, such inequalities have been historically documented with re- spect to lower earnings, second-rate education, inadequate food intake, poor- er health conditions, substandard housing, and higher unemployment levels, vis-à-vis those of the racially normative populations across all of the United States and its imperial domains.9

SOCIAL POLARIZATION AND COLONIZED LABOR

THE BROADER CONTEXT OF THE POSTWAR ERA

In 1960, the population of Puerto Rico reached approximately 2,350,000, and its inhabitants abandoned the countryside and mountain regions in larger numbers, finally transforming the island by the end of that same decade into an urban society (USBC 1993a: 31). There were already almost 900,000 Puerto Ricans on the U.S. mainland by 1960, which amounted to a 200 percent in- crease when compared to island migrants identified by the 1950 census as liv- ing in the United States. According to this same 1960 census, over 600,000 Puerto Ricans in the United States had been born in the island, and this was 172 percent larger than the number of U.S. residents who had been island- born in 1950. Almost 300,000 Puerto Ricans in the United States in 1960 were of parents born in Puerto Rico, which represented a 262 percent increase from the figures for 1950 (tabulations based on: USBC 1963; USBC 1973).

Over the past two centuries, inhabitants of the island had polarized into a large mass of “mixed-race” laborers and small property owners (near-white, mulatto, and black) versus the insulated elites of European descent, mostly Spaniard, but also some French, British, German, and Anglo-American. Since the early nineteenth century, the peasants and artisans derisively referred to these elites (who controlled most of the landed estates and large businesses) and their parasitic intelligentsia as blanquitos or “little whites.” By the 1800s, all Puerto Ricans—of whatever social background—had begun referring to themselves also as “criollos” (or Creoles) and Boricuas, the latter term deriving from the original indigenous name for this island (Borikén). These social, racial, and national markers nevertheless persisted after the island became a formal U.S. colony as a result of the War of 1898.

From the mid-1930s to the mid-1960s, U.S. corporate, export-oriented agri- culture in the island (sugar and tobacco) went into crisis and decline. This process was accompanied by massive unemployment and a distinct shift on the island toward export-oriented, light, labor-intensive, machine-based industry; the uneven imposition of welfare-state reforms; and a mass market for low- income housing and individual mechanized transportation (Muñiz Varela 1983; Santiago-Valles 1994a). The reincorporation of Puerto Ricans within the restructured world-economy in this manner created the circumstances that led many manual day laborers, landless peasants, and devastated small-property owners to leave the island in unprecedented numbers. The migrants who left the island at this time moved into the dilapidated tenements vacated by Ital- ians, Jews, and Poles in the northeastern U.S. seaboard and Chicago during the 1940s and 1950s, joining the similarly colonized populations from the U.S. South, U.S. Southwest, and Mexico who were nevertheless being incorporated within a much a broader spectrum of the U.S. economy (F. Padilla 1987: 58;

PUERTO RICANS IN THE UNITED STATES, 1945–2000

Torres 1995: 64–78). As opposed to island farm laborers during the 1898–1944 period, who produced consumer goods on the island, postwar Puerto Rican rural workers were increasingly repositioned as seasonal migrants in U.S. mainland farms.10 In this manner, the use of low-wage Boricua labor began overlapping with other ways of exploiting peripheral labor in the United States—such as share-cropping, the convict-lease system, the bracero program (see Gutiérrez, chapter 1, this volume)—alongside higher-wage labor in the in- dustrial production of capital and consumer goods.

To a large extent, the intensifying incorporation of most Puerto Ricans into the lowest strata of the restructured regional economy was masked by a si- multaneous expansion of the propertied, educated, and almost exclusively white Puerto Rican minority (the blanquitos) on the island. Although the de- velopment of this minority was uneven, this sector has oscillated between one-fourth and one-third of the island’s population since World War II. These historical and present-day partial beneficiaries of colonial domination in Puerto Rico were the heirs of the early twentieth century’s hacendados (large landowners), bankers, great merchants, Euro-Caribbean intelligentsia, and “native” bureaucrats. By the mid to late twentieth century, they had evolved into the local junior partners of the new U.S. corporate investors and the upper strata of a rapidly expanding local state administration, as well as an overlapping array of highly skilled professionals, technicians, and managerial personnel across the financial, commercial, service, industrial, and public sec- tors. There was also an increase in government relief programs (1940–1973) and a saturation of the local market with cheap U.S. goods associated with the overall postwar economic expansion and subsequent economic restructuring, which coincided with the relative expansion and accommodation among the island’s educated minorities from the 1970s to the 1990s.11

The social polarization structured by the colonial patterns just described has to be conceptually located within the even larger context of rising U.S. global economic hegemony, the continuing reconfiguration and polarization of the labor force in the United States, and the already mentioned reincor- poration of Puerto Ricans within the world-economy. This combined process (which many academics and journalists have recently and ahistori- cally dubbed “globalization”12) involved increases in, the extension of “sci- entific management” and work discipline within U.S. enterprises; the accel- erated degradation of wage workers’ expertise levels when their skills were superseded by new technologies and speed-ups in the labor process; a corol- lary continuing demand for cheap labor—particularly within declining eco- nomic sectors such as food processing, the garment industry, and labor- intensive agriculture. Together, the various components of this process had the effect of locking in disproportionately higher numbers of workers long

SOCIAL POLARIZATION AND COLONIZED LABOR

considered to be “disposable” or peripheral into even narrower tiers of dead- end jobs. The postwar phase of globalization also involved a veritable explo- sion in the capitalist production of new consumer goods (namely, electric household products, standardized housing, and the automobile) and of in- frastructure projects enabling the rapid consumption of such goods (i.e., highway construction, urban renewal, suburban sprawl) in order to meet the further growth in the demand for just these goods, particularly among the skilled sectors of the working classes and the expanding professional- managerial middle classes. (Arrighi 1994: 273–81, 295–300; Aglietta 1979).

These reciprocal developments stimulated a gradual increase in the move- ment of Puerto Ricans to the U.S. mainland over the course of the century in three distinct eras of migration: 1898–1944, when an average of 2,681 people per year left the island; 1945–1968, when the yearly average increased to 31,020 people; and 1968–2000, when the migratory flow became much more cyclical, extremely variegated, and, hence, considerably more difficult to calculate.13

One of the main factors behind the enormous postwar emigration is once again associated with how Puerto Ricans were being reincorporated within the global economy. Older sources of income for ordinary Puerto Ricans—such as the sale of marginal farm produce and seasonal agricultural labor—rapidly dis- integrated from the late 1940s to the early 1960s. As a result, between 1950 and 1960 the number of agricultural laborers dropped by 37 percent while the num- ber of farmers and farm administrators decreased by 51 percent (Vázquez Calzada 1978: 376–77). This deterioration extended the protracted agrarian cri- sis of the interwar period (Gulick 1952; Augelli 1972), but now within the con- text of Puerto Rico’s realignment within the evolving international division of labor, expressed most clearly in the new version of the rising use of “foreign” labor within the U.S. “domestic” economy. 14 Similar to the U.S. South (Hoover and Ratchford 1951; Wright 1986: 239–49) and large portions of Latin America (Cueva 1977) at that time, Puerto Rico was being transformed into a major enclave for light, labor-intensive, export-oriented industries dependent on peripheral labor. This narrow band of industries consisted primarily of sub- sidiaries of corporations from the northeastern U.S. from economic sectors (e.g., apparel and food processing) desperately in need of cheaper labor.15

In all these peripheral regions of the Americas, the forms of livelihood among populations deemed racially inferior perennially fell below the living standards of the racially dominant and colonizer populations. In the case of Puerto Rico, average hourly wages were only 28 percent of what they were in the United States in 1950 and still only 41 percent of the U.S. average in 1960 (USDC 1979: 2:56). This gap—while narrowing slightly—persisted into the late 1990s. Indeed, a convergence of average hourly wages in the United States and hourly wages in Puerto Rico has not taken place even today, nor does it seem

PUERTO RICANS IN THE UNITED STATES, 1945–2000

likely in the immediate future. In addition, while new factories were a bur- geoning source of employment on the island, as the armed forces and the emergency-relief agencies had been during the war, Puerto Rico still had rela- tively high, officially recorded unemployment levels: 15 percent in 1940 and 13 percent in 1950.16 Thus, despite the relative decline in island unemployment rates between 1940 and 1950, at the end of the decade the unemployment level was still 2.4 times the overall unemployment rate for the United States (Bureau of Labor Statistics [BLS] 2002b). This was another significant feature of racial subordination and colonial feminization, and it endures to the present day.

But there were three additional important factors driving Puerto Ricans to seek work in the United States. For one thing, the plants established on the is- land relied more on machine tools, which meant jobs there carried intensified regulatory instruction, stricter work discipline, and higher skill levels, all of which clashed with a mostly unskilled and relatively uneducated labor force of landless-peasant background (Reynolds and Gregory 1965). To complicate matters further, these new industrial complexes were also established in urban zones far from the hills and mountains where most of the island’s population lived (Young 1974; Tata 1980). Lastly, those light, labor-intensive U.S. indus- tries which remained in the northeastern U.S. often belonged to the same de- clining economic sectors as those firms which had relocated to the Caribbean or the U.S. South, also sharing the lowest levels of machine use and a desper- ate need for cheap labor. This same narrow band of backward manufacturing companies, together with those leading corporate sectors riding the wave of the postwar economic boom, began attracting large masses of low-wage labor from all over the world in the early 1950s—especially to the northeast coast and Midwestern regions of the United States.17 New York City’s garment in- dustry was a prominent example of this trend. These were some of the main forces compelling massive segments of the impoverished rural population of the island to relocate both to the urban areas in Puerto Rico and to the swelling metropolitan areas of the United States.

However, this monumental emigration of the island’s laboring-poor ma- jorities from the 1940s to the 1960s has to be framed within other larger con- texts, specifically the contested developments unfolding inside the United States and the rest of its imperial domains.18 The expulsion and mobilization of large masses of laborers is always something that the working classes and re- lated subordinate sectors have tried to use to their advantage, however contra- dictorily. They have mainly done this by evading economic conscription into wage work whenever alternate forms of income, subsistence, or both were available (which usually has been nonwage activity) or by combining formal wage work with these alternate and usually illegal forms of income. There is nothing particularly “Puerto Rican,” nor even mid-twentieth-century, about such responses.19 Like subordinate populations everywhere, Puerto Rico’s

SOCIAL POLARIZATION AND COLONIZED LABOR

laboring-poor majorities on the move also experimented with forms of refus- ing a factory system that they understood as what one scholar has termed “the least favorable terrain of struggle” (Linebaugh 1981: 86–87). And as they had done during the first half of the twentieth century,20 the authorities (in both North America and in the island) were forced to consider such “struggles . . . for the reappropriation of wealth” and the broader patterns of postwar “na- tive” waywardness “as a major problem of ‘crime and order.’”21

This was how growing numbers of Puerto Ricans ended up choosing mi- gration (both internal and, particularly, external) as a way of escaping or dis- rupting capitalist control over their labor. Bourgeois interests had always sought to channel the migration of Boricua peasants and urban workers in a manner that addressed the needs of capital and the state. But as was true for Asian laborers in Hawaii and their African American and Mexican counter- parts in North America,22 Puerto Rican laborers simultaneously turned this very recourse, migration, into a device that short-circuited employers’ ability to readily exploit colonized labor. Such practices followed the historical trend of capitalist development everywhere insofar as these demographic move- ments usually opened avenues to noncapitalist (and heavily criminalized) ways of making a living: that is, survival practices which partially interfered with both capital’s ability to exploit labor and with the bourgeois rule of law.

Migration was made all the more attractive by the previously mentioned ex- pansion of governmental services and relief programs in the island’s towns and cities and, even more so, by the expansion of a mass market for stan- dardized affordable housing, electronic domestic goods, and individual mech- anized transportation in the United States. On both sides of the San Juan–U.S. routes, dispossessed Puerto Ricans attempted to turn such massive socioeco- nomic transformations to their own advantage. As a short-term solution they did this by shifting within and across different regional domains of the entire United States, trying to take advantage of variations in wages and general liv- ing conditions. In the U.S. setting, some of these “native” laborers tended to- ward jobs in light industry, lower-skilled services, and so on in these urban contexts. But many simultaneously tried their hand in the urban and mid- to late-twentieth-century versions of what Linebaugh (1981: 87) calls “the dwarf economy”: that is, the elusive but always significant informal sector.

LABOR AND COMMUNITY SURVIVAL DURING ECONOMIC EXPANSION

As indicated above, most Puerto Ricans migrating from the island ended up working as unskilled or semiskilled laborers in the cities. The proportion of all Puerto Ricans in the United States (of both sexes) classified as factory operatives,

PUERTO RICANS IN THE UNITED STATES, 1945–2000

nonfarm laborers, and domestic servants oscillated between 54 percent in 1950 and 56 percent in 1960; service workers fluctuated between 18 percent in 1950 and 15 percent in 1960. During this same period, the proportion of those cate- gorized as sales and office workers rose from 10 percent to 13 percent for both sexes (tabulations based on: USBC 1953; USBC 1963). The overwhelming ma- jority of these employees—even in the case of the latter, “white-collar” group- ing—tended to be positioned in the lesser-skilled segments of the U.S. labor force. The principal difference between this occupational pattern and that of Puerto Ricans on the island at this time for both sexes was that agricultural la- borers, while shrinking as a proportion of the overall labor force, still consti- tuted a significant portion of all manual workers in Puerto Rico—31 percent in 1950 and 20 percent in 1960—while the proportion of service workers was only about a third of that for Puerto Ricans in the United States (Vázquez Calzada 1978: 376–377). This general occupational profile remained in place for most of the 1960s.23

In New York City during the immediate postwar decades, Boricuas contin- ued to be heavily concentrated in certain economic niches. Indeed, as one ob- server noted at the time, “They dominate the hotel and restaurant trades to such an extent that these businesses would be helpless without them” (Fitz- patrick 1971: 60, our emphasis). This, once again, illustrates the continuing reincorporation of Puerto Ricans as peripheral labor—but now within core regions of the colonial capitalist world-system.

But it was the garment industry that became exemplary in employing large quantities of cheap, relatively unskilled Puerto Rican labor. In fact, by the late 1950s, this was the chief source of labor in the skirt, undergarment, and dress- making sectors of the trade. The wages and working conditions of these work- ers—many of them women—remained degraded due, in part, to the persistent subcontracting and deskilling practices of the employer. It is true that these en- terprises had been characterized by low-skilled labor since the nineteenth cen- tury, but garment manufacturing during the interwar and postwar periods was beleaguered even more by pressures from transnational clothing corporations: hence, the drive to save profit margins by driving down labor costs in the nee- dle trades. Although unionization efforts brought initially positive results for these laborers, the racist and sexist practices of the union leadership (primari- ly the International Ladies Garments Workers Union) failed to adequately ad- dress the further corrosion of working conditions over the long run. Both sit- uations led to labor mobilizations and protests on the part of these laborers (women, especially) together with their African American coworkers during the late 1950s and early 1960s. This was yet another example of Puerto Rican la- borers toiling alongside other colonized workers in dead-end jobs that tended to continually reproduce themselves over time. Until the restructuring of the

SOCIAL POLARIZATION AND COLONIZED LABOR

garment industry, beginning in the late 1960s and early 1970s, these labor and community struggles led to piecemeal governmental intervention and staunch opposition from business and trade-union bureaucrats.24

On balance, the postwar overrepresentation of Puerto Rican labor within New York City’s garment industry was such that the importance of island labor in shoring up this economic sector cannot be underestimated. As one scholar (C. Rodríguez 1979: 213; emphasis added) pointed out for the 1950–1970 period,

Puerto Ricans have, in a sense, provided a “positive tipping point.” Without this source of cheap labor many more firms would have left the city; those that stayed have had to reduce their production. In this sense, New York’s claim to be the garment capital of the world rests upon Puerto Rican shoulders.

However, part of this demographic profile, and its basis in New York City, started to change during the late 1960s and early 1970s with the beginning of the long-wave of global economic decline. By 1970 (and with a now mostly urban island population of about 2,700,000), the number of Puerto Ricans in the United States reached almost 1,400,000 (a 57 percent increase from 1960): ap- proximately 810,000 of island birth (a 31 percent increase from 1960) and about 580,000 who were U.S.-born of Puerto Rican parents (a 114 percent increase from 1960).25 It is true that between 1950 and 1970 over three-fourths of all Puerto Ricans in the United States were clustered within the larger urban in- dustrial centers of the northeast (New York City in particular) and that most Boricuas continued to reside in this same metropolis. Nevertheless, their New York City proportions were already decreasing appreciably: from 81 percent of all Puerto Ricans in the United States in 1950 to 59 percent in 1970. By the late 1960s, this geographic dispersal appeared to be a partial response to the first signs of the prolonged downturn in the capitalist world economy that, in turn, accelerated the trend among Puerto Ricans and other characteristically low- wage laborers to find better paying work elsewhere. Thus, at the same time that New York was losing population, Puerto Ricans were moving in significant numbers to Illinois, Ohio, and Indiana. The percentage of all Puerto Ricans liv- ing in the U.S. Midwest—primarily concentrated in Chicago—increased from 4 to 10 during this same period. It should be noted, however, that the move to Chicago did not appear to be so much a qualitative shift toward different kinds of jobs than those available in New York City (the occupational contours of Boricuas in both cities were basically similar), but rather a quantitative shift: that is, an attempt to find more of the same kind of subsistence activities that were beginning to decline for Puerto Ricans and other such colonized workers in the northeast. Smaller pockets of Puerto Ricans could also be found at this

PUERTO RICANS IN THE UNITED STATES, 1945–2000

time in Florida (Miami, primarily) and the West Coast (especially Los Angeles and San Francisco).26

From the early 1950s to the early 1970s, Puerto Ricans on the U.S. mainland continued to evince disproportionately elevated signs of indigence, once more confirming the peripheral location of Boricua populations even within core regions of the world economy. Although their official unemployment rates declined between 1950 (13.3 percent) and 1960 (9.7 percent), by 1972 these pro- portions had almost reached 1950 levels (12.6 percent).27 And even more im- portant than the absolute percentage is the ratio between official unemploy- ment among Puerto Ricans in the United States and the corresponding rates for the whole U.S. population during the same period. Within this larger colo- nial context, Boricuas on the U.S. mainland represented 2.5 times (1950), 1.8 times (1960), and 2.0 times (1972) the general levels of unemployment across the United States (BLS 2002b). And—notwithstanding that average annual in- come among Puerto Rican families in the United States more than doubled between 1959 (when it was approximately $4,000) and 1974 (when it reached approximately $9,000)—the 1959 annual family income—71 percent of the U.S. average—had declined to 59 percent of the U.S. average by 1974. In 1970, 29 percent of all Puerto Rican families in the United States were still below the federal poverty level—versus 65 percent of the island’s population living below this level at this same time (USCRC 1976: 52; USBC 1993b: 33).

It is also true that 14.3 percent of all Boricuas (twenty-five years or older) on the U.S. mainland had completed a high school education by 1960, but again, this lagged behind the 41.4 percent of all U.S. inhabitants with comparable schooling. The latter figures also failed to specify where these Puerto Ricans had received such education: in the English-only U.S. schools or in the is- land’s Spanish-language public school system (USBC 1963; Cordasco and Bucchioni 1973: 134). By the early 1970s, almost 30 percent of these same Puer- to Ricans had completed high school, but by that time 63 percent of the gen- eral U.S. population had reached this level of education (USCRC 1976: 106). Within New York City, the percentage of Puerto Ricans that completed high school rose from 9.9 (in 1960) to 16.6 percent (in 1970), but, again, the pro- portions among the city’s general population were always twice the percent- age for Boricua New Yorkers (BLS 1975: 50). Puerto Ricans throughout the 1960s proved to be the most destitute segment of the entire New York City population (even poorer than African Americans) in additional ways, includ- ing having the highest proportion of single-mother families in the Aid to Families with Dependent Children program (Fitzpatrick 1971: 59–60, 155, 158). The rise in professional-managerial and office jobs during the mid-1960s (even within the city’s poorest districts) could not counteract Puerto Ricans’ being the most destitute residents within these areas due to the lower occupa-

SOCIAL POLARIZATION AND COLONIZED LABOR

tional skill levels of Boricua New Yorkers (BLS 1968: 13). These markers of racially subordinate and feminized labor persisted into the late 1990s.

Spatially and socioeconomically compressed by racial segregation and lim- ited affordable housing, the largest concentrations of Puerto Ricans in the United States established a series of identifiable barrios. This ghetto archipel- ago often materialized in close proximity to, or intermixed with, other Caribbean and African American populations: for example, East Harlem (El Barrio), New York City’s Lower East Side (Loisaida), southern Brooklyn (Los Sures), the South Bronx, Roxbury in Boston, Northern Philadelphia, and the Division Street sector of Chicago.28 While in 1950 only the South Bronx had an entire school population that was more than 50 percent Puerto Rican, six- teen years later there were four school districts—South Bronx, South Central Bronx, Manhattan’s Lower East Side, and Brooklyn’s Williamsburg—that were more than 50 percent Puerto Rican (Fitzpatrick 1971: 55).

Their disproportionately concentrated working-class composition, embat- tled living conditions, and the continuing economic expulsion from the island sometimes hardened social resentments between and among Puerto Ricans. Yet several factors counteracted these burgeoning social tensions, driving most Puerto Ricans in the United States to maintain their national and cul- tural affinities with the imagined community of Puerto Rico–as-nation. Sports, music, extended families, island-municipal associations abroad (the asociaciónes de ausentes), politics (both official moderate and radical national- ist), and U.S.-located island-government institutions like the Office of the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico continued to bring together Boricuas across socioeconomic, racial, and oceanic divides.29 The material basis of such na- tional and cultural affinities was the progressively cyclical character of this mi- gration. Because most Puerto Ricans who lived in the United States—regard- less of where they were born—continued to travel periodically back and forth between the island and the United States, many retained strong affective ties to the Puerto Rico. This pattern was increasingly similar to the Dominican, Mexican, and Filipino labor circuits of the late twentieth century (Sassen 1988). As suggested earlier, all these migratory shifts and waves (Puerto Ricans included) were partly the result of global forces and partly a recurrently dis- ruptive popular response to these same forces. However, Puerto Rican cyclical-migration movements did differ notably from the traditionally one- way demographic displacements to the United States from Europe, South America, and Asia (Hernández Alvarez 1976; Hernández Cruz 1985).

As with other Latino migrant populations, the establishment of Puerto Rican barrios usually resulted in the rise of neighborhood “ethnic” associa- tions, trade-union efforts, political circles, and cultural expressions, many of which were initiated by local Puerto Rican women. These were extremely

PUERTO RICANS IN THE UNITED STATES, 1945–2000

complex and variegated efforts. Similar to the migratory process itself, these social survival practices not only represented accommodations to the con- straints of both the capitalist market (global and local) and of the U.S. city and federal governments, but also at different times these same survival practices attempted to circumvent the constraints of capital and the state.30

Within New York City, this broader process of community-building gave birth to a plethora of legal and semilegal, mostly retail commerce that trans- planted island patterns of exchange and sociality, mutating these same pat- terns while simultaneously transforming the city’s vernacular architecture. These included corner minimarkets (colmados, bodegas) featuring “ethnic” food, both canned and fresh. The latter were complemented by local vendors and kiosks specializing in the trademarks of the West African–originated diet of laboring families on the island, namely rice-and-bean side dishes like pork fritters (cuchifritos), fried blood sausage (morcillas), stewed pork bits (gandin- ga), fried chicken (pollo frito), boiled, mashed tubers stuffed with meat and wrapped in plantain leaves (pasteles), cooked pig-stomach lining (mondongo), as well as desserts or treats like syrupy snow cones (piraguas), sesame-seed candy (dulce de ajonjolí), guava paste (pasta de guayaba), and fried coconut sweetened with molasses (mampostiales). Neighborhood religious shops (botánicas) catered to syncretic Caribbean expressions of Afro-Catholic and spiritualist derivation (santería, espiritismo, santiguos, etc.). There was even a transformed version of the gatherings of food merchants and traders in other perishable goods found throughout the Island (plazas del mercado) which was resurrected in New York City—between 111th and 116th Streets and Park Av- enue, under the train tracks—and given the famously Spanglish appellation of La Marqueta. Some of these venues fell under the umbrella of the Puerto Rican Merchants Association (Wakefield 1959; Steiner 1974: 279–311).

In all these cases, the corresponding “native” microbusinesses were partly dependent on burgeoning Caribbean-based small-capitalist enterprises (e.g., Goya Foods Co., INDULAC, et al.), on their distribution chains, and on the favors of corrupt city politicians. Yet these same microbusinesses concurrent- ly disrupted the operation of a number of citywide laws (e.g., sanitation and labor codes) and certain state and federal tax regulations. The immense net- work of self-employment thus created also provided a short-term alternative to wage work in the Manhattan garment industry or in the Brooklyn ware- houses. Last but not least, these colloquial forms of commerce and petty pro- duction (and their subsequent incarnations up to the 1990s) did not merely suggest and/or recall—in the minds of the New York City population in gen- eral and Boricuas in particular—distinctly Puerto Rican practices of everyday life in the island. These “native” forms of everyday life actually reproduced such practices (and their distinctive Puerto Rican-ness) but now within the

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U.S. metropole. This process eventually contributed to significant, albeit sub- tle, shifts in what it meant to be Puerto Rican (and even in what it meant to be an “American” or a “New Yorker”).

A parallel and similarly contradictory process of cultural formation and community survival unfolded in the New York City of the mid- to late 1950s at the level of civic politics. This was how youth-education and cultural- nationalist organizations like the Puerto Rican Forum (a business- development and job-training program) and the Puerto Rican Association for Community Affairs (PRACA) came into being, the latter soon headed by the young social investigator Yolanda Sánchez. This was also how the national Puerto Rican and Latino youth-leadership and educational institution known as Aspira was organized in 1961 by the socially conscious educator Antonia Pantoja, whose successful guidance enabled the group to branch out into Chicago, Philadelphia, and several New Jersey cities by the late 1960s. This was also how political-action groups like the Puerto Rican Community Develop- ment Project (since the early 1960s) and community-based groups such as the Puerto Rican Traveling Theater (founded at this time by the actress and cul- tural worker Miriam Colón) and United Bronx Parents (organized by the neighborhood activist Evelina Antonetti) originated. In more mainstream cir- cles, such efforts were echoed in the institutionalization of the Puerto Rican Day Parade (since 1959), the formation in 1963 of the Puerto Rican Family In- stitute (to facilitate “the integration of families” arriving from the island), and the puertorriqueñization of the major Spanish-language daily El Diario de Nueva York (which by the 1960s was mainly staffed—albeit not owned—by Puerto Ricans). Corollary events included the selection of a handful of mu- nicipal officials and city-hall appointments, as well as the election of Herman Badillo as the first Puerto Rican Congressman (1971–1977) to represent one of the city’s congressional districts.31 During this period, in other major cities, like Chicago, similar processes of struggle and community formation led to lay mutual-aid brotherhoods like the Caballeros de San Juan (established in 1954) and Spanish-language monthlies like El Centinela (1959–1960), Prensa Libre (1960), and La Gaseta (1964), which in 1965 became the weekly El Puer- torriqueño (Padilla 1987: 126–44).

Some analysts (e.g.: Fitzpatrick 1971; C. Rodríguez 1991) have posited that these settlement patterns and the emergence of everyday practices in the Unit- ed States signified the growing “Latinization” of Puerto Ricans as they devel- oped deeper affinities with other “Hispanic” peoples within U.S. society. But this phenomenon can be understood likewise as a central component of an emerging, new, postwar colonized labor force composed of populations from extremely varied cultural and linguistic backgrounds. Indeed, from this van- tage point, the “Latinization” of the U.S. can be seen as a process in which

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populations are still being socially produced as “lesser races” in order to reg- ulate, differentiate, and distribute labor (across the United States and the Caribbean, across all of the Americas, as well as globally). What has been un- precedented in the current period is the scale and the diversity of the peripher- al populations being recruited, uprooted, and relocated for the purpose of capital accumulation within the United States. Puerto Ricans at this time tended to blur into the full spectrum of Pan-Caribbean and Afro-diasporic populations within the large metropolitan areas of the northeastern seaboard and the Midwest. These were the racialized (i.e., colonial) conditions that lo- cated all of these populations as subordinate with respect to the Euro- American population within the United States as a whole. This is not to deny the recurring frictions within Pan-Caribbean and Afro-diasporic laboring- poor sectors: for example, between Puerto Ricans and African Americans or between Puerto Ricans and Dominicans.32 Rather, the point is that for much of the postwar period (and up to the 1990s) most Puerto Ricans in the United States were inclined to live with—and to live as part of—larger urban com- munities more on the basis of shared social conditions (i.e., racialized pover- ty) than on the basis of any common “Hispanic” linguistic identification.33

Impoverished Puerto Rican barrios also emerged as places where racially subordinate laborers, in particular unemployed youth, sought out alternate ways of everyday survival. As they wove in and out of what amounts to labor- market conscription, they found self-expression by recuperating, directly in- fluencing, and transforming various aspects of African American and Caribbean popular culture into an amalgam imbued with new meanings. Among official circles, such practices were often viewed as “deviant behavior” and part of the “culture of poverty” theorized and taxonomized with morbid fascination by so many Anglo-American sociologists, anthropologists, and journalists furthering their careers since the 1950s. Thus, the clandestine lot- tery (bolita), on-the-job pilfering, social violence, illegal betting, gang activity, performing “off-the-books” labor, Afro-Caribbean spirit cults (santería and espiritismo), drug addiction, prostitution, moonlighting as Latin-Caribbean musicians and/or as street-corner doo-wop singers were all seen as part of the specific pathology of Puerto Ricans.34

The alternative to this pathologizing is to understand and research such way- ward practices and transgressions among Puerto Ricans in the postwar United States (especially barrio-based young adults) as what one scholar has called “the way many of us stylized our work . . . turned work into performance,” where “the terrain was often cultural, centering on identity, dignity, and fun” (Kelley 1994: 2, 3). This included everyday-life situations where “theft at the workplace is also [a] strategy to recover unpaid wages and/or compensate for low wages and mistreatment” and involved other schemes to “minimize labor

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with as little economic loss as possible.” This all took place within the larger- scale, longer-term patterns of historical capitalism whereby “changes in the law in response to workers’ actions often turned accepted traditions—what [E. P.] Thompson called ‘the moral economy’—into crime” (Kelley 1994: 19, 20, 22). As indicated above, this extensive criminalization of the everyday-life survival practices among Puerto Rican laboring populations had already been taking place on the island itself after the turn of the previous century.

One glaring example of how bourgeois “American” values were unsettled and challenged by popular illegalities among Puerto Ricans in the United States through the late 1950s and mid-1960s was the press coverage and court case against Salvador Agrón (aka “Dracula” or “The Capeman”). The other- wise turbulent summer of 1959 climaxed with the killing of Theresa Agee in the Lower East Side and, especially, when sixteen-year-old Agrón, decked in an extravagant black cape and captaining a gang called The Vampires, stabbed to death two white Anglo teenagers during his gang’s assault on a midtown Manhattan playground. At trial’s end he became the youngest person in New York State’s history to be condemned to death, though this sentence was sub- sequently commuted (Dubner 1997: 45). Agrón rehabilitated in prison and later became a writer, dying in 1986. His cause célèbre was intermittently re- vived from the late 1970s to the late 1990s, including the short-lived 1998 Paul Simon Broadway musical The Capeman. Yet during the second half of 1959 and early 1960, what could have been more haunting to the sanctity of white Anglo propriety, middle-class morality, and the Western work ethic than reading about or listening to a young Puerto Rican migrant turned gang leader like Agrón being flamboyantly unrepentant throughout his arrest and murder conviction?35

Such abhorrent behavior was seen as the epitome of the juvenile- delinquency wave sweeping the United States during the decades immediate- ly following the Second World War. New York was such a prominent site of this kind of social disorder that a U.S. Senate subcommittee was convened during the late 1950s and held hearings to, among other things, see how the problem could be addressed within the Empire State (U.S. Congress, Senate Committee on the Judiciary, Subcommittee to Investigate Juvenile Delin- quency [USCSCJ-SIJD] 1957). Corollary examples of such moral panic at this time included media melodramas and Hollywood cautionary tales such as City Across the River (1949), The Blackboard Jungle (1955), So Young, So Bad (1956), Cry Tough (1959), West Side Story (1961, after having been a 1957 Broadway hit), The Pusher (1960), The Young Savages (1961), The Pawnbroker (1965), and the mid-1960s television series East-Side, West-Side, set in New York City. Here Puerto Ricans, like African Americans, personified the “Bar- barians at the Gate” menacing northeastern cities—New York in particular—

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and Chicago (Pérez 1990; L. Ortíz 1998). Within this context, the publicity sur- rounding something like the 1959–1960 Agrón case could be read as an in- stance of life imitating art imitating life.

Consequently, it made perfect sense for somebody like Leonard Bernstein in the mid-1950s, then agonizing over how to update “Romeo and Juliet” as a Broadway musical set in New York City, to shift smoothly from feeling capti- vated by the headline-grabbing gang wars between Chicanos and whites in Los Angeles (where Bernstein and his collaborators were meeting) to hitting upon the plot device of the East Coast equivalent of Chicano hoodlums: “In New York we had the Puerto Ricans, and at that time the papers were full of stories about juvenile delinquents and gangs” (Guernsey 1985: 42; E. Wells 2000: 1). This U.S. racist characterization resonated with the homegrown racialized fears of “native” propertied and educated circles on the island, where destitute Puerto Ricans returning from the United States were being blamed for rising crime and drug-addiction rates from the late 1950s to the late 1960s (Wagen- heim 1970: 10; H. Wells 1969: 188).

From the mid-1960s to the early 1970s the worsening conditions (including police brutality) in poor communities of color clashed—sometimes violent- ly—with the rising expectations spurred by the unprecedented generalization of mass-market goods and affordable housing for most of the U.S. (white) population during the postwar economic boom. Puerto Ricans too came to embody that famous line from the Langston Hughes poem: “Nothing lights a fire like a dream deferred.” As with African American ghettos (in Harlem, Watts, Detroit, Philadelphia, Omaha, Dayton, and Atlanta) at this time, riots also erupted in a number of Puerto Rican ghettos in the United States. New Jersey was particularly prominent in this regard, with mass violence taking place in Puerto Rican barrios in Perth Amboy (1966), Paterson (1968), Passa- ic (1969), and Jersey City (1970) (Fitzpatrick 1971: 74–75).

One of the earliest, most typical, and significant of these urban uprisings was the Chicago Riot of June 1966, when three days of rioting and violent demonstrations in the Division Street sector occurred as local residents protested police brutality and targeted local Euro–North American business- es (F. Padilla 1987: 144–55) To a large extent, such phenomena corresponded to the politicization of community struggles among low-wage, peripheral la- borers across the United States (Sassen 1988: 57, 146). In Chicago, for example, the riot’s aftermath gave rise to a whole new generation of socially active or- ganizations, from the radicalization of youth gangs (e.g., the Young Lords) to the institutionalization of Community Action Programs and the Spanish Ac- tion Committee of Chicago (F. Padilla 1987: 155–68).

This was the type of effort that resulted in the uneven emergence of social- welfare and job programs (including vocational training), as well as civil-

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rights reforms, for Puerto Rican barrios in the United States. In New York City, similar developments during the late 1960s and early 1970s materialized as militant and antiracist trade unionism, especially in public sectors such as hospitals and sanitation, and a leftist nationalist revival (Puerto Rican Student Union, Young Lords Party, Movimiento de Izquierda Nacional Puertor- riqueña-El Comité, Partido Socialista Puertorriqueño, et al.), and demands for the community control of schools (Ocean Hill-Brownsville, Two Bridges). In addition, New York Puerto Ricans began resisting the destructive elements of urban renewal and demanding rent controls. But the movement also in- cluded mobilizations for welfare rights, greater access to health services and higher education—such as the struggle for open admissions within the City University of New York (CUNY)—and socioculturally affirmative education- al programs (such as bilingual secondary education and Puerto Rican studies college programs).36

SECTORIAL DECLINE, URBAN FISCAL CRISIS, AND GENERALIZED POVERTY

Between the late 1960s and the early 1970s, the long-term slump in the world- systemic cycle of accumulation was beginning to make itself manifest (Castells 1978; Arrighi 1994: 300–313). Puerto Ricans were deeply affected by this slowly evolving crisis at several levels across the entire domains of the United States. Traditional manufacturing—especially the declining light industries most de- pendent on cheap, lesser-skilled labor—began to be reorganized or replaced according to the logic of deskilled assembly-line production and offshore pro- duction facilities. These were precisely the forms of production wherein Puer- to Ricans were overrepresented in both the United States and the island, given their continuing incorporation (as peripheral labor) into the postwar world economy in both locations. During the 1970s, the trend was toward the gener- ation of a denser and wider network of increasingly capital-intensive plants, the expansion of high-tech coordination centers, and the steady downgrading of manufacturing enterprises in the United States. This massive economic trans- formation spurred a concomitant expansion of the informal economy and other illegal practices. This was manifest, on the one hand, in an expansion both on the part of capital (e.g., sweatshops) and, on the other hand, in a con- tinuation of the already described responses from poverty-stricken people themselves. Hence, structural adjustment throughout the U.S. economy (Puer- to Rico included) and the general process of socioeconomic polarization in- herent to it depended on new colonial configurations of racially structured labor: highly skilled and full-time work (usually Euro–North American at the

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top) combined, at the bottom, with growing levels of temporary, low-income, peripheral labor (wage and nonwage) working extended and intensified hours corresponding to increasingly nonwhite, female, and less-unionized labor.37

The key sites of this massive corporate restructuring were—and still are— the global cities (e.g., New York City, Los Angeles) and the large urban hubs of U.S. regional capitalist command and interaction within the world econo- my (e.g., Houston, Boston, Denver, Atlanta, Miami).38 Economic restructur- ing in these cities brought about a drastic decline in office work and, in par- ticular, of shop-level industrial jobs—principally affecting those who, like Puerto Ricans in the United States, were the “last hired, first fired.”39 This contraction was especially evident in New York City’s industries, and Puerto Ricans—male workers, mostly—were among the groups hardest hit.40 The proportion of all Puerto Ricans of both sexes working as factory operatives at this time plummeted from 50 percent to 36 percent between 1960 and 1970, and then from 31 percent in 1980 to 19 percent in 2000. There was a boom in clerical and other low-end (often low-wage) jobs associated with business services and consumer services (technical, sales, and administrative support, and related service occupations): from 12.7 percent to 20.8 percent between 1960 and 1970, and then from 27.7 percent to 34.9 percent between 1980 and 2000. By comparison, those Puerto Ricans employed as professional- managerial personnel experienced only a relative increase: from 5.9 percent to 8.8 percent between 1960 and 1970, and then from 12.2 percent to 17.1 percent between 1980 and 2000. The proportions of those working in the remainder of the services rose even more gradually, from 15.2 percent to 16.3 percent be- tween 1960 and 1970, and then from 16.5 percent to 18.2 percent between 1980 and 2000.41 As is clear from the statistical trend, it was working-class Puerto Ricans who suffered the brunt of this economic restructuring and social po- larization. Similar conditions predominated in Puerto Rico, where industrial employment also plunged. The proportion of both sexes employed in labor- intensive industries in Puerto Rico decreased from 93 percent in 1958 to 81 percent in 1970 then to 63 percent in 1980, while the percentages of factory op- eratives on the island virtually remained the same at this time (18–19 percent) (USDC 1979: 2:29–40; Vázquez Calzada 1978: 376–77).

The subsequent fiscal crisis in cities like New York brought about an un- even polarization across the full “ethnic” spectrum of racially depreciated labor. On the one hand, there were those who made significant gains (African Americans more than Puerto Ricans) due to the short-term expansion in ac- cess to higher education and government employment (A. Torres 1995: 46, 57, 76–77, 87–88, 135–36; Navarro 2000) and the selective growth of elite public schooling. This contributed to the legitimation of mainstream politics among some Puerto Ricans in the United States. In this sense, it created a wider base

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for moderate cultural nationalism: extensions of island government institu- tions, party affiliations, civic organizations, and corporatist groups of Latino professionals. As will be detailed below, the latter phenomenon would even- tually dovetail with the ascending numbers of “white-collar” and/or proper- tied migrants from the island to the United States from the late 1970s to the late 1990s.

On the other hand, however, most of these colonized populations were crushed by the capitalist “remedies” to New York City’s fiscal crisis. This meant a contraction of welfare-state coverage and access to consumer goods by the working classes, epitomized by municipal retrenchment and especially deteriorating public services: under staffing, lower salaries, and outdated fa- cilities within most public schools and health-delivery units. This degradation of government services and social cutbacks, in turn, seriously affected the physical well-being of impoverished communities in the city. By 1980, the three boroughs with the highest concentration of Puerto Ricans (the Bronx, Manhattan, and Brooklyn) had infant mortality rates comparable to Malaysia, El Salvador, and the Dominican Republic. Decaying public services also af- fected the skill levels and job opportunities of Puerto Ricans.42

The reason the capitalist restructuring process impacted Puerto Ricans in the United States so severely was because, until the early 1970s—and even more so than other Latino and Afro-diasporic populations—Boricuas were overrepresented within extremely constricted tiers of otherwise traditionally declining economic sectors, particularly in northeastern U.S. cities.43 During the entire 1945–1970 period, the largest concentrations of Puerto Ricans in the United States tended to be characterized by manual, unskilled production la- borers and low-end service workers, together with the broadest masses of un- employed (History Task Force 1979: 145–47, 159; C. Rodríguez 1979). But such an unequal impact also occurred because, in the historical long term, this has been the colonial pattern whereby Puerto Ricans (including those on the is- land) have always been incorporated in peripheral labor within the world- economy, especially since the Second World War.44

This colonial concentration of occupational niches and skill levels—one that objectively guarantees the social construction and reproduction of a fem- inized and racially subordinate labor force and structurally restricts this labor to a very narrow band of economic sectors—would seem to be one of the main reasons why, during the late 1970s and 1980s, disproportionately high numbers of Puerto Ricans remained an integral part of the laboring poor within the entire domains of the United States. On the island itself, the per- centage of families below the federal poverty level continued its slight descent from 63 percent in 1979 (a 2 percent drop from 1972) down to 60 percent in 1989. The median annual family income rose even more moderately, from

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$9,925 in 1979 to $9,988 in 1989. But official unemployment rates in Puerto Rico continued to oscillate between 15.4 percent in 1975 to 20.7 percent in 1990, reaching a high of 23.5 percent in 1983. As in the 1950–1970 period, Puer- to Rico’s unemployment rates persisted between 1.8 times (1975) and 3.4 times (1990) the corresponding rates for the entire United States. Meanwhile, 42 percent of Boricua families in the U.S. mainland lived below poverty between 1984 and 1986—already the highest level among all U.S. Latinos. Official un- employment rates among Puerto Ricans in the United States at that time fluc- tuated between 11.4 percent (1980), 14.3 percent (1985), and 12.1 percent (1990). Again, and very similar to what we already saw for the 1950–1972 period, these rates were still 1.6 times (1980) to 2.0 times (1985), and up to 2.2 times (1990), the overall U.S. average. And although the median annual income for Puerto Rican families in the United States continued to rise up to the late 1980s (ap- proximately $11,000), this was still 33 percent of the median annual income for non-Latino U.S. families (approximately $33,000).45

By this time the alarming proportions and tenacity of Puerto Rican poverty in the United States gnawed at the apprehensions and imaginations of official and academic U.S. circles. Renowned economic sociologist Marta Tienda pub- lished a 1989 journal article on “Puerto Ricans in the Underclass Debate,” while by 1990 Puerto Rican families in the United States were twice as likely as African American families to be on welfare and 50 percent more likely to be poor. In 1991, the Journal of the American Medical Association noted that infant mortality rates among Boricuas on the U.S. mainland were 50 percent higher than was the case for Mexican Americans. That same year, The Atlantic Month- ly ran a lead article focusing on Puerto Ricans in the United States entitled “The Other Underclass,” and a year later a special issue of the Congressional Quar- terly’s CQ Researcher on “Hispanic Americans” included a sidebar whose title significantly asked “Why Are Puerto Ricans in Such Dire Straits?”46

The situation of Puerto Rican New Yorkers from the late 1970s to late 1980s was considerably worse. While still more than 50 percent of the city’s entire Latino population, Boricuas in 1981 already constituted the majority in ten of the city’s school districts (up from four in 1966). By the end of that decade, the average annual income of New York City’s Puerto Rican families had risen to approximately $19,000, but this was still little over half of the average annual income for all the city’s families at that time (approximately $34,000). Puerto Ricans remained the poorest “ethnic” group in the city—even when com- pared to Dominicans, Mexicans, and African Americans. In 1989, 38 percent of all Puerto Ricans struggled to survive on income below the poverty level, compared to 19 percent for all New Yorkers.47 In this regard, the Department of City Planning’s report clarified that “the gap in the percent of the popula- tion below the poverty line remained substantial at each point in the life-cycle.

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When the threshold is increased to 150 percent of the poverty line, close to one-half of all Puerto Ricans in the city can be categorized as poor” (DCP 1994: 56). And despite the increase in their levels of educational attainment during the 1980s—high school graduates increased from 35 percent in 1980 to 46 percent of the total in 1990—Puerto Rican New Yorkers continued to lag behind the city’s average of 69 percent (1990) (DCP 1994: 40; and Fitzpatrick 1987: 142). In addition, two other pertinent factors were eventually document- ed: (1) that there was an overrepresentation of Puerto Ricans in the city’s vo- cational schools, and (2) that the training in these schools was scandalously substandard (Oakes 1985; Educational Priorities Panel [EPP] 1985). Not sur- prisingly, this overrepresentation also extended to the percentage of Puerto Ricans within the state penal population, which by the early 1980s was more than triple the proportion of New York State’s general population (19.0 per- cent versus 5.6 percent). Again, all this strongly suggests a structural (i.e., colo- nial) relationship between the institutionalization of low skill levels and the social regulation of a racially subordinate and feminized laboring population historically constructed to work for low wages.

These dismal circumstances did not qualitatively shift during the 1990s, when almost half of all Puerto Ricans everywhere lived on the U.S. mainland: the numbers of those living stateside had more than doubled since 1970, reaching 3,100,000 by the year 2000. Close to 50 percent of all Boricua chil- dren in the United States in 1998 still lived below poverty level, while unem- ployment rates for Puerto Ricans in the United States continued to oscillate between 2.17 times (1990) and 2.38 times (2000) general U.S. percentages. By the year 2000, Puerto Ricans still had one of the highest unemployment rates (8.3 percent) and most elevated poverty levels (30.4 percent) among all of the U.S. “Hispanic” population groups—surpassed on both counts only by Do- minicans—notwithstanding the relative decline in the corresponding rates since the 1980s. By 1999, although 64 percent of all Boricuas on the U.S. main- land had obtained a high school diploma or more education (up from 58 per- cent in 1991)—in one of the few indices in which they surpassed Chicanos and Mexicans (49.7 percent)—but Boricuas still lagged behind the corresponding proportions for U.S. whites, which had risen to 87.7 percent by this time (USBC 2000a; Logan 2001: 3).

As the data and arguments in the rest of this chapter suggest, part of this dramatic increase in educational attainment appears to be associated with the increasing social polarization among Puerto Ricans in the United States since the 1980s, rather than any single statistical anomaly between Puerto Ricans and Chicanos and Mexicans. For instance, despite having higher poverty levels than U.S. Mexicans, by 1999 there were proportionally more Puerto Ricans than Mexicans in the U.S. mainland who were full-time, year-round workers

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with annual earnings of $35,000 or above (USBC 2000a). This relatively better- off segment threw off the curve and contrasted sharply with the continuing bleak conditions among most Puerto Ricans in the United States during the 1990s. For instance, a 1996 Yale study revealed that Boricua children had the highest asthma rates in the U.S. mainland, above any other Latino and racial group—and more than twice the rate for white Anglos (Reuters 1996). In turn, the National Center for Health Statistics disclosed in 2000 that “Puerto Rican persons in the mainland U.S. fare significantly worse than other U.S. Hispan- ics on a number of health indicators” (NCHS 2000). Not surprisingly, the lat- ter findings drew sharp criticism from the organizations of propertied and highly educated U.S. Puerto Ricans, like the Puerto Rican Professional Asso- ciation of South Florida and the Puerto Rican Chamber of Commerce at Coral Gables, who were worried that “the report might create a stereotype, possibly causing health insurance providers to raise Puerto Ricans’ rates” (Associated Press [AP] 2000). Meanwhile, a Population Resource Center document on Latina teen pregnancy found that young Puerto Rican mothers—most of whom probably could not afford private health insurance—“were worse off than other Latino groups: they are less likely to be married or to be living with parents or other adults, and more likely to be living in poverty and receiving welfare” (Population Resource Center [PRC] 2001).

Once again, social conditions for Puerto Ricans in New York City contin- ued to leave much to be desired throughout the 1990s, where Boricuas (by then mostly U.S. born) were the largest Latino group in every city borough ex- cept Manhattan (where they had been surpassed by Dominicans). The New York Times reported that “in the 1990s, the percentage of Puerto Rican house- holds in the city living at or below the poverty line increased despite the strong local economy, to a rate greater than any other group. According to the most recent data, about 40 percent of New York’s Puerto Ricans qualified as poor, a figure considerably higher than that of African-Americans and worse than the average rate for all Hispanics” (Navarro 2000). An annual survey of His- panic New Yorkers—issued at the end of that decade by the Hispanic Federa- tion (1999)—poignantly asked “Why are Puerto Ricans who have lived in the U.S. for generations not doing better than other Hispanics who are recent im- migrants?” As in the previous two decades, the 1990s confirmed the structur- al link between, on the one hand, the decline of traditional manufacturing and rising employment among highly skilled workers and, on the other hand, Boricua New Yorkers’ leaving the formal labor market due to the persistence of deficient inner-city public schools, employer racism, and residential segre- gation,48 all compounded by the already mentioned socially polarized demo- graphic shifts among Puerto Ricans themselves. The veteran Puerto Rican ac- tivist and city educator Antonia Pantoja concluded as much in a February

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2000 newspaper interview: “The underlying problem,” she noted, “is indiffer- ence by both government and the public, including economically comfortable Puerto Ricans, to ‘a society where children are not taught by the schools they attend, families do not have decent housing to live in, where the color of your skin will keep you out of the services and resources all citizens are entitled to’” (Navarro 2000).

In 1999 and 2000, Puerto Rico’s population numbered 3,809,000 (a 71 per- cent increase from 1970), and virtually all socioeconomic indicators remained grim. Of all school-age children, 84 percent persisted in poverty. And depend- ing on how and where the calculation is carried out,49 between half and two- thirds of the island’s entire population remained below the poverty level in 2000—which had been the case since at least the early 1970s.50 This type of chronic social distress was akin to the fluctuations in official unemployment levels during the 1990s in Puerto Rico, oscillating between 17 percent (1992) and 10 percent (2000). As had already occurred between 1950 and 1990, unemploy- ment rates in Puerto Rico at the turn of this century remained consistently higher than was the case for the general population of the United States: con- cretely, between 2.2 times (1992) and 3.1 times (2000) the overall U.S. rates.51

And despite the steady rise in per capita income since the 1970s, during the 1990s this figure continued to be one-third of the per capita income within the United States.52 By the year 2000, the island’s average hourly wages were still 58 percent of the corresponding rates in the United States at that time (up from 41 percent of the U.S. average in 1960) (Rivera 2002; BLS 2002c). Similar to what was already indicated for most Puerto Ricans in the United States, a feed- back loop also existed in the island between generalized poverty and dimin- ished well-being. For instance, the U.S. Center for Disease Control observed that “the continued low per capita income in Puerto Rico adversely affects Puerto Ricans’ mental and physical health and their overall quality of life. . . . In some cases, low HRQOL [health-related quality of life] might affect socioe- conomic status (e.g., by reducing one’s productivity and associated earnings)” (CDC 2002). As a result, the island’s infant mortality rate in 2000 remained twice as high as that of the entire United States (NCHS 2001).

SOCIAL RESISTANCE, RACIAL PROFILING, AND THE NEW EXPANDING SERVICE SECTORS

Out of the entire Boricua population (on the island and in the United States), young adults—males, in particular—from laboring-poor U.S. barrios have been among the groups hardest hit by this brutal structural adjustment and general socioeconomic polarization process across the United States since the

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early 1970s (Cordero Guzmán 1992–1993). Largely as a result, this was the de- mographic sector that spearheaded the new forms of expression, protest, and resistance that proliferated from the late 1970s to the mid-1990s, especially in cities like New York (where almost half of this population was under 17 years of age by 1981) and in conjunction with other colonized youths like African Americans, as well as Dominicans and other Caribbeans (for a similar line of analysis, see Aparicio, this volume). The result was the creation among them of a sense of larger communities of struggle and desire, where—to again quote Robin Kelley—they tried “to turn [their] bodies into instruments of pleas- ure,” and “generational and cultural specificity had a good deal to do with [their] unique forms of resistance” (1994: 2, 3).

In this manner, the block-party music and dance (rap, dancehall, breaking) and the visual imagery (“bombing” subway cars and buses, “tagging” city walls with graffiti, and spray painting memorial murals on tenement walls) of the Puerto Rican ghetto kids who participated in the rise of hip-hop culture blurred the sociocultural differences in New York between African American West Harlem and Puerto Rican East Harlem (aka El Barrio), or between Loi- saida (Lower East Side) and the Dominican bastion of Washington Heights. But these emergent cultural forms also metaphorically and literally bridged the gap between the South Bronx and Los Sures (in Brooklyn), from there es- tablishing links with Puerto Rican barrio teens in Boston’s Roxbury, in North Philly, and in the housing projects of San Juan. Some of these same unem- ployed Boricua youth and university activists indelibly marked the city’s swelling gay and lesbian insubordinate geographies (historically symbolized in the Stonewall rebellion, gay fashion houses and performance balls, Gay Pride marches, and ACT-UP) while helping form autonomous sites (Comité Ho- mosexual Latino, gay/lesbian contingents in the Puerto Rican Day parades, La Casita, Hispanic AIDS Forum, Las Buenas Amigas). Both urban forms of ex- pressive culture and ad hoc political coalitions crossed social-class and racial divides between gay/lesbian New Yorkers and city-health professionals, and helped bridge sexual and age divides among communities of color in the city and the region, as well as between the latter and Puerto Rico.53

Barrio youth from one or both of these hip-hop and gay/lesbian scenes, in turn, blurred into new and old local politicocultural expressions (such as the Museo del Barrio, the Puerto Rican Traveling Theater, Pregones, leftist na- tionalist organizations, and, again, the Puerto Rican Day Parade). Some of these same Puerto Rican ghetto kids also went on to participate in the militant CUNY student strikes of 1989–1992, resisting the administration’s attempts to roll back the gains of the late 1960s and early 1970s, like the dismantling of bilingual education, open-admissions policies, and Puerto Rican studies col- lege programs. These struggles likewise embraced the resurgence of politicized

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gangs that operated within both the penal system and the neighborhoods, in particular the Asociación de Confinados (aka ñetas) and the Almighty Latin King and Queen Nation. But they also included the massive, anti–police bru- tality street demonstrations of the late 1980s and early 1990s (giving rise to or- ganizations such as the Coalition for Racial Justice) and the youth conferences organized by new groups like the National Congress for Puerto Rican Rights (founded in 1981), Fuerza Latina, and MUEVETE: The Boricua Youth Move- ment. The relevance of such issues was confirmed by a 1999 annual survey of Latino New Yorkers, which found that “for the first time since 1993, crime is not the number one problem for all Latinos. . . . Now the number one prob- lem is police brutality. For Puerto Ricans, however, crime and police brutali- ty are tied for the number one problem, . . . followed by racism/discrimina- tion (13 percent)” (Hispanic Federation 1999). This type of more combative, cross-district, grassroots activism eventually overlapped with wider social movements that brought together many of the same ghetto kids and their par- ents, along with other sectors from communities of color mobilizing around an entire array of issues: housing, education, police violence, working condi- tions, immigrants’ concerns and other legal rights, environmental racism, and so on.54

These were some of the ways in which, however unevenly, the downward phase in the long-term world-systemic economic crisis did not merely gener- ate a legitimation of mainstream “Hispanic” politics. It simultaneously seemed to provoke political practices among racially subordinate sectors that partially disrupted the colonial social order within pivotal world cities like New York. This seems to have been the particular case of the more militant interneighborhood activism and young-adult protagonism just described. Here the lines were more clearly drawn between, on the one hand, the police and city hall and, on the other hand, nonwhite laboring-poor communities where Puerto Ricans were more prone to transcend divisions of citizenship, language, or color (which at times have also partially separated most Puerto Ricans from most Dominicans, African Americans, and Anglo-Caribbeans). Unfortunately, the neighborhood bases of this type of militancy also became the principal targets of city- and state-based co-optation(e.g., indulging cer- tain families and favoring entire blocks that denounced such forms of strug- gle) and selective abuse (both in terms of even higher levels of officer brutali- ty and social-service neglect). As the economic restructuring unfolded and its long-term effects made themselves felt, this kind of activism became increas- ingly harder to sustain.55

Grassroots movements and activism were also disorganized by the massive reorientation of New York City’s political economy in the late 1980s and 1990s. In a marked shift from 1960s poverty programs, the city now began an

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urban renewal campaign that dwarfed previous efforts. Factory buildings were converted into residential lofts. Tenements and industrial districts were turned into high-end restaurants, exclusive night clubs, boutiques, perform- ing arts centers, museums, and galleries. Although such measures resulted in the return of some corporate headquarters, the rising levels of gentrification created a real estate feeding frenzy that continued into the 1990s. Skyrocket- ing rents and housing prices contributed to the protracted dismantling and at- omization of the already impoverished Puerto Rican barrios of East Harlem, the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and especially the South Bronx. This phys- ical devastation of Boricua-lived environments was another factor behind the growing appeal of more cautious political action among many Puerto Ricans in the United States. In New York City, desperate times in part continued to lead to desperate measures, but these now followed a tendency toward re- straint and moderation. Combative outrage caved in to the politics of fear.56

This growth of mainstream politics (electoral and cultural) had two ex- tremely contradictory social roots. On the one hand, there was the more con- servative version of the politics of desperation in light of the razing of Puerto Rican slums and the corresponding ruthless measures of economic structural adjustment inside the United States. On the other hand, the spreading influ- ence of mainstream politics unevenly converged with the relative expansion of professional-managerial Boricuas in the United States, especially as a result of the new wave of migration coming from the island since the late 1970s (dis- cussed at the end of this chapter).

However, the disparate social bases of the two phenomena should not be confused. One was the defensive retreat into more cautious politics on the part of ghetto refugees desperately trying to recuperate from bombed-out tene- ments and a bombed-out “blue-collar” economy. The other force was the for- ward and aggressive—often triumphant—careerism (social and political) of middle-class and highly qualified Puerto Ricans. This was true, regardless of whether this professional-managerial condition was of island origin (e.g., Kileen,Texas, mayor Raúl Villaronga and Tampa candidate for Hillsborough Commissioner Rock Roque) or came from those who were mostly U.S.-born or raised (e.g., New York City’s now-perennial mayoral candidate Herman Badillo and Lower East Side Councilman Antonio Pagán). In the case of laboring-poor Puerto Ricans, and depending on the stakes and correlation of forces, the indigent majority always oscillates paradoxically between insur- gency and co-optation. The second, intermittently more guarded position, has contributed to the rise of careerist politicians. Whether in the United States or in Puerto Rico, middle-class and highly educated Puerto Ricans have histori- cally been—and still are—a minority among all Boricuas, and most tend to ful- fill their historical role as colonial(ist) and social-class intermediaries.57

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In summary, such were the social transformations unfolding from the late 1970s to the late 1990s (in the United States and Puerto Rico, as well as global- ly): retrenchment, downsizing enterprises, increased automation and part- time employment, elongated working hours and an intensification of the labor process, severe erosion of “real” wages, fiscal conservatism, privatization of the state sector, bigger tax breaks for capital and the middle classes, deregulation of the economy, erosion of trade unions, and an expanding criminalization of racially subordinate destitute communities. But this entire array of socially ruthless measures pursued by capital and the state produced contradictory and complex results. On the one hand, such measures restored—and, at best, opti- mized—previous levels of capital accumulation by stabilizing or even reducing labor costs and government social expenditures, collaterally increasing the ac- ceptance of political moderation among the laboring classes. On the other hand, this assault also propelled a plethora of “refusals from below” that inter- fered with the orderly reproduction of colonial-capitalist relations.58

In the large U.S. cities of the northeast, these socially ruthless measures were also accompanied by a heightened police surveillance and repression targeting the residents of the Boricua ghetto archipelago from the 1980s to the early twenty-first century59 and the concomitant blurring of the African American, Dominican, Haitian, Jamaican, Mexican, Central American, and Southeast Asian into a collective, generic “colored” urban threat.60 Although the inci- dence of serious criminal activity in the United States has been declining since the late 1980s, incarceration rates have been rising dramatically in part due to the so-called War on Drugs and its harsher fixed-sentencing laws and racial- profiling techniques targeting racially subordinate populations (Human Rights Watch (HRW) 2000). For instance, during the 1996–97 fiscal year, the states with the highest indices of overrepresentation for Latino youth in de- tention (Connecticut, New York, Massachusetts, and New Jersey) also hap- pened to be those states where Puerto Ricans were the largest Latino group. These were also the same states where Latino youth had three to eight times the judicial custody rate of white youths during this same period (Poe- Yamagata and Jones 2000; Villaruel et al. 2002).

For New York City (where Puerto Ricans continued to represent the main Latino group), “a December 1999 report by the New York State Attorney Gen- eral found that of the 175,000 ‘stops’ engaged in by the NYPD officers from January 1998 through March 1999, almost 84 percent were of blacks and His- panics, despite the fact that those groups comprised less than half of the city’s population.” Evidently associated with the NYPD’s “Stop and Frisk” cam- paigns and “Tough-On-Crime Movement” during that decade, that same re- port found that “of the 10 police precincts with the most stops, seven were ma- jority black/Hispanic districts” (Weich and Angulo 2000: 4–5. For similar

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nationwide trends see Johnson, this volume). Once again, such measures should be understood in light of the fact that throughout the 1990s, Puerto Ri- cans continued to have the highest unemployment rates and most elevated poverty levels among all U.S. “Hispanics,” itself an indication of the forces compelling Boricua barrio youths into the informal economy and other crim- inalized survival practices.

These official punitive measures dovetailed with the sensationalist rein- scription of Puerto Rican neighborhoods as the racially coded “combat zones,” which populated the middle-class, Euro–North American imaginary over the past twenty-five years. Within these mass-media mental landscapes, such ideological representations could be found in Hollywood-made or Hollywood-marketed films like The New Centurions, The French Connection, Death Wish, Fort Apache, the Bronx, and Badge 373 in the 1970s, and The Police Tapes, Carlito’s Way, Q. & A., and Bonfire of the Vanities during the 1980s and 1990s, as well as within more recent independent productions like Do the Right Thing, Hangin’ with the Homeboys, I Like It Like That, Basquiat, Clockers, and He Got Game. But these images were also recurring and interchangeable tropes of cop shows—both explicitly fictional (e.g., NYPD Blue, New York Un- dercover) and “reality” TV—and the eleven o’clock news.61

Although these kinds of representations were partially mitigated by the commercial success of the most recent “Latin Craze” in the United States from the late 1980s to the present (see below), the overwhelming Anglo media char- acterization of Puerto Ricans in particular (and, to a lesser extent, Latinos in general) within the United States continues to be disproportionately pep- pered—when not outright suffused—with vermin infestations (biological and social), crime-ridden neighborhoods, and shady figures. It bears remember- ing that the previous wave of U.S.-white moral panic during the 1950s and early 1960s regarding “naturally” crime-prone Puerto Ricans also coincided with the phenomenal marketing triumph of the mambo and the cha-cha-chá exemplified by Puerto Rican media stars like Tito Puente, Tito Rodríguez, Rita Moreno, and Chita Rivera. West Side Story, once again, personifies both contradictory tendencies (Wells 2000; Aparicio, chapter 9, this volume).

The social dislocation caused by ongoing economic restructuring and the general process of polarization in North America and the rest of the world- economy all tended to reinforce and reproduce the racial profiling of Puerto Ricans in the United States carried out by the police and the mass media. As skilled, higher-wage jobs disappeared and the menial service sector expanded, Puerto Ricans joined other people of color in a “race to the bottom” within this last phase of capitalist globalization. Some of these low-income laborers be- came intimately linked to the low end of export-oriented sectors, the parceling out of delivery services via multiple global outlets (as has been happening with-

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in hotels, repair services, car rentals, retail outlets for high-end consumer goods, and so on). But these downgraded laborers also serviced the life-style needs of the growing sector of professional technical and managerial person- nel, as in traditional domestic service, and likewise worked in the high-end service sector described previously. Another outcome of this kind of restruc- turing has been the increasing Puerto Rican involvement in the production of low-end goods and services for their own communities and for other colonized populations—for example, food stands, corner markets, and neighborhood repair shops—but now increasingly financed or merchandised via corporate enterprises like the transnational fast-food corporations. Meanwhile, the ex- pansion of these low-wage service jobs simultaneously increased the number of job opportunities for professional-technical personnel in public and private in- stitutions involved in socially regulating these very same low-income popula- tions. Such was the case of curtailed social-service agencies, religious-based charities, and “poverty experts”—community planning boards, shelters, youth programs, and neighborhood development commissions.62

Thus, proportional Puerto Rican employment in these continental U.S. sec- tors—service, technical, sales, administrative support, and office workers— had increased from 28 percent (9 percent of whom were female) in 1960 to 37 percent (17 percent of whom were female) in 1970. By 2000, proportional em- ployment in these same sectors had soared to 70 percent, and by then 61 per- cent were female.63 In the area where Puerto Ricans were most heavily con- centrated (the U.S. mid-Atlantic states), the percentage of women working in these sectors has risen from 61 percent in 1970 to 71–72 percent between 1980 and 1990 out of all Puerto Rican female employment in the United States, while Puerto Rican men’s employment within these sectors oscillated between 36 and 43–47 percent for these same decades, respectively. Likewise, the joint percentages of Puerto Ricans in the U.S. mid-Atlantic states working in wholesale and retail trade, finance, insurance, real estate, business and repair services, professional and related services (health, education), personal servic- es, and public administration rose from 35 percent in 1960 to 57 percent in 1980 and then to 66 percent in 1990 (Colón-Warren 1997: 142). This shift in employment patterns was no less dramatic in Puerto Rico itself, insofar as the island too was part of the global process of capitalist restructuring. There, the proportion of people (both sexes) employed in commerce and trade, finance, insurance, real estate, all services, professional, and public administration rose from 44 percent in 1960 to 64 percent in 1980 and then to 77 percent in 2000.64

Although much more detailed and long-term research needs to be done in this regard, the preliminary data suggests that, rather than a simple and clear-cut case of upward mobility,65 most Puerto Ricans tended to exhibit a horizontal displacement from low-wage employment in manufacturing and

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traditional services to still relatively devalued labor within the low-end of corporate business services and transnational consumer services, rather than a uniform and across-the-board upward mobility. This in no way de- nies the expanding minority of Boricuas (mostly from the island, but some U.S.-born) who enjoyed substantially higher income levels within the Unit- ed States, but it is important to note that such gains usually are relative to what they would have been earning in similar jobs within Puerto Rico.

The downgraded manufacturing sector—emerging out of this same eco- nomic restructuring general process of polarization up to the mid-1990s— went hand in hand with an expansion of sweatshops and industrial home- work among subcontractors for the older labor-intensive industries (e.g., apparel, footwear, toys), as well as among subcontractors for high-tech indus- tries (e.g., certain electronics sectors). In both cases, this growth again de- pended on the colonial structuring of different forms of peripheral labor in the lowest income levels (Sassen 1998: 111–31; Glover 2001). Preliminary evi- dence seems to suggest that the U.S. jobs formerly held by Puerto Rican men in this sector were being filled by females, albeit not necessarily Puerto Rican women. Especially in sites like New York City, the tendency seemed to be towards immigrant (legal and illegal), nonunionized, female employment within downgraded manufacturing enterprises. In the case of Dominican im- migrants to the United States, these low-wage (often undocumented) laborers usually entered the United States by air via Puerto Rico, where they had orig- inally arrived by water.66

As we already saw above, apparel manufacture has been one of the quintes- sentially backward economic sectors since the early twentieth century. But in New York City during the 1990s, this was still a four-billion-dollar-per-year in- dustry representing almost a third of the city’s manufacturing jobs and at least 60 percent of its factories are sweatshops. Similar to what was also taking place in Los Angeles at that time, New York City’s garment industry was annexed to the multibillion-dollar-per-year transnational retail powerhouses that had mushroomed since the 1970s. Such firms have learned to deploy their own ver- sion of flexible accumulation (known as “lean retailing”) in the face of grow- ing competition from elsewhere in the world economy. As had been the case from the 1940s to the late 1960s (when Puerto Rican labor played a crucial role), the garment industry remained extremely dependent on cheap labor in order to secure comfortable profit margins. After the 1970s, this dependence became even more acute: subcontractors (who actually ran the sweatshops) competed fiercely, trying to outbid each other for the business of big-name manufactur- ers.67 By the late 1970s to mid-1980s, this was how and why wage levels in New York City’s apparel manufacture dropped below what they were in Puerto Rico (Ross and Trachte 1990: 162). Under these conditions, it became more prof-

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itable to replace Puerto Rican wage laborers (the male workers, especially) with, for example, illegal Chinese immigrant women and girls. As unemploy- ment levels in the overwhelmingly Boricua Lower East Side of Manhattan reached 45.4 percent during the mid-1990s, a few blocks away in the dilapidat- ed tenement-factories of Chinatown’s Mott Street, the hourly earnings—even within unionized garment shops—were only between $1.00 and $3.00. At that time, average hourly wages in apparel industries within Puerto Rico were $5.42, compared to $8.21 across the U.S. mainland (National Mobilization Against Sweatshops [NMASS] 2001; Puerto Rico U.S.A. [PRUSA] 2002).68

Especially in places like New York City and other major urban hubs in the East Coast and central Florida, these displaced Puerto Rican men and women partly shifted towards three overlapping sectors: low-paying service jobs,69

transient work in the downgraded manufacturing sector, and a wide range of activities in the informal economy, including “ odd jobbing,” street vending, trading in stolen car parts, and illegal drug trafficking.70 Therefore, from the 1970s to the present, global structural adjustment and its far-reaching social polarization enabled the U.S. industrial sector and the services to attract or capture many Puerto Ricans as an integral component of a much broader spectrum of low-income colonized labor than ever before: across North America and from all corners of the earth, but in every case subject to the same restructuring of global U.S. capital. This racially depreciated peripheral labor could be found not only within U.S. global cities (New York, Los Ange- les), but also within the hinterlands of all U.S. domains—that is, the smaller, up-state urban zones of the northeastern seaboard, the north-central Mid- west, and the so-called Sunbelt (the U.S. South, portions of the West Coast, and Puerto Rico itself). On the other hand, these U.S. transnational industries and business or consumer services lured and trapped such colonized labor within peripheral spaces formally outside U.S. jurisdiction: Mexico (with the maquiladora system), the rest of the Caribbean Basin (in the “export- processing zones” or “free-trade zones”), as well as Southeast Asia and China (in the “special economic zones”).71

THE NEW MIGRATORY PATTERNS

The monumental capitalist reorganization that began globally in the 1970s, therefore, not only had profound effects on how Puerto Ricans made a living, it also had a profound effect on where they lived across the entire domain of the United States from the late 1970s to the late 1990s. In terms of migratory flows, this was how the current “circular” or “cyclical” migration originated, albeit the phenomenon itself has existed (at lower levels) since the 1960s.72

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As economic restructuring advanced on the island and federal minimum wage levels were extended to Puerto Rico, given the increase in capital’s need (both within U.S. jurisdictions and internationally) for cheaper labor from the early 1980s onwards, employers began substituting variegated segments of Puerto Rican labor on the island with immigrant labor from around the world, especially Asia and the rest of the Caribbean Basin (Sassen-Koob 1985; Duany 1995). Simultaneously, many Puerto Ricans in the United States began using outward migration in ways similar to the postwar years, but now leav- ing their older and more established barrios in major cities (New York City, Chicago, Philadelphia) besieged by the restructuring process. Most Puerto Ri- cans on the U.S. mainland nevertheless remained concentrated in the north- east. In 1990, New York City still accounted for 33 percent of all Puerto Ricans in the United States, while an additional 17 percent lived in other cities in New England, New York state, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. But as early as 1980, the U.S. cities with the highest numbers of Puerto Ricans as percentages of the total city population were in Connecticut (Hartford and Bridgeport) and New Jersey (Camden, Passaic, and Paterson) rather than in New York state: by 1990 the relative dimensions of the Boricua population in Hartford and Camden were twice as large as that of New York City (C. Santiago and Rivera-Batiz 1994: 22–23). Puerto Ricans continued to move in search of a better life (bus- cando ambiente), albeit not necessarily within the formal labor market. This shift not only meant moving back to the island for some, but also involved a growing relocation towards smaller U.S. urban areas in New England and the Mid-Atlantic states, as well as towards larger cities in the South, Midwest, and West Coast. For most Puerto Ricans, the persisting trend was to move into neighborhoods with other racially subordinate and feminized populations: African Americans, Dominicans, Haitians, Mexicans, Chicanos, Central Americans, and so on (J. Morales 1986: 162–82, 184–99; Bonilla 1994).

It is no accident that some of these exact same geographical areas began ex- hibiting a relative growth in the industrial sector (automated operations, but especially downgraded manufacturing), services (upper-level or not), and the informal economy. Massachusetts is a case in point: high-tech sectors like elec- tronics experienced a spectacular expansion there throughout the 1970s and 1980s, generating an increase in the availability of very skilled and high-income personnel and, even more so, in the proportions of low-wage production labor. During this same period, though, the most rapidly growing economic niches in the area were low-wage, wholesale and retail trade, and the services. Not coin- cidentally, the Puerto Rican population of smaller cities like Worcester, Spring- field, and Lawrence-Haverill in Massachusetts almost tripled between 1980 and 1990, now collectively representing close to 2 percent of all Puerto Ricans in the United States at a time in which the entire state accounted for almost 6 percent

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of all Boricuas living on the U.S. mainland. These three cities had among the highest poverty rates (between 56 and 62 percent) of all U.S. metropolitan areas and the largest Puerto Rican populations.73

Between 1990 and 2000, the rate of growth of the Puerto Rican popula- tions in some of these northeastern urban areas continued at the same pace or leveled off. However, the most dramatic shifts at this time took place in the number of Boricuas relocating to Florida’s towns and cities, especially the Tampa–St. Petersburg–Clearwater corridor and Orlando (Logan 2001: 9–10). Similar to Massachusetts from the late 1970s to late 1980s, Florida in the 1990s was undergoing a major growth in high-tech industries and in consumer and business services, all in dire need of low-wage labor (usually from out-of-state). Two cases in point were Tampa’s technology boom (once again, in automated operations and downgraded manufacturing) and the expanding hospitality and tourist services tied to central Florida’s mega theme parks and mass-media spectacles.74 That was how Florida doubled its Puerto Rican population during this decade, almost tripling in the Orlando and Tampa–St. Petersburg–Clearwater areas alone. Florida now has the sec- ond largest concentration (16 percent) of Puerto Ricans on the U.S. main- land and Boricuas are now the second largest Latino group in the state— representing 19 percent of all of Florida’s “Hispanics”—Cubans remain in first place with 32 percent (Logan 2001: 8, 10; de Valle and Henderson 2002). Yet this was a much more complex demographic shift than otherwise meets the eye. According to Darío Ruíz, past president of the League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC) and a manager in the Human Resources Department of Hillsborough County, “Puerto Ricans have migrated to Florida in recent years in two streams. . . . One stream is a largely profes- sional group coming directly from Puerto Rico; the second is a less-skilled wave of second- and third-generation Puerto Ricans moving from the northeastern United States” (Coats 2001).

This last quotation illustrates the extent to which the rising proportions of Puerto Ricans in U.S. areas outside New York City, Chicago, and Philadelphia were not merely a geographic polarization among Puerto Ricans in the U.S. mainland: this exodus also represents a social polarization among Boricuas in the United States, and it is part and parcel of the general socioeconomic po- larization occurring across North America and the rest of the world economy. This was a direct outcome of the already described deterioration of public ed- ucation (especially, inner-city schools) within northeastern U.S. urban zones since the mid-1970s, itself resulting from global neoliberalism’s economic re- structuring. Not coincidentally, this latter process also repositioned Puerto Rico within the world economy over the last two decades, thus giving rise to a new type of Puerto Rican migration from the island to the United States.

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From the 1970s to the early 1990s, cash-strapped, capital-intensive heavy in- dustries (petrochemicals, pharmaceuticals, some electronics sectors) in the United States, together with international finance corporations, began trans- ferring operations to Puerto Rico on a large scale. These companies manipu- lated global price differences in raw materials and benefited from federal tax- shelter legislation, specifically Section 936 of the U.S. Internal Revenue Code (from the early 1970s to the mid-1990s). The latter legislation enabled these corporations to repatriate to the continental United States—via Puerto Rico—the profits generated by their subsidiaries internationally.75

Together with older light-industry sectors (apparel, footwear, furniture), this shift also corresponded to the uneven extension of new, “off-shore” pro- duction projects toward the Caribbean. As with Mexico in the 1980s (see Gutiérrez, chapter 1, this volume), this approach became known as the “Twin- Plant Concept” or “fábricas de producción complementaria.” Similar to the economically colonial role South Korea was playing in the Pacific Rim at this time, Puerto Rico was partially relocated as an intermediate link (in industri- al production as well as in business services) between the corporate head- quarters, most capital-intensive and high-wage operations, with research and development within U.S. global cities, and regional-coordination centers; and the most labor-intensive, least-skilled, and low-wage end of this chain in the export-processing free-trade zones elsewhere in the Caribbean (e.g., Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Jamaica, Barbados). In both the “Section 936”case and the “Twin-Plant” strategy, such companies took advantage of the local nuclei of skilled manual labor and of the growing numbers of upper-level, producer- and consumer-service workers and professional technical personnel on the is- land—most of whom usually ended up with smaller blocks of take-home pay than their counterparts in the United States.76

There are three overlapping migratory components worth referencing in this context, beginning with the larger and more cyclical migration of semi- and lower-skilled labor from the island to the United States and back to the island again, described above. This working-class makeup has continued to characterize most of the migratory circuit, in particular from Puerto Rico to the United States.77 The same process also produced a second—considerably smaller—wave of very skilled labor migrating to the island, namely clusters of high-level, professional technical and managerial personnel from the United States (mainly, Anglo-American and Cuban) and from other parts of the world (e.g., South America, Europe, Israel, Asia).78

Yet there has also been a third layer of migration, the so-called brain drain from the island to the United States.79 The reader should bear in mind, on the one hand, that this “brain drain” in no way denies the continuing working-

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class configuration of most emigration from Puerto Rico to the United States. On the other hand, we feel the indicators for this new trend are significant enough to warrant our current conclusions—particularly when such conclu- sions are seen within the context of the long-term trends, relational patterns, and global structures examined above.

Some scholars (e.g., Santiago and Rivera-Batiz 1994: 43, 59, 67) have re- cently insisted that Puerto Ricans in the United States “have come a long way” from the slum backgrounds which characterized the Boricua U.S. pop- ulation in the past and have partly based this argument on the official statis- tics confirming the higher educational levels over the past twenty years for both Puerto Ricans living in the United States and especially for Puerto Ri- cans migrating from the island to the United States. As with the upward- mobility theses mentioned above, this corollary claim does not seem to fully consider either the long-term impact of global economic restructuring in the United States and Puerto Rico or the persistence of the colonized character of Puerto Rican labor. A key development in this regard was the contradic- tion between, on the one hand, the growth of professional technical person- nel (resulting from the prodigious expansion of higher education on the is- land since the mid-1970s) and, on the other hand, the limits of the existing local job market. This discrepancy, combined with the higher U.S. salary lev- els, generated a sharp rise in the numbers of higher-skilled, “white-collar” workers migrating to the United States starting in the late 1970s and early 1980s and continuing throughout the 1990s.80

As early as 1983, for instance, 80 percent of those graduating from the most important engineering school on the island did not even bother to look for employment in Puerto Rico but went directly to the United States, a trend that has continued up to the present. A similar pattern emerged among the ma- jority of the medical school graduates in Puerto Rico, given that, by the mid- 1990s, annual beginning salaries for resident physicians on the island were less than half the U.S. average. Soon the island became a fertile ground for the re- cruitment efforts of U.S. companies and municipal governments seeking highly credentialed, skilled, and bilingual professional technical labor.81 As in other formally colonized and neocolonized contexts, this particular exodus epitomized yet another unequal exchange whereby the training and educa- tional costs were shouldered by the island’s residents while the economic ben- efits generated and the services rendered by this same professional-technical “native” labor were transferred to the U.S. metropole (Dietz 1986: 286). De- spite the dearth of “hard” data and qualitative studies focusing on this phe- nomenon (given what exists, for example, for middle-class African Americans in the United States),82 preliminary information suggests one way to explain

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why this new kind of—still colonized—labor is so attractive to U.S. employ- ers, public and private.

In the early 1990s school districts and municipal hospitals everywhere from Hartford, Connecticut, and Miami to Houston and Los Angeles were actively drafting Puerto Rican school teachers, social-service workers, and nurses from the island, most of them women. By the mid-1990s, school teachers constitut- ed the largest group (33 percent) of professionals, almost a third of whom moved to Texas and Florida (Pascual Amadeo 1994e; Glasser 1995: 58). The immediate personal economic rationale behind this migration is hardly a mystery: even after the island’s short-term economic expansion of the 1990s, Puerto Rico during 1999 and 2000 still had both the lowest average teachers’ salaries and the worst average beginning teachers’ salaries within all U.S. ju- risdictions (American Federation of Teachers [AFT] 2001). Such factors con- tributed to an almost fourfold increase of Florida’s Puerto Rican population between 1980 and 2000, with a growing percentage of them coming from the middle classes. The Tampa–St. Petersburg–Clearwater metropolitan sprawl, for instance, had the second-highest median income levels and one of the most elevated percentages of higher education among Puerto Ricans in all U.S. metropolitan areas by 1990—the highest was the Los Angeles–Long Beach zone (for similar reasons).83 Still, as late as 2002, Florida’s state legisla- ture was actively promoting the recruitment of nurses and teachers (Tallahas- see Democrat [TD] 2002). This influx of highly educated professionals made it perfectly logical for Puerto Rico’s Chamber of Commerce to open a chapter in southern Florida during the mid-1990s, despite the fact that over 200 Puer- to Rican businesspeople and professionals in Florida’s Gulf area had already established their own Chamber of Commerce in 1992.84

But these trends do not necessarily mean that Puerto Ricans generally had escaped the racialized socioeconomic constraints with which historically they have been shackled. The main point here is that although Puerto Rican pro- fessionals on the U.S. mainland are much more credentialed and relatively better off than both preceding generations of Boricua migrant labor and most Puerto Ricans everywhere today, this professional technical labor sector con- tinues to occupy a racially subordinate and economically depreciated niche when compared to that of racially dominant and colonizer personnel per- forming the same tasks. In other words, like previous colonized and neocolo- nized migrants before them, what most middle-class Puerto Ricans since the 1970s primarily see (and continue to see to this day) when they arrive in the United States is that, in absolute terms, they have greater incomes and better working conditions than they had back home, not that they are being paid rel- atively less and working under relatively worse conditions than their U.S.- white counterparts while carrying out comparable labor. For instance, even

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the famously mainstream Puerto Rico Herald acknowledged recently that the state legislature of Florida in 2002 continues to enthusiastically promote the recruitment of school teachers from Puerto Rico “willing to work for low pay and under extremely trying conditions” (PRH 2002). These same conditions apply to virtually all other highly trained Puerto Ricans in professional occu- pations, even when compared to other “Hispanic” groups (Babco 1999).

The results of such polarizations have not yet become decisively explosive within the United States any more than they have done on the island—an- other phenomenon that requires further inquiry. Even more than in Puerto Rico, cultural nationalism (via music, sports, and mainstream politics) has played a significant role in suturing the looming disparities we have described among Puerto Ricans in the United States, as well as between Puerto Ricans and the racially dominant and U.S.-white colonizer population. One impor- tant and recently added factor is that, despite its higher skill levels, significant portions of this “brain drain” continue to be concentrated in the so-called “petit professions” (school teachers in particular, but also nurses and social workers), with usually female labor. In other words, these were employees fre- quently placed in lower-salary scales and subject to the same traditional “glass ceilings” as other non-Euro–North Americans working in the United States. Such complex mediations have now been joined by hegemonically middle- class and highly commodified instances of pan-“Hispanic” identification an- alyzed by Frances Aparicio in this volume: Univisión, telenovelas, “Hispanic” belle lettres, the sanitized Latino music boom—from Menudo and Gloria Es- tefan to “lite salsa” (salsa monga) and Ricky Martin—and other corollary mass-media moments.85 Whether such mediations continue to operate effec- tively in the twenty-first century remains to be seen.

However, during the 1980s and 1990s, the greater economic polarization brought about by global structural adjustment has promoted a greater social distancing between Puerto Rican blanquitos (and their U.S. proxies), on the one hand, and the destitute majority of Puerto Ricans, on the other. This has been especially true within U.S. regions with already existing, historically large “white-collar” Latinos and bourgeois “Hispanic” populations, such as Florida (with its Cuban, South American, and Central American populations) and Texas and California (Mexicans and Chicanos). Here, highly educated and propertied Boricuas tend to define “Latino-ness”—and, indeed, Puerto Rican-ness—in the genteel terms of middle-class respectability and modera- tion.86 This new wave of migrants has tended to reproduce the disavowals al- ready mentioned in the case of the Puerto Rican Professional Association of South Florida and the Puerto Rican Chamber of Commerce at Coral Gables, which vociferously took issue with being confused in any way with laboring- poor Boricuas in the United States (AP 2000).

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Such disavowals are also reflected in the settlement patterns of these very educated and highly propertied U.S. Puerto Ricans: “There is no distinctive middle-class Puerto Rican neighborhood in the United States” (Lemann 1991: 107). Prosperous retirees and professionals from the island move to majority- white-Anglo suburbs in the U.S. Sunbelt, whereas their mainland-born or raised Boricua counterparts (many of them from the northeast or Chicago) tend to move to the exclusive suburbs of Puerto Rico.87 This contrasts markedly with “white-collar” and moneyed U.S. Mexicans and Chicanos, more than a third of whom live in their own majority-ethnic affluent urban developments—especially within greater Los Angeles, as well as Orange and Ventura counties (G. Rodríguez 1996: 16, 18).

Puerto Rican professionals, managers, and large-property owners have been able to branch out as never before and expand their assets (now, usu- ally in the business services), remaining the often Hispanophile junior partners of U.S. capital firms, and/or joining the upper strata of local and state administrations. This has given birth since the 1990s to a profusion of local mayors, judges, public policy makers, and legislators, as well as aca- demics across North America (although mostly within the behavioral sci- ences). Yet some of the disparities examined above have persisted even among the formal housing and property patterns of these professional- managerial and wealthy U.S. Puerto Ricans. Although in 1990 Puerto Ri- cans were 12 percent of the entire “Hispanic” population in the United States, they were only 2.6 percent of the U.S. Latino middle class (USCB 1993b; G. Rodríguez 1996: 13).88

This was how the current socioeconomic split among Puerto Ricans in the United States came into being, a development that requires a considerably more in-depth examination than we have space for here. The transforma- tions of the 1980s and 1990s have meant that Puerto Ricans in the United States no longer tend to be a homogeneously laboring-poor population, but now increasingly reflect the general socioeconomic polarization of the cur- rent phase of globalization—even within the U.S. mainland. Seen as a whole (both in Puerto Rico and in the United States), there has been a greater di- vergence among the modes of economically depreciated labor, from previ- ous forms of colonized labor (lower-skilled, manual) to more recent forms of colonized labor (higher-skilled, “white-collar”). But the structural dis- parities which characterize Puerto Ricans were and are still colonial: Boricuas were and are still epitomized by persistent disadvantages in the preparation of the labor force, constrictions in the available sources of em- ployment, and relatively inferior conditions compared to those that exist among the racially dominant sectors of the population within the North American metropole.

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NOTES

1. See, for example: Cooney and Colón 1979; Association of Puerto Rican Executive

Directors (APRED) 1985; Fitzpatrick 1987; Tienda and Lii 1987; Tienda and Jensen

1988; Tienda 1989; Lemann 1991; Congressional Quarterly 1992; H. Rodríguez 1992;

Falcón and Hirschman 1992; Darder 1992; Meléndez 1993b; Department of City

Planning (DCP) 1994; Rivera-Batiz 1994; Canabal 1997; Hispanic Federation 1999;

Navarro 2000.

2. See, for example: Tienda 1989; H. Rodríguez 1992; Meléndez 1993b; Canabal 1997.

3. In this sense, we carry on the research strategy advanced by the History Task

Force (1979) of the Centro de Estudios Puertorriqueños at Hunter College—es-

pecially Frank Bonilla (1994) and Ricardo Campos (Campos and Bonilla 1981;

Bonilla and Campos 1986)—as well as by Colón-Warren (1997) and Benson Arias

(1996; 1997).

4. From this perspective (Quijano 2000), “race” has been and continues to be one of

the pivotal factors enabling all the power relations inherent to historical capitalism

(e.g., “gender,” “class,” “nation,” “ethnicity”), and it does this by racially organiz-

ing the ways in which labor is regulated, differentiated, and distributed across the

entire world (Quijano and Wallerstein 1992). This is also what makes “race” his-

torically contingent. If “race” had not emerged during the period from 1450–1640

and developed systematically since then to cover eventually the whole planet, the

capitalist global order would not be in place today: hence the colonial character of

the modern world-system (Quijano 2000).

5. Evidence for this process may be seen in the recent work of Sassen (1988; 1991;

1998); we have also documented this process elsewhere (Jiménez-Muñoz 1991b;

Jiménez-Muñoz 1993a; Santiago-Valles 1994a; Santiago-Valles 1999).

6. The concepts of “peripheral” and “periphery” within this essay follow one of Fer-

nand Braudel’s uses of this term (1992: 40): namely, to describe populations and re-

gions characterized by constrained socioeconomic growth and the most degraded

forms of labor. By not reducing the term merely to the relationship between specif-

ic nation-states, he was able to see that such conditions have existed within other-

wise core countries since the origins of the modern world-system (Braudel 1992:

44). The latter usage is akin to Sassen-Koob’s (1982) notion of the “peripheraliza-

tion of the core,” though she only employs this term to describe late-twentieth-

century global cities like New York and Los Angeles.

7. Examples of this perspective may be found, for instance, in Grosfoguel and Georas

1996: 195–96; Grosfoguel, Negrón-Muntaner, and Georas 1997: 19–23.

8. Neither do we reduce “colonial situations” to territorial questions, that is, the de-

sire for a nation-state of one’s own (e.g., Nieves Falcón 1990; Dietz and Pantojas-

García 1993).

9. U.S. Civil Rights Commission (USCRC) 1976; U.S. Department of Commerce

(USDC), 1979: 1:313, 353–55, 705–8, 722; C. Rodríguez 1991; Colón-Warren 1997;

Muñiz Varela 1999.

10. History Task Force 1979: 93–112; F. Rivera 1979; Santiago-Valles 1994a.

11. Cochran 1959: 70–148; Reynolds and Gregory 1965: 117–138; Alva Forde 1979;

Santiago-Valles 1991; Santiago-Valles 1994b.

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PUERTO RICANS IN THE UNITED STATES, 1945–2000

12. Such a characterization is ahistorical because it assumes that a single, “global”

economy is the result of only the past fifteen to thirty years of socioeconomic shifts,

rather than being synonymous with a complex and asymmetrical, world-systemic

process, beginning in the period from 1450 to 1640 and continuing—albeit trans-

formed—up to the present.

13. Perloff 1950; History Task Force 1979; Bonilla 1994; Duany 1995.

14. This use was “new” inasmuch as it could be distinguished from the previous peri-

ods of what eventually became the United States (1607–1800, 1800–1865, 1865–1924,

1924–1945), which also relied on a variety of “foreign” labor: that is, African, Irish,

Mexican, Chinese, German, Southern and Eastern European, Japanese and Pacific

Islander, and Caribbean.

15. Perloff 1950: 60; Vernon and Hoover 1959: 65; Keller 1983: 61–62; Dietz 1986: 206–12.

16. Perloff 1950: 146; Descartes 1972: 61; Junta de Planificación de Puerto Rico (JPPR)

1980b: 1, 7.

17. Herberg 1953; Helfgott 1959; Fleisher 1961; Keyserling 1963.

18. See Santiago-Valles 1991.

19. As Linebaugh (1981) demonstrated in the case of nineteenth-century, central Euro-

pean, rural proletariat.

20. See: Santiago-Valles 1994a; Jiménez-Muñoz 1999.

21. Linebaugh 1981: 86–87; in the case of Puerto Rico, see: Silvestrini 1980; Santiago-

Valles 1994b.

22. Takaki 1983; Kelley 1994; Gutiérrez 1995.

23. Tobier 1984; Waldinger 1985; Sassen-Koob 1985.

24. Herberg 1953; Helfgott 1959; Wakefield 1959: 191–212; Hill 1974; Laurentz 1980:

186–87, 230–307; V. Ortíz 1990: 115–25.

25. See: USBC 1963; USBC 1973; USBC 1993a.

26. USBC 1963: 103–4; Fitzpatrick 1971: 72–76; U.S. Department of Labor (USDL) 1975:

32; Padilla 1987: 104–116; Sassen 1988: 149.

27. See: USBC 1953; USBC 1963; USBC 1973.

28. Handlin 1959; Cordasco and Buchioni 1973; Steiner 1974; F. Padilla 1987.

29. Estades 1978: 37–44; History Task Force 1979: 151–60; Fitzpatrick 1987: 50–52; Torres

1995: 73–74.

30. E. Padilla 1958; Wakefield 1959; López 1980; Morales 1980; Rodríguez-Morazzani

1995.

31. Fitzpatrick 1971: 62–70; I. Santiago 1978; History Task Force 1979: 151–55; Estades

1980; Rodríguez-Fraticelli and Tirado 1989: 38–43; Rodríguez-Morazzani 1991–1992:

101–106; Torres 1995: 79.

32. J. Morales 1986: 45–61; Jiménez-Muñoz 1993b; Laó 1997: 178; Newman 1999: 223–25,

234–45.

33. Handlin 1959; Hill 1974; Massey and Denton 1989: 73, 75; Luciano 1980; Grasmuck

and Pessar 1991; Thomas 1991: 95–104, 142–48; Torres 1995; Rodríguez-Morazzani

1995; Grosfoguel and Georas 1996; Rodríguez-Morazzani 1996; Guzmán 1998.

34. Wertham 1958; Rand 1958; Wakefield 1959; Lait and Mortimer 1959; Lewis 1966; Sex-

ton 1965; Fitzpatrick 1971: 170–78; Cooper 1972; Steiner 1974: 327–63, 475–86; Ro-

dríguez-Morazzani 1991–1992: 110; L. Ortíz 1998.

35. Breslin 1986; MacNamara 1989; Schneider 2001.

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SOCIAL POLARIZATION AND COLONIZED LABOR

36. Piven and Cloward 1977; Fuentes 1980; Katznelson 1981; Shefter 1987: 75, 90; Ro-

dríguez-Morazzani 1991–1992: 111–14; A. Torres 1995: 77–82; Torres and Velázquez

1998.

37. Campos and Bonilla 1981; U.S. Congress, House Committee on Education and

Labor—Subcommittee on Labor Standards (USCHCEL—SLS) 1982; Bonilla and

Campos 1986; Lipietz 1987; Sassen 1988; Ross and Trachte 1990; Santiago-Valles

1991; Benson Arias 1996; Benson Arias 1997: 86–87; Colón-Warren 1997; Newman

1999; New York State Legislature Assembly’s Standing Committee on Labor—Sub-

committee on Sweatshops (NYSASCL—SoS) 1999.

38. O’Connor 1973; Melguizo and Tablas 1981; Cohen 1981; Tabb 1982; Soja, Morales,

and Wolff 1983; Sassen 1988; Ross and Trachte 1990: 156–57; Sassen 1991.

39. North American Congress on Latin America (NACLA) 1978; C. Rodríguez 1979;

Sassen 1988: 148, 153, 160, 162.

40. B. Early 1980; Stafford 1981; Bonilla and Campos 1986: 9–14.

41. Tabulations based on: USBC 1963; USBC 1973; USBC 1983; USBC 1993a; USBC

2000b. The categories excluded in the previous tabulations are farming, forestry,

and fishing workers.

42. USCRC 1976: 55–71, 105–46; C. Rodríguez 1979; Katznelson 1981; Stafford 1985; Fitz-

patrick 1987: 141–78; Ross and Trachte 1990: 168; Jiménez-Muñoz 1991a; C. Ro-

dríguez 1991: 120–38; H. Rodríguez 1992; A. Torres 1995; Canabal 1997.

43. Tienda 1989; H. Rodríguez 1992; Falcón and Hirschman 1992; Canabal 1997.

44. Seen in isolation, this situation would seem to mark a sharp contrast with what had

been the case on the island since the late 1940s, where social polarization had been oc-

curring at a much faster pace. But, taken within the context of the totality of U.S. do-

mains—themselves a significant component of the shifting global capitalist econo-

my—the disproportionately elevated laboring-poor composition of Puerto Ricans in

the United States could be understood as the most destitute pole of the entire Puerto

Rican population (the island included), constituting a fragment of all the depreciat-

ed labor being economically restructured on a world scale since the early 1970s.

45. See: USBC 1986; USBC 1990; USBC 1993a.

46. Tienda 1989; Becerrraet al. 1991: 217; Lemann 1991; Congressional Quarterly 1992: 944.

47. Fitzpatrick 1987: 40, 142; DCP 1994: 56, 59; Rivera-Batiz 1994: 44.

48. H. Rodríguez 1992; Falcón and Hirschman 1992; Canabal 1997.

49. By the 1990s there were discrepancies in how poverty levels were calculated between

federal agencies and the island’s government: “Puerto Rico uses its own poverty level

which is significantly lower than the [federal standard] roughly equal to half of it. It

also does not change on an annual basis” (National Association of State Medicaid

Directors (NASMD) 1999). “The poverty guidelines are not defined for Puerto Rico

[et. al.] . . . In cases in which a Federal program using the poverty guidelines serves

any of those jurisdictions [i.e., Puerto Rico, the U.S. Virgin Islands, American

Samoa, Guam, the Marshall Islands, Micronesia, the Marianas, and Palau], the Fed-

eral Office which administers the program is responsible for deciding whether to use

the contiguous-states-and-D.C. guidelines for those jurisdictions or to follow some

other procedure” (Health and Human Services (HSS) 2002).

50. USBC 1973; USCRC 1976; USBC 1993; Acevedo-Vila 2001; NCCIC 2002.

51. BLS 2002a; BLS 2002b; USBC 1999; USBC 2000b.

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PUERTO RICANS IN THE UNITED STATES, 1945–2000

52. USBC 1993; Federal Student Aid (FSA) 2001; Bureau of Economic Analysis (BEA)

2002.

53. Flores 1988; Pomales 1992–1993; Flores 1992–1993; Bravo 1996; M. Guzmán 1997;

Aponte-Parés and Merced 1998; R. Rivera 2001; Cardalda Sánchez and Tirado

Avilés 2001; Aponte-Parés 2001.

54. Such was the case of the political alliances composed mostly of Puerto Ricans and

Dominicans (e.g., Latinos United for Political Action, Coalition for Latino Em-

powerment, Southside Political Action Committee) and parallel instances of neigh-

borhood social activism (like Brooklyn’s Música Against Drugs, the Latino Parent

Coalition Against Police Brutality, Latino Committee of Relatives of Victims of Po-

lice Brutality, United Bronx Parents, Ciudadanos Concientes de Queens, and the

Committee to Save East Harlem). Totti 1987; Rodríguez-Fraticelli and Tirado 1989;

Rodríguez-Morazzani 1991–1992: 97; A. Torres 1995: 135; Stress 1996; Trim-TNC

1996; Hispanic Federation 1999; Laó 2001: 119–20, 127–32.

55. Mollenkopf 1993; A. Torres 1995; Laó 2001.

56. Sternlieb, Roistacher, and Hughes 1976; Tobier 1979; Katznelson 1981; Zukin 1982;

Marcuse 1986; Fainstein and Fainstein 1987; Fainstein 1989; Ross and Trachte 1990:

154–63; Massey 1990; Mollenkopf and Castells 1991; C. Rodríguez 1991: 106–16; A.

Santiago 1992; A. Torres 1995; Glover 2001.

57. Cochran 1959; Estades 1978; Fitzpatrick 1987; Rodríguez-Fraticelli and Tirado 1989;

C. Rodríguez 1991; Rodríguez-Morazzani 1991–1992; Santiago-Valles 1992; Pascual

Amadeo 1994c; Pascual Amadeo 1994h; Santiago-Valles 1994b; Santiago-Valles

1995; Muñiz Varela 1995; A. Torres 1995; Muñiz Varela 1996; Rodríguez-Morazzani

1995; Laó 1997; Torres and Velázquez 1998; L. Ortíz 1998; Muñiz-Varela 1999; Laó

2001: 133–37.

58. Bluestone and Harrison 1982; Sassen 1988: 57, 146; Piven and Cloward 1988; Harri-

son and Bluestone 1990; Santiago-Valles 1991; Santiago-Valles 1995; Benson Arias

1996; Muñiz Varela 1996; Colón-Warren 1997.

59. Criminological anthropologies and psychological microstudies of the relationship

between social disorder, crime, and Puerto Ricans in the United States (1940s to

1990s) already exist: e.g., Mobilization for Youth (MfY) 1963; Malzberg 1965; Lewis

1966; Sullivan 1989; Bourgois 1995; Schneider 2001. However, in-depth social histo-

ries addressing such issues and covering this same period—comparable to the ex-

isting historical studies focusing on Puerto Rico itself (Silvestrini 1980; Santiago-

Valles 1994a; Santiago-Valles 1995)—still remain to be done. Our present

observations are based on the patterns suggested by current social trends.

60. Morín 1989; Kamber 1989; Lemann 1991; James 1992; Pérez 1996; Laó 2001.

61. Pérez 1990; L. Ortíz 1998; Dorfman and Schiraldi 2001.

62. Sassen 1988: 22–25; USDL 1997: 4–6; Newman 1999: 76, 263–66; Glover 2001.

63. See: USBC 1963; USBC 1973; USBC 2000b.

64. Vázquez Calzada 1978: 376–77; JPPR 1980a: 22–23; JPPR 1999:A-38; M. Rivera 2002.

65. The upward-mobility argument seems to overlook two additional overlapping is-

sues. As Saskia Sassen (1988; 1991; 1998) has demonstrated more generally and other

scholars have documented in the case of Puerto Ricans in the United States (but

also on the island), this shift towards greater employment for higher-skilled and

more credentialed laborers did not compensate for all of the lower-skilled, manual

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SOCIAL POLARIZATION AND COLONIZED LABOR

jobs Puerto Ricans have lost to economic restructuring across the United States and

Puerto Rico. On the other hand, this same shift is inseparable from the marked

growth in the proportions of Puerto Ricans increasingly stuck in deskilled, dead-

end jobs in the new sweatshops and business services linked to this boom in the

production of emergent technology and in the high-tech service sectors. See Tien-

da 1989; Santiago-Valles 1991; H. Rodríguez 1992; Falcón and Hirschman 1992;

Darder 1992; Canabal 1997; Colón-Warren 1997.

66. Waldinger 1985; Duany 1995; Colón-Warren 1997: 172–73.

67. USBC 1997; Pugatch 1998; Weil 2000; Glover 2001.

68. The mostly undocumented Chinese laborers in New York City’s apparel sweat-

shops not only worked for rock-bottom wages, but often labored under

indentured-servant conditions or other types of bonded-labor contracts, wherein

their back-pay was docked by the subcontractors or by the “snakehead” rings who

had smuggled these workers from China. See USCHCEL—SLS 1982; NYSASCL-

SoS 1999; Kwong 2001; Glover 2001.

69. However, this differed from the interwar and postwar periods, when Boricuas usu-

ally worked in, for instance, small restaurants, individually owned hotels, govern-

ment buildings, and minor businesses. Now such employment tended toward the

rapidly expanding new business services and consumer services, namely: transna-

tional conglomerates and company chains linked to major advertising firms or to

building maintenance, hospitality services, legal counsel, research and develop-

ment, and management and consulting services.

70. Russell 1982; Ghigliotty 1982; Sassen-Koob 1982; Weisskoff 1985: 55, 63–64; Petro-

vich and Laureano 1987; Sassen 1988: 87, 157–58, 200; Bonilla 1994: 135–38; Santiago-

Valles 1995; A. Torres 1995: 28, 58, 131–32; Colón-Warren 1997: 139–41, 168–71; New-

man 1999: 26–27, 46, 199, 218, 297–98.

71. Fernández-Kelly 1984; Sassen 1988; Ross and Trachte 1990: 88–110, 160–61; Ríos

1993; Dietz and Pantojas-García 1993; Colón-Warren 1997; NMASS 2001; Kwong

2001; Glover 2001.

72. Hernández Alvarez 1976; Hernández Cruz 1985; Bonilla and Campos 1986; Bonilla

1989; Meléndez 1993a; C. Rodríguez 1993; Hernández Cruz 1994; Duany 1995.

73. E. Rivera 1984; J. Morales 1986: 90–132; Ross and Trachte 1990: 181–88; Borges-

Méndez 1993; C. Santiago and Rivera-Batiz 1994: 22, 48; Inter-University Program

for Latino Research (IUPLR) 2000.

74. Williams 2001; Fechter and Stanley 2001; Caldwell and Waite 2002.

75. Weisskoff 1985: 162; Martínez 1988; Dietz and Pantojas-García 1993; Muñiz Varela

1995.

76. Sassen-Koob 1982: 99; Castañer 1988; Santiago-Valles 1991; Benson Arias 1996; Muñiz

Varela 1996.

77. V. Ortíz 1986; Nieves Falcón 1990; Meléndez 1994.

78. Vázquez Calzada and Morales del Valle 1979; Cobas and Duany 1995.

79. For arguments to the contrary, see: Duany 1995: 62; Santiago and Rivera-Batiz 1996:

185–90.

80. Turner 1982a; Turner 1982b; Alameda 1983; Lidin 1983a; Lidin 1983b; Latortue 1983;

Licha 1984; Alameda and Ruíz Oliveras 1985; Gaud 1988; Pagán Irizarry 1989; Blasor

1990; Santiago-Valles 1991; Vega López 1992.

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PUERTO RICANS IN THE UNITED STATES, 1945–2000

81. Olavarría 1983; Duany 1995: 62; Pascual Amadeo 1994a; Pascual Amadeo 1994f; San-

tiago and Rivera-Batiz 1996: 190; MITRE 1999.

82. The Puerto Rican middle class in the United States—and, more broadly, the U.S.

Latino middle class—is a famously understudied phenomenon (G. Rodríguez 1996;

Kirschten 1999).

83. USBC 1983: 6; C. Santiago and Rivera-Batiz 1994: 35, 112; Logan 2001: 10.

84. Pascual Amadeo 1994b; Pascual Amadeo 1994c; Pascual Amadeo 1994d; L. Torres

1994a; L. Torres 1994b.

85. C. Rodríguez 1991: 158–74; Santiago-Valles 1995: 38; Flores 1996; Laó 1997: 170–171;

Hernández and Scheff 1997.

86. Pascual Amadeo 1994b; Pascual Amadeo 1994c; L. Torres 1994a; L. Torres 1994b;

Pascual Amadeo 1994d; Pascual Amadeo 1994g; Pascual Amadeo 1994h.

87. Newman 1991: 107–8; Pascual Amadeo 1994b; Pascual Amadeo 1994c; L. Torres

1994a; L. Torres 1994b; Pascual Amadeo 1994d; Pascual Amadeo 1994g; Pascual

Amadeo 1994h; Navarro 2000.

88. Bearing in mind that officially these “percentages correspond almost exactly to

those for the overall U.S.-born Latino householder population” (G. Rodríguez

1996: 13), it is significant that by the year 2000 only 35 percent of Puerto Ricans in

the United States actually owned their homes: in spite of the fact that the latter per-

centage was up from 26 in 1990, it was still below the corresponding rates for

African Americans (46 percent), Mexicans (48 percent), Asians (53 percent),

Cubans (58 percent), and White-Anglos (72 percent) (Armas 2002). Likewise, the

official average receipts from firms owned by U.S. Boricuas in 1997 ($107,100)

trailed well behind the average for all U.S. Latinos ($155,200), especially when com-

pared to those for Cuban-owned ($211,500) and Mexican-owned ($156,100) busi-

nesses (USBC 2001).

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THREE

EXILES, IMMIGRANTS, AND TRANSNATIONALS:

THE CUBAN COMMUNITIES OF THE UNITED STATES

MARÍA CRISTINA GARCÍA

THE MAJORITY of the 1.3 million Cuban Americans presently in the United States arrived after 1959, when revolutionaries led by Fidel Castro assumed control of the Cuban government. Over the next forty years, more than one- tenth of Cuba’s present-day population migrated to the United States, and thousands more migrated to other countries in the Caribbean, Latin America, and Europe. Unlike other migrations from the Americas, however, Cuban im- migration to the United States is not merely a late-twentieth-century phe- nomenon. It is a pattern that was established several centuries earlier, the product of commercial ties and geographic proximity. Distinct Cuban com- munities in the United States were first noticed in the nineteenth century.

THE EARLY CUBAN COMMUNITIES

During the first half of the 1800s, Cuban merchants and businessmen con- ducted business and settled in the United States, in cities as diverse as Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore. Many assumed U.S. cit- izenship, and even promoted the political goal of Cuba’s annexation. It was also common during the nineteenth century for the criollo elites to send their children to boarding schools and colleges and universities in the United States rather than to Europe.

Prior to the 1860s, Cuban immigration was largely white and professional, and never totaled more than one thousand people.1 A larger and more diverse migration occurred during the final decades of the nineteenth century as a re- sult of the Ten Years’ War (1868–1878.) The destruction of property and the

loss of traditional economic markets during the war, as well as the economic recession provoked by the drop in world-wide sugar prices in the following years, devastated Cuba’s major industry and hence Cuban society. Political turmoil and high unemployment pushed thousands of Cubans of all races and social classes to the United States.

Concurrently, the growth of the cigar industry in the U.S. also lured Cubans to the United States, particularly to Florida, Louisiana, and New York. By 1895, distinct and fairly large Cuban communities existed in Key West, Tampa, and New Orleans. For example, one-third of Key West’s popula- tion—some 5,000 people—were Cuban, mostly cigar workers employed in the more than one hundred factories on the key.2 Interestingly, the first Cuban elected to public office in the United States was elected in the nine- teenth century, not the late twentieth century as has been generally assumed: Carlos Manuel de Céspedes y Castillo, the son of the Cuban insurgent leader of the Ten Years’ War, was elected mayor of Key West in 1876. In Florida, other Cuban cigar-making communities emerged in Martí City (Ocala) and Jacksonville. However, by 1900 Tampa and the neighboring Ybor City were the heart of the Cuban expatriate community. Tampa became the most im- portant cigar-producing center in the United States thanks, in large part, to thousands of Cuban workers who had relocated to this area. All in all, more than 100,000 Cubans expatriated themselves over the second half of the nine- teenth century, most of them to the United States.3 This U.S.-based popula- tion, particularly in Florida and New York, became the backbone of José Martí’s popular nationalist movement of the 1880s, which led to the second— and ultimately successful—Cuban war of independence.4

Migration continued during the first half of the next century. Because of the close proximity of the two countries and the higher incomes across the Florida straits, it was not uncommon for some Cuban workers to spend at least part of their adult working lives in the United States. Records show that from 1921 to 1930, 16,000 Cubans immigrated to the United States, but these figures are probably an undercount. Migration decreased temporarily during the 1930s as a result of the Great Depression, as it did for most other immigrant groups: only 9,000 Cubans are registered to have immigrated to the United States dur- ing this decade. Migration expanded once again during the 1940s and 1950s. From 1941 to 1950, some 26,000 Cubans immigrated to the United States, fol- lowed by 79,000 in the next decade. They came from all different classes, mo- tivated by a variety of concerns. Some came as political exiles, people victim- ized by the gangsterismo so prevalent in Cuban politics after 1930. Others came as sojourners, hoping to make a better living in the United States so that they and their families could eventually live more comfortable lives when they re- turned to the homeland. By the 1940s the working class held a precarious posi- tion in Cuban society. Low wages affected their purchasing power, and more

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than half of workers had no disability or unemployment insurance. Colonial- ist economic policies discouraged industrialists and entrepreneurs from ex- panding or creating new enterprises that would have provided the unemployed and underemployed with new work opportunities.5 Whether they came for po- litical or economic reasons, the majority of Cubans who migrated to the Unit- ed States came with the intention of one day returning to their homeland. In addition to these expatriates, thousands more came temporarily to the United States to vacation, to study, to invest, or to transact business, all contributing to a growing Cuban presence in the United States.

The world these migrants and visitors entered was not completely foreign to them because of the intense cultural, economic, and political contacts be- tween Cuba and the United States since 1898. By the 1950s, Pan American air- lines scheduled as many as twenty-eight daily flights between Miami and Ha- vana. Cubans were vast importers of U.S. consumer goods and cultural forms, from New York fashions to Hollywood movie features. Vacationing in Miami Beach or New York City was as popular for middle-class Cubans before the Castro revolution as vacationing in Havana was for middle-class Americans. The large American presence and financial investments on the island and the close commercial ties between both countries shaped the evolution of Cuban politics. It also influenced language, customs, and traditions.6 However, this familiarity with American culture and institutions did not guarantee that life for the exiles and immigrants would evolve smoothly in the United States, nor did it exempt them from discrimination, racial violence, and abuse in the workplace. Black and mulatto Cuban workers were particularly harassed, es- pecially those who were involved in labor organizing, and there is evidence that many were intimidated into returning to the island.7

Cubans on opposite sides of the Florida straits maintained contact with each other in multiple ways, and those who lived in the United States strove to maintain a strong sense of cubanidad. They kept Cuban traditions alive through cultural pageants and celebrations; they published Spanish-language newspapers with news of the homeland; they wrote novels, plays, and poetry and composed music that spoke of their ties to both Cuba and the United States. Cigar workers, in particular, in both countries, supported one anoth- er’s labor struggles. Remittances traveled easily across the border. Up until 1959, Cubans on the island and on the mainland were able to travel back and forth relatively freely, exchanging ideas, importing and exporting one anoth- er’s goods, investing in one another’s future. Like their nineteenth-century forebears, the Cubans on the mainland played an active role in the politics of their homeland, raising money for political causes and candidates.

Ironically, the revolutionary movement that produced the most expansive economic and political reform on the island also scared away the greatest num-

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ber of people by its radicalism. Some of those who chose—or were forced—to leave Cuba after Castro took power were supporters of the U.S.-backed dicta- tor, Fulgencio Batista. But many more were not: rather, they were the silent majority whose fear, apathy, resignation, or victimization had prevented them from assuming a more active role in the political affairs of their country. As in many colonial and authoritarian societies with a history of corruption, the population had long hoped that an idealistic politician would come along and initiate the necessary reforms to create a truly egalitarian society. During the 1950s, many cautiously hoped that Fidel Castro and his July 26th Movement would provide that leadership and restore José Martí’s vision for Cuba: a vision that had been thwarted by U.S. military and political intervention in 1898. Thus, when Castro proved successful in ousting Batista from power, many Cubans were euphoric, but that enthusiasm slowly waned in the years that fol- lowed. It is unclear if Castro was a communist when he took power in 1959, or if he was compelled to become so because of aggressive U.S. diplomatic and economic policies. Whatever the case, many Cubans became disillusioned with the marxist orientation their nationalist revolution ultimately took. They be- lieved that under Castro, Cuba remained a colony, only this time of the Soviet Union. Cubans who now came to the United States perceived themselves as “exiles” rather than immigrants: people who had been displaced by a govern- ment that became increasingly hostile to their basic beliefs about democratic government, commercial enterprise, and equal opportunity. Over one-tenth of Cuba’s population ultimately chose to express their displeasure by emigrating.

Cuba’s historic ties to the United States made it logical that most exiles would turn to their former American patrons for help, and until the mid- 1970s, daily flights between Havana and Miami allowed Castro to export dis- sent. Arriving during the midst of the Cold War, the Cubans became power- ful symbols for Americans of the clash between democracy and authoritarianism, between free enterprise and communism. Popular U.S. magazines like Time, Life, Newsweek, and Fortune celebrated the refugees’ courage, love of freedom, and entrepreneurial spirit. Laws were bent or bro- ken to facilitate the Cubans’ entrance into this country and their accommo- dation and naturalization. No other immigrant group in the second half of the twentieth century received as expansive a welcome as the Cubans.

THE MIGRATION BEGINS

Cuban migration to the United States in the Castro years occurred in distinct “waves.” The first occurred from 1 January 1959 to 22 October 1962 and brought approximately 248,070 Cubans to the United States.8 The first people

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to leave were those who were in some way connected to the old regime: polit- ical leaders, high government officials, and military officers of Fulgencio Batista’s government. Associated with the corruption and abuses of the Batista years, these individuals were eager to leave Cuba since they faced retribution from a resentful population. Their only option was to emigrate until time healed political wounds or until a more sympathetic government was in place.

However, not all who left during this first wave were affiliated with the Batista government. Thousands became alienated by the social upheaval that followed Castro’s rise to power.9 Cuban society underwent radical transfor- mation in the 1960s. Agrarian and urban reform laws changed the character of ownership and production and placed most properties under the control of the state. The nationalization of U.S. properties on the island—a considerable investment ranging from sugars mills and factories to railroads and public utilities—angered the Eisenhower administration and led to a severing of diplomatic relations between the two countries and, eventually, an economic embargo. Fidel Castro correctly assumed that the United States would try to overthrow his government, and he proceeded to create a police state obsessed with weeding out any counterrevolutionary activity, real or imagined. Cubans who left their country during the 1960s described the country as a violent, even paranoid, state that denied basic civil liberties such as freedom of speech, religion, and assembly. It was a society where neighborhood watch commit- tees (the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution, or CDRs) monitored the population’s every move. It was a society characterized by political indoc- trination in schools, restrictions on religious observances, and mandatory “volunteer” labor. Shortages in basic food staples and consumer goods, brought on by the restructuring of the Cuban economy and later by the trade embargoes imposed by the United States and several other nations also affect- ed Cubans across society.10

These and other factors proved to be the decisive points that forced many people to leave their country. For those who left Cuba, the general feeling was that their popular nationalist revolution had been betrayed in favor of a com- munist one. The migration out of Cuba followed a logical socioeconomic progression. Cubans of the elite classes were the first to leave, followed by member of the professional middle class. By 1962, Cubans of the working class also left: office and factory employees, artisans, and skilled and semi- skilled laborers.

Most Cubans who traveled to the U.S. did so under the assumption that they would soon return to their homeland. Because of the United States’ long history of involvement in Cuban affairs, most exiles believed that it was mere- ly a matter of time before the United States intervened to replace Castro. Only a few years earlier, the CIA had successfully arranged the overthrow of Jacobo

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Arbenz Guzmán in Guatemala when the latter’s socialist policies threatened U.S. corporate interests in that country. Exiles knew that Cuba was even more valuable to U.S. interests, and the Castro government’s nationalization of U.S. properties guaranteed a more active response from the United States. Thus, during the early 1960s, most exiles came to the U.S. under the assumption that their stay was temporary.

South Florida became the principal place of settlement for a variety of rea- sons. Flights between Havana and Miami were the most readily available. Since the first arrivals came primarily from the middle class, Miami was also a place with which they were familiar because they had either vacationed or conducted business there. There was also a fairly large Cuban community in south Florida by 1959—some 30,000—many of whom had migrated a gener- ation or two earlier as exiles from other political regimes.11 For homesick, snow-fearing Cubans, Florida’s climate and topography were also important considerations; and, as an added incentive, the plane ride from Havana to Miami was a short one (fifty-five minutes) and inexpensive (approximately twenty-five dollars), making a return easy when conditions in Cuba changed. However, despite south Florida’s many attractive features, Cubans ultimately settled wherever they found jobs, even if it meant relocating way up north in cities such as Chicago, St. Louis, or New York. Taking care of one’s family was always the primary consideration. The Miami of the early 1960s was a small resort town that could hardly accommodate the thousands of Cubans who ar- rived each week. If the majority of Cubans eventually stayed in south Florida it was because, over time, they assisted in the area’s economic transformation.

Acquiring permission to leave Cuba, as well as to travel to the United States, was a long, complicated affair. In order to leave their country legally, Cubans had to acquire an exit permit from one of the government ministries, which allowed the government to screen travelers before they left. Cubans had to fill out numerous forms and submit to lengthy interrogations. While the govern- ment wanted to rid the country of dissenters, they also wished to prevent a “brain-drain”; those with skills considered vital to the revolutionary society (particularly in the sciences) and who did not pose a security threat were pro- hibited from leaving. Those suspected of “crimes against the revolution” were also detained for appropriate punishment. Cubans who could not secure exit permits, or who feared for their safety, took refuge in foreign embassies or sailed clandestinely to the Florida Keys, often on homemade rafts. Those un- able to get a seat on a plane to the United States also had the option of travel- ing to a third country—if they were fortunate enough to acquire the appro- priate visas—and either stay in those countries or apply for immigrant visas at the U.S. embassy there. If they did not return within a certain period of time—in most cases, one year—their property was confiscated by the state.

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The U.S. bureaucracy was somewhat easier to navigate. Visas to travel to the United States could be acquired at the U.S. Embassy in Havana or at the American consulate at Santiago, and officials there regularly granted over a thousand “tourist” visas each week to allow Cubans to come to the United States. Once in the U.S., the Cubans were granted “indefinite voluntary de- parture” or “parole” status. After the United States severed relations with Cuba in January 1961, U.S. officials inaugurated a procedure of “ visa waivers,” which could be obtained through the Swiss embassy in Havana. Airline tickets had to be purchased with U.S. currency, and if Cubans did not have U.S. dollars, which were increasingly scarce after 1961, they had to wait until friends or relatives in the U.S. assisted them in purchasing the tickets. Even after purchasing a ticket, there was a waiting list for seats on airlines. Once you secured a seat and got to the airport, members of the state police carefully inspected every piece of luggage and often submitted pas- sengers to dehumanizing personal searches. After 1961, Cubans were not al- lowed to take more than five dollars out of the country and more than thir- ty pounds of luggage per person. In the most fortunate of cases, Cubans arrived in Miami and stayed with already-established relatives or friends who assisted them in finding housing and jobs and enrolling their children in school. Or they took a train or bus to cities where they knew people who could help them. Some of the more fortunate emigrés (usually the wealthi- er) had some money invested in U.S. banks before the revolution and were able to draw on these reserves. The majority of exiles, however, arrived at Miami International Airport with just a few U.S. dollars and with no clue as to what to do next.

During the first years of the migration, the Catholic Church was their major source of assistance. Since the majority of Cubans were at least nominally Roman Catholic, they logically turned to the Church in their time of need. The newly established Diocese of Miami created a social welfare agency to as- sist the Cubans, the Centro Hispano Católico.12 Located in a remodeled wing of a parochial school in downtown Miami, the Centro provided housing and job referrals, English classes, a day nursery, educational programs for chil- dren, an outpatient and dental clinic, home visits to the sick, food, toiletries, used clothing, and small loans to cover miscellaneous expenses such as eye- glasses and dentures. By December 1961, the Diocese of Miami had spent over $1.5 million in assisting the Cubans.13 Voluntary relief agencies (VOLAGS) such as the Catholic Relief Services, the International Rescue Committee, and the United HIAS Service, among many others, also assisted the arrivals from Cuba. By late 1960, representatives of these different VOLAGS met each plane coming from Havana to answer the Cubans’ questions and to inform them on the resources available to help them.

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By the end of 1960, almost forty thousand Cubans had arrived in the Unit- ed States, and their numbers increased by one thousand to fifteen hundred per week.14 Residents of south Florida panicked, since they knew that their city could not accommodate such sudden population growth. Most jobs were in the low-paying service sector, and Cubans had to compete with a large pool of unemployed workers, mostly African American, as well as northerners that traveled south each winter in search of jobs in the resort economy. The pub- lic school system, one of the poorest in the country, was ill-equipped to deal with the hundreds of children who arrived in their classrooms each month.

Not surprisingly, the early arrivals from Cuba experienced radical down- ward mobility. Approximately 36 percent of Cubans of the first wave were professionals (e.g. doctors, lawyers, engineers, and educators) but were unable to practice their professions because they lacked English fluency or did not meet other state licensing requirements. They worked at whatever jobs they could get, in construction, maintenance, and service occupations. It was com- mon to see doctors, lawyers, and teachers working as hospital orderlies, dish- washers, and janitors. Women often found jobs more easily than men because employers could pay them even lower wages. Women found jobs as seam- stresses (many doing piecework at home), domestics, janitors, cooks, dish- washers, waitresses, cashiers, manicurists, and other unskilled or semiskilled labor that did not require experience or fluency in English and had limited contact with the general public. Some were fortunate to find employment in Miami’s expanding garment industry. Others found jobs sorting fish in ware- houses by the Miami River or as agricultural workers in the fruit and vegetable fields outside the city.

The Eisenhower administration left the task of accommodating the Cubans to local communities and charitable organizations. Like the exiles, the Eisen- hower administration believed that it was only a matter of time before the Cubans returned to their homeland, and thus a comprehensive assistance program was not considered necessary. As early as March 1960, Eisenhower authorized the CIA to begin preparing an invasion of Cuba that would over- throw the Castro government and replace it with a coalition of leaders chosen directly by the United States. However, after many complaints from south Florida residents, who wanted the Cubans moved out of the area, the presi- dent finally released one million dollars from the contingency funds of the Mutual Security Act to assist in resettlement efforts. This act had tremendous significance, since in invoking the Mutual Security Act, Eisenhower officially recognized that Cuba was a communist state, and thus the Cuban exiles were refugees. The administration also established a “Cuban Refugee Emergency Center” in downtown Miami to coordinate the relief efforts of all the volun- tary relief agencies and oversee a resettlement program. However, most of the

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financial burden of the Cubans’ accommodation continued to rest with the volunteer agencies.

It was not until the Kennedy administration that the federal government as- sumed a more assertive role in refugee relief efforts. Kennedy established a “Cuban Refugee Program” (CRP) under the umbrella of the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare (HEW).15 The CRP provided funding for re- settlement, monthly relief checks, health services, job training, adult educa- tional opportunities, and surplus food distribution (e.g. canned meat, pow- dered eggs and milk, cheese, and oatmeal).16 The government also provided partial funding to the Dade County Public School System to help it accom- modate the more than 3,500 Cuban refugee children who attended public schools by January 1961.

One major problem the Kennedy administration had to deal with was the over 14,000 children who arrived unaccompanied during this first wave. Many parents unable to leave Cuba sent their children ahead, hoping to be reunited with them at a later date. These parents feared the political indoctrination in the schools and the military draft, and so they took part in what is now known as Operation Peter Pan, an underground network that emerged on the island to send children to the United States.17 Over half of the children who arrived unaccompanied in Miami were between the ages of 13 and 17, and over two- thirds were boys. Many arrived in Miami with only an identification tag pinned to their clothes or a letter in their pocket requesting assistance; some arrived carrying infants and younger siblings. Bryan O. Walsh, a Catholic priest and director of the Catholic Welfare Bureau in Miami initially assumed responsibility for their care, finding lodging for the children in homes or dor- mitories around the city. However, the Kennedy administration assumed fi- nancial responsibility for the children, providing foster families and institu- tions with funding for their care.18

The Kennedy administration also became involved in a number of other projects to assist the exiles. Skills and talents remained untapped within the largely middle-class refugee community because the language barrier made it difficult to meet state licensing requirements. The Castro government also prohibited teachers and other professionals from bringing their diplomas or transcripts of university records to the United States, thus making it nearly impossible for potential employers to verify their educational training. Work- ing with community groups, the administration funded programs to assist Cuban professionals to prepare for their state licensing boards or to retrain for other types of employment. Programs were established at local universities to assist doctors, lawyers, teachers, and other professionals in their efforts to be- come certified for practice in the United States.

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A number of federally funded vocational training programs targeted the working class. One program in particular entitled “Aprenda y Supérese,” or “Training for Independence,” helped unskilled Cuban women become self- supporting. Women received intensive English-language instruction and training in any of a number of skills: hand-sewing, sewing-machine work, of- fice machine operation, clerical work, nursing, domestic service, and even silk-screen art work. Women were later resettled to cities where jobs were available for them. Aprenda y Supérese was so successful that it became a model for the amended “Aid to Families with Dependent Children” (AFDC) program in 1968.19

Cuban migration to the United States continued even in the wake of the Bay of Pigs invasion of 1961, when the United States unsuccessfully carried out CIA plans to overthrow the Castro government.20 Migration continued until Octo- ber 1962, when the Cuban Missile Crisis finally severed all air traffic between the two countries.21 In just three short years the city of Miami had undergone dramatic change as it accommodated over two hundred thousand “temporary visitors.” While the government had resettled a few thousand Cubans out of south Florida, the majority preferred to remain in the area, even if it meant for- feiting any government assistance. They preferred to stay as close to the home- land as possible and within the more familiar and nurturing exile enclave.

Even though air traffic between the two countries ceased after the missile crisis, approximately 56,000 Cubans arrived in the United States from 22 Oc- tober 1962 to 28 September 1965.22 The majority came via third countries, par- ticularly Spain or Mexico, arriving with immigrant visas acquired at the U.S. embassies in those countries. During this period many Cubans also sailed clandestinely from Cuba, arriving on small boats, rafts, and even inner tubes. By 1963, approximately 4,000 men, women, and children successfully crossed the Florida Straits in such craft and either arrived at Key West or were rescued by the U.S. Coast Guard.23 How many drowned, or were forced to return by Cuban authorities, is unknown.

THE FREEDOM FLIGHTS

Wishing to export even more dissenters, on 28 September 1965, Fidel Castro announced that Cubans with relatives in the United States who wished to leave the island would be permitted to do so. He designated the small fishing port of Camarioca as a possible gathering place and port of departure and he pledged “complete guarantees and facilities” to exiles returning to Cuba by their own means to get their families out.24

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Within days of Castro’s announcement, hundreds of Cuban exiles sailed to Cuba, mostly on rented craft, to pick up their relatives. The Johnson admin- istration was caught completely by surprise. While the administration agreed to assist all those who wanted to leave communist Cuba, the last thing it want- ed was an uncontrolled migration. Johnson announced that the United States would accept more Cuban refugees, but the migration had to be monitored; the State Department was instructed to negotiate the terms of the migration with the Castro government through the Swiss Embassy in Havana. The crisis coincided with the passage of the 1965 Immigration Act that abolished the na- tional quota system in favor of a seven-category preference system that stressed family reunification. Thus, under the terms of the new law, migration preference was given to those Cubans who already had immediate family in the United States. In a “memorandum of understanding” between the two countries, the U.S. agreed to send chartered planes to Varadero twice each day, transporting between 3,000 and 4,000 Cubans each month. Men of mil- itary age and political prisoners were prohibited from emigrating. The flights continued until April, when the Castro government once again prevented em- igration to the United States. By this date, 3,048 flights had carried 297,318 refugees to the United States.25

This “second wave” of Cuban refugees was distinct from the first in several ways. First, both the United States and Cuba were able to exert more control over this migration. The United States limited immigration to the immediate families of those Cubans already in the country, thereby upholding its new im- migration laws, and the Cuban government protected its own interests by more thoroughly screening the emigrant pool and prohibiting the emigration of those with skills or military service vital to the regime. Secondly, the refugees differed from the earlier arrivals in socioeconomic status: the “second wave” was much more representative of Cuba’s working class. During the first wave, 31 percent of the Cubans who arrived in the United States were professionals or managers. By 1970, only 12 percent were professionals or managers, and 57 percent were blue- collar, service, or agricultural workers.26 Women were also overrepresented in this migration, as were the elderly: a consequence of the emigration restrictions placed on certain types of skilled labor and men of military age.

By the end of the freedom flights, the Cuban exile community was a fairly heterogeneous population. While the emigrés came predominantly from Ha- vana province, Cuba’s most populated region, all of Cuba’s provinces were represented in the exile population (the westernmost provinces more so than the poorer eastern provinces.) Cubans of every social class and profession were represented in the population, as were its various ethnic and religious groups. For example, the majority of Cuba’s Chinese and Jewish populations settled in the United States.27

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Of all the groups, however, blacks remained underrepresented. The 1953 Cuban census revealed that 27 percent of Cuba’s population was black or of mixed race, and yet in 1970, less than 3 percent of the Cubans in the United States were black.28 This underrepresentation was attributed to three factors. Since racial equality was one of the goals of the revolution, black Cubans were generally optimistic about the future. As the poorest and most discriminated segment of Cuban society, they also stood to gain the most from the revolu- tion’s social and economic policies and generally became enthusiastic sup- porters of the Castro government. Secondly, blacks feared emigrating to the United States due to its history of Jim Crow segregation, lynching, race riots, and other types of race-related violence. During the 1960s, the photographs and news stories coming out of the United States showed a society in violent confrontation over civil rights, and this frightened many Cubans considering emigration. Radio interviews with members of more radical groups such as the Black Panthers also reinforced the perception of the United States as a so- ciety hostile to equal opportunity. Third, since U.S. immigration policy gave preference to those with relatives already in the United States, this policy tended to benefit whites—the first to leave—rather than blacks.29 Conse- quently, it was not until the Mariel boatlift of 1980 that a larger number of black Cubans emigrated to the United States (by the 1990 census, however, only sixteen percent of the Cuban exile population identified themselves as black, Chinese, or of another race). The small number that did choose to em- igrate during the 1960s and 1970s were more likely to settle outside of Florida to escape the heightened racial tension in the South and the discrimination from their own white compatriots.30

By 1974, the Cuban Refugee Program had resettled 299,326 of the 461,373 Cubans who had registered with them. They were resettled around the country (as well as in Puerto Rico and the U.S. Virgin Islands), but the areas to receive the largest percentages were New York (27.1), New Jersey (19.8), California (13.2), Puerto Rico (8.5), Illinois (7.5), and Louisiana (2.8).31 By the mid-1970s, the Cuban Refugee Program had spent over $957 million in resettlement, relief, and other services, and a gradual phaseout of the pro- gram began.32

The end of the “freedom flights” did not stall Cuban migration to the Unit- ed States. Several thousand more Cubans immigrated to the United States over the next few years, mostly via third countries. Clandestine emigration continued even though Cubans risked their lives crossing the shark-infested waters of the Florida straits and risked imprisonment if caught leaving the country illegally. By September 1977, the total number of Cubans to arrive in the United States (since 1 January 1959) through legal and illegal channels reached 665,043.33

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THE MARIEL BOATLIFT

In 1980, the Castro government once again allowed Cubans to emigrate to the United States. Echoing his actions fifteen years earlier, Castro announced in April that all who desired to leave Cuba were permitted to do so, and once again he invited Cuban exiles to sail to Cuba—this time to the port of Mariel—to pick up their relatives. One more time, thousands of exiles sailed across the Florida straits on yachts, sailboats, shrimp boats, and even freighters to pick up their relatives and any other compatriots who wished to leave the island. 124,776 Cubans arrived in the United States from April to Oc- tober 1980, constituting the third official wave of post-Castro Cuban migra- tion.34 However, unlike the previous two waves, the U.S. government played no role in sponsoring the migration. This third wave of migration was highly controversial, its legacy still evident in immigration policy today, and nation- al perceptions of the Cuban exile community were forever altered.

While this migration was the consequence of unilateral actions taken by Castro in 1980, it can be best understood in light of the series of events that took place a few years earlier. During the late 1970s, there was a general thaw- ing in tensions between Cuba and the United States. In 1977, for the first time in almost twenty years, both countries established limited diplomatic repre- sentation through the creation of “interests sections” in Washington and Ha- vana. A number of cultural exchanges followed this rapprochement, and hun- dreds of Americans and Cubans traveled to one another’s countries for sports competitions, scientific conferences, artistic exhibitions, and other cultural exchanges. In a gesture of goodwill, the Castro government released over four thousand long-term political prisoners in the late 1970s and allowed them to emigrate with their families. In 1978, also for the first time, a few hundred Cuban exiles were allowed to return to their homeland to visit; the following year, over 100,000 exiles were allowed to return to their homeland to visit their families and friends.

These developments had profound consequences for Cuban society. For the first time in almost twenty years, Cubans on the island were able to have steady contact with Americans, and especially with their former compatriots, the people their government had long—and angrily—called “los gusanos” (the worms.) Through the visits of the Cuban exiles, Cubans on the island, espe- cially those born and raised under the revolutionary system, became aware of different interpretations of history, politics, and international relations that challenged the standard interpretations promoted within their political sys- tem. They also became aware of the latest developments in American popular culture, through the records, books, magazines, and other consumer goods the exiles brought as gifts for their relatives and friends. These new perspec-

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tives, whether ideological or cultural, aroused curiosity and challenged many Cubans’ most basic beliefs about their society and about life in the United States. For those already resentful of Castro’s communism, contact with the exiles only exacerbated their disaffection; for others, it provoked a serious reevaluation of what they held to be true.

These developments also coincided with one of Cuba’s periods of econom- ic austerity. Indeed, Castro’s decision to allow Cuban exiles to visit their homeland was a move calculated to increase needed revenues. Each Cuban exile wishing to visit his family and friends had to spend thousands of dollars in inflated fares for air travel, hotel accommodations, and meals, whether they used them or not. However, Castro’s plan ultimately backfired, since it con- tributed instead to the growing discontent on the island that was clearly demonstrated by the number of people who tried to leave the island illegally during this period. The number of people who successfully fled the country on homemade rafts increased, as did the number of people apprehended by the Cuban Coast Guard. Beginning in May 1979, Cubans also began smug- gling themselves into Latin American embassies to request political asylum. By March 1980, close to thirty Cubans had crashed their vehicles through em- bassy gates and had taken refuge within the compounds. The “blue-jean rev- olution,” as journalists called this phenomenon, was underway.

The tension climaxed on March 28, when a group of six Cubans stole a city bus and crashed through the gates of the Peruvian embassy. The Cuban guards stationed at the three entrances to the compound shot at the bus, and one of the guards was caught in the crossfire and killed. When the Peruvian ambassador refused to turn these gate-crashers over for criminal prosecution, the Castro government took action. On April 4, Castro pulled all Cuban guards from around the embassy compound, and sent in steamrollers to tear down the embassy gates. In a radio broadcast later that afternoon, Castro stat- ed that his government would no longer risk the lives of its soldiers to protect “criminals.”

As news of the event spread through the city of Havana, people left their homes and jobs to go to the embassy to observe. Realizing that they could freely walk into the embassy, many quietly entered the compound and re- quested asylum. Within 48 hours, approximately 10,800 men, women, and children were standing inside the Peruvian embassy.35 On April 6, Cuban po- lice finally put up barricades all around the perimeter of the embassy—and for several blocks around—and prohibited more people from entering. For days the fate of the 10,800 was uncertain. The Peruvian government announced that it was unable to accept all the Cubans as asylees and requested interna- tional assistance. While they waited to know their fate, conditions in the camp steadily worsened. The Cubans were so densely packed inside the lot that they

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sat and slept on tree branches and roof tops. There was little food or water, and they had no protection from inclement weather. Cuban officials eventu- ally sent in cartons of food, but never enough to feed all the people housed there, and this provoked fights among the tired and frightened residents. Portable toilets were eventually provided, but not before the lot became cov- ered with mud, urine, and excrement. Thousands of onlookers gathered around the compound each day, some hoping to be allowed into the com- pound; others, as an act of support for the government. Granma, the official state newspaper, called the asylees “delinquents, social deviants, vagrants, and parasites,” and blamed them for all the ills that plagued Cuban society.36 Edi- torials in the Cuban press fueled the passions of loyal citizens. The Peruvian embassy became a symbol of everything that was wrong with their country, and many Cubans vented their anger against those who took refuge there. People taunted and insulted the refugees and threw stones and rotted food at them. The Cuban police participated in the harassment, beating those refugees on the outer periphery of the compound, unleashing their dogs on them, and blinding the refugees with reflector lights at night.

The 10,800 remained in the compound for two weeks until an emigration plan was negotiated. Peru agreed to take one thousand asylees, and Costa Rica, Spain, Ecuador, Argentina, Canada, France, and West Germany pledged to accept a total of 2,500.37 The U.S. accepted a total of 6,200 refugees.

The airlift began on April 16. Under the terms of the negotiations, the refugees flew first to Costa Rica before continuing on to their final destination. This stopover, however, presented a new set of problems for Cuba. Journalists from around the world converged at the airport in San José to document the refugees’ arrival. They filmed the refugees unboarding from their flights defi- antly shouting “Freedom!” and “Down with Castro!” They showed poignant scenes of Cubans kissing the airport tarmac and tearfully embracing the rela- tives who had flown to Costa Rica to greet them. These simple yet powerful images ultimately did more harm to Castro’s regime than any counterrevolu- tionary plot. After years of promoting an image abroad as the model socialist state, it became clear that Cuba was a society in turmoil. Despite the govern- ment’s claims that these were the delinquents of Cuban society, the journal- ists’ interviews showed that they were ordinary citizens who preferred exile to the repression and economic hardships in Cuba.

Angered by all the negative publicity, Castro abruptly suspended the flights to Costa Rica four days after they began. A few days later, Castro substituted a new plan to rid the island not only of the remaining asylees at the Peruvian embassy, but of thousands of other dissidents and troublemakers as well. On April 20, the government announced that all Cubans who wished to leave the island were permitted to do so, and urged them to call their relatives in the

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United States to come pick them up. He declared the port of Mariel, located some twenty miles west of Havana, as the port of departure and instructed of- ficials to quickly set up camps around the port to process the thousands of Cubans expected to leave.

On hearing the news, hundreds of Cuban exiles in south Florida rushed to the nearest marina to rent any available boat to sail Mariel. By the end of the week, an estimated five hundred boats had arrived in Mariel, and hundreds of others followed over the next few weeks. Those that did not know how to sail found a large population of fishermen in Key West who were willing to trans- port any number of Cubans for the right fee. The U.S. Coast Guard, the INS, and other federal authorities tried to discourage the boats from sailing out to Cuba, warning them that their actions violated U.S. immigration laws. How- ever, as in Camarioca, these warnings had little effect. Cuban exiles were not about to forfeit this chance to bring their relatives to the U.S.

Although most were aware that there were risks in sailing to Cuba, no amount of precaution prepared them to deal with the events they encountered at Mariel. As each boat arrived at the port, each ship captain presented a Cuban official with a list of relatives they wished to pick up. In most cases, they had to wait several days before they received any response from the gov- ernment. As they waited for authorization to pick up their relatives, they ran out of fuel, food, and water, and they had to pay the outrageous prices the Cuban government charged for these services. When their relatives finally ar- rived at the port, Cuban officials informed the ship captains that they had to transport additional passengers—whomever the Cuban government told them to take. If they refused to cooperate they were detained and their ships confiscated. Each boat was packed full of passengers—the majority of them total strangers; many of the boats broke down at sea and had to be rescued by the U.S. Coast Guard. By the end of May, the Coast Guard had rescued thou- sands of people.38

As in the previous Cuban migrations, a large and complex bureaucracy de- veloped in south Florida to register and assist the new immigrants. The first ar- rivals were processed in Key West, but as the numbers increased, two other processing centers were opened. The refugees were questioned, photographed, fingerprinted, and given medical tests. Voluntary relief agencies provided the Cubans with medical care, food, clothing, and toiletries. While the Cubans waited to be processed and released to relatives or sponsors, they were housed in churches, recreation centers, armories, and even the Orange Bowl Stadium. Officials worked around the clock to register the Cubans and release them to their families or sponsors as quickly as possible. The Federal Emergency Man- agement Agency (FEMA), best known for managing crises caused by natural disasters, assumed responsibility for coordinating the relief efforts.

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Finding sponsors became an especially difficult task during this third wave, however, since close to half of the Cubans had no friends or family in the United States. The government eventually had to build “tent cities” in parks and underneath expressways to house those who had little chance of immedi- ate sponsorship. The federal government also opened up three additional camps to house the Cubans: Fort Chaffee, Arkansas; Fort Indiantown Gap, Pennsylvania; and Fort McCoy, Wisconsin. 62,541 Cubans, or almost half of the Mariel immigrants, waited for sponsorship in one of these camps; some stayed a few days, others remained for over a year.39

As officials registered the Cubans, they heard disturbing tales. For years, in- ternational organizations such as Amnesty International had reported an in- crease in human-rights violations in Cuba, and the tales they heard in the reg- istration centers verified these reports. INS officials heard, for example, that the Cuban government encouraged actos de repudio (acts of repudiation) against those who applied to leave the country, and gangs of people accosted them at home and in public places.40 At the holding camps near Mariel they endured more insults. Many were not given food, and, before they could leave the country, they had to sign documents confessing that they were social de- viants or had committed crimes against the state. With one signature, decent, hard-working citizens established fictional records as burglars, arsonists, mur- derers, rapists, and CIA agents: records which were later publicly displayed in a new museum—el museo del pueblo combatiente—to discredit those who had chosen to leave revolutionary Cuba. At the pier, officials forced them to board any available boat, but not before they took away all their personal belongings: money, suitcases, jewelry, wedding rings, and even their address books with the names and phone numbers of relatives living in the United States. By the time they arrived at Key West, they were sick or malnourished, frightened, and without any personal belongings or identification.

Over the weeks, it became clear that the Castro government was using the boatlift to rid the country of its “undesirables.” Cuban police removed people from hospitals, jails, and other institutions and forced them to board the boats against their will. An estimated 1,500 of the new arrivals had serious mental ill- ness or mental retardation. An estimated 1,600 had chronic medical problems such as drug and alcohol abuse or infectious diseases such as tuberculosis. Most distressing to U.S. officials, however, was the discovery that thousands of Mariel emigrants—26,000 by the end of the boatlift—had criminal records. Estimates varied, but of these 26,000, approximately 2,000 had committed serious felonies in Cuba, and most of these were sent directly to the correctional institutions in the United States to await deportation.41 The majority of the offenders, howev- er, served time for lesser crimes. Under Cuba’s ley de peligrosidad (the law of dangerousness), Cubans could be incarcerated for gambling, drug addiction,

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homosexuality, prostitution, and buying or selling on the black market. A per- centage of the “criminals” fell under this category and served terms ranging from a few months to a few years at a work farm. Others served time for politi- cal crimes as counterrevolutionaries or dissidents. Still others served time be- cause they refused to conform to revolutionary norms; these included members of religious groups such as the Jehovah’s Witnesses and the Seventh Day Ad- ventists (who discouraged military participation). Since the majority of ‘“crim- inals” served time for crimes not recognized in the United States, they were not considered a threat to U.S. society and were released to sponsors.

The Carter administration tried to communicate with the Castro govern- ment through diplomatic channels, requesting that they take back the hard- core felons; all notes went unanswered. Forcible deportation was ruled out be- cause of a possible military confrontation with Cuba. The United States had no choice but to accommodate this prison population until the Castro gov- ernment agreed to take them back. Throughout the 1980s, Cuban “entrants” who committed misdemeanors or felonies in the United States were handed over to federal custody upon completion of their jail terms to await the day when they could be deported to Cuba. By March 1986, federal authorities held close to 2,000 Cubans in the Atlanta federal penitentiary, and another 700 in prisons and detention centers around the country to await the day when de- portation became possible. Detainees remained in U.S. prisons until after 1987, when the Castro finally agreed to take some of them back.

Unfortunately, the U.S. press focused an exaggerated amount of attention on the hard-core felons. While the latter constituted less than 2 percent of the total number of entrants, they commanded almost all of the media attention. Few journalists ever mentioned the fact that the overwhelming majority of Mariel Cubans had no criminal history and were hard-working citizens yearn- ing for a better life. Instead, popular news magazines such as Newsweek and Time, as well as major newspapers such as the New York Times, focused on the disturbing details of Castro’s plan to rid the island of its criminals and men- tally ill. In August 1980, the National Catholic Reporter commented that the “bad press” was making it difficult to resettle the Cubans.42 As late as 1984, U.S. News and World Report reported on Castro’s “crime bomb.”43 Unfortu- nately, the Cubans of Mariel suffered for this sensationalism.

Most Americans initially sympathized with the Cubans’ plight, and they ap- plauded the refugees’ courage at the Peruvian embassy. Those sentiments changed, however, when it became clear that the United States was to play host again to thousands of Cuban refugees, this time during an economic re- cession when they could ill afford to do so. In just one month, over 80,000 Cubans entered the United States: more people than in any previous year of Cuban immigration.44 The discovery of the criminal element, however,

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proved the principal factor in turning public opinion against the boatlift. Never before, according to public opinion, had a neighboring country com- mitted such an act of aggression against the United States. Americans resent- ed that once again Castro was dictating U.S. immigration policy, and the Carter administration was criticized for its inability to control the situation. The Mariel crisis haunted Carter throughout the rest of the year and proved to be one of the factors that led to his electoral defeat later that year.

In reality, the Carter administration did try to protect U.S. interests. Carter was sensitive to the exiles’ desire to be reunited with their family members but, understandably, wanted control over who came to the United States, and in what numbers. Administration officials contacted the Castro government, offering a compromise: the administration proposed a new series of airlifts similar to the “freedom flights” of the late 1960s, but which would last ap- proximately twelve months. The Castro government rejected the offer; in- stead, the Carter administration was forced to rely on the Coast Guard as well as threats of penalties to deter exiles from rushing out to Mariel to pick up their relatives. The U.S. Coast Guard increased its patrol teams off the Flori- da coast and warned all captains on out-going vessels that those caught trans- porting Cubans illegally would be fined up to $1,000 for each person brought to the United States and have their ships confiscated. While the warnings de- terred some, others continued with their plans. Many were willing to pay any price to get their families out of Cuba. By the end of the summer, however, this stricter policy ultimately succeeded in reducing the flow from thirteen thousand a week to less than seven hundred.45 The Cuban government final- ly closed the port of Mariel to further emigration on September 25, and the last boat arrived in Key West four days later. By this date, over 124,000 Cubans had made it to the United States.

Demographically, the Cubans of Mariel were different from the Cubans who arrived during the 1960’s. The Mariel population was younger by about ten years (averaging thirty years of age), contained a higher percentage of blacks and people of mixed race (roughly twenty percent), and reflected a wider geo- graphic distribution. Almost seventy percent were male.46 Despite these differ- ences, the Cubans of Mariel had much in common with the working-class Cubans who emigrated during the “freedom flights,” especially in their occu- pational history. In education, they rated slightly higher, having completed more years of schooling than their earlier working-class compatriots.47

The Mariel migration was most distinctive, however, in how it was per- ceived by the federal government and the larger U.S. society. Unlike the Cubans who immigrated from 1959 to 1973, the Cubans of Mariel were not considered legitimate refugees. The majority cited political reasons for their emigration, and administration officials commonly referred to them as

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“refugees.” But the Justice department determined that under the terms of the 1980 U.S. Refugee Act (which came into effect a month before the boatlift), the Cubans did not qualify for refugee status nor for the special assistance that that status entitled them to receive. This marked the first time since the Cold War began that the government denied refugee status to individuals leaving a communist state. Instead, the government categorized the Cubans with the rather ambiguous term “entrant: status pending,” which was a political com- promise: an undetermined status that allowed the United States to symboli- cally uphold its “open-door” policy, while appearing to take a harsher stand against “illegal” immigration. It was not until 1984 that the Cubans of Mariel were able to regularize their status.

The Mariel Cubans became the most stigmatized group of immigrants in re- cent history. No articles or editorials praised their patriotism, their democratic spirit, or their “Horatio Alger” drive to succeed as they had the earlier arrivals from Cuba. Instead, they were described as troublemakers and opportunists who were taking the place of more worthy immigrants. Ironically, the reaction of the Cuban exile community paralleled that of the larger society. The older, more established Cuban exiles initially felt a moral responsibility to assist their compatriots, and they pooled their resources to help them adapt to the United States. By the end of April, the exile community of Dade County had raised over $2 million to assist the Cubans in their immediate needs. Local businesses do- nated flood and clothing, and exiles volunteered as sponsors and served as doc- tors, nurses, teachers, and translators in the temporary camps. However, cur- rents of fear ran beneath these feelings of obligation. Many worried that the new immigrants, raised under an authoritarian socialist system, would never adapt to their new society. Like most Americans, they were scandalized by the news that Castro had released criminals into the boatlift population. Angered that their reputation as “golden immigrants” was now tarnished, the exiles took great care to distinguish themselves from the new immigrants. They coined a special term for the Cubans—los marielitos—that quickly became a pejorative in the community. As fear spread, exiles became reluctant to sponsor the Cubans and even to offer them jobs. This came as a surprise to the new immigrants, who did not expect such behavior from their compatriots.

Ethnic relations in south Florida deteriorated in the wake of the boatlift. During the summer of 1980, African Americans in nearby Liberty City rioted. While the riot was a response to a specific act of police brutality, it expressed the larger frustration in this community. For decades African Americans com- plained of having to compete with “foreigners” for jobs and political power, and the 1980s riot was the latest in a series of civil actions where citizens vent- ed their rage against a system they felt had shut them out. In November 1980, in another demonstration of anti-Cuban sentiment, voters repealed the

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Bilingual-Bicultural Ordinance (originally passed in 1973) and made it unlaw- ful to use county funds “for the purpose of utilizing any language other than English, or promoting any culture other than that of the United States.”48 A popular bumper sticker sported on the cars of many non-Latinos read “Will the last American out of south Florida please bring the flag?” The television and film industry capitalized on the anger and resentment, portraying Cubans as drug dealers, pimps, and psychopaths. Nowhere were the stereotypes plain- er than in Universal Studio’s 1983 remake of Scarface, wherein the mobster made famous by James Cagney was now a marielito cocaine smuggler played by Al Pacino. To combat the negative images that now dominated the media, Miami Cubans founded the organization “Facts About Cuban Exiles” (FACE) in 1982. Like the NAACP, the League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC), and other minority rights groups, FACE’s goal was to educate Americans about the exile community through conferences and publications, and to celebrate the Cubans’ accomplishments.

Since 1980, south Floridians have lived with the knowledge that Castro could, at any moment, allow another large-scale migration. Rumors of anoth- er boatlift periodically circulated in Miami. In 1983, the federal government and state of Florida compiled a list of emergency procedures in case of such an event.49 The Miami Herald regularly interviewed sociologists and political scientists for their “migration forecasts”: analyses of social and economic con- ditions in Cuba which might foster another migration.

Despite the tremendous odds against them, the Cubans of Mariel made economic gains over the next decade and revealed the same entrepreneurial spirit as those who arrived earlier. By 1986, over one-fourth of the immigrants were self-employed. By 1990, only 5.6 percent were unemployed: a figure com- parable to the rest of the nation.50 The children of Mariel exhibited the most astounding success of all. Over 11,000 children enrolled in Dade County schools in the wake of the boatlift, and while none of them spoke English when they arrived, by 1987 only 8 percent required instruction in the bilingual education program known as ESOL (English for Speakers of Other Lan- guages). In 1987, Cubans of Mariel presented the valedictory speeches at two Dade County high schools, and the proportion of students going on to college was comparable to that of emigrés who arrived earlier.51 Ten years after the boatlift, the term marielito had ceased to be pejorative.

THE ONGOING FOURTH WAVE OF CUBAN MIGRATION

In 1984, the Reagan administration and the Castro government signed a new immigration accord in which the United States agreed to accept up to 20,000

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Cuban immigrants per year. In return, the Cuban government agreed to take back 2,746 criminal and mentally ill detainees of the Mariel boatlift. However, in May 1985 the Castro government suspended the accords in response to the Reagan administration’s installation of Radio Martí, a radio network founded with the specific purpose of beaming news, music, and sports to the island, twenty-four hours a day, from an undisclosed location in the Florida Keys. By the time of the suspension, only 201 Mariel detainees had been returned to Cuba. It was not until 1987 that both governments once again reinstated the terms of the migration accords. But over the next decade both countries moved slowly on their ends of the agreement: Cuba stalled on taking back the detained felons, and the United States never accepted the total number of im- migrants it had committed itself to accept.

The number of Cubans who emigrated clandestinely on rafts and small boats increased dramatically during the 1990s as a result of the worsening eco- nomic conditions in Cuba. After the dismantling of the Soviet Union, Cuba could no longer rely on its former patron for the estimated $6 billion in assis- tance that it received each year.52 The lack of external funding, together with a series of agricultural crises, caused even greater shortages in basic consumer goods. Limited efforts to restructure the economy meant that Cuba became increasingly dependent on tourism and remittances to keep its economy afloat. Cubans, desperate to improve their situation, took to the seas on homemade rafts. During 1990, the U.S. Coast Guard rescued 467 balseros (rafters), and the number the number doubled in the first six months of 1991 alone. In 1993, the Coast Guard picked up 3,656 balseros.53 Cuban American pilots founded an organization called “Hermanos al Rescate” (“Brothers to the Rescue”) to patrol the Florida straits by helicopter and assist the Coast Guard with the rescue missions.

The balsero crisis peaked during the summer of 1994. Rumor spread through island that, due to gasoline shortages, the Cuban Coast Guard was no longer patrolling the waters as vigilantly as it had in the past. Thousands took to the seas. Unlike other undocumented immigrants, Cubans caught entering the United States illegally were allowed to stay under the terms of the 1966 Cuban Adjustment Act. Fearing another Mariel, the Clinton administration suspend- ed this thirty-year policy: he announced that Cubans detained at sea would not be admitted to the United States and, instead, would be sent to the Guantá- namo naval base until the Cuban government accepted them or the balseros re- ceived admittance to a third country, if that was their choice. The Clinton ad- ministration also tried to pressure the Castro government to restrict illegal emigration. U.S. officials announced that the sending of remittances to rela- tives on the island was prohibited, and charter air traffic from Miami to Cuba, available since 1979 to allow Cuban exiles the opportunity to visit their relatives

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in Cuba, was now indefinitely postponed. Despite these reversals in policy, the balseros kept coming. During the last two weeks of August 1994, the U.S. Coast Guard picked up an average of 1,500 balseros each day.

Finally, the U.S. was forced to go back to the negotiating table. Officials from both countries met in a series of meetings in New York, Washington, and Ha- vana to iron out the details of another migration accord. Under the terms of the 1994 agreement, the United States committed itself to accept a minimum of 20,000 per year, and the Castro government agreed to intercept any balseros and to accept the Cubans detained at Guantánamo without reprisals. Howev- er, the majority of the Cubans at Guantánamo refused to return to Cuba, and few were able to find admittance into a third country. They chose to remain in- definitely at Guantánamo, hoping that the United States would eventually take pity and allow them to enter the country. The Clinton administration was de- termined to maintain its hard-line policy, but providing for the tens of thou- sands of camp residents cost U.S. taxpayers an estimated one million dollars a day. Finally, in 1995, the Clinton administration agreed to begin processing the camp residents for admittance into the United States.

The 1994 accords has not stopped illegal boat traffic to the United States or to other countries. Instead, for the first time, U.S. Coast Guard officials found evidence of smuggling operations involving Cubans. For years, law enforce- ment agencies have encountered such smuggling operations along the U.S.- Mexico and U.S.-Canada border involving immigrants from other countries, but never had they encountered such operations involving Cubans, primarily because the Cuban Adjustment Act and other immigration laws facilitated the Cubans’ entrance. Under the new U.S. policy, however, those apprehended at sea are deported back to their country if an immigration official determines that their petitions for asylum are frivolous. The goal of smugglers, then, is to facilitate the Cubans’ landing on U.S. territory, where, like other undocu- mented aliens, they can try to remain anonymous within ethnic enclaves. Those who decide to petition for asylum on U.S. soil are guaranteed a hear- ing, and since the process can drag on for years, it increases their chances of making a successful plea.

However, U.S. policy regarding the Cubans remains highly inconsistent, as was seen in the case of Elián González. This six-year-old boy was rescued at sea by the U.S. Coast Guard on Thanksgiving Day 1999, one of two survivors of an illegal expedition that claimed the lives of eleven defectors, including Elián’s mother. Under the new policy, the young boy should have been de- ported back to Cuba and to the father and grandparents who wanted him back. In this particular case, the United States allowed the boy to stay to live with his relatives (a great-uncle and his family) in Miami, prompting a polit- ical tug-of-war between Cuba and the United States—and the families in each

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country—over who had legitimate rights to care for the boy. Elián’s relatives in Florida, as well as many in the Cuban exile community, claimed that he was entitled to a life in the United States given the fact that his mother had lost her life trying to reach this country. His father in Cuba, on the other hand, de- manded his return based on his rights as the now custodial parent, and trav- eled to Washington, D.C., to make his appeal. Polls showed that most Amer- icans supported his claim. Editorials and op-ed pieces in the U.S. press criticized the United States for its inconsistent immigration policies and for bowing to pressure from the conservative and vocal elements in the Cuban exile community.

Finally, in April 2000, the INS stormed the house in Little Havana in a predawn raid, seized the six-year-old at gun point, and transported him to Washington, D.C., to await the legal resolution of his case with his father, Juan Manuel. In June, the Supreme Court denied the Miami relatives’ claims to keep Elián in the United States, and the boy returned with his father to a hero’s welcome in Cuba.

Cases such as this one proved yet again how politicized the immigration and asylum process has become, as have the many parties that have a claim in the policy making. Ironically, a custody case later that year, that in some ways mirrored the Elián case, failed to attract as much international attention. In this particular case, a five-year-old U.S.-born boy was taken to live in Havana, by his Cuban mother, against the wishes of the boy’s American father.54 Once again, two countries and two families clashed and revealed the limitations of immigration law as well as custodial and family law.

IDENTITY, ADAPTATION, AND THE “CUBAN SUCCESS STORY”

The Cubans are often portrayed as one of the most successful immigrant groups in the United States, at least in recent history. In a fairly short time, they have come to occupy leading positions in the key institutions of south Florida: in labor unions, universities, political parties, the news media, cultur- al organizations, as well as city governments. As early as 1980, they exhibited the highest income and educational levels of the three largest Latino groups— levels that were only slightly below the national average. 16.2 percent of Cubans had completed four or more years of college, compared to 4.9 and 5.6 percent of Mexicans and Puerto Ricans, respectively; by 1990, 20.3 percent of Cubans had completed four or more years of college compared to 9.3 percent for the Latino population in general.55 In 1980, Cubans earned a median fam- ily income of $18,245, compared to $14,765 and $10,734 for Mexicans and Puer- to Ricans, respectively; by 1989, Cuban American income stood at $27,890,

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compared to $21,922 for Latinos in general (and slightly below the national av- erage of $28,905).56

Cubans did particularly well in Florida, especially the immigrant enclave of Miami. According to the 1990 census, 65 percent (657,786) of the Cuban- origin population (then counted at 1,043,932 or 4.2 percent of the Latino pop- ulation of the United States) lived in the state of Florida, concentrated in the Miami metropolitan area. As early as 1980, Miami was home to the wealthiest Latino business community in the nation, a thriving economic enclave that absorbed each new wave of immigration from Cuba, as well as thousands from other countries in Latin America. By 1980, Cuban exiles in Dade Coun- ty generated close to $2.5 billion in income each year. 18,000 businesses were Cuban-owned, and 63 percent owned their own homes.57 Over 44 percent of the nearly 500,000 Cubans living in greater Miami were either professionals, company managers, business owners, skilled craftsmen, or retail sales and clerical personnel. The figures improved with each year. In 1985, 19,700 busi- nesses were Cuban-owned.58 In 1987, the Department of Commerce’s Survey of Minority-Owned Business Enterprises counted 61,470 small, nonincorpo- rated, Cuban-owned firms across the country generating $5.5 billion in annu- al sales and employing 47,000 people.59 These were notable accomplishments for a community of largely first generation immigrants.

The Cubans’ success could be attributed to several factors. On the individ- ual or family level, the structure of the Cuban family ensured success because it was built around economic cooperation.60 Women had a high rate of partic- ipation in the labor force. As early as 1970, they constituted the largest propor- tionate group of working women in the United States.61 Many Cuban house- holds also contained three generations, and the elderly contributed to the family’s economic well-being directly, by salaries or Social Security benefits, or indirectly, by raising children and assuming household responsibilities. These factors, along with the Cubans’ low fertility rates and high levels of school en- rollment facilitated the family’s comparatively quick economic integration.

On the broader community level, the Cubans created prosperous business- es, built with the skills and capital of the middle- to upper-class exiles that constituted the first wave of immigrants. Some of the wealthier Cubans were fortunate to have money invested in U.S. banks at the time of the revolution, and when they settled in Miami or other cities they invested that capital in new business ventures. The middle class did not have that type of capital, but they did have the skills and business “know-how” with which to create lucra- tive businesses. They identified the needs in the community and built busi- nesses catering to those needs. While the major banks would not lend start-up money to Cuban entrepreneurs without collateral—which only the wealthier emigrés had—the smaller banks in the area (some Cuban- or Latin Ameri-

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can–owned) lent applicants money on the basis of their “character.”62 Cubans who had a solid history of entrepreneurship in Cuba, or who had strong per- sonal references, usually qualified for these loans. By the late 1960s, Cuban en- trepreneurs also had access to loans from the Small Business Administration (SBA). As their businesses expanded, these entrepreneurs hired more em- ployees, almost always their fellow countrymen. Thus, south Florida became home to a thriving business community, which provided job opportunities for the new immigrants arriving each year, assisting their assimilation into the economic mainstream.63

The Cuban presence attracted domestic and international investments and helped convert Miami into a major production, trade, and commercial center linking North and South America. Many U.S. industries, particularly the gar- ment and textile industries, relocated to south Florida to take advantage of the large, initially nonunion labor pool. By 1980, workers of “Spanish origin” (mostly Cuban women) constituted 83 percent of workers in the garment in- dustry. By 1980, thirteen major banks and over one hundred multinational corporations had established regional offices in the Miami area, eager to take advantage of a large Cuban middle class adept at doing business with both the United States and Latin America. The Port of Miami replaced New Orleans as the chief port of trade with Latin America, and Miami International Airport became one of the busiest airports in the world.64

As early as the 1960s, the national news media, specifically popular maga- zines such as Life and Fortune, circulated the myth of the “Cuban success story.” While the community, as a whole, had fared well, and many individ- ual Cubans had achieved spectacular success in the United States in a short period of time, the myth overlooked the fact that many Cubans did not share in the community’s overall wealth. In 1980, 11.7 percent of Cuban families lived below the poverty level, and in 1993, 17 percent lived below the poverty level.65 The myth of the Cuban success story overlooked most Cubans’ suc- cesses in the United States being modest, certainly less spectacular than the rags-to-riches stories promoted by the popular media. Despite the presence of a large middle-to-upper class, and the comprehensive federal assistance pumped into the community, Cuban income still remained below the nation- al average (albeit slightly), and there was a significant percentage of elderly poor.66 The elderly, for example, were less likely to speak English, hold full- time, higher-paying employment, or receive adequate health care, especially if they lived alone.67 Working-class Cubans, like other Americans, struggled for better wages, benefits, working conditions, as well as job security, particularly if they were women. Black Cubans experienced the most discrimination in the workplace. As late as 1990, their income lagged behind that of white Cubans by almost 40 percent.68

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But Cubans themselves internalized the myth of the Cuban success story and took pride in it. Aside from their anticommunism, it was the one feature they most promoted about themselves. To admit that not all who had come to the United States had done well was to give the Castro government ammu- nition against them. They felt they had to be symbols for their countrymen on the island of Cuba’s political and economic alternatives.

Maintaining a sense of cubanidad in the United States was crucial to the first generation. They asked themselves whether Cuban culture could thrive in a society that celebrated ethnic pluralism and yet rewarded Anglo-conformity. Could one be both a Cuban exile and a U.S. citizen? Would their children be able to adapt to Cuban society once Castro was overthrown? These and other questions became increasingly important with each year, as the chances of re- turning to Cuba became increasingly remote.

To maintain a sense of cubanidad meant to preserve those customs, values, and traditions that they associated with being Cuban, and the exiles created literally hundreds of organizations to reinforce those values in exile. Main- taining a sense of cubanidad was easier in Miami and south Florida because it was home to the largest concentration of Cubans. The Cuban Refugee Pro- gram tried to resettle Cubans around the country, to ease the pressure on the local community, but the majority of exiles refused to move; many of those resettled eventually returned to live in south Florida. Census figures showed that in 1970, 299,217 Cubans lived in Dade County, but by 1980 the number had almost doubled to 581,030. In 1990, their numbers dropped somewhat to 563,979, or 29 percent of Dade County’s total population.69 Still, the only city with a larger Cuban population was Havana.

The symbolic heart of Cuban Miami is “Little Havana,” a four-square-mile area southwest of the central business district. Here the Cubans renovated the old buildings and established their own businesses along the principal thor- oughfares, especially Flagler Street and Southwest Eighth Street (Calle Ocho). The Cubans turned an economically depressed area into a lucrative commer- cial and residential district. But the majority of Cubans moved west and south into other residential areas, so that Cubans were dispersed throughout the en- tire city. Exiles joked—and took pride in the fact—that in many ways all of Miami was a Little Havana. The Cubans settled in neighboring cities in Dade County as well. The nearby city of Hialeah drew many Cubans; by 1970, Cubans comprised 42 percent of its population, and by 1980, 74 percent. The city of Sweetwater also grew with the Cuban migration, acquiring a Latino population of 81 percent by 1980.70 It became the first city in south Florida (in the Castro era) to elect a Cuban-born mayor. Coral Gables and Miami Beach also attracted Cubans, especially those with higher incomes.

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Reinforcing cubanidad became something of an obsession for the exiles, particularly during the 1960s and 1970s. Life in exile made them nostalgic, even depressed, and they looked for ways to remember and celebrate the past, reinforce their feelings of nationalism, and assert their identity. Of particular concern to the exiles was the second generation: those who were born in the United States, or who came here as children, and knew little about Cuba or their heritage. To help parents educate their children on the essentials of cubanidad, schools and churches in Little Havana established after-school programs that offered courses on Cuban history, geography, and culture each day. Those who wanted a more intensive Cuban education could attend one of the dozens of small private schools that emerged in Miami and Hialeah, nicknamed las escuelitas cubanas (the little Cuban schools). Several of Ha- vana’s best private schools also reopened in exile, including Belen Jesuit High School, Fidel Castro’s alma mater, offering a consoling continuity.

Exile organizations sponsored lectures and seminars on Cuban history and culture and organized rallies, festivals, concerts, and parades to celebrate pa- triotic holidays such as el veinte de mayo (May 20) and el diez de Octubre (Oc- tober 10). Cuban-owned book stores organized peñas literarias (literary cir- cles) to discuss the works of Cuban authors. On the shores of Biscayne Bay, Cubans constructed a shrine to Cuba’s patron saint, la Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre. They named parks, monuments, streets, and businesses after long- dead heroes of Cuba’s wars of independence or their own heroes, such as the veterans of the Bay of Pigs invasion, as well as figures of the sports and enter- tainment world. Cubans produced a vital news media, consisting of hundreds of Spanish-language periodicals as well as dozens of radio and television sta- tions, which kept the community informed on news from Cuba as well as do- mestic issues that were important to them.

In expressing their cubanidad, they asserted an identity that was political as well as cultural. As exiles, they perceived complete assimilation as a rejection of their heritage, as well as a denial of those forces that had compelled them to come to the United States. But in the long term, ironically, their cubanidad as- sisted them in their adaptation to the United States, since it psychologically empowered them to deal with life in exile and gave their hardships a larger meaning. Starting over was difficult for the first generation. Many had left be- hind rewarding careers, home, and property, as well as friends and family. They now had to begin again, in most cases at middle age (in 1980 the medi- an age was 37.7 years; in 1994, 43 years),71 and they had to adapt to a new so- ciety and a new way of living. When life in the United States became over- whelming, these Cubans took some comfort in the fact that their struggles had a larger meaning.

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As early as the 1970s there was evidence of a shift in self-perception in the exile community from that of “temporary visitor” to that of permanent resi- dent. This shift was attributable, in part, to the termination of the “freedom flights,” which forced many Cubans to come to terms with the reality of their situation. By the end of the decade, contact with the Cubans of Mariel along with the new travel opportunities to Cuba (the so-called family reunification trips) also contributed to this shift in self-perception. Many realized that the Cuba they remembered no longer existed and their future role in their home- land was uncertain. This increased contact with the “new” Cuba forced them to reanalyze their ties to the United States and to view it as home. This shift in consciousness was especially evident in the growing number seeking natural- ization as well as their increased involvement in civic affairs. From 1971 to 1980, for example, Cubans accounted for twelve percent of total naturaliza- tions in the United States, compared to six percent for Mexican immigrants, who constituted a much larger number of legal immigrants (178, 374 Cubans naturalized compared to 68,152 Mexicans).72

By the 1990s there were several intersecting political generations in the Cuban community. They are defined not by age or time of entry into the United States, but rather by experience. The first generation—the exile gener- ation—more clearly identifies with the homeland. They identify themselves as Cuban and choose Spanish as their principle language of communication, and they are more likely to engage in exile politics. The next generation—what some have called the “one-and-a half-generation”—were born in Cuba but came of age in the United States; they regard themselves as both Cuban and American, feel equally comfortable with both cultures and languages, and make both an integral part of their lives.

The so-called second generation, the first to be born in the United States, is very different. They feel a connection to Cuba because their parents and grand- parents have encouraged that connection, but they are not as passionately committed to exile politics or as emotionally bound to Cuba as their elders. Nor could they be. Most of them have never visited Cuba except through pho- tographs and through the memories of others. They have never lived through revolutionary change or been forced to seek refuge in another country. Statis- tics show that U.S.-born Cuban Americans are wealthier and better educated. While socioeconomic statistics for Cuban exiles are comparable to that of other Hispanics/Latinos, U.S.-born Cuban Americans fare better than even the “Anglo” population: 26.1 percent of second generation Cuban Americans were educated beyond the high school level as compared to 20.6 percent of “Ang- los.” Also, 36.9 percent of U.S.-born Cuban Americans had incomes above $50,000 as compared to 18.1 percent of Anglos.73 The Latino National Political Survey also revealed that U.S.-born Cuban Americans are more likely to iden-

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tify themselves as “American” or with a pan-ethnic label such as “Hispanic” or “Latino.”74 Ironically, U.S.-Born Cubans are less likely to vote than their eld- ers; although turnout in elections has reached over ninety percent, in some presidential elections only thirty percent of Cuban Americans under the age of twenty-five show up to vote, and only 50 to 60 percent of Cuban Americans be- tween the ages of twenty-five and thirty-four vote.75 English is the language of choice in personal and business interactions outside the home, though 36.9 percent of U.S.-born Cuban Americans use both languages.76

Despite these obvious linguistic and cultural changes in the Cuban com- munity, Spanish will always be as important as English in Dade County due to the continued migration from Cuba and other parts of Latin America, as well as the high volume of tourists from Spanish-speaking countries. But just as Cuban culture in Cuba has changed over the past forty years in response to changing socioeconomic and political realities of that country, Cuban culture on this side of the Florida straits has continually redefined itself as well. In many ways, there are multiple Cuban cultures.

Cuban immigration continues to influence U.S. popular culture, as well. Nowhere is this influence more evident than in the sport of baseball. Since 1911, when Rafael Almeida and Armando Marsans joined the Cincinnati Reds, Cuban players have played in major league baseball teams and set a number of records. In the pre-Castro era, Minnie Minoso, Camilo Pascual, Luis Tiant, and Tony Pérez, were just some of the Cuban names in the sport. More re- cently, José Canseco, Rey Ordoñez, Orlando “El Duque” Hernández, Livan Hernández, Alex González, and Omar Linares top the long roster of Cuban- born (some of them recent defectors to the United States) and Cuban Amer- ican players.

Since the 1930s, Cuban music and dance have fascinated Americans. The mambo and cha-cha-chá were just two of the forms imported from Cuba prior to the revolution, and musicians such as Desi Arnaz, Beny More, and Machito found a welcoming audience in the United States. More recently, Americans have rediscovered Cuban music as seen in the popularity of musicians such as Los Van Van, Silvio Rodríguez, and the Buena Vista Social Club, each repre- senting a very different musical style. Cuban American musicians have also at- tracted a great deal of attention including Paquito D’Rivera, Israel “Cachao” López, Albita, Willie Chirino, and especially Gloria Estefan, who was among the first of the Latino artists to “cross over” in the popular market.

Cuban exile writers such as Guillermo Cabrera Infante, Lydia Cabrera, Heberto Padilla, and Reinaldo Arenas have produced some of their best work outside their homeland. However, a new and distinctly Cuban American gen- eration of writers and poets has demonstrated that ethnic or immigrant liter- ature in this country is not solely an exercise in nostalgia or an exploration of

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alienation. Pulitzer prize–winning Oscar Hijuelos, Achy Obejas, Virgil Suárez, Roberto G. Fernández, Gustavo Pérez-Firmat, Cristina García, Pablo Medina, and Elias Miguel Muñoz are just some of the Cuban-born or Cuban Ameri- can writers and poets that have generated interest from mainstream publish- ing houses and academia. In journalism, the Miami Herald’s Liz Balmaseda was recognized with a Pulitzer prize; in television, Cristina Saralegui has been called the “Cuban Oprah Winfrey” because of her syndicated talk show’s im- pact in the United States and Latin America. In theater, Ivan Acosta, María Irene Fornés, Nilo Cruz, Luis Santeiro, and Eduardo Machado have staged their plays throughout the United States, Europe, and Latin America. In the visual arts, Ana Mendieta, Julio Larraz, and José Bedía are just three of the artists whose works form part of the collections of museums and private es- tates. In film, the late Nestor Almendros won the coveted Academy Award for cinematography. In acting, Andy García, Elizabeth Peña, Cameron Díaz, and Steven Bauer are among the more popular Cuban actors.

CUBAN EXILE AND CUBAN AMERICAN POLITICS

The political culture of the Cuban community evolved in response to events in both Cuba and the United States. Cubans engaged in both exile politics and ethnic politics: as exiles, they tried to shape the political reality in the home- land; as immigrant-citizens, they tried to shape their local environment. The line between the two often blurred.

During the 1960s, Cubans were almost exclusively concerned with over- throwing Castro and returning to the homeland, and they created hundreds of organizations dedicated to la causa cubana. As early as 1963, there were so many exile political organizations in south Florida that the Department of Justice was unable to keep track of all of them.77 The majority of these organ- izations emerged in Miami, but others emerged wherever Cubans settled: in Union City, N.J., Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, and San Juan. Most were propaganda organizations that tried to discredit the Castro government through a variety of measures: they organized conferences, marches, boycotts, and published reports on human rights abuses in Cuba, and they pressured Congress, the United Nations, and the OAS to enact more punitive policies towards the Castro government.

A small percentage of these organizations were paramilitary groups that launched attacks on Cuban property and on the property of countries that traded with Cuba. While these groups were the minority, they naturally com- manded most of the media attention. These groups tried to present them- selves as well-manned and well-armed, but in reality, most conducted opera-

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tions with just a few dozen volunteers. Some of these groups received funding from the CIA and were used in a variety of covert operations against Castro, including the Bay of Pigs invasion, Operation Mongoose, and the “secret war” of the 1960s. A few others received funding from foreign governments, which then expected them to serve as mercenaries in their own covert operations. But most operated independently, relying on donations from sympathetic Americans to buy their boats and armaments. They trained in secret camps in the Florida Everglades and around the Caribbean, trying to avoid detection. On a number of occasions these paramilitary guerrillas infiltrated Cuba and bombed rail lines, shipping vessels, sugar refineries, and other centers of pro- duction, as well as cargo ships from the Soviet Union and the eastern bloc countries. Their logic was that if they destabilized the country, their country- men would tire of the Castro government and rise up to overthrow him. They also hoped to turn Cuba into a liability for the Soviet Union and thereby un- dermine its control, in much the same way that the Irish Republican Army used bombings and other terrorist tactics to try to force Great Britain to re- linquish its control of Northern Ireland

At first, the U.S. Justice Department looked the other way. They realized these raids served a purpose within U.S. foreign policy: that is, they harassed the Cuban government, undermined their economy, and perhaps distracted Castro from exporting revolution by committing the military to domestic de- fense. It also gave Cuban exiles an outlet for their anger and frustration. By the late 1960s, however, the government had cracked down on these operations because they strained an already tense relationship with the Soviet Union, as well as with neighboring allies who feared an escalation of regional tensions. By the late 1960s, the U.S. government was also focusing most of its attention on Southeast Asia, and unseating Castro became less important. The Cuban paramilitary groups found themselves isolated, both by the U.S. government and, eventually, the exile community who increasingly doubted the wisdom of their strategies. In the 1970s only a handful of these paramilitary organizations continued to operate.

For most Cuban exiles, each passing year was a reminder that returning to Cuba permanently was unlikely, and so they focused their attention on im- proving their lives in the United States. This led to their growing naturaliza- tion rates and their involvement in local, state, and national politics. The Cubans demonstrated high voter turnouts in elections. By the Bicentennial celebrations of 1976, Cubans constituted 8 percent of registered voters in Dade County and had been elected to important offices in city and county governments. Seven years later they constituted 20 percent of registered vot- ers in Dade County, and their voting participation exceeded that of the gen- eral population.78

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There were indications that they were developing an ethnic identity as well, as seen in their growing membership in pan-Latino organizations such as LULAC, as well as in the creation of groups such as the Cuban National Plan- ning Council, the Spanish American League Against Discrimination (SALAD), and the National Coalition of Cuban Americans, which focused on domestic concerns such as voting rights, employment, housing, education, and health. All signs seemed to indicate that the Cubans had unpacked their bags and settled into their new society, and, as mentioned earlier, U.S.-born Cuban Americans were even more likely to identify with the United States.

The exile generation never completely abandoned their war against Castro, but they did alter their tactics in ways that reflected their growing accommo- dation to the United States. They continued to try to influence Cuban affairs, but more and more they did so by working within the U.S. political system rather than independently of it. By the 1980s, Cubans registered largely as Re- publicans and voted Republican more consistently than any other ethnic group. Their loyalty to the Republican party had less to do with domestic pol- icy issues, however, than with their foreign policy agenda. Even though the Cubans were indebted to Democratic administrations for a liberal immigra- tion policy, and even though they supported traditionally “Democratic” issues such as workers’ rights and a woman’s right to choose, they nevertheless over- whelmingly gave their support to the Republican Party—at least during the 1980s—because the latter was perceived to be more anticommunist. Howev- er, the Republican Party realized that it could not take the Cuban vote for granted. On the local and state level, Cubans voted as readily for Democrats as for Republicans, taking into account not only the candidates’ views on Cuba, but their positions on health care and education and other domestic is- sues that affected their day-to-day lives. Even Republican presidential candi- dates could not always rely on the Cuban vote. The Cubans voted for Reagan by over 90 percent in 1980 and 1984, but failed to give the Republicans that edge in 1996 because of the party’s support of revoking welfare benefits for legal immigrants and the Republicans’ support of the English-only amend- ment. Back in 1992, only 20 percent of Cubans in Florida voted for Bill Clin- ton; but four years later almost as many Cubans voted for Clinton as for the Republican candidate, Bob Dole.79

Exile politics were never monolithic either. Within the general sphere of anti-Castroism, the Cubans exhibited a broad range of political perspectives, which is one of the reasons why no one single organization ever emerged in this community that represented the interests of the population as whole. The most influential of the “ hard-line” organizations is the Cuban American Na- tional Foundation, founded in 1981 by a group of wealthy Cuban American businessmen with the goal of shaping a more “realistic” foreign policy toward

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Cuba. CANF created a bipartisan political-action committee, the “Free Cuba PAC,” that donated to the campaigns of politicians who favored tougher sanc- tions against Cuba. As a result of CANF’s intensive lobbying, Congress passed a number of laws that tried to pressure the Castro government into enacting democratic reforms. These included the bills to create Radio Martí and Tele- visión Martí, as well as the Cuban Democracy Act and the Helms-Burton bill that further tightened the economic embargo on Cuba by eliminating loop- holes in the existing laws and sanctioning foreign corporations that conduct- ed business in Cuba.

Hard-liners in the community believe that a political accommodation of the Cuban government is an endorsement of Castro communism. They can- not understand why a Cuban exile would choose to negotiate with the indi- viduals who have tortured, imprisoned, and executed tens of thousands of their compatriots. They prefer to see Castro pushed out of power—by a coup organized by their countrymen on the island rather than a U.S.-backed inva- sion—and they favor all measures, including the trade embargo, that will cre- ate the political climate necessary for such an event. Some of those who es- pouse these hard-line views are opposed to the sending of remittances to the island, which, they argue, help to maintain Castro’s power; and they even ob- ject to any artist or musician from Cuba exhibiting or playing in a Miami venue unless they publicly denounce the Castro government.

But just as the Cuban American community is diverse socioeconomically, they are ideologically diverse as well. Cuban exiles differ in their visions of a post-Castro Cuba, and they disagree about the tactics they consider legitimate in the war against Castro. Some Cubans even favor abandoning the “war” completely, arguing for the reestablishment of full diplomatic and trade rela- tions with Cuba. A handful of organizations have emerged over the past four decades to lobby for this cause, arguing that dialogue and forgiveness are al- ways preferable to conflict. One of the most influential organizations to lobby for this cause is the Cuban Committee for Democracy, with offices in Wash- ington, D.C. As with other issues, there are generational differences: U.S.- born Cubans are more likely to favor dialogue and to oppose the censorship of those who articulate opposing views.80

A CONCLUDING NOTE

Those who read about the Cuban exile and Cuban American population fre- quently want to know what will happen once there is a political shift in Cuba toward democratic reform and free-market capitalism, if this indeed ever hap- pens once Fidel Castro no longer rules Cuba. Will the U.S. Cubans return en

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masse to their homeland or will most of them stay in their adopted home? It is difficult to predict what will happen. Despite the attempts to neatly catego- rize the Cubans (e.g., that they are wealthy, politically conservative, and that they refuse to assimilate), the truth is their population has always been di- verse. To assume that a population of over one million people all think and act the same is, of course, absurd.

However, one can outline some possible scenarios. As happens in most countries undergoing structural change, no matter how positive those changes in the long term, migration is usually an initial response to any polit- ical or economic shift. In the case that there is democratic reform and an ex- pansion of capitalism in a post-Castro Cuba, it is very likely that the United States will once again have to deal with an increase in boat traffic from the is- land, as people try to leave behind the political and economic instability creat- ed by such a transition. Cubans on the island may wish to take advantage of this instability, and perhaps the liberalized travel and migration policies, to come to the United States, legally and illegally, as students, tourists, and immigrants.

It is also likely that some U.S. Cubans will return to their homeland, but perhaps not in the numbers that some might expect. Surveys conducted over the past thirty years have demonstrated that Cuban exiles have established ties to the United States in spite of their original intentions. They have established careers and businesses here, bought homes, and adopted the language and cit- izenship of the country that gave them refuge. They have raised families here. Many who arrived in the early 1960s are now grandparents and great- grandparents, and these new generations in their family are more American than Cuban. Returning to Cuba, then, would mean uprooting themselves a second time and once again leaving behind family, friends, and home. Few will be willing to do this.

Those who will choose to return to Cuba will more likely be the more recent arrivals, who have yet to establish ties to their host country, as well as the disaf- fected, who never felt quite comfortable here. Some elderly may also wish to re- turn to Cuba to spend their last days in their country of origin. A more likely scenario, however, will be that Cubans in the United States will travel back and forth between the two countries for business as well as for pleasure, in much the same way that their forebears did in pre-Castro Cuba. Many Cuban exiles would like to play a role in Cuba’s “reconstruction,” helping to create economic enter- prises and investing in businesses that will assist their homeland in becoming truly independent. This is what many Americans of Polish, Czech, and other Eastern European descent have done in the decade following the Velvet Revo- lution and the dismantling of the Warsaw pact countries. And it is a very likely scenario among the Cubans. Whatever ultimately happens, a Cuban presence in the United States is guaranteed, as has been the case for the past two centuries.

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NOTES

1. Gerald E. Poyo, With All and For the Good of All: The Emergence of Popular Na-

tionalism in the Cuban Communities of the United States, 1848–1898 (Durham: Duke

University Press, 1989), 1.

2. Poyo, With All, 53–55.

3. Louis A, Pérez, Cuba and the United States: Ties of Singular Intimacy, 2d ed.

(Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1997), 65–73.

4. Poyo writes about José Martí’s relationship with the Cuban workers in the United

States, and their role in the Partido Revolucionario Cubano. See also Louis A. Pérez,

Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988).

5. Pérez, Cuba and the United States, 230.

6. Pérez provides the most detailed examination of U.S.-Cuban cultural exchange in

Cuba and the United States. See also his On Becoming Cuban: Identity, Nationality,

and Culture (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1999).

7. Pérez, Cuba and the United States, 214–18.

8. Juan Clark, “The Exodus from Revolutionary Cuba (1959–1974): A Sociological

Analysis.” Ph.D. diss., University of Florida, 1975, 75.

9. Among the first to study the emigrés and the reasons for their disaffection were

Richard R. Fagen, Richard A. Brody, and Thomas J. O’Leary, Cubans In Exile: Dis-

affection and Revolution (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1968).

10. On 20 October 1960, the State Department announced an embargo on most U.S.

exports to Cuba (except medicines, medical supplies, and certain foods). A more

comprehensive U.S. trade embargo was imposed on 3 February 1962, under the au-

thority of section 620(a) of the Foreign Assistance Act of 1961 (75 Stat. 445). The

embargo now prohibited the importation into the United States of all goods of

Cuban origin and all goods imported from or through Cuba. In May 1964, the gov-

ernment also issued an order requiring export licenses for sales of food and drugs

to the island (previously exempted for humanitarian reasons); gift parcels became

the only means of exporting these products without export licenses. See President

John F. Kennedy, White House Press Release, 3 February 1962, in Papers of Presi-

dent Kennedy, President’s Office Files, Countries (Costa Rica–Cuba), Box 114a,

John F. Kennedy Presidential Library.

11. United States Department of Health, Education, and Welfare, The Cuban Immi-

gration, 1959–1966, and Its Impact on Miami–Dade County, Florida (Washington,

D.C.: Government Printing Office, 10 July 1967); Bryan O. Walsh, “Cubans in

Miami,” America 119 (26 February 1966): 286–89.

12. For a discussion of the role the Diocese of Miami played in assisting the refugees

see Michael J. McNally, Catholicism in South Florida, 1868–1968 (Gainesville: Uni-

versity of Florida Press, 1982).

13. “Operations of the Cuban Refugee Emergency Center,” 28 March 1961, Records of

Health, Education, and Welfare (HEW), JFK Library.

14. Tracy Voorhees, “Final Report on the Cuban Refugee Problem,” Department of

State Bulletin 44 (13 February 1961): 220.

15. Memorandum from W. L. Mitchell, Commissioner of Social Security, 20 February

1961, Records of HEW, JFK Library.

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16. White House Statement, February 3, 1961, Records of HEW, JFK Library; see also

“President Outlines Measures for Aiding Cuban Refugees,” Department of State

Bulletin 44 (27 February 1961): 309–310. Bryan O. Walsh, “Cubans in Miami.”

17. Department of Health, Education, and Welfare, Cuba’s Children in Exile (Wash-

ington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1967).

18. For a more detailed account of Operation Peter Pan, see María Cristina García, Ha-

vana USA: Cuban Exiles and Cuban Americans in South Florida, 1959–1994 (Berke-

ley: University of California Press, 1996); see also Yvonne M. Conde, Operation

Peter Pan: The Untold Story of 14,000 Cuban Children (New York: Routledge, 1999);

Victor Andres Triay, Fleeing Castro: Operation Peter Pan and the Cuban Children’s

Program (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1999).

19. U.S. Cuban Refugee Program, Training for Independence: A New Approach to the

Problems of Dependency (Washington, D.C.: Social and Rehabilitation Service,

1968).

20. Some of the more interesting studies of the Bay of Pigs invasion are: Trumbull Hig-

gins, The Perfect Failure: Kennedy, Eisenhower, and the C.I.A. at the Bay of Pigs (New

York: W. W. Norton, 1987); Haynes Johnson, The Bay of Pigs: The Leaders’ Story of

Brigade 2506 (New York: Dell Publishing, 1964); Karl Eernest Meyer and Tad Szulc,

The Cuban Invasion: The Chronicle of a Disaster (New York: Ballantine Books, 1962);

Peter Wyden, Bay of Pigs: The Untold Story (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1979).

21. A number of new analyses were published on the thirtieth anniversary of the Mis-

sile Crisis, which are particularly useful in understanding it: James G. Blight, On the

Brink: Americans and Soviets Reexamine the Cuban Missile Crisis (New York: Hill

and Wang, 1989); Dino A. Brugioni, Eyeball to Eyeball: The Inside Story of the Cuban

Missile Crisis (New York: Random House, 1991); Robert Smith Thompson, The

Missiles of October: The Declassified Story of John F. Kennedy and the Cuban Missile

Crisis (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1992).

22. Clark, “The Exodus from Revolutionary Cuba,” 75.

23. E. M. Martin, “U.S. Outlines Policy Toward Cuban Refugees,” Department of State

Bulletin 48 (24 June 1963): 984.

24. “Why Castro Exports Cubans,” New York Times Magazine (7 November 1965): 30.

25. Clark, “The Exodus from Revolutionary Cuba,” 75.

26. Silvia Pedraza Bailey, “Cuba’s Exiles: Portrait of a Refugee Migration,” Internation-

al Migration Review 19 (spring 1985): 18.

27. Seymour Liebman, “Cuban Jewish Community in South Florida,” in American

Jewish Yearbook (New York: American Jewish Committee, 1969), 283; Abraham J.

Dubelman, “Cuba,” in American Jewish Yearbook (New York: American Jewish

Committee, 1962), 482; Benigno E. Aguirre, “The Differential Migration of the

Cuban Social Races,” Latin American Research Review 11 (1976): 103–24.

28. República de Cuba, Censo de Población, Viviendas, y Electoral, Informe General, 1953

(n.p.), 48–49; Aguirre, “The Differential Migration,” 103–24. Also see Lourdes Casal

and Yolanda Prieto, “Black Cubans in the United States: Basic Demographic Infor-

mation,” in Female Immigrants to the United States: Caribbean, Latin American, and

African Experiences, ed. Delores M. Mortimer and Roy S. Bryce-Laporte, RIIES Oc-

casional Papers No. 2 (Washington, D.C.: Research Institute on Immigration and

Ethnic Studies, Smithsonian Institution, 1981).

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EXILES, IMMIGRANTS, AND TRANSNATIONALS

29. Aguirre, “The Differential Migration,” 103–24.

30. Heriberto Dixon, “Who Ever Heard of a Black Cuban?” Afro-Hispanic Review 1

(September 1982): 10–12; Heriberto Dixon, “The Cuban American Counterpoint:

Black Cubans in the United States,” Dialectical Anthropology 13 (1988): 227–39.

31. Clark, “The Exodus from Revolutionary Cuba,” 128–30.

32. Rafael J. Prohías and Lourdes Casal, The Cuban Minority in the U.S.: Preliminary

Report on Need Identification and Program Evaluation: Final Report for Fiscal Year

1973, 2d ed. (Washington, D.C.: Cuban National Planning Council, 1974).

33. Domestic Policy Staff, Civil Rights and Justice, Briefing Paper: Procedures for Ad-

mitting Refugees, Parolees, and Asylees: Miami Regional Hearing, December 4, 1979,

in “Refugees—Select Commission Papers” file, Box 25, staff offices, Papers of

Franklin E. White, Carter Presidential Library.

34. Robert L. Bowen, ed., A Report of the Cuban-Haitian Task Force, draft (1 November

1980), 78, in box 8, Records of the Cuban-Haitian Task Force, Carter Presidential

Library.

35. U.S. Department of State, “Exodus from Cuba,” Department of State Bulletin 80

(July 1980): 80.

36. See, for example, “Editorial: Hay que mostrale al imperialismo yanqui quee es

Cuba,” Granma 27 (April 1980).

37. “The Flight from Havana,” Newsweek, 28 April 1980, 38; “Start of a Mass Exodus,”

Time, 28 April 1980, 32.

38. Memo from William J. Beckham to Jimmy Carter, May 30, 1980, in File 6/3/80 [2],

Box 189, Staff Offices: Office of the Staff Secretary, Carter Library. See also “Cuban

Refugees,” Department of State Bulletin 80 (August 1980): 74.

39. Bowen, ed., A Report of the Cuban-Haitian Task Force, 4.

40. Néstor Almendros and Orlando Jiménez-Leal, Conducta Impropia (Madrid: Edito-

rial Playor, 1984);

41. Bowen, ed., A Report of the Cuban-Haitian Task Force, 55–58.

42. Mark Neilsen, “Bad Press Creating Difficulties in Resettling Cuban Refugees,” Na-

tional Catholic Reporter 16 (15 August 1980): 22–23.

43. “Castro’s Crime Bomb,” U.S. News and World Report, 16 January 1984, 27–30.

44. U.S. Department of State, “Exodus from Cuba,” 80.

45. Cuban-Haitian Task Force, “Enrants vs. Refugees,” Records of the Cuban-Haitian

Task Force, Box 21, Carter Presidential Library.

46. Bowen, ed., A Report of the Cuban-Haitian Task Force, 70; Thomas D. Boswell,

Manuel Rivero, and Guarioné M. Díaz, eds., Bibliography for the Mariel-Cuban Di-

aspora, Paper No. 7 (Gainesville: Center for Latin American Studies, the University

of Florida, 1988), 1–22; Heriberto Dixon has written that the percentage of blacks

and mulattos may have been as high as 40 percent because of the difficulties of clas-

sifying mulattos. “Undoubtedly,” he writes, “many of the lighter mulattoes will at-

tempt to ‘pass’ for white in the United States.” See “The Cuban-American Coun-

terpoint,” 227–39; and Dixon’s “Who Ever Heard of a Black Cuban?” 49–51.

47. See Robert L. Bach, Jennifer B. Bach, and Timothy Triplett, “The Flotilla ‘Entrants’:

Latest and Most Controversial,” Cuban Studies/Estudios Cubanos 12 (July 1982):

29–48; Gastón A. Fernández, “The Flotilla Entrants: Are they Different?” Cuban

Studies/Estudios Cubanos 11/12 (July 1981–January 1982): 49–54; Alejandro Portes,

183

THE CUBAN COMMUNITIES OF THE UNITED STATES

Juan M. Clark, and Robert D. Manning, “After Mariel: A Survey of the Resettle-

ment Experiences of 1980 Cuban Refugees in Miami,” Cuban Studies/Estudios

Cubanos 15 (summer 1985): 37–59; Bowen, ed., A Report of the Cuban-Haitian Task

Force, 70–71.

48. Frederic Tasker, “Anti-Bilingualism Approved in Dade County,” Miami Herald, 5

November 1980.

49. Roberto Fabricio, “Mariel Boatlift Still Raising Waves of Fear,” Miami Herald, 28

May 1983. For federal recommendations, see Cuban-Haitian Task Force, “Mariel

II,” Records of the Cuban-Haitian Task Force, Box 12, Carter Presidential Library.

50. Derek Reveron, “Se disipó el temor de que refugiados fueran carga,” El Nuevo Her-

ald, 22 April 1990.

51. Helga Silva, The Children of Mariel: Cuban Refugee Children in South Florida Schools

(Washington, D.C.: Cuban American National Foundation, 1985); Guillermo

Martínez, “The Children of Mariel Turn School Into Success Story,” Miami Herald,

15 January 1987.

52. “Cuba’s Decline Continues,” The American Enterprise 10 (January/February 1999): 89.

53. Ana E. Santiago, “Bajo revisión plan de emergencia ante ortro Mariel,” El Nuevo

Herald, 25 May 1991. Lizette Alvarez, “Exodo Cubano: De asunto político a

económico,” El Nuevo Herald, 21 April 1991.

54. “Father Goes to Cuba, Hoping to Get Son Back,” The St. Petersburg Times, 19 De-

cember 2000.

55. Alejandro Portes, “From South of the Border: Hispanic Minorities in the United

States,” in Immigration Reconsidered: History, Sociology, and Politics, ed. Virginia

Yans-McLaughlin (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990), 168; Alejandro

Portes, “The Cuban American Community Today: A Brief Portrait,” Memoran-

dum, Cuban Committee for Democracy, n.d.

56. Portes, “From South of the Border,” 168; Portes, “The Cuban American Commu-

nity Today.” See also Alejandro Portes and Robert L. Bach, “Immigrant Earnings:

Cuban and Mexican Immigrants in the United States,” International Migration Re-

view 14 (fall 1980): 315–40.

57. Carlos Arboleya, The Cuban Community, 1980: Coming of Age as History Repeats

Itself (Miami: Self-published, 1980); “Cuban and Haitian Arrivals: Crisis and Re-

sponse,” 30 June 1980, White House Central File, Subject File: National Security-

Defense, file ND16/CO 38 1/20/77–1/20/81, Box ND-42, Carter Presidential Li-

brary, 6.

58. Carlos Arboleya, El impacto cubano en la Florida (Miami: Self-published, 1985). See

also “Dade Latin Businesses Top U.S.,” Miami Herald, 23 October 1986.

59. Portes, “The Cuban American Community Today,” 1.

60. Lisandro Pérez, “Immigrant Economic Adjustment and Family Organization: The

Cuban Success Story Re-Examined,” International Migration Review 20 (spring

1986): 4–20.

61. Myra Marx Ferree, “Employment Without Liberation: Cuban Women in the U.S.”

Social Science Quarterly 60 (January 1979): 35–50. See also Dorita Roca Mariña, “A

Theoretical Discussion of What Changes and What Stays the Same in Cuban Im-

migrant Families,” in Cuban Americans: Acculturation, Adjustment, and the Family,

ed. José Szapocznik and María Cristina Herrera (Washington, D.C.: The National

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Coalition of Hispanic Mental Health and Human Services Organization, 1978);

María Cristina García, “Adapting to Exile: Cuban Women in the United States,

1959–1973,” Latino Studies Journal 2 (spring 1991): 17–33.

62. Hector Cantu, “Building a Bridge to Success,” Hispanic Business 15 (September

1993): 16.

63. Alejandro Portes and Leif Jensen, “The Enclave and the Entrants: Patterns of Eth-

nic Enterprise in Miami Before and After Mariel,” American Sociological Review 54

(December 1989): 929–49.

64. See Arboleya, The Cuban Community, 1980.

65. Portes, “From South of the Border,” 168; U.S. Census Bureau, “Statistical Brief,”

September 1985.

66. Pérez, “Immigrant Economic Adjustment and Family Organization.” See also

Lisandro Pérez, “The Cuban Population of the United States: The Results of the 1980

U.S. Census of Population,” Cuban Studies/Estudios Cubanos 15 (summer 1985): 1–18;

Alejandro Portes, “Dilemmas of a Golden Exile: Integration of Cuban Refugee Fam-

ilies in Milwaukee,” American Sociological Review 34 (August 1969): 505–18; Alejan-

dro Portes, “¿Quienes Somos? ¿Que Pensamos? Los Cubanos en Estados Unidos en

la Década de los Noventas,” Cuban Affairs/Asuntos Cubanos 1 (spring 1994): 5.

67. Margaret W. Linn, Kathleen I. Hunter, and Priscilla R. Perry, “Differences by Sex

and Ethnicity in the Psychosocial Adjustment of the Elderly, “ Journal of Health and

Social Behavior 20 (September 1979): 273–81; Margaret W. Linn, Kathleen I. Hunter,

and Bernard Linn, “Self-Assessed Health, Impairment, and Disability in Anglo,

Black, and Cuban Elderly, “ Medical Care 18 (1980): 282–88.

68. Alfonso Chardy, “ ‘Invisible Exiles’: Black Cubans Don’t Find Their Niche in

Miami,” Houston Chronicle, 12 September 1993.

69. These figures were provided by the Metro-Dade County Planning Department, Re-

search Division. According to the 1990 census, the total Latino population in Dade

County was 953,407. Cubans comprised 59 percent of this number. See also Thomas

D. Boswell and James R. Curtis, The Cuban-American Experience (Totowa: Row-

man and Allanheld, 1983).

70. Boswell and Curtis, The Cuban-American Experience, 78–79

71. Portes, “From South of the Border,” 168; U.S. Bureau of the Census, “The Nation’s

Hispanic Population—1994,” Statistical Brief (Washington, D.C.: Bureau of the

Census, 1994), 1.

72. Portes, “From South of the Border,” 178.

73. Kevin A. Hill and Dario Moreno, “Second-Generation Cubans,” Hispanic Journal

of Behavioral Sciences 18 (May 1996): 177.

74. Hill and Moreno, “Second-Generation Cubans,” 178.

75. Ivan Román, “The Cuban Vote,” Hispanic 9 (August 1996): 24.

76. Hill and Moreno, “Second-Generation Cubans,” 178; Isabel Castellanos, “The Use

of English and Spanish Among Miami’s Cubans,” Cuban Studies/Estudios Cubanos

20 (1990): 49–63.

77. Martin, “U.S. Outlines Policy,” 983–90; Arthur M. Schlesinger Jr., “Major Cuban

Exile Organizations” [1962], in file “Cuba, 11/1/62–12/29/62,” Papers of Arthur M.

Schlesinger Jr., White House Files, Box WH-5, JFK Library; Al Burt, “Cubans Split,

Action Could Unite Them,” Miami Herald, 11 March 1963.

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78. Genie N.L. Stowers, “Political Participation, Ethnicity, and Class Status: The Case

of Cubans in Miami,” Ethnic Groups 8 (1990): 76–77; Eleanor Meyer Rogg and

Rosemary Santana Cooney, Adaptation and Adjustment of Cubans: West New York,

New Jersey, Monograph no. 5 (New York: Hispanic Research Center, Fordham

University, 1980), 18; Boswell and Curtis, The Cuban-American Experience, 174.

79. Lissette Alvarez, “G.O.P. Tries to Win Hispanic Support Reagan Once Had,” New

York Times, 21 November 1997; Mireya Navarro, “Alliance of G.O.P. and Cuban

Americans Shows Rift,” New York Times, 22 October 1996; Ivan Roman, “The

Cuban Vote,” Hispanic (August 1996): 24.

80. María de los Angeles Torres, “Autumn of the Cuban Patriarchs,” The Nation 1 De-

cember 1997, 24–26.

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FOUR

CENTRAL AMERICAN IMMIGRANTS: DIVERSE

POPULATIONS, CHANGING COMMUNITIES

NORMA STOLTZ CHINCHILLA AND NORA HAMILTON

INTRODUCTION

Central Americans have been coming to the United States since the nine- teenth century, but large-scale immigration is a relatively recent phenome- non. According to the 1990 census, there were 1,323,800 persons of Central American ancestry in the United States, the majority of them foreign born. Over two-thirds of these had come during the 1980s.1 By 2000, the number of those who claimed Central American ancestry was 1,686,973.2

Central American immigration is distinctive for two reasons. The first is its diversity; Central Americans in the United States come from seven different countries. In 1990, over half of those of Central American ancestry were Sal- vadorans, followed by Guatemalans, Nicaraguans, and Hondurans and small- er numbers of Costa Ricans, Panamanians, and Belizans. In 2000, Salvadorans continued to be the largest group, but the numbers of Guatemalans and Hon- durans had increased substantially.

Aside from the distinctions based on countries of origin, there are differ- ences based on socioeconomic status—which ranges from rural and urban workers to middle-class professionals and landowning elites—and ethnicity. Mestizos constitute the major ethnic group, but there are substantial numbers from indigenous groups in the migrant stream, primarily Maya, Afro- Caribbean populations from Belize and the Caribbean coast of other Central American countries, and Garifuna, a group that traces its ancestry to both in- digenous and African roots.

The second defining characteristic of Central American immigration is the way it has been shaped by the experience of the cohort arriving in the 1980s. This cohort was significant not only due to its size, but also due to its politi- cal character. Many, if not most, of the immigrants coming during this decade, particularly those from El Salvador, Guatemala, and Nicaragua, came escaping war and violence in their respective countries, and some were fleeing persecution. Many considered themselves, and were considered by others, to be refugees, even if not accepted as such by the U.S. government. This cohort included a small but highly influential core of political activists who played a significant role in U.S.-solidarity, anti-intervention, and immigrant-rights movements in the 1980s and have subsequently been involved in organizing around political, social, and community issues. Because the political character of this cohort tends to obscure the diversity of the Central American experi- ence, it is important to keep both characteristics in perspective.

The majority of Central American immigrants have settled in urban areas, with major concentrations in Los Angeles, Houston, Miami, New York, San Francisco, and Washington. In 1990, Salvadorans constituted the largest num- ber of Central Americans in Los Angeles, Houston, Dallas, San Francisco, New York, Anaheim, and Washington, D.C. Nicaraguans were the dominant Central American group in Miami, and Guatemalans and Hondurans were the most significant groups in Chicago and New Orleans, respectively, al- though their numbers are larger in Los Angeles and New York.

By the time of the 2000 census, the Central American population had again increased, reflecting the continuing immigration during the 1990s, and was more dispersed. The availability of jobs has drawn Central Americans from earlier settlement areas as well as some new immigrants to cities such as Las Vegas and states such as Iowa, North Carolina, and Arkansas. A particularly interesting case is that of the Q’anjob’al Maya in Indiantown, Florida, who initially came to the United States fleeing the scorched-earth policy of the Guatemalan government in the early 1980s, which destroyed numerous in- digenous settlements in the Guatemalan highlands. A small nucleus found jobs in Indiantown in Southern Florida and formed the basis of a Q’anjob’al community that expanded throughout the state of Florida and into other parts of the southeast (Burns 2000).

ORIGINS AND CHARACTERISTICS

Although Central America consists of seven different countries, analyses of Central America as a region have tended to focus on the five countries that emerged from the United Provinces of Central America in the postcolonial

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period. These five nations, Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica, share certain common historical experiences and were also joined in various (ultimately unsuccessful) attempts to reunify. In contrast, Panama was part of Colombia for much of its nineteenth-century history. Subse- quently, its trajectory has been shaped by its special relationship with the United States and the role of the Panama Canal. Prior to 1981, Belize was British colony with a predominantly Afro-Caribbean population, but increas- ing number of Guatemalans, including Maya, moved into Belize in the 1980s and 1990s.

With the exceptions of Guatemala and Belize, is the population of most of Central America is mestizo, a mixed race people that was the product of Eu- ropean colonization and the mingling of European and indigenous popula- tions. However, indigenous Maya, or people of Mayan ancestry, constitute ap- proximately half of the Guatemalan population and represent some twenty-eight distinct language groups. Maya also live in Belize, Honduras, and southern Mexico. Central America also includes other indigenous groups, such as the Cuna and Guarani in Panama and the Miskitu in Nicaragua, as well as Afro-Caribbean populations in Belize and along the Caribbean coast of the larger countries. The Garifuna have been a source of significant migration to the United States. They are descendants of two distinct groups: indigenous populations from South America, who migrated to the Caribbean islands of St. Vincent and Dominica, and Africans, who escaped and managed to flee to these islands when the ships bringing them to slavery in the Americas were shipwrecked. This population settled along the Caribbean coast of Central America beginning in the late eighteenth century.

MIGRATION PATTERNS

HISTORICAL TRAJECTORIES

The Central American countries have a long history of internal and intrare- gional migration that can be traced to the patterns of land concentration and forced-labor recruitment that evolved during the colonial period.3 At the time of the Spanish conquest in the early sixteenth century, much of the region was inhabited by indigenous groups, particularly Maya, who were concentrated in Guatemala, Southern Mexico, parts of El Salvador, and northern Honduras. Another significant group was the Pipil in El Salvador. In contrast, the south- ern areas of Central America were more sparsely populated, and conquest, diseases brought by the Spaniards, and enslavement resulted in the eradica- tion of many of the smaller indigenous groups.

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Over the next 300 years the Spanish colonists and their descendants estab- lished commercial estates for the cultivation of export products, taking over the land of indigenous communities, a process that was particularly advanced in the area that is now El Salvador, where many of those expelled from these communities migrated to other parts of the country. Permanent and season- al labor was secured through forced recruitment of indigenous workers. Ranches and small farms were established in more sparsely populated areas.

Following independence in the early nineteenth century, the process of land concentration and labor recruitment intensified as several Central American economies were drawn into coffee production and export. The implications for migration varied among the different countries. In Costa Rica, which had abundant land and a relatively small population, coffee production opened up new frontier regions, which resulted in the migration of workers from the province of Cartago, where the population was centered, to coffee regions in the western part of the country. In El Salvador, the expansion of coffee pro- duction involved the forced takeover of land cultivated by indigenous com- munities and small farmers in the western part of the country, again resulting in the expulsion of these populations to other areas of the country where they engaged in subsistence production. In some cases, displaced people also mi- grated on a seasonal basis for work on the coffee harvest. In Guatemala, the government and growers instituted forms of coerced labor, such as debt pe- onage, to recruit seasonal labor for the harvest, reinforcing patterns of cycli- cal migration between the indigenous communities in the highlands and the areas of export production.

These patterns of regional migration were reinforced by the subsequent ex- pansion of coffee production and export to other countries and the introduc- tion of other export products: the extension of coffee production into Nicaragua; the introduction of banana production and export, particularly in the Caribbean coastal areas, as well as its takeover by U.S. companies in the early twentieth century; and the introduction of cotton and livestock in the mid-twentieth century. The takeover of land in the populous regions, as in the case of coffee in El Salvador, led to net emigration from these regions, often followed by seasonal migration for work on harvests. In contrast, areas of ex- port production in sparsely populated parts of Honduras attracted migrants from other parts of the country, both to work on the plantations or estates and to establish small and medium holdings on available land.

Seasonal and in some cases permanent migration also extended across bor- ders, particularly in the case of El Salvador, where land concentration had pushed small producers to marginal areas barely capable of sustaining subsis- tence production. Salvadorans migrated seasonally to cotton-growing areas in Guatemala and Nicaragua or to the banana plantations in Honduras. Indige-

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nous Guatemalans in the northern highlands migrated to Chiapas in South- ern Mexico to harvest coffee; some settled there, mingling with the Mayan population and passing as Mexicans.

As suggested above, legal and extralegal coercion often accompanied the process of land concentration and labor recruitment. The introduction and expansion of coffee export in the nineteenth century was made possible by the emergence of a strong state that could establish the necessary infrastructure, grant (and enforce, if necessary) land concessions, obtain foreign loans, and enforce laws safeguarding labor contracts and private property (often at the expense of communal forms of land tenure). In Guatemala, and later in Nicaragua, vagrancy laws were introduced in order to secure a labor force for the coffee harvest. In El Salvador, strong resistance by communal and small farmers to the takeover of their land for coffee production led to the forma- tion of a rural police force to repress revolts.

When urban and rural workers began to organize and protest against inad- equate wages or poor working conditions, they were often met by the repres- sive apparatus of the state, notably in Guatemala, El Salvador, and Nicaragua. The most extreme example (prior to the 1970s) was the matanza of 1932 in El Salvador, the systematic slaughter of 10,000 to 30,000 peasants in response to an uprising by rural workers protesting layoffs and wage cutbacks in the west- ern coffee region during a depression. Those who escaped fled to eastern El Salvador or across the border to Honduras.

With the growth of industry, rural to urban migration became increasingly important and outpaced migration between rural areas by the 1950s, in the case of El Salvador, and somewhat later in other Central American countries. In Central America (as in much of Latin America), women were important in rural to urban migration. Particularly in the case of El Salvador, the high level of internal migration has been a factor in the separation and disintegration of families and in the number of households headed by women (approximately 40 percent of the households in San Salvador), which in turn explains the fre- quent migration of women to find work.

CENTRAL AMERICAN IMMIGRATION TO THE UNITED STATES

Central American migration to the United States began to grow as a result of increased U.S. economic and strategic involvement in the region in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. This included the establishment and growth of trade relations between Central America and the United States; the investment of U.S. corporations in the production and export of bananas along the Caribbean coast, often accompanied by substantial intervention in the political affairs of the respective countries; the building of the Panama

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Canal during the first decade of the century; and the occupation of Nicaragua by the U.S. Marines during much of the period between 1912 and 1933.

The interaction of Salvadoran coffee growers and U.S. corporate interests in coffee processing and trade resulted in the migration of upper-class Salvado- rans to San Francisco, a major center for the processing of Central American coffee, in the early part of the twentieth century. Some migrants became per- manent settlers; San Francisco also became a major vacation spot for wealthy Salvadorans. Central Americans, especially Salvadorans and Nicaraguans who had worked on the Panama Canal and subsequently on the shipping lines, also made their way to San Francisco. During World War II, Central Americans were also recruited to work in shipyards in San Francisco, and many remained in the city (Córdova 1996).

Similarly, with the expansion of commerce between Honduras and U.S. ports as a result of the banana trade, Hondurans began to emigrate to the United States.4 During World War II, the United Fruit Company hired many Hondurans for its merchant marine, enabling them as well as other Hon- durans in the company to have access to the United States through New Or- leans, New York, New Jersey, and Boston. The Garifuna migration became important in the postwar period; it is currently estimated that as much as one-quarter of the total Garifuna population is in the United States, includ- ing Garifuna from Belize and other Central American countries as well as Honduras.

For the most part, the majority of the Central Americans who came to the United States during the early years of the twentieth century were middle- or upper-class individuals who came initially to visit or had married U.S. citizens or were immigrants drawn to educational and work opportunities in the United States. Although the number of immigrants increased substantially following a decline during the Great Depression, the official number of Cen- tral Americans in the United States remained small prior to the second half of the century.

Central American immigration began to accelerate in the 1960s, a period when the Central American countries were trying to attract foreign, especial- ly U.S., investment in industry, partly on the basis of a Central American com- mon market that would eventually eliminate tariffs and other trade barriers between the countries of the region and thus expand the market for industri- al products. Investment from the United States, and subsequently other coun- tries, especially Japan, did increase during this period. Some Central Ameri- cans who had worked in U.S.-owned factories in Central America eventually migrated to the United States to seek more remunerative work. Prior to 1980, women immigrants, drawn to jobs as domestics or in other types of services,

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outnumbered the men. In some cases they had worked for U.S. families who had held foreign-service posts or corporate jobs in Central America, and the immigrants returned with them to the United States.5

During the 1960s, 101,330 Central Americans were legally admitted to the United States, and in the 1970s the number increased to 174,640. In 1970, the largest group of Central Americans in the United States were the Panamani- ans. By this time, however, a growing number of Central Americans, espe- cially Salvadorans and Guatemalans, were entering illegally, sometimes pass- ing themselves off as Mexicans. By 1980, the composition of the Central American immigrant population had shifted: Salvadorans had become the majority, followed by Guatemalans, and workers began to outnumber middle-class immigrants.

The trajectories of different immigrant groups often resulted from the con- tacts established by a “pioneer” in the United States, an immigrant from a par- ticular town or village who, after obtaining a job in the United States, was able to secure work for family members and friends in the same location and often at the same workplace. Juan Xuc, a young Maya from San Pedro, Totoni- capán, in Guatemala, came to Houston in 1978, where he found a job at a su- permarket. Subsequently he was able to obtain jobs for relatives and friends from San Pedro, and eventually neighboring villages, in the same supermar- ket chain. In a number of cases, wives and sisters joined them to work as do- mestics for Houston families (Hagan 1994). Q’anjob’al from San Miguel Acatán and neighboring towns in Huehuetenango, Guatemala, who for decades had migrated to Chiapas for seasonal work, became aware of oppor- tunities for work in California’s San Joaquin valley. From there, some migrat- ed to Los Angeles, where they found jobs for themselves and subsequent ar- rivals from the region in the city’s garment industry (Loucky 2000).

Similar cases of network formation and chain migration following the tra- jectory of a “pioneer” or “godfather” occurred with Salvadoran immigrants. Migrants from Concepción de Oriente in the eastern department of La Unión came to Westbury, Long Island, following a trajectory established by Don Miguel Yanes, the head of sanitation and public health in his town, who had migrated to Long Island in 1971 at the instigation of a friend who had relatives there. Don Miguel obtained a job at a plastics factory and later married a Puerto Rican woman. On a visit to Concepción de Oriente at the end of the 1970s, he informed family and friends of job opportunities in Westbury, and soon emigrants from Concepción began to arrive in the town, where they numbered in the hundreds by the mid-1990s (Mahler 1995: 53). As these cases suggest, networks may eventually connect sending countries in Central Amer- ica with specific neighborhoods or towns in the United States.

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MIGRATION DURING THE 1980S

The 1970s was a period of increasing political activism and turmoil in Central America. In Nicaragua, the forty-two-year-old Somoza regime was overthrown in 1979 as a result of the Sandinista revolution and a massive uprising of the Nicaraguan population. In El Salvador and Guatemala, workers, peasants, stu- dents, and other groups, including indigenous groups in Guatemala, formed organizations and expanded and accelerated their activities in opposition to re- calcitrant military regimes, which responded by increasing the levels of repres- sion and counterinsurgency campaigns. Death squads as well as security forces targeted opposition party leaders, peasant and labor activists, student organiz- ers, and priests and catechists,6 who were often tortured and killed. Support grew for guerrilla organizations in both countries, which grouped into revolu- tionary armies in the early 1980s: the FMLN (Farabundo Martí Front for Na- tional Liberation) in El Salvador, and the URNG (Guatemalan National Revo- lutionary Unity). Following the 1980 election of Ronald Reagan as U.S. president, U.S. support for the Salvadoran government forces and anti- Sandinista counterrevolutionaries, or contras, in Nicaragua increased. Hon- duras was drawn into the conflicts when Nicaraguan contras massed at the Honduran border for incursions into Nicaragua, sometimes assisted by the Honduran military. Honduras also became a major base for U.S. support for both the contra war in Nicaragua and the government forces in El Salvador.

As violence in El Salvador and Guatemala increased, populations from af- fected communities fled to other parts of their respective countries and across borders to other Central American nations and to Mexico. Refugee commu- nities were established in several countries, particularly of Salvadorans in Honduras and of indigenous Guatemalans in Mexico. Other Salvadorans and Guatemalans made their way to other parts of Mexico or the United States, in some cases taking advantage of existing trajectories and networks, as indicat- ed above. The vast majority of these were undocumented and, because cross- ing the Mexico-U.S. border became increasingly difficult and dangerous dur- ing the 1980s, many of them relied on smugglers, or coyotes, who charged up to $2,000 to escort them through Central America and Mexico into the Unit- ed States. A few were assisted by the U.S.-based Sanctuary movement, which brought Central Americans across the border and to safehouses in the United States through an “underground railroad.”

During the 1980s, increasing numbers of Nicaraguans fled their country as a result of opposition to the Sandinistas or the contra war, and while many of them went to Costa Rica, the number coming to the United States increased throughout the decade. Most went to Miami, where there was already an es- tablished Cuban and Cuban American enclave. Analysts have identified three

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CENTRAL AMERICAN IMMIGRANTS

waves of Nicaraguan migrants. The first wave of Nicaraguan immigrants fled the Sandinista revolution and consisted of the Somoza family and their close associates, wealthy business groups, and members of the National Guard who began arriving in the late 1970s. The second wave, in the early 1980s, consist- ed of middle-class professionals and businesspeople. The final group was composed of poorer workers as well as young men from different classes who emigrated after escaping the draft as the contra war became widespread and U.S. involvement in it increased in the mid-1980s. This movement accelerat- ed in the last years of the decade (Portes and Stepick 1993). The city of Miami also drew wealthy Central Americans from other countries, including Sal- vadoran landowning families affected by the agrarian reform of the 1980s, some of whom financed death squads and the new right-wing Arena party in El Salvador from their temporary exile in Miami. The number of Honduran immigrants also increased, reflecting in part the destabilization of that coun- try as a center of the U.S.-backed counterinsurgency effort. Political instabili- ty also resulted in economic deterioration, particularly in the affected coun- tries, but also in Central America as a whole, and this was an added factor in the large numbers leaving the region. The debt crisis and deep recession ex- perienced by Mexico during the 1980s prevented many immigrants from find- ing work there, which may have been an added factor in migration to the United States.

As indicated above, Central Americans coming to the United States in the 1980s differed from previous Central American immigration flows in several respects. First, the number arriving in the 1980s was significantly higher than all previous flows. According to census figures, people of Central American ancestry in the United States increased from 331,219 in 1980 to 1,323,380 in 1990. Of these, 1,046,099 were immigrants, and 730,213—that is, 55 percent of the total Central American–origin population and 70 percent of the foreign- born—had come during the 1980s. Second, although Central American im- migration flows continued to include middle-class groups, a much larger per- centage of those coming in the 1980s were low-income groups from both rural and urban areas. Third, although women migrants had outnumbered men in previous decades, men outnumbered women among the Central Americans who came in the 1980s, reflecting, in part, the fact that men were more likely to be targeted as a result of activism in their respective countries or to face re- cruitment into government or guerrilla armies.

There were also significant differences within the Central American popu- lations by 1990. While 28 percent of the Panamanian-ancestry population and 29 percent of those of Costa Rican origin had come to the United States dur- ing the 1980s, over half of those of Guatemalan and Honduran origin, and 60 percent of Nicaraguan and Salvadoran groups, immigrated in the 1980s. While

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DIVERSE POPULATIONS, CHANGING COMMUNITIES

immigration from Costa Rica and Panama increased during the decade, it was at rates suggesting a continuity with previous patterns of a gradual increase over time. In contrast, immigration from El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, and Nicaragua reflected an abrupt break with previous patterns, as one would anticipate given the upheavals in those countries.

Finally, many immigrants from El Salvador, Guatemala, and Nicaragua, and to some extent Honduras, differed from other immigrant groups in that they emigrated for political reasons—or a combination of political and eco- nomic reasons—rather than strictly economic or personal considerations. At the same time, they differed from other refugee groups, such as Cubans and Vietnamese, in that they were not accepted as refugees and enjoyed none of the benefits provided for refugees in U.S. policy.7 Since many of them were undocumented, fear of apprehension by the INS was magnified by fear of being returned to countries where conditions were dangerous, particularly for those who had been targeted by military or security forces or by death squads.

MIGRATION IN THE 1990S

Many of the Central Americans coming in the 1980s assumed that their stay would be temporary and that they would return when conditions improved in their countries of origin. A study by the authors in 1995 of 300 Salvadorans and Guatemalans in Los Angeles found that at the time of arrival, nearly half had planned on a temporary stay and less than 14 percent had planned to remain permanently. By the mid-1990s, however, many had become settled, and 50 percent now had definite plans to remain in the United States. Although some Nicaraguans returned after the electoral defeat of the Sandinistas in 1990, the majority of Nicaraguans remained, and the peace agreements in the early to mid-1990s in El Salvador and Guatemala did not result in substantial return migration by Salvadorans and Guatemalans (Hamilton and Chinchilla 2001).

Indeed, Central Americans continued to migrate to the United States in the 1990s for a number of reasons. First, the end of hostilities did not result in conditions of security. In Nicaragua, former contras as well as previous mem- bers of the Sandinista army continued to fight, or they operated as bandits in rural areas of the country. In El Salvador and Guatemala, death squads and vigilante groups also persisted. In all three countries, crime became an alter- native for some demobilized troops from both sides of the respective conflicts who lacked economic opportunity but had easy access to guns. El Salvador had the highest per capita crime rate in the western hemisphere.

Undoubtedly contributing to crime and insecurity, as well as continued mi- gration, was the precarious economic situation of many Central Americans. It has been estimated that at least half of all Central American households are

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characterized by poverty or extreme poverty, and opportunities for well- paying jobs are limited. In Nicaragua, unemployment and underemployment are estimated at 60 percent, a factor in continued high levels of migration into Costa Rica and the United States. In the latter part of the decade, natural dis- asters aggravated the situation. In November 1998, Hurricane Mitch resulted in an estimated fifteen thousand deaths, while millions more lost homes or jobs, particularly in Honduras and Nicaragua. In January and February 2001, two massive earthquakes devastated several towns in El Salvador, leaving over one thousand people dead and over one million homeless.

Finally, by the early 1990s migrant networks linking Central Americans in the United States to their communities and neighborhoods of origin were well established. This was particularly true of El Salvador, where in 1999 approxi- mately 20 percent of all households were receiving remittances from Salvado- ran emigrants, most of them in the United States. In some regions, conditions were similar to that of many Mexican towns where young men and women joined the migration circuit. As a result, Salvadorans and Guatemalans con- tinued to come in record numbers throughout the 1990s, and they have been joined by increasing numbers of Hondurans and Nicaraguans.

SETTLEMENT AND EMPLOYMENT

Literature on migration has attributed the experience and degree of success of immigrants in the United States to several factors: the characteristics of the immigrants themselves (such as level of education and skills), conditions of migration (e.g., economically motivated vs. refugee, documented or nondoc- umented), the context of reception (including U.S. immigration and refugee policies, receptivity by native populations, and economic conditions and the structure of the labor market in the host country), and what is sometimes re- ferred to as social capital (e.g., the extent and nature of networks among im- migrant and ethnic groups and between immigrants and other groups) (Portes and Rumbaut, 2001). Among Central American immigrants, we can see all of these factors at work, with considerable variation based on the tim- ing of migration and nationality.

Costa Rican and Panamanian immigrants differ from other Central Amer- ican groups in that they are predominantly middle class, and their numbers have increased only gradually. Prior to the 1970s this was true of other Central American groups as well. The 1970s and particularly the 1980s resulted in sub- stantial change in the socioeconomic characteristics of Central American im- migrants as well as the conditions of migration and their experience in the United States. During the 1970s, an increasing proportion of immigrants were

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of working-class origins and were economically motivated. Many were un- documented, although legal status was less significant than it became in the 1980s and 1990s. Most of them were from El Salvador and Guatemala, and the number from these countries increased substantially in the 1980s. In contrast to earlier cohorts, the new arrivals were less educated. Those coming in the 1980s were in some cases politically motivated, and they faced increasingly stringent conditions with respect to legal status.

These distinctions are reflected in socioeconomic characteristics and settle- ment patterns. In 1990, 36 percent of the Panamanians and 31 percent of the Costa Ricans in the United States had some college education, compared to only 13 percent of the Salvadorans and 16 percent of the Guatemalans. Only 13 percent of Costa Rican and Panamanian families were below the poverty level, while poverty rates of Guatemalans, Salvadorans, Hondurans, and Nicaraguans ranged from 20 to over 25 percent. Finally, Costa Ricans and Panamanians tended to be more dispersed, with only half of their populations in major metropolitan areas, perhaps reflecting their greater integration into mainstream society as well as the larger percentage of professionals or white- collar workers in these national groups (Rodríguez and Hagan 1999).

For the most part, however, Central American immigrants in the United States tended to be concentrated in urban areas, particularly metropolitan areas in the larger cities. According to the 1990 census, approximately one- third of all people of Central American origin or ancestry were in Los An- geles (453,048 of a total of 1,325,830). Other major centers of Central Amer- ican settlement were Miami (119,534), New York (109,560) and Washington, D.C. (78,527). The largest concentration of Salvadorans was in Los Angeles, and Salvadorans were also the major Central American population in Hous- ton, Dallas, San Francisco, Anaheim, and Washington, D.C. Los Angeles also had (as of 1990) the largest concentration of Guatemalans, Hondurans, and Costa Ricans. The major concentration of Nicaraguans was in Miami, where over 60 percent of the Nicaraguan-ancestry population had settled. Despite the increased dispersion of population of Central American ances- try during the 1990s, the majority continue to reside in Los Angeles and other major cities.

As with other immigrant groups, Central Americans are attracted to specif- ic areas as a result of job opportunities, the presence of an ethnic community (in this case, Latinos or specific national groups), and the existence and ex- pansion of networks. These factors are clearly related, since it is generally through networks that the availability of certain types of jobs become known and (at least in some cases) an ethnic community is formed; the availability of jobs is also a factor in network creation. By the 1980s, many Central American

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immigrants had a relative, friend, or neighbor who had migrated ahead of them and whom they counted on for temporary housing or job contacts when they came to the United States. In some cases, early arrivals provide job op- portunities at their own workplace, as at the above-mentioned supermarket chain in Houston, or can help new arrivals obtain similar jobs, which has been widespread among women in domestic work who were able to inform their relatives and friends about opportunities for domestic work among friends of their employers.

The shift in the U.S. economy beginning in the 1970s, from manufacturing to service industries in areas such as communications and information, fi- nance, and real estate, changed the structure of job opportunities. Middle- level manufacturing jobs declined and opportunities increased in technical and professional services, real estate, and finance, which in turn resulted in an expansion of employment in low-wage services, including janitors, hotel and restaurant workers, and construction workers. The increase in the number of women in the labor force also resulted in an increased demand for domestic and child-care workers at a time when African American women were leaving domestic service for government and other types of white-collar jobs. The changing structure of the American job market opened up opportunities for employment for new immigrants, including Central Americans, who were willing to work at relatively low wages. Most Central Americans arriving in the 1980s found jobs in low-wage factory work, particularly the clothing industry, in cleaning and janitorial services, in restaurants and hotels, in construction work, and as gardeners, domestics, and child-care workers. Some became day laborers or street vendors, replicating or adapting practices from their home countries.

Many of the new Central American and Mexican immigrants were undoc- umented, and they were often in danger of apprehension and deportation. INS sweeps of immigrant workplaces, such as garment factories or street cor- ners where day laborers waited for work, were frequent during the 1980s. The Immigration Reform and Control Act (IRCA), passed in 1986, called for penalties for employers who hired illegal immigrants. It also provided amnesty for those undocumented immigrants who could demonstrate that they had been in the United States since January 1981. Although some Central Americans arrived prior to that date, many came afterwards, and others who might be eligible had difficulty obtaining the necessary documentation given the irregularity of their work situation. Relatively few employers were penal- ized under IRCA, but it had the effect of making conditions of work more pre- carious for undocumented immigrants, and some unscrupulous employers took advantage of these conditions to extract more work at lower wages.

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CENTRAL AMERICANS IN LOS ANGELES

Central Americans who came to the United States in the 1980s tended to be at- tracted to areas where they could find concentrations of their own compatri- ots or other Latinos, in part due to established migration networks and in part because these areas were characterized by relatively low-cost housing and in some cases proximity to job opportunities. As noted above, the major con- centrations of both Salvadorans and Guatemalans, and, increasingly, Hon- durans, can be found in Los Angeles, where many settled initially in Westlake (sometimes referred to as Pico Union, which in fact is a neighborhood that encompasses the southeastern part of Westlake), a major immigrant entry area directly west of downtown Los Angeles. Others live west and north of Westlake in Hollywood, Echo Park, and Silverlake; some moved south to towns along the Alameda corridor, previously a manufacturing hub; into South Central, where in some areas Latinos (chiefly Mexicans and Central Americans) displaced African Americans as the major population group; and east into East Los Angeles, where Mexicans and Mexican Americans are the dominant population group. By the end of the 1980s there were substantial Central American settlements in the San Fernando Valley as well as in Ana- heim and Santa Ana in Orange County.

Among the Central Americans who came to Westlake in the 1970s and 1980s were several Guatemalan Mayan groups, particularly Q’anjob’al who had fled from their villages in Huehuetenango in the Guatemalan highlands and set- tled in the area northeast of MacArthur Park, a major neighborhood center. Early arrivals provided assistance to those who came later and helped them find jobs, often in the nearby garment industry in downtown Los Angeles. In some cases, Q’anjob’al from a particular village or community lived in apart- ments in the same building. Over time, other Mayan groups have settled in the Los Angeles area as well as other parts of the country.

During the 1980s conditions became increasingly depressed in many parts of Westlake. The area already suffered from an acute housing shortage, aggra- vated by the new immigrant influxes (including Mexicans and other groups as well as Central Americans) and the tendency of many immigrants to share housing, with the result that a single-family unit might be home to as many as two dozen people. Westlake was also known as a high-crime area, with sub- stantial gang activity, and, by the end of the decade, a major center for drugs. Some Central American youths were recruited into gangs, such as the 18th Street gang, or formed their own gangs, such as the Mara Salvatrucha, which quickly gained the reputation of one of the most dangerous in the city.8

Despite the depressed conditions in the area, Westlake became a major cen- ter of Central American activities and institutions, and the presence of new

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immigrants became increasingly evident throughout the decade. By the mid- 1980s, Salvadoran, Guatemalan, and Nicaraguan restaurants, markets, grocery stores, pupusa stands, and other small businesses appeared in the area, in- cluding travel agencies advertising trips to Guatemala City, San José, and other Central American destinations, and express courier services offering se- cure transit for letters, money, and packages to different locations in the home countries. Many of these businesses were established by Central Americans who had come prior to the 1980s and had saved enough money to invest in ethnically oriented enterprises when the growth of a Central American popu- lation created a new market.

Churches in the area began to increase their services in Spanish, and sever- al churches provided space for groups and organizations seeking to meet the needs of new refugees and immigrants. Christian Base Communities were formed in some churches, reflecting a practice that had become widespread in many Central American countries as a result of the changes in the Catholic Church in the 1960s and 1970s, and evangelical churches appeared in the area in response to the growing number of Central American immigrants who were already adherents or were drawn through the successful recruiting ef- forts of members. New institutions were formed to meet the particular needs of Central American refugees and immigrants.

The difficult conditions in Westlake prompted many Central American families to move out of the area as soon as possible, and, as noted above, the Central American population can now be found throughout the region. By the 1990s, some immigrants were going directly to these newer areas of settle- ment. However, many new immigrants still go directly to Westlake, which continues to be a major center of Central American institutions, cultural events, and community life.

CENTRAL AMERICANS IN OTHER PARTS OF THE COUNTRY

The conditions confronted by Central Americans in Los Angeles, and their contributions to its cultural life and institutional development, can be found in other cities where Central Americans or particular national groups have settled. In San Francisco, the Mission District became the major center of the Central American population, which already outnumbered Mexicans in the area in the 1950s. By the 1990s, Central Americans constituted 35 percent of the Latino population and the largest Latino group in San Francisco. This situa- tion contrasts with that of cities like Los Angeles, where Mexicans and Mexi- can Americans have always been and continue to be the major Latino popu- lation group, and Miami, where Nicaraguans entered a predominantly Cuban community.

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As with other U.S. cities, the decade of the 1980s saw dramatic growth in the number of Central Americans, particularly Salvadorans, coming to San Fran- cisco, and the Mission District experienced a proliferation of restaurants, shops, and services oriented toward Central Americans, as well as the expan- sion of existing services and institutions to incorporate the needs of the new Central American population. Although the “gentrification” of the district and the increased presence of Asian businesses have resulted in rising rents and new cultural influences, the Mission District continues to be a predomi- nantly Latin American community (Menjívar 2000).

In Washington, D.C., Central Americans settled initially in the inner-city areas of Mount Pleasant and Adams Morgan, previously dominated by African Americans. They were displaced in turn when the area became “gentrified,” pushing rental rates up.9 Many Central Americans moved to suburbs in Mary- land and Virginia, although, as in Los Angeles and San Francisco, Adams Mor- gan and Mount Pleasant continued to be the center of social-service agencies oriented toward Latinos, as well as Latino festivals and celebrations.

Houston, Texas, attracted some Central American as well as Mexican im- migrants during the oil-related boom of the 1960s and 1970s. Most of the mi- grants settled in the predominantly Mexican barrios in the eastern part of the city. The growth of Central American immigration in the 1980s, however, co- incided with a recession in the mid-1980s, which had severe repercussions not only in the industries where Mexicans and Mexican Americans had worked, but also in the predominantly middle-class western section of the city. Losing their jobs led many of the young, white, middle-class tenants of the area to leave, which, combined with the influx of new immigrants, prompted the landlords of apartment complexes to restructure some units for lower-income immigrant renters. The new immigrants differed from earlier Mexican and Central American immigrants in that they were more heterogeneous in both national and ethnic composition, incorporating Salvadorans, Guatemalans (including Maya), Hondurans (including Garifuna), Nicaraguans, and Be- lizans. And in contrast to the earlier concentration of Mexicans and other Latinos in the eastern section of the city, most of the new immigrants settled in the western section, where their neighbors might include Iranians, Nigeri- ans, Indians, and other immigrant groups (Rodríguez 1993).

Although there were Nicaraguans in cities such as Los Angeles and San Fran- cisco prior to the 1980s, and they have continued to come to these cities, most of the Nicaraguans coming to the United States during the decade tended to settle in Miami. As indicated above, the Nicaraguan migrants to Miami in- cluded three groups or waves: elite groups associated with the Somoza regime, followed by middle-class professionals and businesspeople, and a third wave of working-class groups beginning in the mid-1980s. They were welcomed initially

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as “ideological brothers” by the Cuban American community, which provided jobs for them in their own enclaves, helped them to establish their own busi- ness and professional careers, and pressured the government on their behalf. Nicaraguans in Miami continue to be divided along class lines, with Nicaraguan professionals and business groups associated with the first two waves of Nicaraguan immigrants concentrated in the upscale neighborhood of Sweetwater, while poorer Nicaraguans, as well as some downwardly mobile middle-class immigrants, live in Little Havana (Portes and Stepick 1993).

New York is the major center of the Honduran immigrant population, and, here as elsewhere, the Garifuna and mestizo populations have distinct settle- ment patterns. While the mestizo population has tended to settle in neighbor- hoods with Salvadoran and other Central American groups in Queens, Brook- lyn, and Long Island, the Garifuna tend to be concentrated in the South Bronx among a predominantly Dominican and Puerto Rican population. New York has the oldest and largest concentration of Garifuna in the United States, most of them from Honduras. The second largest is in Los Angeles, where for most part they are from Belize, but there are also Garifuna from Honduras and Guatemala. The Belizan population in Los Angeles also includes a large num- ber of Creoles, descendants of the African population. In the United States as a whole, it has been estimated that approximately 75 percent of the Belizan population is Creole, the remaining 25 percent Garifuna, who, as noted above, trace their roots to a particular group of Afro-Amerindians from the Caribbean islands of St. Vincent and Dominica who came to Central America in the eigh- teenth century (England and Kroghmal 1997).

In the 1990s, many Central Americans already in the United States moved to secondary locations where jobs were available, in some cases joining Mex- ican immigrants and forming new immigrant concentrations in such places as Morganton, North Carolina, and new migrants sometimes went directly to these locations. Maya who lived and worked in Indiantown, Florida, in the 1980s and 1990s could be found throughout the state and in other areas of the southeast by the late 1990s, drawn by work in construction or low-wage indus- try such as the poultry business (Burns 2000; Fink and Dunn 2000). Although Central Americans continue to be concentrated in such states as California, Florida, and New York, there are increasing numbers in nontraditional loca- tions in the southeast and West, reflecting a continuing response to job op- portunities for low-wage workers in these areas.

RELATIONS WITH OTHER ETHNIC GROUPS

In large metropolitan areas and increasingly in smaller cities and some rural areas, Central Americans often found themselves living in close proximity to

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other ethnic groups and in some cases working in the same factories or oth- erwise relating to them on a frequent basis. This has on occasion led to ten- sions, sometimes resulting from a perceived threat or injustice. In Los Ange- les, the predominantly Latino neighborhood in Westlake is adjacent to Koreatown, and Central Americans often shop at stores owned by Koreans or rent from Korean landlords. Some Central American business owners have complained of high rents charged by Koreans, although others, and in some cases the same individuals, have praised their industry and cohesiveness. Ten- sions also emerged in South Central Los Angeles, as more and more Latinos moved into the area during the 1980s and 1990s, often displacing African Americans as the predominant group in many schools, neighborhoods, and housing developments.

A major cause of tension between Latinos, particularly new immigrants, and African Americans is the perception that newcomers willing to work for low wages are taking their jobs or driving down wages in occupations in which African Americans have traditionally predominated. Although the record is mixed, the perception persists, particularly in areas where African American unemployment is higher than that of other groups, and during periods of re- cession.10 In other cases, tensions have developed over neighborhood condi- tions or community resources. In Washington, D.C., for example, African Americans in the Adams Morgan area have complained of immigrant crowd- ing leading to a deterioration of buildings in the neighborhood, while Latino leaders have complained of African American control of affirmative-action plans and most city social-service agencies.

There are also numerous instances of individual interethnic cooperation and institutional collaboration in multiethnic initiatives. In Houston, for ex- ample, nonimmigrants assisted Central Americans and Mexicans in the same apartment complex in obtaining documentation and English-language skills necessary to apply for the amnesty available to pre-1982 immigrants in the Im- migration Reform and Control Act of 1986. In Los Angeles, KIWA, the Kore- an Immigrant Workers’ Association, organizes both Latino and Asian work- ers, including those in Korean firms. In the wake of the 1992 riots in Los Angeles, leaders from the African American, Asian American, and Latino communities have promoted various initiatives designed to reduce tensions and encourage interethnic respect and cooperation, such as the Multiethnic Youth Leadership Collaborative, which provides youths from different ethnic communities with leadership training in interethnic relations. There is some evidence that such initiatives have been successful in increasing understand- ing and reducing tensions among affected individuals from different ethnic groups, although the general population may be more affected by contextual factors, such as the condition of the economy and the availability of jobs.

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The relations between Central Americans and different national-origin populations of the same ethnic groups are often complex. Although Salvado- rans and/or Central Americans as a whole sometimes represent the largest Latino group in certain cities, such as San Francisco, in most cases they enter Latino neighborhoods and communities dominated by other groups, such as Mexicans in Los Angeles or Cubans in Miami or, in the case of the Creole populations, African Americans. This often has important advantages for new immigrants, given affinities of language and culture and in some cases the proximity of available jobs. Individuals and institutions from the established groups may assist new arrivals with housing, jobs, and immigration docu- ments, as has occurred in the case of predominantly Mexican American or- ganizations in Los Angeles. Cuban Americans in Miami welcomed new Nicaraguan immigrants, whom they perceived as escaping a Communist regime. Mexican Americans in Los Angeles and other cities have been active in agencies specifically targeting Central American immigrants and during the 1980s were involved in solidarity initiatives challenging U.S. policy in the re- gion. Central American, Mexican, and Mexican American workers and labor organizers often work together in organizing workplaces and fighting for bet- ter wages, benefits, and working conditions.

But intraethnic tensions may also develop. In the Los Angeles area, having a claim to the region that predates the coming of the Anglos in the nineteenth century and accustomed to their hegemony within the Latino population, Mexican Americans have sometimes been resentful of the massive influx of Central Americans in the 1980s and 1990s, and Central Americans in turn sometimes resent Mexican American control and accuse Mexican Americans of being “prepotente” (arrogant). Tensions have also emerged in Miami, in some cases due to resentment at the very different reception given the Nicaraguans by the United States, in comparison with the Cubans, or the ex- perience or perception of discrimination by Cubans and Cuban Americans.

SOCIOECONOMIC CONDITIONS

While it is important to keep in mind the occupational and financial differ- ences among Central American immigrants, as well as the ability of some to improve their economic situation over time, Central Americans as a whole, particularly recent migrants from El Salvador, Guatemala, Nicaragua, and Honduras, are among the most impoverished groups in the United States. Few of the factors allegedly leading to immigrant success are in their favor. Most Central American immigrants have low levels of education, and many lack basic English-language skills. Although some have obtained temporary or permanent legal status, the majority of new migrants are undocumented and

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often live with the fear of detention and deportation, which is a further deter- rent to their ability to obtain relatively well-paid employment and job securi- ty. The context of reception in the United States has become increasingly neg- ative with the heightened security measures following the attacks of September 11, 2001, and the subsequent deterioration of economic conditions. And while networks within the different Central American groups have been important in securing jobs and other resources, few immigrants have access to the kinds of contacts that can facilitate mobility.

ISSUES AND INITIATIVES IN THE 1980S

As the Central American population grew, so did the quantity and variety of its organizational expressions: cultural and religious groups, soccer (and, in the case of Nicaraguans, baseball) clubs, social-service organizations, self-help networks, economic-advancement programs—including entrepreneurial training and labor organizing—and activities on behalf of U.S. and home- country political parties.

POLITICAL ORGANIZING

By far the most visible and politically important Central American–oriented organizing effort in the 1980s occurred within Salvadoran and Guatemalan im- migrant populations in the urban areas of their greatest concentration—Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, New York, Washington, D.C., and Houston. Supplemented by the efforts of others throughout rural and urban areas of the United States where the number of Central Americans was relatively small, a core of Salvadoran and Guatemalan activist immigrants, some with grassroots organizing experiences in peasant and labor movements, student and teacher organizations, Christian Base Communities, and human-rights organizations, linked up with more established compatriots, other Latinos, and sympathetic North Americans (including former missionaries, former Peace Corp volun- teers, and anthropologists and students who had lived in Central America) to provide protection against deportation, educate North Americans about the causes of the political upheaval that propelled them to migrate, and advocate change in U.S. policies toward Central America.

With support from religious-sector allies, academics, and others, these ac- tivists created prototypical solidarity organizations such as Casa Nicaragua, established in several U.S. cities, and CISPES (Committee in Solidarity with the People of El Salvador), which became the major national organization for solidarity with El Salvador. They also formed social-service institutions such

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as El Rescate in Los Angeles, the Central American Resource Center (CARECEN) in Los Angeles, Washington, and New York, and the Oscar Romero Clinic in Los Angeles. They formed refugee committees connected to the multiservice organ- izations, such as the Santiago Chirino Amaya Committee, linked to El Rescate, and the Central American Refugee Committee (CRECEN), linked to CARECEN in Los Angeles, and activists participated in multifunctional mixed committees made up of Central Americans and others, such as the Guatemala Information Center in Los Angeles. They incorporated the Christian Base Community model from their home countries in religious institutions and organized support groups for grassroots and political party organizations in those countries.

The organizations, committees, and social-service agencies formed during this period dispensed emergency food, provided free medical care, encour- aged co-ops and community gardens, educated their members and helped them to find work, raised funds, organized car caravans which traveled around the country to dramatize the need for a change in U.S. immigration and foreign policies, cooperated with the Sanctuary movement, in which churches, synagogues, and university campuses defied federal law and pub- licly declared they would provide safe haven for the unofficial refugees. They also participated in multiracial, progressive, anti-interventionist, and pro- peace coalitions with other progressive groups. Individual refugees also “tes- tified” (i.e., gave “testimonios”) at local churches, synagogues, and schools about their experiences. The presence and creative grassroots organizing of these Guatemalans and Salvadorans helped catalyze a dynamic national movement opposing official and indirect U.S. support for the regimes of El Salvador and Guatemala and the counterrevolutionary groups in Nicaragua, and the groups challenged U.S. policies that opposed movements advocating greater social and economic equality in Central American countries.

LEGAL ISSUES AND INITIATIVES

As noted above, for most part Central Americans were not accepted as refugees in the United States, and their applications for asylum were routine- ly denied. Although the U.S. Refugee Act of 1980 established “a well-founded fear of persecution” due to belief or membership in a particular group as grounds for asylum, U.S. asylum policy during much of the 1980s favored those fleeing from Communist or certain Middle Eastern countries, and asy- lum decisions with respect to Salvadorans and Guatemalans reflected U.S. foreign policy, which supported their governments.

Nicaraguans were only slightly more successful; during the early 1980s, ap- proximately 10 percent of Nicaraguan applicants, compared to 2 to 3 percent of those from El Salvador and Guatemala, received asylum. That they were

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unable to receive asylum, let alone receive the extensive assistance available to earlier Cuban arrivals, was a source of considerable bitterness to many Nicaraguan immigrants, who had anticipated being welcomed as refugees fleeing a Communist country. As in the case of Guatemalans and Salvadorans, U.S. immigration policy toward Nicaraguans partly reflected foreign policy. In this case, however, the intensification of the U.S.-financed contra war in Nicaragua convinced U.S. officials that Nicaraguans who could oppose the regime were more useful back home than in Miami.11

Denied the right to legal-resident or refugee status before entering the Unit- ed States, or to receive asylum after they had arrived, more and more Sal- vadorans, Guatemalans, Nicaraguans, and Hondurans attempted to cross the border without papers. If caught by INS officials they faced detention and often pressure to waive their right to have a hearing or to apply for political asylum, or officials made it difficult for them to have access to a low-cost lawyer or to accurate information about their rights, with the goal of return- ing them as rapidly and cheaply as possible to their countries of origin. The tactics used to accomplish this goal of rapid “voluntary” return often includ- ed intimidation and psychological and physical deprivation and constituted violations of due process, U.S. immigration law, and international protocols for civilians fleeing armed conflict (Kahn 1996).

Salvadoran and Guatemalan immigrant activists, followed later by Hon- durans and Nicaraguans, worked closely with sympathetic lawyers in the 1980s to remedy inhumane conditions and massive violations of rights in INS de- tention centers, especially on the Texas and California borders. Orantes- Hernández v. Smith—a case originally filed by attorneys associated with the National Center for Immigrants’ Rights (a project of the Legal Aid Founda- tion of Los Angeles) and supported by a coalition of immigrant-related or- ganizations—succeeded in gaining a preliminary injunction against these practices by requiring the INS to inform Salvadoran detainees of their right to receive counsel and to apply for political asylum. The case went to trial in De- cember 1985, however, when attorneys presented evidence that INS agents were not complying with the original injunction. The lengthy judicial process finally concluded in 1987, after 20,000 pages of trial transcripts, 140 witnesses, and 10,000 pages of exhibits. The presiding judge, David V. Kenyon, ordered the INS to “stop using threats and coercion to dissuade Salvadoran refugees from applying for political asylum in this country” (Ramos 1988). He forbade the transportation of deportees to remote locations in the absence of ample notice to interested relatives or lawyers.

By the time of the judge’s decision, members of the immigrant community were much better informed about their rights in general, and how to apply for asylum in particular, than they were in the late 1970s and early 1980s when the

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massive influx began. Although U.S. foreign-policy considerations continued to make the chances of receiving asylum slim for Guatemalans and Salvado- rans, the unexpectedly large number of asylum applications generated during the first half of the decade virtually overwhelmed the system, delaying many hearings for years, which meant, in turn, that applicants had access to a legal work permit in the meantime.

Beginning in 1986, the Nicaraguans received a brief respite when the district director of the INS, Perry Rivkind, announced he had stopped deporting Nicaraguan aliens from Miami, although Nicaraguans in other parts of the country continued to be deported. By this time, the earlier waves of Nicaraguan business elites and professionals had established roots in Miami and cemented their ties with influential Cuban American organizations, mak- ing the Nicaraguans prime recruits as supporters of the administration’s Cen- tral American policies and a source of potential members for the Republican party when they achieved U.S. citizenship. In July 1987, Attorney General Edwin Meese declared that all qualified Nicaraguans were entitled to work permits and those who had been denied asylum could reapply. More than 30,000 Nicaraguans applied for asylum in Miami as a result, and the approval rate for Nicaraguan asylum requests climbed to over 50 percent.

But concern by government officials as well as the Miami community, in- cluding some Cuban Americans, over the growing number of Nicaraguans en- tering the country and applying for asylum, as well as its economic costs at a time that the budget deficit in Washington was growing, resulted in another re- versal as U.S. Justice officials reverted to a more repressive policy, stripping un- documented Nicaraguans of their right to work permits, accelerating the re- view of their asylum applications in order to accelerate the deportation process, stepping up border enforcement, and calling for Contra directors and others to return home after the Sandinistas were defeated in the 1990 elections.

Finally, in 1990, Central American immigrants achieved two significant if par- tial victories. In November, after considerable pressure from immigrant-rights organizations and their supporters in Congress, Salvadorans and Nicaraguans received temporary protected status (TPS) for eighteen months (subsequently renewed), as part of the 1990 Immigration Rights bill (although other Central Americans, including Guatemalans, were not affected). And on December 20, a settlement was reached in the landmark immigration case American Baptist Churches v. Thornburgh (sometimes referred to as the ABC decision), which had been filed in May 1985 and supported by over eighty religious, refugee, and refugee legal-assistance organizations. This case had challenged the low asylum- approval rate for Guatemalans and Salvadorans, alleging discrimination in the adjudication process based on nationality, U.S. foreign policy and border- enforcement considerations, and the U.S. government’s views of the ideological

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beliefs of the applicant. In the settlement, widely seen as a vindication for the ar- guments of the Sanctuary movement, the INS was required to reopen 150,000 previously filed Guatemalan and Salvadoran asylum cases and hear petitions from potentially 350,000 more who became eligible to file for asylum under spe- cial procedures, during which time both groups could enjoy temporary legal status and suspension of deportation hearings.

According to those involved, this was the largest case the INS had ever agreed to settle and the largest number of asylum cases ever reopened. The government was undoubtedly motivated to settle partly by the cost of pursu- ing the case and also the fact that new immigration regulations consistent with the settlement had already been adopted. But there can be no doubt that the tireless organizing efforts of the immigrants themselves and their supporters facilitated a settlement by highlighting certain contradictions in U.S. policies, for example between U.S. claims to support democracy abroad versus its sup- port for regimes that repressed democratic movements in Central America, and claims that U.S. asylum policies were neutral with respect to national ori- gin versus their discriminatory application to different national groups.

ISSUES AND INITIATIVES IN THE 1990S

The 1990s brought significant changes and new challenges for Central Ameri- can immigrants in the United States. Despite the peace process in Central America, relatively few returned to their countries of origin, and Central Americans facing limited economic opportunities in their home countries con- tinued to migrate. At the same time, however, the context of reception in the United States also deteriorated with the economic recession of the early 1990s, adding to tensions in many inner-city areas where migrants lived. Growing hostility toward immigrants was manifested in California’s Proposition 187 (passed in 1994) and new immigration legislation at the national level in 1996.

By the early 1990s it was evident to Central American activists and others working with Central Americans that what had been considered a temporary refugee population had become largely permanent. This recognition, and par- ticularly the failure of the peace process to result in the return of a significant number of immigrants to their home countries, led Central American organ- izations and activists to rethink the direction and emphasis of their activities and programs. Many focused increasingly on the long-term needs of Central Americans in the United States, including their economic and political em- powerment, while continuing to attend to the needs of new, often undocu- mented, immigrants. Some who had worked in solidarity or refugee institu- tions in the 1980s shifted their orientation to initiatives such as citizenship

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training, the registration of new citizens as voters and the political represen- tation of their interests, programs to provide inner-city youth—many of them children of the earlier immigrant cohort—with education and job-related skills, and labor organizing and other initiatives to inform workers of their rights. Legal initiatives continued to be important not only for new immi- grants, but also for many from the earlier cohorts who had not yet succeeded in obtaining documentation.

Many Central American immigrants who had not necessarily been active in the 1980s also participated in these initiatives, which brought them into contact with a growing number of city officials, union leaders and organiz- ers, educators, and community leaders at the local level and, in some cases, at the national level. Central American communities in many parts of the country had been polarized during the 1980s, particularly as a result of polit- ical conflicts, and ethnic differences also prevented many groups, such as the indigenous and nonindigenous Guatemalans, from working together. Al- though suspicion and distrust among these groups continue to exist, there have been concerted efforts to work across political and ethnic differences on issues of common interest.

Similar to other immigrants, Central Americans continued to support their families at home through remittances, which by this time were making a sub- stantial contribution to the economies of their respective countries, even sur- passing exports in some cases. In several U.S. cities, Central Americans from a particular locality formed hometown associations that raised funds for civic projects and developed initiatives in their communities of origin. In the meantime, Central American businesses and governments became increasing- ly aware of the significance of their compatriots in the United States as both a source of financial resources and a market for goods and services produced at home, ranging from familiar food products to real estate and new homes in their home communities, to which many immigrants hoped to return some day. This has resulted in a number of initiatives on the part of these business- es and governments to take advantage of these potential resources through trade conventions and fairs and the establishment of banks and other busi- nesses in relevant U.S. cities.

Related to the continued and renewed contacts with home communities are cultural practices and ceremonies brought from Central America and in some cases adapted to the U.S. environment. Many of these activities predate the large influx of Central Americans in the 1980s. But cultural initiatives have been given additional impetus in the past ten years as a result not only of the size of the 1980s cohort, but also of many immigrants’ fear that their children, growing up in the United States and socialized in U.S. schools and communities, were forgetting their roots. Children of immigrants as well as

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those immigrants who migrated at an early age tend to become more “Amer- icanized,” as indicated by factors such as music and entertainment prefer- ences as well as a much greater inclination among younger immigrants to re- main in the United States, compared with older cohorts who indicate a desire to return at some point in the future (Hamilton and Chinchilla 2001). At the same time, some of these children who were in high school or entering col- lege by the 1990s were themselves confronting questions of their origins and identity. The result has been a proliferation of new cultural, educational, and community initiatives over the past decade.

Although some of these programs are similar to those of other immigrant communities, the rapid proliferation of organizations and activities oriented both to Central Americans in the United States and to their home communi- ties in the 1990s undoubtedly owes much to the continued role and organiz- ing skills of political activists from the 1980s cohort and to the institutional base established during that decade (Chinchilla and Hamilton 1999; Hamilton and Chinchilla 2001). In the following sections, we examine changes and ini- tiatives in legalization and civic education, workplace organizing, transna- tional ties, and social and cultural practices, concluding with a discussion of the next generation.

LEGAL ISSUES AND CIVIC EDUCATION

By the early 1990s, some undocumented Central Americans had won a legal reprieve through congressional approval of a temporary protected status (TPS) for Salvadorans and Nicaraguans as a result of war and political insta- bility in their respective countries and through the landmark ABC decision, which gave those Guatemalans and Salvadorans whose asylum applications had been rejected, or who had failed to apply due to their probable rejection, an opportunity to apply again. Central American– and other immigrant- rights organizations worked to register eligible immigrants under TPS, lob- bied to extend it annually, and counseled former asylum applicants wishing to reapply. TPS (later designated DED—delayed enforced departure) was ex- tended until 1996. With its expiration, legal initiatives concentrated increas- ingly on preparing those eligible for asylum hearings under ABC and coun- seling candidates for stays of deportation, which enable those immigrants “of good character” who could prove residency in the United States for seven consecutive years, and whose deportation would result in personal hardship, to remain in the United States and eventually apply for permanent residency and citizenship.

In the meantime, the intense debate over “illegal immigrants” in California culminated with the passage of the so-called SOS (Save Our State) initiative,

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or Proposition 187, which would have denied services, including education and all but emergency health care, to undocumented immigrants. The mea- sure was eventually repealed as unconstitutional by a federal district court, but in the meantime the campaign had galvanized immigrants and their support- ers who organized against it. The struggle also significantly raised the political profile of Latinos in the state. Two years later, however, the U.S. Congress passed the Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act of 1996, which, among other provisions, stiffened conditions for a stay of depor- tation: applicants had to have spent ten consecutive years in the United States, and their deportation would have to result in “exceptional and extremely un- usual” hardship for a close family member (spouse, parent, or child) who was a U.S. citizen or permanent resident.

Conditions were eased for some Central American immigrants with the pas- sage of NACARA, the Nicaraguan Adjustment and Central American Relief Act, in 1997, which in effect reinstated previous conditions for a stay of depor- tation (now called cancellation of deportation) for those Salvadorans and Guatemalans who arrived prior to 1990. At the same time, it provided auto- matic cancellation of deportation for those Nicaraguans and Cubans who ar- rived prior to 1995, and subsequently Central American advocates and organi- zations have focused lobbying efforts on obtaining the same or similar conditions for Salvadorans, Guatemalans, Hondurans, and Haitians. These ef- forts gained substantial congressional support and legislative bills to this effect have been proposed in both the House and Senate, but have not to date ob- tained sufficient votes for passage. In January 1999, following Hurricane Mitch, which devastated significant areas of Honduras and Nicaragua the year before, TPS was extended to Hondurans and Nicaraguans who had been in the Unit- ed States from December 1998. Due to expire in June 2000, it has subsequent- ly been renewed.12 Similarly, TPS was again extended to Salvadorans after the two massive earthquakes in El Salvador in January and February 2001.

Central American and immigrant-rights’ organizations have engaged in ex- tensive advocacy, organizing and lobbying around these initiatives on the local and national levels, individually and collectively. In Los Angeles, for example, organizations such as CARECEN, El Rescate, Asociación Salvadoreños de Los Angeles (ASOSAL), Casa Nicaragua, and the Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights of Los Angeles (CHIRLA), dating from the 1980s, formed the Central American Coalition, which also included several new organizations such as GUIA (Guatemala Unity Information Agency) and HULA (Hondureños Unidos de Los Angeles), established in the late 1990s to respond to the needs of Guatemalan and Honduran populations, respectively. Several of these organi- zations are also part of national coalitions. The most enduring of these is SANN, the Salvadoran American National Network, formed of several activist

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organizations, many dating from the 1980s, to promote the well-being of Sal- vadoran Americans and other Central Americans and Latinos in the United States.

Recognition of the permanence of the Central American population in the United States has led these and other organizations to undertake initiatives aimed at the political and economic empowerment of Central American im- migrants, and some new organizations have been formed for this purpose, such as SALEF—the Salvadoran American Leadership and Education Fund, focusing on civic-education programs, voter registration, and internships for Latino youth—and SALPAC, the Salvadoran Political Action Committee, which supports candidates based on their responsiveness to the needs of Cen- tral Americans and other Latinos and campaigns on behalf of relevant voter initiatives. Thus, increasing numbers of Central Americans and their children are becoming integrated into the political process, although some continue to maintain ties with their home countries, reinforced by their cultural traditions and in some cases by the continued immigration of Central Americans.

ORGANIZING AT THE WORKPLACE

Some politicians and many in the general population assumed that immi- grants, particularly those without documents, were responsible for job loss and the drop in wages affecting U.S.-born workers beginning in the 1970s. A corollary of this assumption was the widespread belief among union leaders that undocumented immigrants were impossible to organize, further under- mining the ability of workers and unions to retain the wages and benefits they had won through years of organizing. In fact, the first assumption was only partially true and tended to be specific to particular industries or to jobs that would have been exported if low-wage labor were not available. The second assumption was something of a self-fulfilling prophecy; once unions (and other groups) began to address the issue they found that immigrants, includ- ing the undocumented, could be quite militant in demanding and defending their rights.

The turnaround began in the mid-1980s with the election of John Sweeney as head of the SEIU (Service Employees International Union), a transition in leadership that led to a renewed emphasis on organizing, including the organ- ization of immigrants. This was reinforced when Sweeney became president of the AFL-CIO in the mid-1990s. The SEIU covered several areas in which im- migrants, including Central Americans, tended to be concentrated, including hotel and restaurant workers and building cleaners (janitors). The latter had indeed suffered a sharp drop in wages as well as declining union membership in some cities, such as Los Angeles, by the 1980s, and they were targeted for or-

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ganization by the SEIU’s dramatic Justice for Janitors campaign.13 SEIU or- ganizers began to draw immigrant workers into this campaign in the late 1980s, and by the turn of the century they had achieved significant victories in revers- ing the previous downward spiral of wages and benefits.

Organizers and workers in areas such as construction, building cleaning, and hotel and restaurant work had certain advantages in that although workers could be fired, jobs could not be altogether eliminated, as was sometimes the case in more mobile lines of work, such as the garment industry. Other typical immigrant jobs were difficult to organize because of the isolation of workers (domestic work), the illegality of the work itself (street vending, particularly in Los Angeles), or the occasional and temporary nature of the available jobs (day laborers). Organizing initiatives in these areas took different forms.

In the garment industry, UNITE (United Needletrades, Industrial and Tex- tile Employees), while continuing unionization efforts, also used other tactics such as consumer boycotts of clothing produced in nonunion shops, and the union formed Justice Centers in several cities to inform workers of their rights. Street vendors in Los Angeles, many of them undocumented immi- grants, formed the Street Vendors Association (Asociación de Vendedores Ambulantes) in the mid-1980s, which, with the assistance of North American advocates, established contacts with city officials in efforts to end police abus- es against vendors and to become informed regarding health regulations and other issues that affected their work. In 1987, City Councilman Michael Woo formed the Street Vendors’ Task Force, incorporating the Street Vendors As- sociation as well as lawyers, educators, and businesspeople to work for the le- galization of street vending in Los Angeles. The task force achieved limited success with a bill finally approved by the City Council in 1994 that permitted vending in certain districts, but subject to a formidable set of preconditions that limited implementation.

Several organizations worked with other difficult-to-organize sectors, such as day laborers. These efforts focused on organizing workers at hiring sites to achieve some order in the recruiting process, fair wages, and ac- countability of contractors who were sometimes guilty of not paying or un- derpaying their workers. Central Americans have been integrated into unionization efforts as well as other organizing initiatives as members and militants. By the end of the 1990s, several had become leaders in unions and other work-related organizations.

Some Central American workers have achieved a certain level of mobility. Middle-class immigrants, including professionals who initially experienced downward mobility, improved their language skills and in some cases were able to obtain the necessary credentials to practice their profession in the United States. Some who lacked the education or skills to shift to higher-level

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jobs were able to improve conditions within a particular job category. Women in domestic service, for example, often began as live-in domestic or child-care workers, which provided room and board in exchange for low wages, cultur- al isolation, and often extreme exploitation. Over time they managed to shift to day jobs which provided better wages and more control over their hours of work and their working conditions. Immigrants also managed to stretch their resources by pooling them and sharing living arrangements to cut costs.

Although many Central Americans in the United States have improved their situation as a result of organizing efforts or their own initiatives, they continue to be among the lowest-paid workers with the highest levels of poverty. The continued influx of new immigrants is undoubtedly a factor, since these are the most likely to be undocumented and to lack English- language and other skills. In addition, Central Americans and other new im- migrants have had mixed success in their efforts to organize and obtain basic rights. Personal rivalries and substantive differences have split some organiza- tions; hard-fought victories must be defended to ensure their continuity, and the vicissitudes of the U.S. economy, in addition to the economic restructur- ing occurring at the global level, have resulted in new insecurities and uncer- tainties for immigrant as well as U.S.-born workers.

SOCIAL AND CULTURAL LIFE

On weekends, Central American men gather in parks, school playgrounds, or wherever they can find sufficient space for soccer games. Most Central Amer- ican communities in the United States of any size have their own soccer teams, or baseball teams in the case of Nicaraguans, and often their own leagues. In some cases, immigrants from a particular town or community form teams that travel to their communities of origin to play the home teams, or they host the Central American team in the United States.

Once the Central American immigrant community in a given location reaches a certain size, its presence is manifested through the proliferation of restaurants, pupusa stands, and markets selling Central American food; travel agencies advertising trips to Central American cities; and express courier and transport services for sending letters, remittances, and packages to major cities and even remote villages back home. In several cities, Central Americans from particular countries have established their own newspapers and even rival newspapers, and Central American businesspeople have their own chambers of commerce in some U.S. locations.

The church is a major social and cultural as well as spiritual center. As noted above, churches in Central American communities made efforts to incorporate new immigrants and refugees as these populations grew in the 1980s. As noted

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by Anthony Stevens-Arroyo in his contribution to this volume, although most Central Americans are Catholic and attend services at Catholic churches, churches of Protestant denominations in areas with large Central American populations also provided space for Central American organizations, as well as services such as English-language training. The increased presence of evangel- ical churches in these neighborhoods reflected widespread membership among Central Americans, particularly Guatemalans.

Because many Central American holidays are based on religious traditions, they are often centered at churches and may include a mass or other services. La Purissima, which commemorates the conception of the Virgin Mary, is cele- brated annually with prayers, songs, and religious processions over several days in late November and early December in Nicaraguan American communities as well as in Nicaragua itself. Salvadorans celebrate the Feast of the Divine Savior in August. In 2001, SANA (the Salvadoran American National Association), formed in Los Angeles the previous year, commissioned a replica of the statue of the Savior in the Cathedral of San Salvador, which was then brought on a ten- day pilgrimage from El Salvador through Mexico and Guatemala to Los Ange- les, where it was the center of a week of celebrations. Central American groups have particular traditions for commemorating Holy Week and Christmas, as well as for specific events such as births, baptisms, and deaths.

Many Central American communities in the United States celebrate Inde- pendence Day. For Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica, this is in mid-September, the same time as Mexico’s, commemorating their independence from Spain in 1821. For Panama, however, independence came in 1903 when it broke with Colombia and is celebrated on 3 November. In some U.S. cities, Central American groups have a parade that may include elaborate floats and celebrities as well as bands and dancers.

The Garifuna celebrate Arrival Day, which commemorates the initial arrival of the Garifuna to the Caribbean coast of Central America after they were driven from the island of St. Vincent by the British. In New York, the Hon- duran American Cultural Association has sponsored an enactment of the ar- rival of Garifuna in Honduras with both Garifuna and mestizo performers. Settlement Day, which commemorates the settlement of some of the Garifu- na from Honduras in British Honduras (now Belize), is celebrated by the Gar- ifuna from Belize; the first commemoration in the United States was in Los Angeles in 1970.

Because their languages and culture distinguish them not only from the majority U.S. population, but also from the dominant groups in their coun- tries of origin, the Maya and Garifuna in the United States have made partic- ular efforts to preserve their culture. One vehicle has been the adaptation of their musical traditions to music forms, such as rock, reggae, rap, and others,

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popular with youth in the United States. Both Maya and nonindigenous Guatemalan musicians have experimented with syntheses of traditional and modern music such as marimba and hip-hop. The Garifuna have developed a musical form combining punta, a traditional sacred music involving drum- ming, with rock music to form punta rock. Efforts have also been made to cre- ate a standard, written Garifuna language, and both Maya and Garifuna spon- sor cultural events, language classes, music lessons, and other programs oriented to the younger generation.

CHANGING TRANSNATIONAL TIES

The growth of Central American migration to the United States has resulted in a significant increase in transnational interaction. In part this reflects the process of globalization and particularly the development of transportation and communication over the past several decades, which facilitate the estab- lishment and maintenance of transnational networks. But transnationalism14

is a multifaceted and dynamic process, involving nonmigrants as well as mi- grants, whose initiatives have a profound effect on their home communities and societies and often result in new transnational practices and a cumulative increase in the transnational sphere of action. This is turn may result in the development of new transnational institutions and infrastructure (Chinchilla and Hamilton 1999; Landolt, Autler, and Baires 1999).

As a result of prior migration, many Central Americans who migrate today can take advantage of existing networks of families or friends in the United States, which sometimes help to finance their journey and may provide tem- porary housing or other assistance once they arrive, although the economic difficulties in which many Central American immigrants live may reduce the effectiveness of these networks (Mahler 1995; Menjívar 2000). The process of migration itself and the growing difficulties of this process, which may involve crossing three or four borders, has generated an “industry” of smugglers who charge as much as $5,000 to conduct would-be migrants through a series of established routes and safe houses to their U.S. destinations. Once in the Unit- ed States, Central Americans maintain contact with families and friends in their countries of origin through letters, telephone calls, and Internet chat groups; some return to their home countries for periodic visits. One result is a significant growth in the transportation and communications infrastructure linking the region with areas of settlement in the United States, including travel agencies specializing in trips to Central America and courier and trans- port services facilitating the transfer of letters, remittances, and packages.

The most dramatic manifestation of the importance of Central American immigration for the sending societies has been the growth of remittances and

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their impact on the economies of their home countries. Despite their general- ly low wages, a significant proportion of Central Americans send remittances to families in their home countries on a regular or occasional basis. Most of these are used for basic consumption (food, clothing, utilities) or housing, ed- ucation, or health care, but they also constitute a major source of foreign re- serves for the respective countries. By the year 2000, it was estimated that Cen- tral Americans were sending approximately $3.5 billion annually to their home countries. Salvadoran family remittances in that year were approxi- mately $1.8 billion; in some years remittances have equaled or surpassed El Salvador’s export earnings. Remittances from Guatemalans were approxi- mately $600 million in 2000, and those from Nicaraguans around $800 mil- lion, representing 25 percent of that country’s GDP (Orozco 2002).

In addition to individual remittances, Central American immigrants from particular towns or communities have formed hometown associations that raise money for specific projects. These association have multiple origins. Some came from mutual support societies (called “fraternidades” among Guatemalans), which assist families in the event of the death of a family mem- ber, often providing funds to send the body of the deceased back to the home community for burial. The first Salvadoran association in Los Angeles was al- legedly formed in 1987, following the devastating 1986 earthquake in El Sal- vador, by immigrants from Santa Tecla (a suburb of San Salvador) and Ahuachapán (a western province). The amnesty of the 1986 Immigration Re- form and Control Act (IRCA) enabled some Central Americans to travel home for the first time; many were shocked at the devastation they found and began to raise funds on their return. In some cases the initiative for the hometown as- sociations came from relatives or community leaders in the home community.

The associations grew rapidly in the 1990s, partly as a result of the peace processes in several countries, which enabled people to travel freely in regions that had been affected by war or political violence. Also, by this time growing numbers of the 1980s cohort had obtained documentation and become more settled, and much of the leadership and active membership were drawn from these more established groups. By the late 1990s there were an estimated fifty- five Salvadoran and thirty-five Guatemalan hometown associations in Los Angeles, although the number has fluctuated as some associations disappear and new ones are formed. In some cases the founding members of the home- town associations had been politically active in the 1980s, but while some have maintained their political orientation, others insist on the political independ- ence of their individual organizations, noting that they have members from different political perspectives.

The hometown associations raise funds through various activities, particu- larly parties which bring together members of the community from a given

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U.S. city or region. Typically, tickets are sold in advance for a raffle; the draw- ing is held at the party itself, with the winner receiving a prize supplied by a local Central American business, such as a television set or airline tickets to the home country. Funds may go to purchasing vehicles or equipment for the home community (ambulances, medical supplies, school books), building clinics or painting a school, street paving, or developing potable water sup- plies. One of the most active of the associations is the Salvadoran association of Santa Elena, the Comité de Amigas de Santa Elena, which has branches in San Francisco, where it was initially formed, in Los Angeles, Houston, and Washington, D.C., in addition to the headquarters in Santa Elena itself (Eekhoff 1995).

Indigenous groups generally have their own associations and, in addition to raising funds for projects in their home communities, they are often oriented toward maintaining their cultures and languages. Some Guatemalan Mayan groups (e.g., the Q’anjob’al in Los Angeles) have their own marimba bands, and the annual anniversary of the town’s patron saint is often commemorat- ed in parallel festivities in the home community and the particular communi- ty of townspeople in the United States.

Aside from the hometown associations, other organizations provide assis- tance in funds or in kind to their home countries. For example, the Alianza Hondureña de Los Angeles, in addition to its work on immigration issues, has sent toys to children in Honduran hospitals at Christmas time and food to Hondurans affected by the 2001—2002 drought. Casa Nicaragua has sent computers to a Nicaraguan organization that provides training for street chil- dren in Managua. U.S.-based Central American organizations raise funds and send aid to home countries affected by natural disasters, such as Hurricane Mitch in November 1998 and the Salvadoran earthquakes of January and Feb- ruary 2001. They also send delegations to Central American countries, while political, labor, and cultural representatives from Central America travel to the United States to meet with constituencies or counterparts from the re- spective immigrant communities. As noted above, sports teams based in par- ticular communities may travel back and forth to play with their compatriots in the respective Central American or U.S. immigrant communities. Many shops, stores, markets, and restaurants catering to Central American neigh- borhoods in U.S. cities import some of their products from Central America. Remittances or resources brought by return migrants may form the basis for the establishment or maintenance of business ventures in Central America, in some cases based on the marketing of U.S. products.

Their role as transnational actors is a potential source of political, as well as economic, influence for Central American immigrants in their home com- munities and national societies. In addition, the growth of the Central Amer-

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ican immigrant community in the United States and the significance of re- mittances have evoked a response from governments and business groups in the home countries, who increasingly recognize their U.S.-based populations as an important resource and potential market and view the organized Cen- tral American immigrant groups as a conduit for reaching the populations in the United States. Government officials have established programs to provide legal services to their U.S.-based constituents. Newspapers established by Central Americans in major U.S. immigrant centers emphasize the connec- tions of immigrants to their home communities and carry ads for transport companies, express courier services, and travel agencies. Construction and real estate companies in El Salvador and other countries encourage migrants in the United States to invest in land and housing back in their home coun- tries, and in some cases Central American banks and companies establish branches in U.S. cities, such as the Tapachulteca market of El Salvador, which opened a branch in Pico Union, a major entry area for Central Americans coming to Los Angeles. Government agencies, NGOs, and business groups in both the United States and individual Central American countries have en- gaged in discussions and undertaken initiatives to channel remittances, hometown-association resources, and other funds to promote development projects in Central American countries.

Through their individual and collective contacts with their families and home communities, Central American migrants have created a dynamic transnational sphere of action with important economic, political, social, and cultural implications for both their countries of origin and their communities in the United States. This sphere of action is continually strengthened and ex- panded as increasing numbers of migrants and nonmigrants are incorporated and new forms of transnational interaction are introduced.

THE NEXT GENERATION AND THE ISSUE OF IDENTITY

Similar to other immigrant groups, young Central Americans tend to be- come acculturated into U.S. society more quickly than the older generation. But studies of second-generation immigrants have noted the complexity of the process of accommodation in U.S. society and argue that many of these children and youth may assimilate into an underachieving minority culture rather than mainstream U.S. society.15 The children of many first-generation Central American immigrants grow up in the impoverished inner cities of Los Angeles, Miami, and other metropolitan areas, exposed to deteriorating housing conditions, inferior schooling, and in some cases drugs and gangs. Inevitably, this environment, combined with the experience of discrimina- tion, limited opportunities, and lack of material resources, affect the values,

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expectations, and behavior patterns of some members of this generation, who, like many of their peers, are characterized by limited aspirations, low levels of skills, early pregnancies, and in some cases drug or gang activity. For Central Americans who immigrated in the 1970s and 1980s, there was the added factor that many had witnessed violence in their home countries, lost family members or close friends to violence, or even been involved in the government or guerrilla armies.

U.S. gangs become transnationalized as a result of the return of gang mem- bers to their home countries, particularly through deportation. This has re- sulted in the rapid expansion of U.S.-based gangs in some of the major cities, and increasingly in more remote areas, of their home countries. In much of Central America, the lack of economic opportunity and the recent history of violence have been additional factors in the spread of gangs.

Although a cohesive ethnic or immigrant community may reinforce values that offset the negative influences of the immediate surroundings, issues of ethnicity and identity are complicated among those Central American immi- grants whose families deliberately downplay their nationality by rarely dis- cussing it at home. Identity for Central American children may be further complicated when they grow up in neighborhoods or enter schools where the dominant ethnic population is Mexican or Cuban or, in the case of the Cre- ole and Garifuna populations, Puerto Rican or Dominican. For a variety of reasons, Central American immigrant children in California have sometimes been encouraged to say they were from Mexico.

Recruitment into an underclass is not inevitable. Several Central American youths who grew up in inner-city neighborhoods in Los Angeles and had friends who were gang members attributed their own resistance to gang cul- ture to their involvement in other activities, such as church-based groups or sports, or to encouragement from particular teachers to pursue their educa- tion. Growing numbers of young Salvadorans, Guatemalans, Nicaraguans, and Hondurans, including many raised in inner cities, are completing high school and going on to college and important positions in their communities (Fernández-Kelly and Curran 2001; Hamilton and Chinchilla 2001).

In contrast to those who would downplay their national identity, many first-generation Central American immigrants are determined that their chil- dren not lose touch with their cultural and national roots. Some view a rein- forcement of their culture and history as a means of insulating their children from the negative influences of deteriorating inner cities. Politically oriented Central Americans—whether Nicaraguans in Miami who opposed the San- dinista government or Salvadorans and Guatemalans in Los Angeles who sup- ported revolutionary movements in their countries—seem to be particularly inclined to impart a strong national or political identity to their children. An-

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other example is provided by those Garifuna who distinguish themselves from African Americans by pointing out their roots and taking pride in the asser- tion that they were never slaves. As discussed earlier, Mayan and Garifuna im- migrants are particularly concerned with preserving their cultures and lan- guages and passing them on to the next generation.

Perceptions of discrimination or efforts to distinguish themselves from other ethnic groups have led some youths to think more systematically about their national origins or cultural roots or to identify more strongly with their, or their parents’, country of origin. Interestingly, this national identification may either reinforce an underclass status or be a factor in mobility. Studies of Nicaraguan youth in Miami found that many who feel marginalized by the dominant society emulate the adversarial culture of other marginalized youth and see themselves increasingly as Nicaraguan, in a form of reactive identity. In contrast, those who were adjusting more successfully to U.S. society iden- tified themselves as American or Hispanic/Latino (Fernández-Kelly and Cur- ran 2001).

At the same time, as increasing numbers of Central American youth grad- uate from high school and go on to college, some become active in groups or organizations that emphasize their ethnic, regional, or national identities. As early as the 1980s, some Central American college students became active in Central American student associations, a process that has continued. Califor- nia State University at Northridge (CSUN), in the San Fernando valley, a major settlement area for Central Americans in Los Angeles, enrolled a signif- icant number of Central Americans, many of whom became active in CAUSA (Central American United Student Association). Partly at their instigation, sympathetic faculty members, administrators, and community leaders formed the first Central American studies program in the country at CSUN in 1999.

Artistic expression has become a means of expressing or reinforcing identi- ty. Several young Central American poets and writers in California have formed a group, Epicentroamerica, and have written and published poems and essays on a variety of themes ranging from personal to political issues, in- cluding domestic violence, imperialism, sexuality, identity, and ethnicity. Central American artists and writers have also set up organizations to sponsor poetry readings, art exhibits, and conferences featuring work by Central Americans in the United States and from Central America.

Art and other forms of self-expression have also been important in initia- tives by some community and civic groups to address the needs of gang mem- bers and “at-risk” youth. Some analysts of gang culture stress the elimination of violence, rather than the elimination of gangs, arguing that gangs may serve as a surrogate family or community for young people that have had little pos- itive experience of either, and these groups seek to provide opportunities for

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a different lifestyle. Along with programs to provide educational opportunity and skill training, some programs incorporate poetry, theatre, or art work- shops as a means of self-expression as well as a possible source of income. One example is Homies Unidos, initially formed in 1996 by gang members in El Salvador, many of whom had been deported from the United States, and ad- vocates on their behalf. Homies opened a chapter in Los Angeles in 1997, and its projects now include an arts program, tutoring to enable youth to acquire a GED certificate and, in some cases, go on to college, job training, civic and legal education, and training in life skills and leadership development.

CONCLUSION

Central Americans in the United States are distinguished by their diversity and the rapidity of the changes they have experienced in a relatively short period of time. Within less than twenty years, they have evolved from a small, barely rec- ognized population to a significant immigrant sector. In 1990, over a million people claimed Central American ancestry, and in the 2000 census these groups numbered over 1.6 million. Central Americans continue to be concen- trated in major receiving cities such as Los Angeles, Miami, and New York, but they are becoming more dispersed as a result of direct or secondary migration to different parts of the country in search of jobs, and Central American and Mexican immigrants are becoming an increasing proportion of the population in some areas where immigrants had previously been unknown.

While sharing many characteristics with other immigrants, Central Ameri- cans are distinguished by their national and ethnic diversity and the particu- lar character of their migration during the 1980s. Many Central Americans maintain their particular ethnic or national identity and their contacts with their respective countries of origin, or they have combined incorporation into U.S. society with continued interaction with their own ethnic and national group both in this country and in their home countries. Their presence in the United States is evident in the growing number of restaurants, markets, trav- el agencies, and other small businesses providing particular food and other services to Central Americans in the community, as well as their special reli- gious, national, or ethnic ceremonies, festivals, music, and dance. In their countries of origin, their remittances have provided an important and in some cases indispensable contribution to the economy, and the rapid growth of hometown associations and other organizations in the United States has pro- vided a significant impetus to civic projects in their home communities.

Today, Central American immigrants in the United States find themselves between two worlds, and for many, neither the United States nor their coun-

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tries of origin offer prospects for much improvement in the near future. Given the absence of economic opportunity in their home countries, many will con- tinue to struggle with insecure, low-wage jobs, depressed inner cities, and often uncertain legal status in the United States. Increased U.S. security meas- ures following the September 11, 2001, attacks, as well as the economic slow- down, will undoubtedly affect the employment opportunities and legal op- tions for Central American and other immigrants already in the United States whose legal status is uncertain.

But despite the difficulties they encounter, an important number of Central Americans have adjusted rapidly to the United States, becoming at least par- tially incorporated into the U.S. economy and culture. Although a large num- ber are poorly paid workers, and many live in poverty, Central Americans also include a substantial middle class, and many others have been able to improve their conditions over time. Their remittances and their collective contributions to their home communities have given rise to further examples of transnation- al interaction as Central American government officials and business groups attempt to tap into the resources of their compatriots in the United States or collaborate with them in developmental projects in their home countries. We can anticipate that over time growing numbers of Central Americans in the United States will rise to leadership positions in the labor movement, commu- nity organizations, education, and politics and government in their communi- ties in the United States, and increasingly at the national level, and that their important contributions will enable them to exercise growing economic, so- cial, and political influence in their countries of origin.

NOTES

1. In contrast, approximately two-thirds of the population of Mexican ancestry were

born in the United States, and most of the foreign-born came prior to the 1980s.

2. These numbers may not have been comparable, since respondents had the option

of listing themselves as Latino or Hispanic or “mixed,” without designating a spe-

cific category, in the 2000 census.

3. More detailed information on the relation between conditions in Central America

and Central American migration can be found in Hamilton and Chinchilla 1991, 2001.

4. On Honduran immigration to the United States, see England and Kroghmal 1997.

On the Garifuna specifically, see England 2000, Macklin 1997.

5. For example, many Central American women came to Washington, D.C., as a re-

sult of recruitment by employers of U.S. and international agencies to work as do-

mestic or child care workers in the 1960s and 1970s (see Repak 1995).

6. As noted by Stevens-Arroyo in his contribution to this volume, beginning in the

1960s many priests and other religious groups were inspired by the Second Vatican

Council of the Catholic Church and the Medellin Conference of Bishops in Latin

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America, which advocated an increased emphasis on the needs of impoverished

groups and encouraged efforts to relate Christian doctrine to the everyday lives of

people. The scarcity of priests in some areas of Latin America resulted in the train-

ing of catechists to lead religious discussions and in some cases administer sacra-

ments. Some priests and catechists who saw the structural causes of poverty in the

exploitation and repression of large sectors of the population were active in organ-

izing groups to question and resist these conditions.

7. See discussion under “Issues and Initiatives in the 1980s,” below.

8. See discussion under “The Next Generation and the Issue of Identity,” below.

9. There had been earlier attempts to “gentrify” parts of Westlake in Los Angeles dur-

ing the 1980s, taking advantage of its proximity to downtown, which was experi-

encing a business boom at the time. One of the most ambitious plans was a rede-

velopment project for Central City West, the northeastern part of Westlake, which

was slated to replace existing housing with expensive residential and commercial

buildings. Pressures from grassroots organizations, with the assistance of sympa-

thetic city officials, resulted in the projected inclusion of low-cost housing, parks,

and child-care facilities. This project was halted indefinitely, however, as a result of

the recession of the 1990s.

10. Many African Americans as well as Mexican Americans were affected by the loss of

well-paying manufacturing jobs beginning in the 1970s. The growth of low-wage

industry in areas such as garment manufacturing during this period was dependent

on the availability of a low-wage labor force; many garment factories in fact closed

down or moved to Mexico when wages increased. In other cases, African Ameri-

cans were moving out of certain types of low-wage jobs, such as hotel and restau-

rant work, into other, often white-collar jobs. In the case of the building-cleaning

industry, however, companies took advantage of an undocumented immigrant

labor force to shift from union to nonunion workers, resulting in a substantial drop

in wages and other benefits, particularly in Los Angeles, although in other cities,

unions such as the Service Employee International Union (SEIU) succeeded in re-

taining their previous wages and benefits.

11. For an analysis of the struggles of Salvadorans to obtain legal status, see Coutin 2000.

On the issue of asylum for Nicaraguans in Miami, see Portes and Stepick 1993.

12. This did not extend to the Hondurans and Nicaraguans who came after Hurricane

Mitch, in some cases with the mistaken impression that they would also be covered.

13. Other factors were also relevant to the decline in wages, including Los Angeles’s

history as an antiunion city and the dramatic growth in office building, among

other construction and real estate ventures, which led to a proliferation of

nonunion cleaning companies.

14. Transnationalism has been defined as processes through which migrants forge and

sustain social fields linking the societies or origin with areas of settlement (Basch,

Glick, Schiller, and Blanc 1994).

15. These studies attribute acculturation to a complex interaction of social processes,

parental characteristics, and ethnicity, among other factors (Portes and Rumbaut

2001). For immigrant youth in inner cities, assimilation into U.S. society often

means assimilation into an underclass marked by low expectations, underachieve-

ment, and, in the worst cases, criminal activity. Parents with relatively high levels

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of education and high expectations for their children’s achievement may offset neg-

ative inner-city environments by influencing their children’s future, and a strong

immigrant or ethnic community can also reinforce values and behavior patterns

counter to those of the immediate social environment.

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Chinchilla, Norma, and Nora Hamilton. 1999. “Changing Networks and Alliances in a

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Córdova, Carlos. 1996. “Central American Migration to San Francisco: One Hundred

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Coutin, Susan Bibler. 2000. Legalizing Moves: Salvadoran Immigrants’ Struggle for U.S.

Residency. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press.

Eekhoff, Katherine. 1995. “Las asociaciónes salvadoreñas en Los Angeles y su rol para el

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England, Sarah. 2000. “Creating a Global Garifuna Nation? The Transnationalization of

Race, Class, and Gender Politics in the Garifuna Diaspora.” Ph.D. diss., University of

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England, Sarah, and Walter Kroghmal. 1997. “Hondurans.” In American Immigrant Cul-

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Fernández-Kelly, Patricia, and Sara Curran. 2001. “Nicaraguans: Voices Lost, Voices

Found.” In Ethnicities: Children of Immigrants in America, ed. Ruben G. Rumbaut and

Alejandro Portes, 127–55. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Fink, Leon, and Alvis Dunn. 2000. “The Maya of Morgantown: Exploring Worker Iden-

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Hagan, Jacqueline Maria. 1994. Deciding to Be Legal: A Maya Community in Houston.

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Hamilton, Nora, and Norma Chinchilla. 1991. “Central American Migration: A Frame-

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Kahn, Robert S. 1996. Other People’s Blood: U.S. Immigration Prisons in the Reagan

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Landolt, Patricia, Lilian Autler, and Sonia Baires. 1999. “From Hermano Lejano to Her-

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Loucky, James. 2000. “Maya in a Modern Metropolis: Establishing New Lives and Liveli-

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Macklin, Catherine L. 1997. “Garifuna.” In American Immigrant Cultures: Builders of a

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Rodríguez, Nestor P., and Jacqueline Hagan. 1999. “Central Americans in the United

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FIVE

TRANSNATIONAL TIES AND INCORPORATION: THE CASE

OF DOMINICANS IN THE UNITED STATES

PEGGY LEVITT

ALTHOUGH BASKETBALL is not particularly popular in the Dominican Re- public, during his 1996 campaign for the presidency, Leonel Fernández ap- peared in several television campaign ads “shooting hoops.” By doing so, he wanted to remind the Dominican public that he had grown up on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, that he admires U.S. culture and practices, and that, if elected, he would put his international experience and style to work. He also wanted to let the immigrant community know that he appreciated their con- tinuing role in Dominican politics and that he hoped they would remain ac- tive in the future. “It matters little,” said a 1996 article in The Boston Globe, “that Fernández picked up so many American habits in New York that his best friends admit the handsome lawyer falls short when it comes to that hallmark of Dominican culture: dancing the merengue” (González 1999). Fernández’s strategy seems to have worked—he was sworn into office in August 1996.

President Fernández was not alone in his assessment of migrants’ continu- ing role in Dominican affairs. In fact, more and more Dominicans remain in- volved in the economic and political life of their homeland as they establish themselves in the United States. The Dominican case provides an excellent lens through which to understand how migrants actually live transnational lives and what the consequences of these activities are. I begin this essay by providing a brief overview of the historical roots of Dominican-U.S. migra- tion. I then profile Dominicans’ social and economic experiences in this coun- try. In the third section, I describe the transnational social field spanning the United States and the Dominican Republic and discuss its consequences for civic and political life in both settings. I conclude with some thoughts on how

the Dominican experience challenges us to rethink the boundaries of citizen- ship, inequality, and cultural production.

THE HISTORICAL ROOTS OF MIGRATION

More than 10 percent of all Dominicans are estimated to live outside the Do- minican Republic.1 In 1999, the country ranked twelfth among those sending the largest numbers of immigrants to the U.S. The second largest voting block of Dominicans, after the Dominican capital of Santo Domingo, now resides in New York City.

Though large-scale migration to the United States from the Republic is rel- atively recent, its causes are deeply rooted in Dominican economic and polit- ical development. The United States has strongly influenced Dominican af- fairs since the late 1800s. As the Dominican state grew more and more indebted to its U.S. creditors during the first half of the 1900s, the U.S. gov- ernment literally ran the country or managed its affairs from afar. The Unit- ed State’s economic, political, and cultural dominance over the Republic throughout its history and the patterns of land tenure, commercial agricul- ture, and industrial development that ensued sowed the seeds of large-scale migration long before it began.

When Dominican leaders proclaimed their independence from Haiti on 27 February 1844, the ways in which they countered opposition from their former rulers set the tone for the new Republic. Liberal leaders wanted to go on the of- fensive against a possible Haitian occupation while conservatives sought a for- eign ally, which would help them stave off further invasions. A major rift split the group, and conservatives eventually won. The new Dominican constitution established a democratic government but also allowed its president to “freely organize the army and navy, mobilize the national troops, and consequently be able to give all orders, decisions, and decrees which are fitting, without being subject to any responsibility” (Moya Pons 1995: 163). By so doing, a marriage between partial democracy and authoritarianism was consummated at the Re- public’s birth that has remained strong throughout its history.

A second key factor defining Dominican nationhood emerges from its originary rebellion against a harsh Haitian occupation; Dominicans were left with an enduring sense of hatred and distrust toward their neighbors. The Dominican national identity that evolved is, in many ways, an anti- identity. It arose in such strong opposition to Haitianness that, even today, many Dominicans continue to define themselves as nonblacks, or what Haitians are not (Cassá et al. 1986, Torres-Saillant and Hernández 1998). Though blacks and mulattos make up nearly 90 percent of the Dominican

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population, Afro-Dominicans have never used race to organize for eco- nomic and political reform.

The new country faced an uphill economic battle and major unrest. Spain stepped in to establish a political and economic protectorate and to help pre- serve the country’s independence. Tensions arose almost immediately follow- ing the Spanish annexation in 1861, and the Restoration War of 1863 reestab- lished Dominican independence. Sovereignty and economic self-sufficiency, as well as political unity, always proved elusive, however. Politics had basical- ly become a contest between two factions. The large landowners who raised cattle and cut wood in the south supported General Buenaventura Báez. The cultivators and merchants in the north, who favored industrial development and trade, supported General Pedro Santana. In 1879, after more than fifty up- risings and twenty changes in government, Báez took power.

The enormous debt Báez faced when he took office immediately crippled his government. To alleviate this, he negotiated with the United States to sell Samaná Bay, located strategically on the country’s northern coast. Báez arranged for an interim loan with a European speculator when it became clear that an immediate agreement was unlikely. The high rate of interest he accept- ed literally mortgaged the country to a British firm. These monies enabled him to run the government while he waited for U.S. Congressional approval of what had now become a plan to annex the entire Republic to the United States.

Both Dominican and U.S. groups opposed this. Though Báez eventually won support from the Dominican people, the U.S. Senate rejected the pro- posal in 1871. Nevertheless, the country’s continued indebtedness, fears for its sovereignty, and dependence on external resources for economic growth set the stage for foreign investors’ long-term dominance over Dominican eco- nomic affairs (Georges 1990). U.S. investors quickly achieved predominance. By the end of the century, large portions of major economic sectors had been sold or leased to U.S. companies to alleviate the debt. By 1893, the country owed 17 million pesos, several times its national budget. By 1904, the Domini- can government was under increasing pressure from European creditors to make debt payments it could not meet. At the same time, U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt wanted to prevent further European expansion in the Latin American and Caribbean region. In September of that year, the U.S. Sec- retary of State asked the Dominican government to allow the United States to take charge of its customs agency and to assume control of the collection and distribution of all customs receipts. Dominican leaders also agreed not to change their customs duties without U.S. government consent. By sanction- ing this arrangement, Dominican leaders granted the United States an un- precedented role in their nation’s financial and administrative affairs that only continued to grow. In fact, by 1914, the State Department requested that a U.S.

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comptroller be formally appointed to oversee the nation’s financial affairs. When the Dominican Congress refused, the United States imposed one by force. In 1916, when domestic opponents threatened to impeach then Presi- dent Juan Isidro Jiménes, U.S. leaders, who pronounced the opposition a coup d’etat, landed the marines in Santo Domingo and quickly sent troops throughout the country.

The eight-year U.S. occupation that followed irrevocably incorporated the Dominican Republic into a system of global economic relations that later pre- cipitated migration. Land consolidation begun earlier in the century advanced considerably, creating large numbers of landless peasants (Calder 1984, Del Castillo and Cordero 1980). By 1924, sugar companies controlled almost a quarter of the country’s agricultural land; 80 percent of these were controlled by U.S. investors (Gleijeses 1978). This accelerated the expansion of a planta- tion economy and made the country’s economy dangerously dependent on the world sugar market. Restrictions imposed on European investment also increased dependence on the United States, which became the principal sup- plier of industrial and food imports. This hurt local producers who could not compete with products from the United States that were imported into the country virtually duty free. The occupation also marked the rise of U.S. cul- tural influences. From then on, English words penetrated the language, base- ball replaced cockfighting as the national sport, and U.S. music became a sign of good taste among the urban elite.

The Dominican Republic remained a U.S. protectorate even after the U.S. withdrew its forces in 1924. Though Dominican officials regained control of the administration of their own citizens, the United States still reserved the right to control customs and authorize increases in the public debt. In 1930, Rafael Leonidas Trujillo, a young general who had risen to commander-in- chief of the Dominican Army, took control of the Dominican Presidency by force and began an oppressive, dictatorial rule that lasted for the next thirty- one years. Trujillo successfully transformed the Dominican economy from one primarily dependent on subsistence agriculture to one based on industri- al growth. He also accumulated tremendous personal wealth in the process.

Trujillo pursued industrialization through import substitution, using in- digenous raw materials to produce goods for the domestic market and de- crease the country’s reliance on imports. To reduce foreign economic domi- nation, he built his own sugar mills and used state and personal funds to buy back most of the foreign mills operating in the country. He also created new industries or wrested control of existing ones. These enterprises flourished be- cause they were protected from foreign competition and labor unrest and be- cause they received special concessions and tax exemptions from the govern- ment. Trujillo also instilled a strong sense of national identity and pride

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among the Dominican people. By standing up to foreign interests and demonstrating that Dominican companies could succeed on their own, he made Dominicans feel that their country could “sit at the table of nations” for the first time (Derby 1994).

The root causes of migration were firmly established during the Trujillo era. According to Grasmuck and Pessar (1991), migration began in response to so- cial and economic changes brought about by the reorganization of the sugar industry under Trujillo. During the U.S. occupation of 1916–1924, the govern- ment expropriated considerable tracts of land and devoted them to sugar pro- duction. Output increased significantly and was used almost entirely for ex- port. The intensified concentration of land holdings weakened local subsistence agriculture and created a mobile labor force that depended on the sugar centrales, or mills, for seasonal income and employment. The govern- ment dedicated most of its resources toward modernizing production in its export sectors, while agricultural production in general remained inefficient and undercapitalized.

Trujillo used his position to establish a monopoly on the commercializa- tion of sugar, cacao, and coffee. Though export earnings from these crops in- creased during the 1940s and 1950s, benefiting an expanding agro-export sec- tor and a rural petty bourgeoisie, the high proportion of rural land devoted to sugar and other export crops negatively affected other kinds of agricultural production (Sharpe 1977), Since the labor required for export crop production was less than that needed to grow ordinary food crops, fewer people found work in agriculture, and the agrarian labor surplus increased.

Furthermore, under Trujillo the Dominican economy evolved from one based primarily on agriculture to one based on low-level industrialization. Be- cause there was little competition, most of the enterprises that developed were monopolistic, backward, and unproductive. Industrialization was also ac- complished without the participation of a national middle class. Trujillo ap- plied tariffs, tax exemptions, and government subsidies to the advantage of a select group of friends. The scope of his control was astounding. Dominicans could not obtain food, shoes, clothing, or shelter without in some way bene- fiting either Trujillo or one of his family members.

By the late 1950s the Dominican economic miracle began to pale. Declin- ing sugar prices hurt the economy, which still revolved around sugar pro- duction. Because Trujillo kept wages low, Dominicans had limited dispos- able incomes. Their weak purchasing power constrained domestic market growth (Cassá et al. 1986). There was also increasing opposition to the almost daily torture and killing of political prisoners. As economic conditions dete- riorated and the regime’s critics grew more vocal, U.S. leaders feared that an- other communist takeover, similar to Castro’s in Cuba, was likely to occur.

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By 1960, when President Kennedy took office, the U.S. government withdrew its support from Trujillo. He was assassinated in 1961.

A period of political turmoil followed. A U.S.-backed provisional govern- ment was organized to hold presidential elections. A progressive leader, Prof. Juan Bosch was elected in 1963, and a democratic constitution was ratified. Seven months later, a group of military officers ousted Bosch from office and formed an unstable alliance with large landowners, industrialists, and inter- national trade merchants to replace him. In April 1965, a military faction called the Constitucionalistas broke from the alliance and tried to reinstate Bosch. Their rebellion quickly escalated into a popular uprising. Four days later, 40,000 U.S. marines landed in Santo Domingo to prevent an “allegedly imminent” communist revolution.

Prior to the 1960s, few people migrated from the Dominican Republic. Tru- jillo severely restricted movement out of the country, fearing his opponents would organize against him from abroad. He also sought to restrict the flow of information entering the country from places like Venezuela or Cuba where authoritarian regimes had been deposed (Georges 1990). Those indi- viduals who did migrate tended to be well off and from the Cibao region. Dur- ing the 1960s, however, migration to the United States increased from a year- ly average of almost 1,000 people during the 1950s to nearly 10,000 people per year during the first part of the 1960s (U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service [INS] 1970). The first emigrants left fearing Pres. Bosch’s left-leaning policies, while later emigrants feared the instability plaguing the country after his defeat.

The overthrow of the Bosch government, the civil unrest that followed, and the subsequent U.S intervention created a pool of potentially volatile antigov- ernment opponents. To prevent these individuals from further increasing in- stability, the U.S. government raised the number of visas it issued to allow more people to enter the United States. Migration was intended to act as a po- litical safety valve that would weaken opposition and stabilize the Dominican political scene (Castro 1985, Mitchell 1992). Most of these individuals went to New York City. The first significant wave to migrate from the island, then, were political refugees. Once migration began, however, it was encouraged further by two subsequent political regimes which, though different, both failed to modernize agriculture, excluded labor from the benefits of increas- ing industrialization, and produced a growing but increasingly frustrated middle class (Grasmuck and Pessar 1991). In many ways, migration provided a needed complement to the development model adopted by the Dominican government between 1966 and 1978 because without such large numbers leav- ing the country, the state would have been unable to feed many of its citizens or to put them to work.

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Elections sponsored by the United States in 1966 installed Joaquin Balaguer, Trujillo’s former presidential secretary. His rule, lasting from 1966 to 1978, has been called “Trujillismo without Trujillo” because of the strong continuities between the two regimes (Black 1986). Balaguer also enjoyed strong support from the military, the civil bureaucracy, and a small group of emerging in- dustrialists, and he also maintained power through repression and fear. He pursued economic development through an import-substitution model com- mon in Latin America at the time. He introduced protectionist measures, tar- iffs, and tax exemptions and easily accessible credit to promote industrial de- velopment. He also encouraged economic growth by increasing the number of public sector jobs, by launching large public works projects such as high- way and public housing construction, and by securing international loans.

At first, high prices for export commodities, strong foreign investment, and increased government spending resulted in high rates of economic growth. The gross domestic product (GDP) grew an average of 11 percent per year be- tween 1969 and 1974 (Guarnizo 1992). These measures, however, did not translate into long-term job creation. Overall efficiency declined between 1970 and 1977 (Vedovato 1986). Most foreign investment went toward industries requiring more capital than labor. Inflation rose while wages remained stag- nant. Though nearly half the Dominican labor force still worked in rural areas in 1970, Balaguer pursued policies that favored urban workers. The price con- trols he imposed on agricultural products and the terms of exchange he es- tablished hurt rural producers. Agriculture’s contribution to the GDP de- clined from 26 to 12 percent between 1965 and 1978 (Vicens 1982). The concentration of land ownership also increased. By 1971, 14 percent of the country’s landholders owned 79 percent of all lands, while 70 percent of the population occupied 12 percent of the arable land (Boin and Serullé 1980). Since population-growth rates were high, the sons of these small landowners inherited plots of land that were too small to support their families. These fac- tors triggered a rural exodus to the cities. Between 1965 and 1984, the rural population decreased from 65 to 45 percent of the total population (World Bank 1986). Rural employment also decreased from about 46 percent of the population in 1970 to 24 percent by 1981. At the same time, an urban middle class was emerging as a result of increased professionalism and the growth of certain service-sector jobs. These individuals had consumption aspirations and expectations about their future social mobility that social and economic conditions rendered unattainable (Grasmuck and Pessar 1991). Because most of the industrial growth occurred in sectors requiring more capital than labor, there were too few jobs for those who migrated to the city and a mismatch be- tween employment supply and demand ensued. An estimated 20 percent of Santo Domingo’s labor force was unemployed in 1973.

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Dominican migration to the United States grew steadily during this period. It rose from 9,250 people in 1968 (after an initial high of 16,503 in 1966) to 13,858 in 1973 (INS 1980). This sustained exodus complemented the capital- intensive industrialization strategy pursued by Balaguer by relieving some of the pressure of the large numbers of unemployed workers who would have re- mained behind (Grasmuck and Pessar 1991). Since much of his electoral sup- port was rural, rapid urbanization threatened to weaken Balaguer’s political base. By allowing relatively high rates of migration, particularly from urban areas, the government exported potential sources of political opposition and was able to remain in power for twelve years (Mitchell 1992).

In 1978, tired of Balaguer’s repressive policies and their diminishing eco- nomic gains, the Dominican public elected the Partido Revolucionario Do- minicano (PRD) candidate, Antonio Guzmán, in what was considered the country’s first democratic election. During his first two years in office, Guzmán introduced a number of economic and political reforms. He liberal- ized the political climate, allowing a number of new labor organizations and unions to be established. He raised the minimum salary. He also created nu- merous public-sector jobs to lower unemployment and stimulate consump- tion. Between 1979 and 1982 the number of government employees grew by 72,000 (Espinal 1987).

Despite these efforts, the PRD’s first term coincided with the Dominican Republic’s worst economic crisis in years. By 1982, declining sugar prices and increasing oil prices and interest rates worsened conditions to such an extent that the International Monetary Fund (IMF) imposed an austerity plan as a condition for assisting the country. The structural-adjustment policies put into place were designed to curtail imports and shift the country’s economic focus away from traditional exports to export-processing-zone (EPZ) manu- facturing and tourism. Like similar efforts throughout the Caribbean and Mexico, EPZs offer potential manufacturers tax breaks and cheap labor as in- centives to relocate parts of their production process overseas. These strategies narrowed the range of employment opportunities available to Dominicans even further. The gross domestic product declined an average of 1.6 percent per year between 1980 and 1988. During the PRD’s second administration, under President Jorge Blanco, real salaries declined by 22 percent (Inter- American Development Bank [IDB] 1987). Official unemployment rose from 24 percent in 1970 to 30 percent in 1988.

The government’s financial policies also stimulated migration. Exchange policies were revised such that while exports continued to be priced according to the dollar, imports were priced according to a “parallel market” which fluc- tuated and was normally higher. This meant that Dominican real wages de- clined considerably, particular in relation to the value of the dollar. By 1987,

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the minimum monthly salary for a full-time job in the United States was six times higher than what one could earn in the Dominican Republic. These wage differentials also provided Dominicans with a powerful incentive to em- igrate (Grasmuck and Pessar 1991).

Further frustration and economic strain prompted the Dominican public to reelect Balaguer in 1986. Under his leadership, the government finally moved the economy away from its dependence on traditional exports. Dur- ing the 1990s, EPZs and tourism became two of its most important sectors. Revenues from tourism increased from $368.2 million in 1985 to over $1 bil- lion in 1992. Between 1980 and 1988, firms in the EPZs drove up the country’s exports from $117 to $517 million. These gains were fragile and continued to be driven by forces located outside the Republic. U.S. companies exempt from paying taxes owned 63 percent of the EPZ industries (Betances 1995). In 1993, over 60 percent of Dominican EPZ workers were women who received an average hourly wage of fifty cents. Though export earnings increased, the Dominican economy remained stagnant at an average growth rate of 1.1 per- cent (Safa 1993).

When President Leonel Fernandez took office in 1996, he introduced a bold reform package aimed at creating a market-oriented economy that could compete internationally. He proposed a devaluation of the peso, income tax cuts, a 50 percent increase in the sales tax, and a reduction in import tariffs. Though many of these reforms stalled in the legislature, the economy grew vigorously between 1997 and 1998. The estimated GDP real growth rate for 1998 was seven percent. The service sector accounted for 56 percent of the GDP (1996 estimates), followed by industry (25 percent), and agriculture (19 percent), although 50 percent of the labor force was still employed in agricul- ture, followed by 32 percent in services and government, and 18 percent in in- dustry (1991 estimates). Along with tourism, sugar processing, ferronickel and gold mining, textiles, cement, and tobacco constituted the country’s strongest industries. Despite these gains, the social networks precipitating Dominican migration were already firmly in place. Migration has become a way of life for many Dominican families. It has thoroughly transformed many aspects of Dominican society.

A PROFILE OF DOMINICAN MIGRATION

Dominican migration began in earnest in the late 1960s, increased steadily during the 1970s and 1980s, and began to decline slightly in the mid-1990s (Castro and Boswell 2002). Between 1988 and 1998, 401,646 Dominicans were admitted to the United States, almost twice the number from any other

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Caribbean country and second only to Mexicans as the principal immigrant group entering the United States from within the Western Hemisphere.

Because anthropologists working in rural communities conducted much of the early research on Dominican migration, it was assumed that most mi- grants were small- to medium-sized landholding peasants or rural proletari- ans (Sassen-Koob 1979). Ugalde, Bean, and Cárdenas (1979) first challenged this view when their analysis of the 1974 Diagnos National Study revealed that while over 53 percent of the Dominican population resided in rural areas, only 24 percent of international migrants left from rural parts of the country (Georges 1990). Several subsequent studies found that Dominican migration is principally an urban phenomenon.2 Castro (1985), however, disputed these findings, arguing that although all classes are represented among the ranks of Dominican migrants, they came overwhelmingly from the working class. He showed that between 1968 and 1978, nearly two-thirds of all Dominicans in the United States were classified as laborers, operatives, or service workers for purposes of the U.S. labor market.3

Accurate data collection on the size of any immigrant population is notori- ously difficult to come by. The Dominican case is no exception. Researchers using 2000 U.S. Census data and data from the Current Population Survey ar- rive at different figures.4 According to the Census Bureau, there were 764,495 Dominicans in the country in 2000. They represented 2.2 percent of the total U.S. Hispanic population and were the fourth largest Hispanic group follow- ing Mexicans (58.5 percent), Puerto Ricans (9.6 percent), and Cubans (3.5 per- cent). Analyses of the Current Population Survey (1997–2000) place these numbers somewhat higher. According to Castro and Boswell (2002), there are 1,014,879 Dominicans in the country while Logan (2001) places the number at 1,121,257, thereby increasing the Dominican share of the Hispanic population to 3.2 percent. Because these figures do not adjust for undercounting, they are likely to underrepresent the actual size of the Dominican population.

Castro and Boswell’s analyses of the Current Population Survey (1997–2000) produced the following profile of the Dominican immigrant community. Slightly more females (54 percent) than males (46 percent) make up the Dominican population. They are fairly young. Barely 7 percent are over sixty years of age, compared to 23 percent who are under the age of ten and 44 percent who are under the age of twenty. Despite their phenotypical charac- teristics, most Dominicans classify themselves as white. Most respondents se- lected the white racial category (80.2 percent) while 18.3 percent said they were black. This reflects the unique character of the social construction of race in the Dominican Republic. Nearly two-thirds (62.5 percent) had been in the United States since 1989, while 37.5 percent entered between 1990 and 2000. Most are foreign-born (57 percent), but there is substantial U.S.-born com-

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ponent (43 percent, including those born in Puerto Rico). Of those who are foreign-born, only 33 percent were naturalized U.S. citizens. When we com- bine the first and second generation, 61 percent of Dominicans are citizens of the United States. Dominicans continue to be highly concentrated in the New York–New Jersey Metropolitan area (67 percent), but there are also important concentrations in the Miami–Fort Lauderdale area (7.7 percent) and in Mass- achusetts (4.1 percent).

Dominicans in the United States face significant challenges. In general, most immigrants arrived without the kinds of occupational and language skills de- manded by the changing labor market. The majority entered the United States during a period of major economic restructuring. Fewer well-paying, union- ized jobs awaited the unskilled, non-English speaker, while the number of me- nial, insecure, and low-paying jobs in manufacturing, trade, and service sectors grew. Consequently, while 48.6 percent of all Dominicans were employed in manufacturing in 1979, only 26 percent worked in these jobs by 1989 (Castro and Boswell 2002). Furthermore, many high-tech jobs in health and commu- nications require advanced degrees that most Dominicans do not possess.

As a result, Dominicans rank lower than the U.S. population as a whole, and with respect to other Latino groups, in terms of occupation status, edu- cation, and income. Fewer than 10 percent are college graduates. While 42 per- cent of all Dominicans graduated from high school, 48 percent did not com- plete a high school degree. The majority work in blue-, gray-, and pink-collar jobs in the service sector (33 percent) or as operators, fabricators and handlers (30 percent). Eleven percent classified themselves as managers and profes- sionals, while 25 percent worked in technical, sales, and administrative- support positions. While the 25 percent of all Cuban workers who held pro- fessional and managerial positions nearly matched the figures for the nation as a whole (29 percent), only 17 percent of Puerto Ricans and 11 percent of Do- minicans held comparable positions. Similarly, the mean personal income for a full-time worker in the United States was $40,645, again nearly equaled by Cubans ($40,056), but not matched by Puerto Rican ($31,851), Dominican ($27,258), and Mexican workers ($23,727). Finally, while one-quarter of the general population and of Cuban immigrants have college degrees or higher, only 13 percent of Puerto Ricans, 10 percent of Dominicans and 6.2 percent of Mexicans have college degrees.

While the immigrant generation is faring poorly, second-generation Do- minicans are exhibiting educational and occupational gains, as Castro and Boswell reveal in their 2002 comparison of U.S.-born Dominicans with those who arrived prior to 1990. While females predominate among foreign-born Dominicans, there are slightly more males among the U.S.-born Dominican population. Only 9 percent of U.S.-born Dominicans twenty-five years of age

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and older did not complete high school, compared to 53 percent of the pre- 1990 cohort. In addition, the proportion of second generation Dominicans who completed a college degree (22 percent) is more than three times as high as the pre-1990 immigrant cohort (7 percent). The median income for U.S.- born Dominican full-time workers ($26,125) surpasses the $20,000 earned by comparable workers who arrived prior to 1990. Finally, U.S.-born Domini- cans are almost twice as likely to be employed as professionals and managers (18 percent) than their pre-1990 counterparts (10 percent).

Thus far, the analyses I have presented focus on wage earners, but Domini- cans are also well represented among the ranks of small business owners. The majority of these businesses are commercial activities such as groceries and restaurants, personal and business services such as beauty parlors and insur- ance or travel agencies, and finance firms that cash checks or transfer remit- tances. In fact, one study revealed that 70 percent of all bodega or small gro- cery store owners in New York City, with estimated annual sales of $1.8 billion, were owned by Dominicans (Portes and Guarnizo 1991). Unlike their Cuban counterparts in Miami, however, Dominican entrepreneurs have not created an ethnic enclave in the United States (Castro and Boswell 2002).

There is some debate about how much entrepreneurship contributes to economic advancement, and for whom. Some argue that self-employment re- sults in significant economic gains, allowing migrants to overcome their dis- advantaged position in the labor market. Portes and Guarnizo (1991), for ex- ample, found that the ninety-two firms they studied had a net worth of approximately $35.5 million and yielded some $4.4 million for their owners. Other researchers are less sanguine about the benefits of small-business own- ership, arguing that the economic rewards are limited and that they accrue only to a small group. Since only 7 percent of the Dominicans in New York City were self-employed in 1990 (U.S. Census 1992), the overall impact of the Dominican business sector on the community’s overall welfare is question- able. Torres-Saillant and Hernández (1998: 79) ask, for example, “whether en- trepreneurship among Dominicans is likely to lead to effective capital accu- mulation, diversification, and expansion by surpassing the limitations imposed by the widespread poverty of the community that constitutes its pri- mary clientele.” Although small business development creates some employ- ment opportunities, these jobs tend to pay less and provide fewer benefits than those in native-owned firms (Grasmuck and Pessar 1991, Gilbertson and Gurak 1993). Finally, the media has paid a good deal of attention to those Do- minicans involved in drug trafficking. While there are clearly some individu- als involved in these kinds of activities, they represent only a small fraction of the community. The vast majority of Dominicans are law-abiding citizens whose reputation has been tarnished by a small few.

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DOMINICANS AS TRANSNATIONAL ACTORS

Many U.S. citizens expect migrants to sever their ties to their countries of ori- gin as they become integrated into the United States. They assume that resi- dence will eventually equal membership as migrants shift their allegiance from the countries they leave behind to those where they settle. In contrast, the Do- minican experience reveals that increasing numbers of migrants remain strongly connected to their homelands even as they become incorporated into the United States. Migrants use a variety of transnational political, religious, and civic arenas to forge social relations, earn their livelihoods, and exercise their rights across borders. The proliferation of these long-term transnational ties among Dominicans and other groups challenges conventional notions about immigrant incorporation and migrants’ continued influence on their sending nations. In the following section, I outline a theoretical approach to transnational migration and describe in detail a Dominican example of these kinds of cross-border practices (see also Levitt 2001b).

When the magnitude, duration, and impact of migration is sufficiently strong, transnational social fields or public spheres spanning the sending and receiving countries emerge. Both the migrants and nonmigrants who live within transnational social fields are exposed to a set of social expectations, cultural values, and patterns of human interaction shaped by at least two, if not more, social, economic, and political systems. They have access to social and institutional resources that imbue them with the capacity remain active in two worlds.

Movement is not a prerequisite for transnational activism. There are those who travel regularly to carry out their routine affairs, whom some researchers call transmigrants (England 1999, Guarnizo 1997). There are also individuals whose lives are rooted primarily in a single sending- or receiving-country set- ting, who move infrequently, but whose experiences integrally involve re- sources, contacts, and people who are far away and who imagine themselves within a landscape that crosses borders. And there are those who do not move, but who live their lives within a context that has become transnationalized.

Those frequent travelers, periodic movers, and individuals that stay in one place who engage in transnational practices do so in a variety of ways. Portes, Guarnizo, and Landolt (1999) and Guarnizo (2002) define core transnational- ism as those activities that form an integral part of the individual’s habitual life, are undertaken on a regular basis, and are patterned and therefore some- what predictable. Expanded transnationalism, in contrast, includes migrants who engage in occasional transnational practices, such as responses to politi- cal crises or natural disasters. Itzigsohn et al. (1999) characterize broad transnational practices as those that are not well institutionalized, involve

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only occasional participation, and require only sporadic movement. He and his colleagues contrast these with narrow transnational practices that are highly institutionalized, constant, and involve regular travel.

These terms help to operationalize variations in the intensity and frequen- cy of transnational practices. But crossborder engagements also vary along other dimensions, such as scope. Even those engaged in core transnational practices may confine their activities to one arena of social action. Or the same person may engage in core transnational activities with respect to one sphere of social life and only expanded transnational activities with respect to anoth- er. There are those, for example, whose livelihoods depend upon the frequent, patterned harnessing of resources across borders while their political and re- ligious lives focus on host-country concerns. In contrast, there are those who engage in regular religious and political transnational practices but only occa- sionally send money back to family members or invest in homeland projects. Individuals whose activities involve many arenas of social life engage in com- prehensive transnational practices while others engage in transnational prac- tices that are more selective in scope.

These variations demonstrate that transnational practices are not fixed packages that remain constant over the lifecycle. Instead, migrants piece to- gether a constellation of strategies at different stages of their lives and combine these with host-country integration strategies. The resulting configurations produce different combinations of upward and downward mobility. Some migrants are upwardly mobile with respect to both their home and host soci- eties. Others advance with respect to one and stagnate or diminish their posi- tion with respect to the other. Still others experience downward mobility in both contexts. These outcomes depend largely on class. Professional, well- educated migrants can choose to remain active in both contexts. They may hedge their bets, using the resources and opportunities they command to im- plement economic and political strategies in their home and host communi- ties to make the most of both situations and to make sure that if circum- stances sour in one setting they have a “plan B” in the other. Migrants with less education, lower skills, and more limited language abilities are pushed into transnational lifestyles. Because they have difficulty gaining a secure foothold in either setting, they must participate economically and politically wherever they can.

Clearly, not all migrants are engaged in transnational practices. Most are likely to undergo the typical transformation from immigrants to ethnics. But recent work suggests that a small but significant group are exhibiting a distinct mode of incorporation. Portes and his colleagues (2002) found that slightly more than 5 percent of the Salvadoran, Dominican, and Colombian migrants they studied were transnational entrepreneurs. Guarnizo (2002) reported that

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nearly 10 percent of the Colombians, Dominicans, and Salvadorans he sur- veyed were engaged in some form of regular transnational political activity. Their activities included membership in a home-country political party (9.9 percent), membership in a civic hometown association (13.7 percent), or tak- ing part in home-country electoral campaigns and rallies (7.7 percent). Those engaged in periodic transnational nonelectoral political practices, such as be- longing to hometown association membership, supporting community im- provement projects, and participating in home-country charitable organiza- tions, numbered more than 25 percent.

The kinds of transnational relationships I describe are not new. Southern and Eastern European migrants who came to the United States in the early 1900s also maintained strong ties to their countries of origin (Foner 2000). But despite similarities, there are also clear differences between the experi- ences of earlier and contemporary transnational migrants. New communica- tion and transportation technologies permit more frequent and intimate con- nections between those who move and those who remain behind. The airplane and the telephone make it easier and cheaper to stay in touch. Tech- nological advances heighten the immediacy and intensity of contact, allowing migrants to be actively involved in everyday life in fundamentally different ways than before.

The changing nature of the U.S. economy also means that migrants are in- corporated into the labor market in different ways than in the past. In the early 1900s, rapidly industrializing U.S. companies needed low-skilled labor for jobs that often did not require that workers speak English. In contrast, today’s migrants enter a postindustrial economy that courts high-skilled workers but offers limited opportunities for the unskilled non-English speak- er. Many new migrants find work in the service sector, which pays less, offers fewer benefits, and affords more limited opportunities for advancement than the manufacturing sector.5

Furthermore, the kinds of homeland connections sustained by migrants today differ from those in the past because they are forged within a cultural context more tolerant of ethnic pluralism. At the turn of the century, and par- ticularly during the period preceding World War I, migrants were under tremendous pressure to naturalize and become “good Americans.” In con- trast, the United States of the late twentieth century tolerates ethnic diversity more. The pressure to conform to a well-defined, standardized notion of what it means to be “American” has greatly decreased. Contemporary migrants enjoy the protections of new antidiscrimination and affirmative-action legis- lation. Displays of continued ethnic pride are normal, celebrated parts of daily life. Those wanting to express allegiances face a less hostile environment with- in which to do so.

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Finally, most of the countries sending the largest number of immigrants to the United States today have completed the process of nation building. As a result, the demands they make of their members, their political discourse, and the ways in which they represent themselves culturally mean that they en- courage long-distance nationalism and participation rather than linking ac- tivism to return (Morawska 2000, Glick Schiller and Fouron 2001). In 2000, at least ten Latin American and ten Caribbean countries allowed some form of dual nationality (Jones-Correa 2002).

Migration between the United States and the Dominican Republic has pro- duced a thick, broad transnational social field inhabited by individual actors, communities, and organizations. Both sending- and receiving-country factors explain its emergence. As I mentioned earlier, migration provides a much needed palliative for an economy that has left large numbers under- or un- employed. Those who live abroad and those who return to live on the island have become a key factor in the Dominican economy. In 1984, Dominican mi- grants accounted for 60 percent of the total formal housing sales (Guarnizo 1997). The $796 million in remittances migrants sent in 1995 surpassed all other activities, except for tourism, as sources of foreign exchange (Migration News 1998). By November 1999, projections from the Central Bank of the Do- minican Republic reported that migrants had remitted nearly $1.4 billion (Ro- driguez 1999). According to a Carlos Doré, a close advisor to former President Fernández, migrants “are sine qua non for Dominican macro-economic sta- bility, including monetary exchange rates, the balance of trade, international monetary reserves, and the national balance of payment” (cited in Guarnizo 1997: 285). The country’s economic fortunes continue to be strongly influ- enced by events in the United States. The Dominican state literally cannot af- ford to let migrants go.

The case of migration between Boston and Miraflores, a small community located outside the city of Baní, brings to light the positive and negative effects of these strong, enduring transnational connections (see also Levitt 2001a). Migration from this area began in the late 1960s, when the commercialization of agriculture and unequal land-tenure patterns made it increasingly difficult for residents to earn a decent living by farming. By 1994, over 65 percent of the 545 households in Miraflores had relatives in the greater Boston metropolitan area, primarily in and around the neighborhood of Jamaica Plain. The social and economic lives of these transnational villagers has been completely trans- formed by migration. Many families now rely heavily on the economic sup- port they receive from the United States. In 1994, almost 60 percent of the households in Miraflores said they received at least some of their monthly in- come from those in the U.S. For nearly 40 percent of those households, re- mittances constituted between 75 and 100 percent of their income.

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Fashion, food, forms of speech, as well as appliances and home decorating styles, also attest to these strong connections. In Miraflores, villagers often dress in T-shirts with the names of businesses in Massachusetts printed on them, although they often do not know what these words or logos mean. They proudly serve coffee with Cremora or juice made from Tang to their visitors. The local colmados (grocery stores) stock Spaghettios and Frosted Flakes. These dynamics are enacted in the context of striking contrasts. The electric- ity in Miraflores goes out nearly every night because the government-run elec- tric company is so poorly functioning and a number of the houses in Mi- raflores still lack indoor plumbing. Many of the benches in the Miraflores park are inscribed with the names of villagers who moved to Boston years ago. And almost everyone, including older community members who can count on their fingers how many times they have visited Santo Domingo, can talk about “La Mozart” or “La Centre,” or Mozart Street Park and Centre Street, two focal points of the Miraflores community in Jamaica Plain.

In Boston, Mirafloreños have recreated their premigration lives to the ex- tent allowed by their new physical and cultural environment. Particularly dur- ing the early years of settlement, but even today, a large number of migrants live within the same twenty-block radius. There are several streets where peo- ple from Miraflores live in almost every triple-decker house.6 Community members leave their apartment doors open so that the flow between house- holds is as easy and uninhibited as it is in Miraflores. They decorate their re- frigerators with the same plastic fruit magnets that they use in Miraflores and they put the same sets of ceramic animal families on the shelves of their living rooms. Women also continue to hang curtains around the doorframes; these provide privacy without keeping in heat in the Dominican Republic but are merely decorative in Boston. Because someone is always traveling between Boston and the island, there is a continuous, circular flow of goods, news, and information. As a result, when a community member becomes ill, cheats on his or her spouse, or is finally granted a visa, the news spreads as quickly on the streets of Miraflores as it does in Jamaica Plain.

During their visits, phone conversations, and through the videotapes they send home, migrants introduce those who remained behind to the ideas and practices they observed in the United States. Nonmigrants gradually began to adopt these behaviors and develop U.S. culture and consumer styles. This steady infusion of social remittances, combined with migrant and nonmi- grants’ heightened social and economic interdependence, further encourage transnational village formation and perpetuation (Levitt 2001a).7

Other transnational villages also span the Dominican Republic and the United States. Migrants from Tenares, who have settled in Lawrence, Massa- chusetts, also formed similar ties. People from Sabana Iglesias who moved to

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Queens, New York, also stay strongly connected to their sending community. Not everyone who is embedded in this transnational social field, however, feels part of a transnational community. Many migrants from Santiago, the Republic’s second largest city, have settled in the Washington Heights neigh- borhood of New York City, but they do not all feel part of a transnational so- cial group.

Transnational institutions both create and are created in response to indi- viduals’ transnational practices. In the Miraflores case, the Miraflores Devel- opment Committee (MDC), with chapters in Boston and Miraflores, was cre- ated to improve living conditions in the village. Over the past thirty years, this group has built an aqueduct, a funeral home, a park, and a baseball stadium and funded renovations to the school, health clinic, and community center. These kind of sending-community support activities are not unique. Guarni- zo (2002) reports that nearly 10 percent of the Dominican migrants in his study claimed that they regularly participated in a hometown association, while 9 percent frequently contributed money to community projects, and 6 percent supported sending-country charitable organizations. Nearly 20 per- cent reported that they occasionally engaged in these activities.

The Catholic Church, an already well-established transnational institution, has also transformed itself in response to the new crossborders ties forged by the frequent circulation of parishioners, resources, and clergy between Boston and the island. New Dominican immigrants are incorporated into multieth- nic congregations using a generic “Latino” worship style that includes some familiar elements while excluding many uniquely Dominican ones. They tell those who remain behind about their changing religious practices and beliefs. Subsequent migrants arrive already presocialized into many elements of U.S. Latino Catholicism. They continue to infuse fresh “Dominicanness” into the church, though it is a “Dominicanness” that is increasingly pan-Latino in tone. Continuous, cyclical transfers ensued which consolidated these pan- ethnic practices while weakening their uniquely Dominican elements. In this way, transnational ties reinforced religious pluralism at the same time that they abbreviated its scope.

Dominican political life has also become transnational. Long before migra- tion became an important social force, Dominican political parties established a tradition of expatriate political organization in the United Stares. Juan Bosch created the Partido Revolucionario Dominicano (PRD) while in exile from Trujillo in Cuba in 1939. Throughout Trujillo’s reign, the PRD used its ties with U.S. political leaders to mobilize public opinion against him. They organized public demonstrations, published open letters in the U.S. press, and enlisted the support of U.S. political leaders to protest human-rights abuses on the island. When the PRD gained power in 1978, leaders shifted their at-

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tention to formal Dominican partisan politics and to fundraising, sending as much as $40,000 back to Santo Domingo each month.

In the last three decades, the United States, and New York City in particu- lar, have become critical staging grounds for Dominican political battles. Mi- grants make significant political contributions. An estimated 15—30% of the funding for the 1994 Dominican presidential campaign came from emigrants (Graham 1997). They also exert considerable influence over how their none- migrant family members vote. Since many support their nonemigrant family members, they convert their economic clout into political clout by telling those who stay behind whom they should support.

In response to migrants’ growing role in island politics, each of the princi- pal Dominican political parties created a U.S.-based party structure that mir- rors its organization on the island. The Partido Revolucionario Dominicano (PRD) created community-level committees, aggregated into municipal zones, which were then grouped into regional sections in New England, New Jersey, Florida, Puerto Rico, and Washington. In 1992, the party also approved the creation of base-level committees for Dominicans who became natural- ized U.S. citizens and for second-generation Dominican-Americans. Four members of the U.S. sections represent the migrant community on the party’s National Executive Committee in Santo Domingo. The party also appointed a coordinator for all U.S. party activities whose job is to facilitate cooperation between party members at all levels on the island and in the United States.

The PRD also began articulating a discourse that was more transnational in tone. As the party’s financial dependence on migrant contributions increased, and migrant members made clear their conditions for remaining active in the party, leaders proposed new ideas about the party’s relationship to its U.S. con- stituency. They recognized that the PRD needed a dual political agenda which simultaneously addressed the needs of migrants while furthering Dominican national interests. If the party encouraged migrants to integrate politically in the United States, they would be more strongly positioned to advocate for Domini- can national concerns. In exchange, the party would support policies such as lowering taxes on the goods migrants brought back into the country, dual citi- zenship, and the expatriate vote that migrants favored. Several leaders men- tioned the example of the Jewish-American community as the model they wished to emulate. Just as the Jewish-American lobby favorably influenced U.S. policies toward Israel, so the Dominican migrant community could generate support for favorable sugar quotas, terms of trade, and development assistance.

The PRD was not the sole voice encouraging dual membership. In fact, in a televised address, then candidate Leonel Fernández encouraged Dominican migrants to naturalize and assured them they would not lose their rights as Dominican citizens if they did so:

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If you, young mother, or you, elderly gentleman, or you, young student, feel the need to adopt the nationality of the United States in order to con- front the vicissitudes of that society stemming from the end of the welfare era, do not feel tormented by this. Do it with a peaceful conscience, for you will continue being Dominicans, and we will welcome you as such when you set foot on the soil of our republic

(cited in Graham 1997).

Calls for dual citizenship and the expatriate vote grew stronger through- out the 1970s and 1980s due to the efforts of an emerging entrepreneurial class with business interests in the United States and in the Dominican Re- public (Guarnizo 1998). Business owners and emigrant civic associations arranged a number of conferences in New York and in the Dominican Re- public to advocate, in the interest of national unity and economic growth, for a constitutional amendment that would institute such changes. These calls went largely unheeded until the mid-1990s when several factors con- verged to facilitate their approval. Previously, Balaguer’s Partido Re- formista, while publicly supportive of dual citizenship and expatriate vot- ing, actually blocked their implementation fearing emigrants’ potential opposition to the government. Balaguer’s position weakened considerably, however, when the international community sided against him when he was accused of election tampering in 1994. European and U.S. governments and international observers forced the president to accept The Pact for Democ- racy and to remain in office for a reduced two-year term. This agreement comprised several reforms, including the approval of dual citizenship. The reformed constitution, approved in 1996, gives full citizenship rights to Do- minicans who opt for a second citizenship, though they cannot be elected president or vice president. The new constitution also grants citizenship to those born outside the country to Dominican parents, thus ensuring the for- mal inclusion of the second generation and beyond (Torres-Saillant and Hernández 1998). In fact, there is some question about whether current President Hipolito Mejia holds dual nationality. In a December 2001 inter- view with a Miami radio station, he was quoted as saying that he was a dual national. Two days later, however, he recanted his statement and denied his U.S. citizenship (Dominican Republic One 2001)

The 1996 and 2000 Dominican elections, held in a context of greater ac- countability and political openness, reflected the emigrant community’s strong influence. All major political parties had offices in Boston, New York, and other areas with large emigrant communities. Any politician from the is- land with serious aspirations had to campaign in Dominican neighborhoods in the United States. Guarnizo (2002) found that nearly 13 percent of the Do-

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minicans he surveyed reported that they belonged to a political party in which they participated regularly, while an additional 23 percent belonged to a polit- ical group that they participated in occasionally. Though they could not vote as expatriates, many emigrants returned to the island to cast their ballots (Rother 1996a). Thus, in 1996, PRD presidential candidate José Francisco Peña Gómez acknowledged, “The part they [migrants] play is absolutely decisive, especially in terms of campaign finances”; while candidate Leonel Fernández’s campaign chief in the United States stated, “The Dominican community in the United States has tremendous economic weight and political prestige, so of course its influence is being felt.” (Rother 1996b: 21).

Both second-round presidential candidates in 1996 also supported a bill that would allow Dominican emigrants to vote from abroad rather than hav- ing to return to the island. This measure was passed in December 1997 (Elec- toral Law 275–97), when the Dominican National Congress approved a new electoral code allowing Dominicans permanently residing overseas to vote in the country’s presidential elections and to run for office, including those who are naturalized Americans of Dominican descent (Sagás 1999). Dominicans in New York campaigned extensively for these measures, creating a Pro-Vote Movement for Dominicans Living Abroad (Sontag 1997). Once achieved, these electoral reforms effectively cemented the political importance of Do- minicans abroad as contributors, as well as voters. Dominicans living abroad will allegedly be allowed to vote in the 2004 presidential election.

The Dominican government’s relationship to emigrants has also changed in the last decade. The government made few systematic attempts to maintain contact with expatriates prior to the 1990s. When mass emigration began in the early 1970s, government efforts focused on channeling the money mi- grants sent back to the island through official, state-controlled channels. In his 1982 inaugural speech, for example, President Salvador Jorge Blanco outlined a plan to increase interest rates on special savings accounts designed to attract remittances (Guarnizo 1998).

When the PLD was elected in 1996, however, the government began sys- tematically reaching out to migrants and, by so doing, extending the borders of the Dominican state. It no longer referred to Dominicans abroad as mi- grantes (migrants) or Dominicanos Ausentes but as Dominicans Residing in the Exterior. In 1999, several U.S.-based Dominicans served in the Dominican Congress. The fact that the Partido de la Liberacíon Dominicana (PLD) des- ignated three legislative seats on its ticket to Dominicans living abroad aided their election. Candidates for these seats run from their hometowns because there is no formal mechanism to elect representatives from abroad. Those elected officially represent districts on the island but unofficially represent their constituencies abroad (Itzigsohn et al. 1999).

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CONCLUSION

This chapter highlights various factors that have precipitated Dominican mi- gration, profiles the characteristics of those who move, explores the ways in which Dominican migrants continue to be part of their sending communities as they are incorporated into the United States, and brings to light how com- munity development and political and religious life become transnational in the process. It reveals that, by and large, Dominicans have not brought the kinds of language, education, and job skills demanded by current labor mar- ket. As a result, they do more poorly than the national average and than certain Latino groups with respect to some socioeconomic indicators. There are indi- cations, however, that the second generation is making progress and perform- ing better with respect to educational, financial, and occupational outcomes.

Pessar (1996) proposed four explanations for this profile. The first is that economic restructuring means there are fewer jobs that Dominicans are qual- ified for and that most of these jobs pay low wages. The second is that Do- minicans’ low educational levels exclude them from higher-paying, more se- cure jobs. The third is that there are many female-headed households in the Dominican community, which is clearly linked to higher poverty rates. In 1990, almost 40 percent of all Dominican households with children under eighteen in New York City were headed by women and 52 percent of these households were living below the poverty line (Hernández, Rivera-Batiz, and Agodini 1995). Dominican women in New York also earn less than their male counterparts. In 1989, they earned $11,371 annually, compared to $15,139 among males. Finally, racial discrimination also seriously inhibits socioeco- nomic gains. Poverty among darker-skinned Dominicans is strikingly higher than among Dominicans with lighter skin (Grasmuck and Pessar 1998).

This chapter also underscores the high levels of transnational activism among Dominican emigrants. It also speaks to the complex relationship be- tween transnational migration and development. Most Mirafloreños, for ex- ample, have more income and enjoy a more comfortable lifestyle since emi- gration began. They have a better school, health clinic, and water supply. They feel a stronger sense of civic responsibility and a desire to challenge the polit- ical status quo. But they have achieved these gains only through the graces of those in Boston. They cannot sustain this higher standard of living on their own. They have lost faith in Dominican values and in their country’s ability to solve its own problems. They have become so dependent on the money, ideas, and values imported from Boston that migration has become an integral part of their everyday lives.

Immigrant life also yields ambiguous rewards. Most Mirafloreños work at jobs that pay more than they have ever dreamed of. They are proud of their

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English-speaking children when they do well in school. On the weekends, they go to the mall where they can choose from a range of products so vast it is al- most unimaginable. But work consumes them. They leave at five o’clock in the morning, return at two o’clock, eat, bathe, and then work again until ten at night. Their jobs give them little besides a paycheck. Many live near the bottom of the socioeconomic ladder. Since they often work alone, they generally learn little English and few new skills, meaning they have few opportunities to get ahead. They feel more capable when they compare themselves to those who re- main in Miraflores and less powerful and effective in their dealings with the host society. Those who regret their choices are prevented from turning back because so many family members and friends now depend on their support.

These widespread, enduring ties also challenge conventional understand- ings of the determinants of inequality, civic engagement, and community de- velopment. They urge us to rethink how and where these social dynamics should be evaluated. For some individuals, the measure of success must be taken transnationally. In the Miraflores case, migrants may fare poorly with respect to socioeconomic indicators in the United States while they achieve significant economic gains with respect to their lives in the Dominican Re- public. They work at a continuous string of part-time, low-paying jobs and are subject to frequent layoffs, but they are able to build a new home in Mi- raflores and significantly raise the standard of living of the household mem- bers who remain behind. Furthermore, for many individuals the Dominican community continues to be the yardstick against which they evaluate them- selves. It is still the reference group which matters most.

The Dominican case also brings to light the ways in which cultural produc- tion has become transnational and the ways in which developments in the home and host country mutually influence one another. The social remit- tances emigrants send back introduce both positive and negative influences. For example, a vice president of the Partido Revolucionario Dominicano (PRD) characterized migrants’ political influence as follows:

There are greater demands for more democracy within the parties, that the justice system should be separate from the executive branch which is so cor- rupt. . . . Emigration is a factor in the modernization of the political system in favor of a new type of establishment within the society. It is playing a role, since the people who come back come with these ideas. Even though they haven’t participated in the political heart of the U.S., they have lived there. They have a notion of the relationship between public and private and that these distinctions are clearer than those in the Dominican Repub- lic. And these things, any person picks up on them because they see it when their kids go to school or when they pay taxes. If people live this in their

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daily lives, it produces a change in mentality. It is not that they have formed a movement in favor of the rights of citizens, but they have friends and neighbors, and they say to their cousins if you have a problem, go to a lawyer. Don’t try to work it out through a friend.

(PRD vice president, interview with author, Santo Domingo, July 1994)

Social remittances also wield negative influences as Javier, a fifty-six-year-old nonmigrant in Miraflores described:

Life in the U.S. teaches them many good things but they also learn some bad things as well. People come back more individualistic, more material- istic. They think that “things” are everything rather than service, respect, or duty. They are more committed to themselves than they are to the com- munity. They just don’t want to be active in trying to make the communi- ty better anymore. Some learned to make it the easy way and they are de- stroying our traditional values of hard work and respect for the family.

(Interview with author, Miraflores, January 1993)

Cultural influence, however, is clearly a two-way street, and Dominican culture is also making inroads into the broader U.S. cultural arena. Domini- can baseball players such as Sammy Sosa and Pedro Martínez have become re- gional, if not national stars. When former President Bill Clinton asked Sammy Sosa to accompany Hillary Rodham Clinton during the 2000 State of Union address he was not just honoring this baseball great, but also paying tribute to the political importance of New York Dominican community in a very visible public arena. In fact, organizations like the Dominican American Roundtable are working actively to consolidate first- and second-generation Dominicans’ place at the political table. The popularity of writers like Junot Díaz and Julia Alvarez, as well as fashion designer Oscar de la Renta, also attest to the grow- ing influence of the Dominican community (Castro and Boswell 2002).

NOTES

1. For a more in-depth account of Dominican history see Hoetink 1982, Wiarda and

Kryzanek 1982, Black 1986, Betances 1995, Moya Pons 1995, Betances and Spalding

1996, and Torres-Saillant and Hernández 1998.

2. For additional accounts of Dominican migration, see Gonzales 1970, Peña and

Parache 1971, Hendricks 1974, Garrison and Weiss 1979, Kayal 1978, Ugalde and

Langham 1980, Pérez 1981, Gurak and Kritz 1982, Castro 1985, Báez Evertsz and

Ramirez 1986, Bray 1987, Del Castillo and Cordero 1980, Georges, 1990, Grasmuck

and Pessar 1991, and Guarnizo 1992.

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3. Whether authors use data from the United States or from the Dominican Republic

to assess migrants’ characteristics contributes to this dispute.

4. For an in-depth discussion of these differences see Logan 2001.

5. It is true that migrants today enjoy certain opportunities that both foreign and

native-born minorities lacked one hundred years ago. Earlier in this century, even

native-born minority men, including those with Ivy League degrees, were barred

from certain jobs in universities, industry, and the public sector. Present-day mi-

grants also benefit from government initiatives like Affirmative Action (Gold 2000).

6. Triple deckers are typical of the housing stock in certain neighborhoods in Boston.

They are three-story houses, generally with one apartment on each floor.

7. Social remittances are the ideas, behavior, social capital, and identities that flow

from receiving- to sending-country communities. For more detail, see Levitt 2001a.

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SIX

THE OTHER “OTHER HISPANICS”: SOUTH

AMERICAN–ORIGIN LATINOS IN THE UNITED STATES

MARILYN ESPITIA

DURING MY elementary school years, my teachers annually took a head count of all the “Spanish” children in my class. Although the purpose of this exer- cise was unclear to me at the time, I knew to raise my hand to be included for the tally even though my parents were from Colombia and I was born in the United States. Intuitively, I knew that the count consisted of all the Spanish- speaking children regardless of their birthplace. Later, in middle school, I no- ticed on my standardized test forms that I was no longer classified as Spanish, but, mysteriously, I had somehow become “Hispanic.” This new category ap- parently still included all the Spanish-speaking children regardless of their birthplace, but now, in addition, actual language capabilities in Spanish seemed not to be required. In high school, when I began to use the label His- panic as a self-referent, my college-educated brother quickly informed me that the politically correct term was now “Latino,” even though it appeared to represent the same people previously referred to under the old umbrella term, Hispanic. It wasn’t until my undergraduate years, when I began to meet other Colombian-origin Latinos that my specific background came to the forefront for others and myself. Since then, it has remained in the forefront, even in California and Texas, where I have at different times been presumed to be Puerto Rican (because of my New York City origins) or Chicana. With Colombian pop-star crossover sensation Shakira currently recognizable in the U.S. mainstream, I finally see a glimmer of acknowledgement in others when I tell them that I am Colombian American.

Although this brief recounting of my own experiences as a second- generation South American Latina is not in any way meant to imply that it

somehow represents that of a “typical South American,” it nonetheless helps to illustrate some key and timely questions about the increasingly compli- cated dynamics involved in the construction of latinidad among U.S. Lati- nos—that is, a sense of themselves as part of a larger historical and cultural Latino community in the United States (Dávila 2001; Laó-Montes and Dávi- la 2001). It also begins to reveal some of the ways South American Latinos are gradually coming to play a more important role in that process. With Latinos now officially acknowledged as the largest collective minority group (however problematic that appellation may turn out to be as a political or cultural reality in the future), developing some understanding of the signif- icant roles South Americans now play as a component of the pan-Latino population is an important endeavor in fully comprehending this heteroge- neous group.

With these issues in mind, the primary goals of this chapter are, therefore: to provide to a brief overview of South American migration patterns and their contribution to the recent explosive growth of the Latino population of the United States; to identify the key factors and characteristics that may be shaping the construction of latinidad as a pan-ethnic identity in the U.S. context; and to speculate briefly on the long-term impact South Americans might exert on the future social, cultural, and political evolution of the U.S. Latino population in both national and hemispheric affairs. To this end, I will review the existing data on the demographic and socioeconomic profile of South American Latinos, the context in both sending regions and in the United States of their immigration, and their settlement patterns as they re- late to these issues. This chapter is organized into three sections. The first section briefly describes the basic demographic profile of South American Latinos. Following this description, I will then highlight the key factors sur- rounding the immigration of South Americans to the United States and sit- uate their patterns within the context of Latin American immigration as well as international migration in general. The last section will then address the settlement experiences of South Americans, with an emphasis on the ques- tion of how transnational orientations and practices are maintained and how members of the second generation, in particular, may see themselves as part of an emerging pan-Latino ethnic group. By exploring South American immigration and settlement patterns, demographic structure, and the po- tential for change in South Americans’ political and cultural orientations over time, I hope to demonstrate not only how their own diversity may shape the meaning of what—and who—is Latino but also to offer some re- flections on how increasing migration from South America is contributing to the ongoing “Latinization” of the United States.

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WHO ARE THE “OTHER HISPANICS” FROM SOUTH AMERICA?

The demographic and socioeconomic profiles of South American Latinos pro- vide some important clues about their social and economic integration as His- panics into the existing U.S. racial and ethnic landscape. Compared to the Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, and Cubans, who together continue to make up more than three quarters of the total U.S. Latino population, the combined South American Latino population is relatively small, only 5.2 percent of the Hispanic origin population in 2000 (Cresce and Ramirez 2003).1 In addition, this population of almost two million individuals probably tends to get over- looked because it is inherently diverse across a broad range of variables, in- cluding nationality, genetic admixture, language, social class and education, and many other factors. In spite of this striking heterogeneity, South American Latinos share two key characteristics that greatly impact their present status in the United States: the large proportion of their number that is foreign-born and their higher socioeconomic standing in relation to other Latino groups.

South American Latinos originate from a total of nine distinct countries: Ar- gentina, Bolivia, Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, Paraguay, Peru, Uruguay, and Venezuela. Table 1 presents the population size of all the U.S. Latino groups in 1990 and 2000, with detailed information listed for the nine countries. The in- dividual representation of South American Latinos from these countries varies widely, with Colombian-origin Latinos ranking the highest, with recent popu- lation estimates of 653,029, and Paraguayan Latinos ranking the lowest with an estimated resident population of 12,807. In addition to being the largest South American Latino group in the United States, Colombian-origin Latinos are also the sixth-largest Latino group overall (after Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, Cubans, Dominicans, and Salvadorans). This sizeable presence in the United States has undoubtedly impacted those communities with the highest concen- tration of Colombian Latinos and it will be important to examine their areas of settlement to understand the full implications of their growing numbers.

Immediately south of Colombia, the bordering nations of Ecuador and Peru provide the points of origin for the second- and third-largest South American groups in the United States, with population sizes of 380,428 and 339,027, respectively. In a distant fourth, over 120,000 Latinos each identify Argentina and Venezuela as their nations of origin. Such population origins also strongly affect what might loosely be termed the “racial” composition of the general flow of South American transmigrants. Although variation exists in all South American national-origin groups, in recent years the influx has deviated from past patterns, when the majority of South American migrants were middle-class mestizos, to a situation that is much more diverse today. As

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TABLE 1 U.S. Latino Population by National Origin, 1990 and 2000

ORIGIN 1990 2000

NUMBER % NUMBER %

TOTAL 21,900,089 100.0 35,238,481 100.0

Mexico 13,393,208 61.2 22,338,311 63.4

Puerto Rico 2,651,815 12.1 3,539,988 10.0

Cuba 1,053,197 4.8 1,312,127 3.7

Dominican Republic 520,151 2.4 999,561 2.8

CENTRAL AMERICA 1,323,830 6.0 2,435,731 6.9

Costa Rica 57,223 0.3 93,583 0.3

Guatemala 268,779 1.2 574,785 1.6

Honduras 131,066 0.6 333,636 0.9

Nicaragua 202,658 0.9 272,655 0.8

Panama 92,013 0.4 126,500 0.4

El Salvador 565,081 2.6 1,010,740 2.9

Other Central America 7,010 0.0 23,832 0.1

SOUTH AMERICA 1,035,602 4.7 1,847,811 5.2

Argentina 100,921 0.5 132,864 0.4

Bolivia 38,073 0.2 65,220 0.2

Chile 68,799 0.3 98,057 0.3

Colombia 378,726 1.7 653,029 1.9

Ecuador 191,198 0.9 380,428 1.1

Paraguay 6,662 0.0 12,806 0.0

Peru 175,035 0.8 339,027 1.0

Uruguay 21,996 0.1 27,401 0.1

Venezuela 47,997 0.2 122,268 0.3

Other South America 6,195 0.0 16,711 0.0

Spain 519,136 2.4 190,656 0.5

Hispanic 390,945 1.8 1,067,782 3.0

Latino 1,577 0.0 93,783 0.3

Spanish 444,896 2.0 523,323 1.5 Other Hispanic 565,732 2.6 889,408 2.5

Source: Cresce and Ramirez 2003, tables 1 and 6.

will be discussed further below, while middle-class mestizos continue to make up a significant portion of migrants from South America, in recent years a much broader mix has been evident, which now includes significant numbers of different groups of mestizos, increasing numbers of indigenous peoples, and a significant number of individuals of Afro-Latino heritage. Given the com-

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position of recent migration flows—particularly those of the last years of the twentieth century—it is reasonable to expect that South Americans will con- tinue to contribute to the ongoing diversification of the resident pan-Latino population of the United States (Rodriguez 2000; Brea 2003).

The most recent demographic data on South American Latinos as well as other Latinos are presented in table 2. Perhaps the most striking feature of the South American population is the large proportion of foreign-born individu- als. Of course, this feature reflects just how recently South Americans have begun to migrate in significant numbers. Unlike the Mexican- and Puerto Rican–origin populations, which obviously have large U.S.-born components, the majority (73.6 percent) of South American Latinos in the United States are foreign-born (Logan 2002). According to his recent study, Logan estimates that out of the three largest South American groups, Ecuadorians have the largest proportion of foreign-born, followed by Peruvians and Colombians. In addition, it is important to note that a significant proportion of the recent mi- gratory flow from South America to the United States has occurred outside of authorized channels and thus has also contributed to the expanding presence of undocumented immigrants in the United States (Kyle 2000; U.S. Immigra- tion and Naturalization Service 2003).

The large foreign-born proportion of the resident South American popula- tion clearly helps to shape the experiences of the Latino newcomers, influenc- ing geographical settlement patterns, processes of socioeconomic integration, and propensities to interact with both Latino and non-Latino U.S. natives. The fact that a large proportion of the resident South American population is undocumented also strongly influences these different behaviors. Estimates generated by the former U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service (which has since been reorganized as part of the Department of Homeland Security) indicate that the proportion of undocumented immigrants ranges, at the low end, from 8 percent of Uruguayan immigrants to at least 36 percent of all Ecuadorians in the country in 2000 (U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service 2003). Table 3 presents these estimates of unauthorized migrants for Latin America countries. As other contributors to this volume have noted, the lack of proper documentation for a substantial portion of the foreign-born population obviously constrains economic opportunities, influences possibil- ities for residential mobility, and strongly affects the possibility of maintain- ing transnational ties with communities of origin, especially given the height- ened enforcement of U.S. borders since September 11.

Despite this large undocumented component, the general socioeconomic profile of South American Latinos tends to be significantly higher than that of other Latino subpopulations (see table 2). In contrast to the other Latinos, South American immigrants have the highest average years of education (12.6)

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and mean earnings ($13,911) and consequently are much more favorably situ- ated in the American socioeconomic structure than are other populations. This is reflected in the low percentage of South American Latinos living below the federal poverty line (13.6 percent) and the low proportion (4.6) of unem- ployed South American Latinos in the late 1990s. Indeed, in aggregate, the so- cioeconomic profile of South American Latinos surpasses even that of Cubans, who are typically perceived and commonly portrayed as the most economically stable and successful group among Latinos. Examined individ- ually, Colombians, Ecuadorians, and Peruvians also fare better than Cubans in regard to their years of education and the proportion of their populations that are poor and unemployed. However, the mean earnings among these

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TABLE 2 Social and Economic Characteristics of Hispanics, by National Origin (Pooled Estimates from the Current Population Survey, March 1998 and March 2000)

% % % BELOW

FOREIGN RECENT YEARS OF MEAN POVERTY %

ORIGIN BORN ARRIVALS EDUCATION EARNINGS LINE UNEMPLOYED

TOTAL 38.5 44.8 10.7 $9,432 25.2 6.8

Mexico 36.5 49.3 10.2 $8,525 23.3 7.0

Puerto Rico 1.3 26.7 11.4 $9,893 30.4 8.3

Cuba 68.0 26.7 11.9 $13,567 18.3 5.8

Dominican

Republic 62.7 45.3 10.8 $7,883 36.0 8.6

CENTRAL

AMERICA 71.3 48.2 10.3 $9,865 22.3 6.4

Guatemala 74.8 56.1 9.8 $9,204 27.1 7.9

Honduras 69.0 50.2 10.4 $10,244 27.2 10.8

Nicaragua 72.5 42.7 12.0 $10,506 17.4 4.0

El Salvador 69.6 45.9 9.7 $9,631 20.8 5.1

SOUTH

AMERICA 73.6 44.4 12.6 $13,911 13.6 4.3

Colombia 71.7 38.4 12.4 $11,579 16.4 4.8

Ecuador 76.0 48.9 11.8 $11,848 19.0 5.8

Peru 73.0 51.5 12.7 $11,996 11.7 3.0

Note: Central and South American groups are listed if they had 200 or more people in the pooled CPS sample.

Source: Logan 2001, table 1.

TABLE 3 Estimates of the Latin American Unauthorized Immigrant Population Residing in the United States, 1990 to 2000 (per 100,000)

ORIGIN 1990 2000

ESTIMATED TOTAL ESTIMATED ESTIMATED TOTAL ESTIMATED

UNAUTHORIZED FOREIGN-BORN PROPORTION OF UNAUTHORIZED FOREIGN-BORN PROPORTION OF

POPULATION POPULATION UNAUTHORIZED POPULATION POPULATION UNAUTHORIZED

Mexico 2040 4298 0.47 4808 9177 0.52

Cuba 2 737 0.00 7 873 0.01

Dominican Republic 46 348 0.13 91 688 0.13

CENTRAL AMERICA

Costa Rica 5 44 0.11 17 72 0.24

Guatemala 118 226 0.52 144 481 0.30

Honduras 42 109 0.39 138 283 0.49

Nicaragua 50 469 0.11 21 220 0.10

Panama 7 86 0.08 11 105 0.10

El Salvador 298 465 0.64 189 817 0.23

SOUTH AMERICA

Argentina 7 93 0.08 15 125 0.12

Bolivia 8 31 0.26 13 53 0.25

Chile 6 56 0.11 17 81 0.21

Colombia 51 286 0.18 141 510 0.28

Ecuador 37 143 0.26 108 299 0.36

Paraguay na na na na na na

Peru 27 144 0.19 61 278 0.22

Uruguay 2 21 0.10 2 25 0.08

Venezuela 10 42 0.24 34 107 0.32

Source: U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service 2003, table 2.

three groups does fall below the mean earnings of Cubans and, more impor- tantly, below the mean earnings of South American Latinos as a group. This difference indicates that the higher average earnings found among South American Latinos may be due to the skewing effects of immigrants from more developed countries in this region, especially Argentina and Chile. For exam- ple, data from the 1990 U.S. census demonstrate that approximately one-third of Argentine and Chilean Latinos were employed in professional and mana- gerial occupations (where they presumably command significantly higher wages), compared to only 14 percent of Ecuadorians and 17 percent of Colom- bians (Cordova and Pinderhughes 1999). In other words, although South American Latinos have a comparatively favorable socioeconomic profile, one must keep in mind that a large variation exists between immigrant groups from the different South American countries of origin, with immigrants from the Southern Cone faring much better than those from elsewhere.

SOUTH AMERICAN IMMIGRATION TO THE UNITED STATES

With almost 74 percent of the South American Latino population being foreign-born, particular attention must be paid to the processes that led to their immigration and consequently shaped their settlement patterns. At first glance, the story of South American immigration to the United States appears to be similar in many ways to that of the rest of Latin America. That is, as is true of most other Latin American immigrants, most South Americans have immigrated to the United States to pursue better economic opportunities, to flee precarious and often violent political environments in their communities of origin, and to join family members already in the United States. However, prior to the most recent influx of migrants, migration from South America had been characterized by a disproportionate movement of urban, educated, and upper-middle-class individuals (Cordova and Pinderhughes 1999; Portes and Rumbaut 1996) This particular phenomenon still dominates a significant proportion of the current immigration flow from South America, although it recently has become more heterogeneous, drawing greater numbers from rural, less-educated, and working-class individuals through the establishment of immigrant networks (Kyle 2000; Guarnizo and Diaz 1999; Julca 2001).

Table 4 presents estimates of the South American foreign-born population in the United States from 1960 through the present. A quick examination of the resident population across the forty years reveals that, at least until fairly recently, overall immigration from South America has been slow and steady, with its greatest growth occurring in the last two decades. This pattern is dis- tinctly different from the more sustained growth and the more recent enor-

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mous increases (both in actual size and growth rates) found in the Mexican, Cuban, Salvadoran, and Guatemalan immigrant communities over the past ten years. As a result, where these other national communities were able to form a critical mass almost overnight (or, in the case of Mexicans, renew and greatly augment established communities), South Americans have not been able to do so in the same manner until recently, when their population sizes have become significant. In other words, although some Argentines, Colom- bians, and Chileans may have slowly formed small communities in certain cities over the years, their smaller numbers did not allow for the same kind of ethnic infrastructural development (for example, businesses, community or- ganizations, or civil- and/or human-rights organizations) that occurred with most of the other larger national communities. Thus, many of the earlier

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TABLE 4 Latin American Foreign-Born Populations in the United States, 1960–2000

ORIGIN 1960 1970 1980 1990 2000

Mexico 575,902 759,711 2,199,221 4,298,014 9,177,487

Cuba 79,150 439,048 607,814 736,971 872,716

Dominican Republic 11,883 61,228 169,147 347,858 687,677

CENTRAL AMERICA

Costa Rica 5,425 16,691 29,639 43,530 71,870

Guatemala 5,381 17,356 63,073 225,739 480,665

Honduras 6,503 19,118 39,154 108,923 282,852

Nicaragua 9,474 16,125 44,166 168,659 220,335

Panama 13,076 20,046 60,740 85,737 105,177

El Salvador 6,310 15,717 94,447 465,433 817,336

SOUTH AMERICA

Argentina 16,579 44,803 68,887 92,563 125,218

Bolivia 2,168 6,872 14,468 31,303 53,278

Chile 6,259 15,393 35,127 55,681 80,804

Colombia 12,582 63,538 143,508 286,124 509,872

Ecuador 7,670 36,663 86,128 143,314 298,626

Paraguay 595 na 2,858 6,057 na

Peru 7,102 21,663 55,496 144,199 278,186

Uruguay 1,170 5,092 13,278 20,766 na

Venezuela 6,851 11,348 33,281 42,119 107,031

Latin American Total 774,080 1,570,412 3,760,432 7,302,990 14,169,130

Source (1960–1990): Gibson and Lennon 1999, table 3.

Source (2000): U.S. Census Bureau 2000.

South American immigrants may have depended on broader Spanish- language institutions and resources rather than country-of-origin-specific ones, creating greater opportunities for interaction between Latino immigrant groups and possibly a future basis for the development of a pan-Latin Amer- ican identity.

South Americans’ generally higher levels of education almost certainly af- fected their patterns of adaptation and community development. Having, in most cases, entered the country with higher levels of education and other forms of “social capital” than was true of virtually all other groups with the possible exception of Cubans, the earliest South American immigrants prob- ably found it easier to blend into higher strata of the American socioeconom- ic structure. Indeed, during the so-called brain drain era of migration that oc- curred in the economically fluid period following the end of World War II, an inordinate number of highly educated and professional individuals, specifi- cally doctors, engineers, scientists, and other skilled South American workers, entered the United States (Reimers 1992). This flow was most prevalent among Colombians and Argentines, as is evident from the size of their U.S. populations by the end of 1960 (as shown in table 3). Primarily, the most skilled and talented individuals (including those who possessed basic English skills) with contacts in the United States initiated the move in order to maxi- mize the economic rewards associated with their already favorable occupa- tional status (Portes 1976). In other words, these professionals were respond- ing to the limited employment opportunities within their domestic markets by pursuing the higher wages and career opportunities found in the United States (Marshall 1988). This brain-drain flow from South America was part of a larger immigration phenomenon that also attracted similarly qualified indi- viduals from Asia and elsewhere in the world (Reimers 1992).

The passage of the Immigration and Nationality Act Amendments of 1965 exerted mixed effects on both the potential and actual northward flow of South American immigrants. On the one hand, the codification of new occu- pational preferences in the law kept the door open to potential brain-drain South American migrants. As David G. Gutiérrez notes in the introduction to this volume, although the Immigration Act of 1965 is primarily known for the abolition of the national-origins quota system and the strengthening of the family reunification preference, for the first decade following its passage the law actually worked to select immigrants with high-level skills because Con- gress did not apply the same “first-come, first-served” family preference sys- tem to the Western Hemisphere until 1976 (Pastor 1984). Consequently, al- though immediate relatives of U.S. citizens (i.e., spouses and children) were exempt from the quota, immigration from the Western Hemisphere during this era was largely dominated by a different set of priorities, which required

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labor certification and other immigration restrictions based on “social capi- tal” issues such as levels of literacy, ability to pay various taxes, and whether a potential immigrant was likely to become a public charge. The 1965 act also marked the first time that Congress established numerical restrictions on visas for the Western Hemisphere (including Latin America). Thus, these otherwise “liberal” changes in U.S. immigration law had the paradoxical effects of main- taining an influx of South American technical elites, increasing the waiting pe- riod for other migrants attempting to enter through officially authorized means, and contributing to the rapid increase in the number of undocument- ed migrants entering the United States from Latin America. Indeed, undocu- mented migration from Mexico in particular, but also from Latin America generally, began to rise significantly within a decade of the passage of the 1965 act (Reimers 1992).

The exodus of mostly educated, upper- and middle-class immigrants from South America during this time was (and still is) certainly enhanced by the unstable economic structure of many South American countries. Like other regions of Latin America, beginning in the early 1970s South America also ex- perienced significant shifts in its economy and policies that left many rural in- habitants without jobs and urban middle- and working-class individuals with decreasing job opportunities and wages (Skidmore 2001; Brea 2003; Pellegri- no 2000; Bonilla et al. 1998). With most of South America’s gradual transition from economies based largely on agriculture and extractive industries to sys- tems based on import-substitution policies and, finally, to the current neolib- eral trade and free-market economic regimes, the opportunities for individu- als to maintain positions that earn sufficient wages or offer the prospect of social mobility have eroded dramatically. Indeed, the recent collapse of free- trade negotiations at Cancún, Mexico, the political disruptions caused by sim- ilar, grassroots protests in Venezuela, Bolivia, Ecuador, and elsewhere, and the strong current attempt by Brazil and Argentina to block U.S. efforts to expand coverage of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) to South America all provide further evidence of both the increasing social restiveness on the southern continent and the depth of the social and economic restruc- turing that has taken place there in recent years.2

Such strains are perhaps seen most poignantly in the changing circum- stances of two comparatively prosperous South American nations, Argentina and Venezuela, which have historically received more immigrants from their South American neighbors than they have sent their own abroad (Brea 2003; Pellegrino 2000; Marshall 1988). Prior to 1999, Argentina was typically hailed as the leading example of the success of neoliberal free-market economic poli- cies (Wucker 2002). However, as has been true most notably in Mexico, to- ward the end of the twentieth century several signs, including an increasing

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unemployment rate, rapidly increasing interest rates, and the nation’s steadi- ly diminishing ability to pay its rising debt to both the private sector and the International Monetary Fund, pointed to the steady erosion and current fragility of its economy (Wucker 2002). As a result, immigration from Ar- gentina to the United States—particularly of members of its educated and urban elite—has increased significantly in recent years (Brea 2003; Jachimow- icz 2003). In Venezuela, on the other hand, the left-wing presidency of Hugo Chávez has created civil unrest and economic recessions (Cameron and Major 2001). In the Andean region, Venezuela has long been the most economically stable nation because of its reserves of petroleum. In the last three to five years, however, the volatility of the oil market and the wide-ranging social dis- locations caused by the ongoing restructuring of the regional economy have forced many people into unemployment (or chronic underemployment)— and have stimulated a significant emigration of many educated and middle- class Venezuelans (Brea 2003).

Rising levels of civil unrest, and the state-sponsored violence that often ac- companied them, have combined to stimulate rising rates of emigration from several South American nations. For example, the rise of the Pinochet regime in Chile during the early 1970s and the subsequent military coup and violent excesses of the ruling junta in Argentina obviously contributed to the forced emigration and exile of thousands of Chilean and Argentine citizens (Skidmore 2001; Marshall 1988; Cordova and Pinderhughes 1999). Similarly, from its be- ginning Colombian immigration to the U.S. was greatly stimulated by a polit- ical period of the late 1950s known by Colombians as “La Violencia” (Reimers 1992; Cordova and Pinderhughes 1999). More recently, educated middle-class Colombians continue to flee the country in order to avoid the internal fighting by left-wing guerillas and the military, the incessant violence spawned by nar- cotics trafficking, and the increasing incidence of kidnapping perpetrated by guerillas attempting to extort ransom from individuals, corporations, and gov- ernment agencies (Marin 2002; Chace 2000). Although Chile and Argentina have recently begun the painful process of healing and have taken the first fit- ful steps toward a kind of “democratization,” deep tensions in these societies, combined with the precariousness of their economic positions, leave the ulti- mate outcome of these processes in some doubt and thus also raise questions about the potential for more South American emigration in the future.

However much changing economic and political circumstances have stim- ulated an exodus of South Americans to the United States, the delayed effects of changes in U.S. immigration law and policy should not be underestimat- ed. After an initial period of anxiousness and uncertainty created in Latin America by passage of the 1965 INA Amendments, the subsequent imple- mentation of a stronger family reunification system in 1976 for the Western

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Hemisphere finally allowed permanent legal residents from Latin America to petition for other family members such as their spouses and unmarried chil- dren to join them in the United States. U.S. citizens of South American ori- gin could also apply for reunification with their adult children (regardless of marital status) and their siblings. Over time, these changes in policy natural- ly resulted in the expansion of a more diverse immigration pool from Latin America and allowed for the subsequent increases in legal immigration from the South American continent.

Although illegal migration from Latin America has increased slowly but steadily since the 1960s and 1970s, the U.S. government has long considered this phenomenon primarily a Mexican trend and thus focused most of its en- forcement resources on the U.S.–Mexico border. However, as has been true of migrants from elsewhere in the world, the increase in the number of business, tourist, and student visas from Latin America and Asia also suggests the in- creasing pattern of another form of unauthorized migration, where individu- als simply remain in the United States after their visiting periods expire (Reimers 1992). The Immigration and Reform and Control Act of 1986 (IRCA), which allowed temporary agricultural workers and undocumented immigrants residing in the U.S. since 1982 to “regularize their status” (to use the bureau- cratic language of the INS) also presented an opportunity for a significant number of unauthorized Latin American immigrants to apply for legal resi- dency in the United States and subsequently petition for their family members residing abroad. Although the vast majority of applications for permanent res- ident status under IRCA’s provisions went to Mexicans and Central Ameri- cans, approximately 3.2 percent of the 2.7 million successful applicants were of South American origin (U.S. Department of Labor 1986). As previously noted in table 3, the increasing population of unauthorized migrants from South America in the United States adds to the complexity of that issue for the gov- ernments of both the United States and the countries of origin.

SETTLEMENT PATTERNS AND THE EMERGENCE OF LATINIDAD IN THE SOUTH AMERICAN POPULATION

Although it is too early to venture any definitive conclusions about how the distinctive patterns of initial emigration from South America, the shifting contexts of their reception in the United States, and their subsequent patterns of adjustment and settlement will ultimately affect these immigrants’ social, cultural, and political orientations as members of American society, several trends suggest some tentative answers to these complex questions. Specifical- ly, in terms of latinidad, it is critical to examine how transnational behaviors

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SOUTH AMERICAN–ORIGIN LATINOS IN THE UNITED STATES

by South American Latinos serve as a resource for maintaining country-of- origin affiliations and how local Latino groups may potentially shape the process of creating a pan-ethnic community.

Among South American Latinos, some intriguing preliminary research has been conducted on different kinds of transnational practices among Colom- bians, Peruvians, and Ecuadorians—not coincidentally the largest three South American groups (Jones-Correa 1998; Kyle 2000; Guarnizo and Díaz 1999). Among all three groups, some of the strongest forms of transnationalism are the existing networks of chain migration that span the United States and the sending countries. One of the most interesting aspects of the emergence of South American immigration networks is how they have developed across long distances to assist in the process of illegal migration, whether by land, sea, air, or a combination of all three. One study, in particular, has documented how networks have been used to allow Ecuadorians from rural areas to im- migrate to the United States (Kyle 2000). These networks have allowed for a greater diversification than previous immigration trends because migrants do not have to provide all of the financial resources for the trip. Rather, they can promise to pay off their debt once in the United States. As other contributors to this volume have noted, the establishment of these transnational networks among South American migrants over the past twenty years has been one of the most distinctive features of the population flows between the two conti- nents. These networks, like those binding other immigrant groups, allow for information, labor, and capital to be easily exchanged between two or more nations. For example, part of this established immigrant network also in- cludes a courier service that allows immigrants in the United States to regu- larly send money and packages to their homeland and receive news and pack- ages from family members still residing abroad. Such practices allow for the maintenance of strong country-of-origin affiliations, especially among mem- bers of the immigrant, or “first-generation,” cohort.

Among Colombians, these transnational practices have manifested them- selves in local organizations in the United States. It is well documented that Colombians often form civic organizations that closely mirror the class system they were part of prior to immigration (Portes and Rumbaut 1996; Jones- Correa 1998). These organizations often sponsor cultural celebrations such as Colombia’s Independence Day in July, musical showcases of folkloric dance and music groups, soccer and other organized sports leagues, and activities to mobilize the Colombian community against the continuing violence and other hardships in Colombia (Portes and Rumbaut 1996; Chaparro 2002). Since dual citizenship is extended to Colombian immigrants naturalized in the United States, these organizations are also used to organize campaigns for political candidates in Colombia and to encourage Colombian immigrants to

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vote at their consulates in the United States (Jones-Correa 2001). These transnational organizations obviously serve as sites where country-of-origin identities and ties are strengthened even among those who have settled per- manently in the United States.

How these networks will ultimately affect the emergence of sociocultural and political orientations among South American Latinos in the United States largely remains, however, an open question. Increased security measures along U.S. borders will undoubtedly influence the extent to which South Americans can maintain meaningful transnational ties over time. But despite the obstacles created by these trends, it is clear that at least over the short term thousands of South Americans will continue to maintain such ties through previously established social networks, businesses, and organizations. Of course, the recent moves by Colombia and several South American states to extend dual nationality to their expatriates abroad will probably also con- tribute to the maintenance of such ties and networks, regardless of U.S. bor- der policy.

The presence of Spanish-language media is also important to both transna- tional and local U.S. practices of South American immigrants, as it is another critical source of information and consumption. Colombian immigrants of all class backgrounds seem to share, at least initially, tastes in Spanish-language media, which, in turn, seem also to reinforce at least some country-of-origin identifications and ties. For example, the importation of Colombian telenove- las (soap operas), radio shows, and television news to the to U.S. Latino con- sumer markets has certainly strengthened the sense of a Colombian commu- nity and has exposed other Latino groups to the distinct issues and cultures presented by Colombians (Davis 2002). The resiliency of such behaviors and tastes over time—as well as the persistence of Spanish-language dominance among this overwhelmingly foreign-born population—remains to be seen, however. While it might be reasonable to expect that if immigration trends re- main constant in the future, then language preference and other cultural be- haviors will continue to be reproduced in the U.S. context, though if migra- tion flows are constrained by increasing U.S. security measures, the future is more uncertain.

Class divisions and other differences in social capital among South Ameri- can migrants will also probably play an important role in the ways new im- migrants and their children become socialized in the United States. Of course, until recently, the general socioeconomic profile of South American residents of the United States has been more in line with Cubans than with any other Latino group. Thus, just as the Cuban experience had until recently largely been seen as lying outside the “typical” Latino experience in American socie- ty, South Americans were largely seen as exceptions to more general social and

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SOUTH AMERICAN–ORIGIN LATINOS IN THE UNITED STATES

cultural trends. However, current immigration trends indicate that although a significant proportion of the flow of South American migrants continue to originate in the upper socioeconomic strata of Latin American society, the troubled economies and political situations in many countries are just as ob- viously increasing the pressure on working-class individuals to consider emi- grating, either through legal means or through unauthorized channels (Kyle 2000; Guarnizo and Diaz 1999; Julca 2001). If this pattern continues, it may well contribute to a significant social bifurcation in the United States between better-educated, middle-class, and legal South American immigrants, on one end, and less-educated, working-class, and unauthorized migrants on the other. This trend has already been suggested in research on the growing Colombian and Peruvian populations (Guarnizo and Diaz 1999; Julca 2001).

Equally critical to the process and potential direction of the social integra- tion of South American Latinos in the United States are the specific contexts of reception they face, which, of course, deeply influence the ways they ulti- mately fit into the communities in which they settle. For example, in the Southwest the Latino experience has long been strongly shaped, if not actual- ly defined by the presence of a well-established—and growing—Mexican- origin population, whereas in the Northeast, Puerto Ricans and, more recent- ly, Dominicans have strongly influenced the character both of local Latino communities and the local variants of latinidad that have emerged in those communities. Thus, population densities and ratios and the geographic loca- tion of South American settlement can be expected to play key roles in the ways they will relate to other Latino groups and to the modes of cultural iden- tity and expression that emerge as a result.3

The settlement and residential patterns among South American Latinos are of significant interest because, unlike the other three Latino groups, they are not geographically concentrated in one particular region or state of the coun- try. Table 5 lists the sixteen states with the largest populations of South Amer- ican Latinos. As the table indicates, their largest numerical presence is felt in the states of New York, Florida, California, New Jersey, and Texas. This resi- dential pattern demonstrates that South Americans are currently represented in regions where Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, and Cubans traditionally domi- nate. As a consequence, it is not likely that South Americans will play a key role in the ways local notions and practices of latinidad are conceived of and practiced. Indeed, it may well prove the case that in areas where South Amer- icans settle next to existing Latino populations, they will adjust to prevailing Latino patterns of acculturation and social interaction. For example, in Los Angeles, entrepreneurial Colombian immigrants tend to cater their business- es to Mexicans and Central Americans rather than other South Americans (Guarnizo, Sánchez, and Roach 1999).

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TABLE 5 Composition of U.S. Latino Population by Country/Region for Top 16 States, 2000

% % % PUERTO % % % % TOTAL

STATE S. AMERICAN MEXICAN RICAN CUBAN DOMINICAN C. AMERICAN OTHER LATINOS

New York 16.25 9.57 38.63 2.30 22.75 9.32 1.17 2,867,583

Florida 16.67 14.39 19.03 32.60 3.99 11.22 2.10 2,682,715

California 2.73 84.07 1.41 0.72 0.09 9.54 1.44 10,966,556

New Jersey 23.02 9.64 34.47 7.25 12.83 10.39 2.40 1,117,191

Texas 1.61 89.70 1.20 0.44 0.14 4.28 2.63 6,669,666

Virginia 19.56 23.90 13.45 2.71 1.80 35.29 3.29 329,540

Illinois 3.88 79.04 10.89 1.27 0.30 3.93 0.70 1,530,262

Connecticut 13.70 7.64 63.33 2.32 4.16 5.56 3.29 320,323

Massachusetts 10.19 5.52 49.29 2.19 17.18 13.40 2.24 428,729

Maryland 18.82 18.74 12.08 3.17 4.06 39.83 3.29 227,916

Pennsylvania 7.98 14.97 62.56 2.85 5.28 4.33 2.03 394,088

Georgia 6.80 66.46 8.66 3.05 1.14 10.61 3.29 435,227

North Carolina 5.07 68.22 8.66 2.05 1.14 11.57 3.29 378,963

Arizona 1.48 92.67 1.55 0.46 0.16 2.24 1.44 1,295,617

Rhode Island 14.02 6.82 29.35 1.31 27.73 17.48 3.29 90,820

Louisiana 8.38 33.47 7.99 8.82 1.91 36.12 3.29 107,738

Source: Logan 2001, table 4.

However, another important relationship to examine is where South Amer- ican Latinos constitute the largest share of a local U.S.-Latino population be- cause in such places it is much more likely that the construction of latinidad will be substantively different than in a locale like the state of Arizona, for ex- ample, where Mexican-origin Latinos obviously dominate the group. Al- though more research is needed to confirm this, one can already see the emer- gence of new, hybrid forms of latinidad—expressed in language, cuisine, dress, music, dance, art, literature, and in increasing rates of inter-Latino part- nering and intermarriage—in the cities of the Northeast and in other urban areas where no single Latino national subpopulation predominates. Indeed, in cities like Washington, D.C., Miami, Houston, and parts of the San Francisco Bay Area, separate nationality-group clusters continue to form loose-knit communities, but they are otherwise drawn together in new, syncretic, Spanish-language-based cultural contexts. Not surprisingly, in such contexts South American Latinos are probably much more likely to be incorporated into a process of adaptation and acculturation that is pan-ethnic in nature, al- though it must be kept in mind that the maintenance of strong ties with their countries of origin will probably continue to exist simultaneously. In the end, however, the complexity and uncertainty of such dynamic processes must be kept in mind before we attempt to make any hard and fast predictions about the future orientations and behaviors of South American Latinos in the Unit- ed States. As the political scientist Michael Jones-Correa has noted in his re- cent study of Latino politics in New York City:

Ethnic choices are made not only on the basis of the immediate context, but also on the basis of previous contexts which may appear at first glance to be no longer relevant. This is particularly the case with immigrants. Latin Amer- ican immigrants’ ethnic identities are shaped not just by the choices they make in the United States, but also by the weight of identity choices made in the past. Previous constructions of identity have a kind of inertia to them; they become the raw materials for ethnic choices and ethnic politics in the United States. . . . These continuities, however, do not play out in any straightforward fashion: identities submerged in the home countries can resurface, and previ- ous identities can take on a different significance in a new context.

(Jones-Correa 1998: 122)

THE SECOND GENERATION

It may well be, however, that the best predictor of the future of South Amer- ican Latinos in the United States lies with their U.S.-born children. The avail-

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able statistics show that for South American Latinos, approximately 26 per- cent are born in the United States (Logan 2002). With the bulk of South American immigration occurring after 1980, children born in the United States to this cohort are most likely to be under the age of eighteen and still living at home with their immigrant parents. Consequently, it is reasonable to expect their socioeconomic integration will be strongly shaped both by their parents’ own experience and by the powerful influences of American con- sumer culture as they grow up as Latinos in the United States. However, sev- eral questions arise concerning the potential social trajectories of the so-called second-generation Latinos of South American heritage. On the most funda- mental level, a question is raised about whether or not the higher socioeco- nomic status of many South American immigrants will allow their children to take advantage of their relative “head start” by leveraging their access to high- er levels of social capital to achieve higher levels of education and social mo- bility in U.S. society. Again, given the relatively short time a sizable South American population has been in the United States, it may be too soon to pre- dict answers to this question.4

However, the existing literature on other immigrant groups such as Mexi- cans and black migrants from the Caribbean suggests, contrary to popular myth about the workings of the American “melting pot,” that those main- taining stronger ties to their immigrant backgrounds are more likely to expe- rience upward social mobility, whereas those identifying with established eth- nic groups (i.e., U.S.-born Chicanos in the case of ethnic Mexicans and African Americans in the case of Caribbean settlers) are more likely to adopt adversarial views of the United States, develop antisocial or oppositional be- haviors, and, ultimately, experience downward assimilation (Portes and Rum- baut 2001; Zhou 2001; Waters 1996; Suárez-Orozco and Suárez-Orozco 1995). Indeed, unlike the case of South Americans, who are scattered in communi- ties across the United States, part of the success of the Cuban community has been attributed to its cohesion, even across generations. Thus, if South Amer- ican Latinos follow the trajectory of other second-generation groups, their so- cioeconomic outcomes will be highly dependent on how they come to identi- fy and affiliate themselves within their own community and other groups (including both U.S. “minorities” and non-Latino whites).

An examination of intermarriage rates may provide some initial hints about the possible future orientation and self-identification of South American Lati- nos. Much more research needs to be done in this vital area, but according to one recent study on intermarriage among various Latino subgroups based on New York City, using data in 1991, South American immigrants (who were counted in this study as one group) were shown to have the lowest rates of in- termarriage (Gilbertson, Fitzpatrick, and Yang 1996).5 However, intermarriage

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rates among second-generation South American Latinos in New York City sig- nificantly increased, to the extent that fully 70 percent reported their spouse’s background from a different Latino group or as non-Hispanic.

Based on this 1991 study of South American adults, it can be speculated that there are at least two possible trajectories of integration for this group. First, for those high-status South American settlers who can successfully cross lines of “race” and culture through intermarriage and incorporation into main- stream U.S. institutions, the process of integration may well mimic the expe- rience of previous generations of “white” European immigrants. Again, re- search on this question is thin, but given the substantial intermarriage rates of South American Latinos with non-Hispanics in New York City, there does seem to be some evidence to support this view (Gilbertson, Fitzpatrick, and Yang 1996). On the other hand, given the many cultural, linguistic, and his- torical commonalities that bind South American Latinos, many may choose to identify themselves as part an emerging pan-ethnic Latino group. Howev- er, there are risks associated with this strategy, especially for working-class members of the growing South American Latino population. As noted briefly above, if research findings for other “native” Latino populations can be ap- plied to more recently arrived South American Latinos, their life-chances and patterns of acculturation may be adversely influenced by the socioeconomic status of the Latino group dominant in a particular locale. For example, if the overall low economic status of Puerto Ricans and Dominicans in New York City is considered, South American Latinos who choose to associate and affil- iate with such populations may be more likely to experience social pressures that lead to “segmented assimilation” and downward mobility.6

There is also recent evidence that second-generation South American Lati- nos identify with their parents’ country of origin. Again, in New York City, where there is a substantial community of Colombians, Ecuadorians, and Pe- ruvians, research shows that these U.S.-born Latinos maintain active ties with their parents’ countries of origin via regular trips to these South American na- tions, personal remittances to family members abroad, and participation in U.S.-based ethnic organizations (Kasinitz et al. 2002). Thus, it may be that in addition to a pan-ethnic identity, ties with their parent’s country of origin may also serve to buffer some risks of “downward” assimilation.

CONCLUSION

The diverse experiences of South American Latinos highlight the increasing complexity of the social terrain on which the construction of Latino identities in the United States will occur in the years to come. This brief review of the

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South American–origin population’s demographic characteristics, socioeco- nomic profiles, immigration history, and settlement patterns immediately re- veals the internal heterogeneity within the category of “South American Lati- nos.” Although the comparatively skewed class background of the extant South American Latino population virtually assures that middle-class indi- viduals will continue to enjoy advantages unavailable to most other U.S. Lati- nos (with the possible exception of ethnic Cubans), the unsettledness of the South American social, economic, and political environments—and the sim- ilarly unsettled nature of U.S. society in the first years of the twenty-first cen- tury—also raises significant questions about the future social trajectories of South American Latinos. As the other chapters of this volume indicate, as in- triguing as these issues are to observers of the ongoing “Latinization” of the United States, at this point the definitive answers to these questions will be- come clear only with the passage of time.

NOTES

1. I use the simulated totals calculated by Cresce and Ramírez rather than the official

U.S. Census totals because the simulated totals include individuals who self-

identified as Hispanic, self-identified into a specific group, and those who reported

a place of birth or ancestry of “Hispanic” origin.

2. For insightful journalistic discussion on these increasingly complex and politically

charged issues, see, for example, The Economist, 18 September 2003, on Cancún;

Larry Rohter, “Bolivian Peasants’ ‘Ideology of Fury’ Still Smolders,” New York

Times, 20 October 2003; and Tony Smith, “Argentina and Brazil Align to Fight U.S.

Trade Policy,” New York Times, 21 October 2003.

3. For discussion of this process in a larger context, see Frances R. Aparicio, chapter

9, this volume.

4. For general discussions of the issues associated with the so-called second genera-

tion, see Portes 1996; Rumbaut and Portes 2001; and Portes and Rumbaut 2001.

5. Although this rate can be interpreted as evidence that South American immigrants

maintain company within their own country-of-origin group, it can also be mis-

leading, given that it is not clear from the statistics if, for example, Colombians are

marrying Colombians or Colombians are marrying Peruvians. Nonetheless, it can

be safely assumed that there is some cohesion present at the regional level.

6. For discussion of a similar line of argument, see David. G. Gutiérrez, introduction

and chapter 1, this volume.

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SEVEN

GENDER AND THE LATINO EXPERIENCE IN

LATE-TWENTIETH-CENTURY AMERICA

PIERRETTE HONDAGNEU-SOTELO

WHAT TOPIC could be more expansive, slippery, and unwieldy than a discus- sion of the contours and tenor of gender relations among Latino groups in the United States at the end of the twentieth century? To begin with, the title of this chapter is a misnomer: there is no one, singular Latina or Latino experi- ence in the United States. This has always been the case, but given the diver- sity of individuals and groups who take shelter under the contemporary Lati- no umbrella, this is probably truer at this moment than ever before. Similarly, as a result of major advances in the conceptualization and practice of gender studies over roughly the same period, the simplistic binaries that were once used as tools to understand gender—such as “male and female sex roles,” “gay and straight,” “modern and traditional”—no longer hold up. Although the questioning of old categorical distinctions has been a positive move, advanc- ing our thinking about gender, it has also exposed new ambiguities and raised new questions, which, while they may indeed better reflect how the social world operates, inject new uncertainties.

Taking this ever-shifting terrain into account, this essay is an attempt to pro- vide an overview of the changing dynamics of gender in a Latino population that has undergone tremendous transformation over the past forty years and, in the process, has changed the shape of American society. I argue that gender relations among Latinos now exhibit greater gender egalitarianism than was prevalent several decades ago. This transformation has been propelled by the transition away from traditional systems of gender rooted in rural, agrarian so- cieties to modern ones anchored by urbanization, industrialization, and the ex- pansion of education. The effects of this change are exhibited in the increased

participation of Latinas in wage and salaried labor, so that motherhood and breadwinning are now often combined. The trend toward greater equality be- tween Latino women and men is also shaped by general institutional changes in the late-twentieth-century United States. In this context, traditional Latino patriarchal assumptions—that only men can be wage earners, that mother- hood negates wage earning, and that Latina women need not pursue education or participate in politics—have been challenged, both in ideology and practice.

This chapter opens with an introductory discussion about gender systems generally and then turns to an analysis of how gender has been constructed as an integral component of Latino cultures. I then briefly consider how the con- comitant rise of “second-wave” feminism in the United States (and interna- tionally) interacted with rapid demographic change to provide the foundation for important shifts in the structure of gendered systems among Latino pop- ulations in the United States. These shifts are then examined more closely by focusing on the nexus between work and the Latino family, with particular at- tention given to the larger social implications of changes in gender roles in the growing resident Latino population. The chapter concludes with brief and necessarily tentative speculations about the potential trajectory of gendered systems in the Latino population in the near future.

THINKING ABOUT GENDER

Gender refers to the cultural and social aspects of being a man or a woman in a particular place and time. Gender differences typically reflect unequal power arrangements that tend to valorize men and their contributions and traits, and devalue women and their qualities. The conceptualization of gender has come a long way from the period in which gender roles and larger gendered social systems were seen in terms of strict binaries of essential, inherited male traits on the one hand, and female attributes on the other. Early feminist aca- demic scholarship was strongly guided by social psychology, led by the para- digms of socialization and sex roles. According to this view, children learn their appropriate sex roles through a series of behavioral rewards and punish- ments. Proponents of socialization argued that relatively static roles and sanc- tions guide everyday actions and choices, leading women and men to enact behavior which fits the “pink” or “blue” scripts they had been taught as chil- dren. This conditioning also lead people to occupy social spheres neatly di- vided into “the private and the public.” The fundamental insight of early fem- inist scholarship was understanding how these binaries produced differences that were not functional for society—as some had previously claimed (see, for example, Parsons 1954), but which served rather as the basis for inequality and

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male privilege. This allowed feminists to identify and analyze women’s rela- tive powerlessness and to plan strategies for social change.

This was an empowering way for women to see the world, but it also ulti- mately proved to be a limiting one. It tended to ignore how large-scale social structures and institutions differentially place women and men in society, and it located the origins of gender differences primarily in early socialization and in individual personality. This produced a static picture, suggesting that what happens in one’s childhood fixes adult agency. Logically, this led to the con- clusion that changing early childhood experiences could eradicate sexism. Sexism was erroneously identified as a primarily individual, rather than as a social and institutional, practice. Another problem with these early approach- es is that they tended to reduce gender to a dichotomy consisting of men’s privilege and domination versus women’s victimization and subordination. “Women” and “men” were polarized as opposite, essentialized categories, each with particular characteristics and experiences.

The last twenty to thirty years of feminist scholarship have complicated these static binaries and disrupted these categories, which were previously as- sumed to be universal. Gender is now understood as relatively fluid, plastic, and malleable, and it is more widely accepted as a dynamic process unfolding across a broad range of possibilities rather than as an invariant category. As many studies have shown, social scripts inherited from childhood and main- stream cultural ideals about how women should act are often transgressed. As those working from a perspective of symbolic interactionism have suggested, it may be more accurate to analyze how people actually “do gender,” as peo- ple constantly reconstruct, enact, and perform gender differences and displays (West and Zimmerman 1987). In this view, gender is a routine and recurring accomplishment that is learned, contested, and relearned every day.

Feminist scholars today pay more attention to both differences and simi- larities among women and men—and between them. Driven by heightened awareness of the manner in which race, class, and gender intersect and inter- act to shape women’s and men’s social locations, we now see that not all women are similarly subordinated and not all men occupy social positions of power and status. Similarly, there is heightened awareness that men routinely exhibit what were once considered “feminine” traits and that women rou- tinely adopt what were once widely thought to be exclusively “masculine” be- haviors, and this obviously has stimulated a profound rethinking about how gender roles are constructed, maintained, and changed over time. Scholarship conducted by “other” women—women of color and lesbians in particular, in- cluding many Latina scholars, social critics, and essayists—has helped to rem- edy earlier essentialized views of gender, and so has the move away from the focus on individuals to a greater recognition of how macrolevel structural

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forces and social institutions, such as the economy, the class system, colonial legacies, different levels of educational attainment, politics, and religion, and other factors shape and constrain gendered behavior (see, for example, Baca Zinn et al. 1986; Anzaldúa 1987).

It is important to note that not all women are similarly situated at the bot- tom of social hierarchies, and not all men occupy positions of privilege, au- thority and status. The intersection and interaction of race, class, and gender are critical to understanding contemporary relations between and among women and men. When focusing on Latinos in the United States, a large pro- portion of whom are foreign-born, we need to take into consideration the manner in which hierarchies of citizenship and global inequalities also inform gender relations, a topic that is addressed below.

THE LATINO CULTURAL CONTEXT

Gender relations are imbued with, but not dictated by, cultural mandates. This is an important point to emphasize because for many years, Mexican Americans, other Latinos, and Latin Americans generally were conceived of and studied as racial ethnic groups whose behavior was seen as primarily or even solely determined by cultural legacies and mandates. The ideas that Lati- nos are fatalistic, more collectively and family-oriented than individualistic, and passive rather than active run deep in many texts written before the civil- rights and second-wave feminist movements compelled serious rethinking of such assumptions. In many cases, these putative cultural traits were used to rationalize or explain both the existence of deep levels of social inequality in the Spanish-speaking nations of Latin America and Latino subordination, poverty, and social deviance in the United States.

Many Americans are acquainted with the traditional gender prescriptions of Latino and Latin American culture. Although scholars have conclusively demonstrated that these have always been contested in the ways people live their lives (Baca Zinn 1980; Deutsch 1987; Pescatello 1973; Stevens 1973), movies, television, and other mass media outlets still readily reproduce these caricature-like images in monolithic strokes (Fregoso 1993). Still, as much of these images are based on invidious stereotypes, one can argue that tradition- al Latin American gendered systems have been characterized by a situation in which women were expected to be subservient and defer to the wishes of men, male children typically occupied positions of relatively higher status within families, and women’s sexuality and “honor” were considered areas of family life over which strict control should be maintained. For women and girls, these cultural mandates traditionally have been modeled on the Catholic Vir-

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gin. Traditional gender rules emanating from the figure of the Virgin pre- scribe dependence, subordination, selfless devotion to family, bodily modesty and shame, acceptance of surveillance, restricted spatial mobility, and pre- marital virginity. The last serves as both a symbol of desirable femininity and the axis on which family honor hinges. For boys and men, ideals of machismo call for men to be sexually assertive, independent, and emotionally restrained and to wield authority over wives and children. These cultural mandates de- rive largely from preindustrial Latin American agrarian societies. Their origins lie in Spanish culture (itself influenced by the Islamic Moors), Catholicism, the conquest of the indigenous peoples of the Americas, and the subsequent society of mestizos (people of mixed heritage).

Latino culture is now seen as far more diverse, plastic, and fluid than in these earlier approaches and, for reasons that will be discussed in more detail below, this is particularly true of Latinos in the United States—although gen- der relations in Latin America have also undergone radical shifts in recent decades. In the United States, it is probably more accurate to talk about Lati- no cultural traditions as a plurality shaped by distinctive national, regional, and class formations, rather than as a monolithic entity. It is undeniable that cultural mandates have loomed large historically in Latino gender relations and that they require close attention and interrogation in any analysis of con- temporary gender systems. Once again, however, it is important to keep in mind that “culture” remains open to change by structural forces and social in- stitutions, and human agency is never dictated. In this regard, it is useful to think of cultural mandates as serving more as socially constructed prescrip- tions about what should be, and less as accurate, objective, or empirical de- scriptions of social life as it is actually lived by women and men. As normative prescriptions for social behavior, they are sometimes used less as scripts and more as metrics for resistance and transgression. In other words, people may react to, rather than enact, specific cultural dictates. In other instances, as il- lustrated in the following section, familiar cultural icons and symbols take on new meanings.

For example, in an empirical study of how young Mexican American women in Texas view La Virgen de Guadalupe (the patron saint of Mexico and, by ex- tension, of Mexican Americans), theologian Jeanette Rodríguez (1994) found that this important religious figure, which could be interpreted as a represen- tation of traditional cultural mandates of subordination and modesty, is now seen very differently by young women. Unlike their forebears, contemporary women were more likely to embrace and interpret la Virgen as a symbol of strength and quiet determination rather than as a symbol of passive subordi- nation. Not all Latinas and Latinos in the contemporary period share and cel- ebrate these views. Deep disagreements about cultural values related to sex and

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gender remain, and these different positions have provoked contentious bat- tles. When la Virgen is promoted as an independent and strong image of Lati- na indigenous womanhood, that image may threaten elements of the Latino, Catholic, patriarchal status quo. In 2001, when one Chicana feminist artist, Alma López, exhibited a work of art representing la Virgen with exposed legs and stomach, also depicting a female angel’s bare breasts, religious and com- munity leaders in New Mexico organized a protest to censor and remove this piece of art from a museum. While the artist saw her depiction of la Virgen as portraying “beauty and strength,” López contends that the male leaders who protested it described it as “blasphemy, sacrilegious, the devil, a tart, a stripper” (A. López 2001: 255). Clearly, cultural and religious mandates regarding gender and sexuality remain deeply contested areas among Latinos in the contempo- rary period, and bitter battles will almost certainly continue to emerge over at- tempts to impose one meaning over another.

Still, in other cases people may cling to particular cultural values of gender but find that the social resources for the realization of these values are not ac- cessible. This is illustrated by the case of Latina women who may cling to the belief that a woman’s place is in the home but out of necessity may actively en- gage with public institutions through employment, social services, or other community institutions (Fernández-Kelly and García 1997; Menjívar 2000; Pessar 1995; Prieto 1992). In all of these instances, it is important to keep in mind the power of human agency to challenge and transform culture, and the malleability of cultural values and mandates.

THE IMPORTANCE OF IMMIGRATION AND U.S. FEMINISM FOR THE STRUCTURING OF LATINO GENDER SYSTEMS

The power of human agency in the face of a rapidly changing environment is perhaps most clearly seen in the gendered transitions that have occurred as a result of the interaction of massive population movements from Latin Amer- ica to the United States and the concomitant demographic revolution that has resulted in what is arguably a significantly more open gendered society in the United States. As I have noted in other work, two of the most radically trans- formative forces in recasting contemporary life in the United States are femi- nism and immigration (Hondagneu-Sotelo 2000). After a mid-twentieth- century hiatus in immigration, the last three decades of the twentieth century witnessed a vigorous resurgence of migration to the United States. As many commentators in this volume and elsewhere have observed, new immigrants now mostly hail not from Europe, as they did in the early part of the twenti- eth century, but from Asian, Latin American, and Caribbean nations. This is

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a diverse immigration population, not only with respect to ethnic and na- tional origins, but also in terms of socioeconomic class and legal status. Lati- no immigrants in this period have entered the United States with a diversity of citizenship and legal-status arrangements, with Cubans largely granted and Salvadorans largely denied political refugee status; Puerto Ricans accepted as nominal U.S. citizens due to their nation’s colonial status; and Mexicans, who have migrated in the greatest numbers by far, living in the United States both legally and illegally. Unlike their earlier, European-origin predecessors, U.S. immigrants in the late twentieth century include not only poor, manual work- ers but also substantial segments of entrepreneurs and highly educated urban professionals.

Census figures clearly demonstrate the scope of the changes that have trans- formed U.S. society over that period. In 1960, the U.S. Census counted a pan- Latino population (that is, both native and foreign-born) of only about 7 mil- lion people (Bean and Tienda, 1987: 59). But as David G. Gutiérrez notes in his introduction to this volume, disparities in economic opportunity between the United States and Latin America, political instability in many Latin American nations, and dramatic improvements in communication and transportation technologies laid the foundations for one of the most dramatic epochs of mi- gration in human history. By 1970, the pan-Latino population of the United States grew to 9 million, and by 1980, to 14 million (Delgado and Stefanic 1998: xvii). The pace of migration rapidly accelerated after that. By 1990, the com- bined foreign-born and native population of Latino origin grew to 22 million. By 2000, after one of the most intense periods of immigration in American history, the Latino population had grown to 35 million, or nearly 13 percent of the total population of the United States—and this number did not include the 3.8 million inhabitants of the American Commonwealth of Puerto Rico (see Gutiérrez, chapter 1, this volume).

The historical tendency of both U.S.-born and immigrant Latinos to settle in urban areas greatly magnified the effects of this massive demographic transfor- mation. Immigrants and their families tend to settle in clusters, and, increas- ingly, many big cities have become Latino immigrant cities. According to the 2000 census, more than one-fifth of the entire Latino population of the Unit- ed States live in just four metropolitan areas: Los Angeles County (4.2 million), Miami-Dade County (1.3 million), Harris County, Texas, (1.1 million), and Cook County, Illinois (1.1 million). In eight of the ten largest cities in the Unit- ed States (New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston, Phoenix, San Diego, Dal- las, San Antonio) Latinos now constitute anywhere from a low of 25.4 percent of total populations (in San Diego), to highs of 46.5 percent (Los Angeles) and 58.7 percent (San Antonio) (U.S. Census Bureau 2001: table 36, 39). If one fac- tors in the multiplier effect of the presence and rapid recent expansion of the

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Spanish-language print-media, broadcast conglomerates such as Televisa and Univisión, and the number of Spanish-language radio stations that enjoy lead- ing Arbitron ratings, the reach of Latino cultures in the United States is much greater.

Population growth was so great in the 1980s and 1990s that Latinos began to leave saturated labor markets along the U.S.-Mexico border to seek work and upward mobility in new areas of settlement. Thus Latinos, and especially Latino immigrants, are migrating to work and live in all kinds of rural and small-town areas throughout the United States. Pundits and scholars alike now frequently announce the imminent “browning of the Midwest,” the “La- tinization of the Southeast” and the “Mexicanization of the Northwest.” As the last nomenclature suggests, Mexican immigrants appear to be the ones primarily fueling this trend, as they either leave saturated labor markets and big city problems in Los Angeles or forego the Los Angeles step altogether in favor of new jobs in northwestern apple orchards, Midwestern slaughter houses and packing plants, or southeastern poultry farms and carpet factories. Increasingly, Guatemalans and other Latinos, driven in part by the search for safer schools and communities for their children, are going to Utah and Neva- da to work in factories, hotels, and restaurants, while Salvadorans, who con- centrate in California, Washington, D.C., and Texas, are also found perform- ing low-wage service jobs in suburban Long Island. Similarly, Mexicans, once virtually absent in New York City, have migrated there steadily since the early 1980s, and now constitute a solid occupational niche in New York City flower vending. Throughout the country, industries have restructured in ways that increase their reliance on low-wage immigrant labor from Latin America and the Caribbean. Consequently, gone are the days when textbooks could confi- dently capture Latino geographical dispersion by announcing that “Mexican Americans live in the Southwest,” “Cubans in Miami,” and “Puerto Ricans in the northeast.” Recent international and internal migration patterns have dra- matically challenged these neatly circumscribed intraethnic regional divisions. To be sure, those Latino concentrations continue, but they are now accompa- nied by geographic diversity.

Although it is impossible to predict precisely how this ongoing process of demographic revolution, urbanization, and geographic dispersal will influ- ence the ways in which gendered relations are forged in the increasingly com- plex and variegated Latino population, if trends established in the 1980s and 1990s hold into the future, it seems certain that the Latino presence in the United States will now be situated far and wide, in numerous industries, neighborhoods, and institutions in every one of the fifty states. It also seems most likely that the twenty-first century will witness new levels of public par- ticipation and achievement by Latinas and fewer restrictions on women and

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girls in Latino families. The majority of Latinos in the United States are either immigrants or the children of immigrants, and even here, where we might expect to see more traditional patterns among recent arrivals from the Do- minican Republic, Mexico, El Salvador, and Puerto Rico, we see increasing women’s participation in politics, education, and employment (Goldring 2003; Hardy-Fanta 1993; Hondagneu-Sotelo 1994; Jones-Correa 1998; López 2003; Menjívar 2000). The reasons for these trends are complex. Some of the breakdown of more rigid traditional Latino gender roles and systems can be attributed to the cosmopolitan influences of living in urban areas in a post- feminist environment in which more women routinely work out of the home, regularly contribute to their own and their families’ support, and thus devel- op self-images and expectations that may be dramatically different from those learned in more traditional, rural environments in Latin America. The in- creasing fluidity of gender roles and systems can also be partially attributed to the socializing effects of American popular culture and American public edu- cation, no matter how flawed the public education system otherwise is.

But one could also reasonably argue that it is the legacy of the second-wave feminist movement of the 1960s and 1970s that has most effected change in gendered systems in the United States—and that this sea change has had a strong residual effect of creating opportunities for Latinas in their relations with men, and in the range of possible roles they can now play in society gen- erally. Feminism has provoked far-reaching transformations on the social landscape not only in the United States, but also in Latin America, where many countries had feminist political movements in the early twentieth century.1

While those who have promoted feminist social movements in recent decades may rightly surmise that the feminist project of transforming society into a more egalitarian one for women and for all people is far from complete, the expansion of opportunities for many women living in the United States has oc- curred at a staggering pace. Using the mid-twentieth century as a benchmark, it is startling to acknowledge the prevalence, by the late twentieth century, of women, including married women with young children, throughout the paid labor force, and even in the highly coveted professions of law and medicine. While the gendered division of labor at home seems more resistant to change, even on that front there have been important shifts toward greater egalitarian- ism. And as we shall see, these moves toward greater domestic egalitarianism have occurred even in those families believed by many to be the most culture- bound and impervious to social change, Latino families. The direct conse- quences of the organized feminist movements include many features of late- twentieth-century life that many in the United States, especially the young, today take for granted. These include the proliferation of shelters for abused women; legislation criminalizing domestic violence and discrimination against

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women and girls in sports, education, work, and politics; laws against sexual harassment in the work place; and the expansion of reproductive rights.

More circuitous perhaps, but still worth acknowledging, is the role of the Civil Rights Movement in pushing the nation to end all forms of legal dis- crimination, including racial exclusion provisions in immigration law (see Johnson, this volume). After the enactment of the Civil Rights Act in 1964, dramatic changes came about in immigration law, particularly the termina- tion of the Bracero Program agreements for Mexican contract labor for west- ern agriculture at the end of 1964 and the Immigration and Nationality Act Amendments of 1965. This latter piece of legislation conclusively ended racial exclusionary policies that had previously denied entry to Asian immigrants and codified family reunification as the legal basis for obtaining legal perma- nent resident-immigrant status in the United States.

While the Immigration Nationality Act amendments particularly opened up the doors that had previously been closed to Asian immigrants, immi- grants from Latin America also eventually benefited from new provisions in the law that gave high priority to the principle of family reunification. In the Mexican case, for example, this revision allowed wives to immigrate legally after their husbands had obtained legal permanent residency. Although the 1965 act imposed for the first time an annual quota of 120,000 visas for the Western Hemisphere, it importantly allowed former bracero contract work- ers who had legalized through employer certification to legally bring their families to the United States. In recent years, many immigration scholars have cautioned that the 1965 law was neither the sole nor decisive factor in pro- moting this immigration. This is true, as the mass immigration of the late twentieth century has its root causes in structural changes in the global econ- omy and, in particular, in the myriad of economic, military, and political con- nections established between the United States and those nations which even- tually became sources of U.S.-bound migration. The extent to which many foreign-born immigrants could be legally admitted into the country, howev- er, is part of the legacy of the Civil Rights Movement—and of the liberaliza- tion of immigration law that arguably sprang from it (Bach 1978).

THE WORK/FAMILY NEXUS

In any case, the intersection of a more liberal civil-rights and gender-rights environment with the massive growth of the pan-Latino population of the country laid the foundation for significant changes in the structure and prac- tice of gender relations among Latinos. This is perhaps most easily demon- strated by examining the changing relation between work and family in Lati-

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no subcultures. Again, however, in discussing these changes it is important to remember that gender is not a variable like sex (female or male), but rather a relational and constantly contested social system of power. For this reason, I draw on studies based on relatively small samples to illustrate the nuances of Latino gender relations as expressed in families and work. These studies of smaller samples give us a better understanding of the dynamics of gender.

The social construction of gender is fundamentally about power, and, as such, it has important consequences for the distribution of resources and the division of labor. For this reason, the ways in which gender inequalities unfold in families has probably received more attention than any other area in gender scholarship, and this is certainly true of the research on Latinos, a group wide- ly known as being family centered. Studies looking at the relationship between wages and the household division of labor were initially prompted by early de- bates in second-wave feminism, but these were also fueled by concerns among Latina feminists, especially Chicana feminists working in the Chicano move- ment. Before visiting the issues and findings that prevail in the research on gender and Latino families and work, let us consider how this research both di- verges from and approximates feminist research on white families and work.

A good deal of early-1970s second-wave feminism focused on women’s sub- ordination in the home. In The Feminine Mystique (1963), Betty Friedan iden- tified confinement in the private, domestic sphere as the source of oppression for women, but she was really addressing the concerns of specific women— middle-class, college-educated, white women. Women’s housework and ab- sence from the labor force were seen as the universal source of their subordi- nation. Posed in this fashion, “the problem which had no name” seemed readily resolvable with exhortations for women to participate in the public sphere of employment and politics.

As many commentators have since pointed out, Friedan and other 1970s Anglo-American, middle-class feminists of that ilk had overlooked that many working-class women and women of color were already in the paid labor force. Employment had not spawned liberation in the home for working-class women of color. Rather, occupational exploitation and racism in the public sphere had more often made the family a source of refuge. As Maxine Baca Zinn (1975) argued in an early feminist article, for many Chicanas and other Latinas, Latino families are simultaneous sites of patriarchal dominance and racial and class solidarity.

One of the great and lasting contributions of second-wave feminism is the recognition of unpaid housework and care work as work that benefits society. Yet the ways that women of different class and racial or ethnic groups ap- proach housework was not always specified by early feminist scholarship. Among other things, the literature tended to overlook the fact that some elite

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women purchase housework services, and other women—poor women of color and, today, immigrant women of color—perform this work for pay in other people’s homes and without pay in their own homes.

As already noted, a dominant feminist idea held that public employment would lead to all women’s liberation from sexism. This literature overlooked not only the different occupational opportunities available to different groups of women. It also ignored the fact that historically, for some poor and working-class women, remaining outside of the paid labor force and taking care of one’s own home and children were seen as achievements and privi- leges, not as sources of subordination. This has been true for a variety of Lati- nas in the United States. As one Cuban American woman in Miami explained to researchers after accepting employment in the garment trade only for a temporary period, and then only in order to advance family socioeconomic mobility,

there’s no reason for women not to earn a living when it’s necessary; they should have as many opportunities and responsibilities as men. But I also tell my daughter that the strength of a family rests on the intelligence and work of women. It is foolish to give up our place as a mother and a wife only to go take orders from men who aren’t even part of your family. What’s so liberated about that? It is better to see your husband succeed and to know you have supported one another.

(Fernández-Kelly and García 1997: 225)

When women face racial discrimination, sexism, low wages, and exploitative working conditions in the public sphere, staying home sometimes is a welcome respite from those restricted labor-market experiences. One young Mexican immigrant wife and mother of three young sons told me that when her hus- band requested that she withdraw from paid work in a factory, she responded eagerly. She explained her response not only in terms of her husband’s cultur- al mandates, but also with respect to her very limited job opportunities:

He is one of them that likes his woman in the house and coming home to find me here. That’s what they are accustomed to. . . . It seemed fine to me. I didn’t have a job that I liked very much. It wasn’t as though I had an im- portant job, then perhaps I would have preferred to stay [employed].

(Hondagneu-Sotelo 1994: 137).

Class, occupation, and culture mediate the different meanings women experi- ence from public/private divides. One woman’s privilege becomes another’s burden.

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Latinas’ formal labor force participation rates are lower than those of women from other racial- and ethnic- group categories. According to the cen- sus data for 2000, the percentage of Latina women in the labor force reached 56 (Suárez-Orozco and Páez 2002: 27). This figure represents significant up- ward movement from 1973, when 40 percent of Latinas were in the labor force (Moreno and Muller 1996: 39), but both figures are probably underestimates of Latinas income-earning activities. Historically, Latinas have worked in jobs rendered “invisible” by the ways in which they are perceived and performed. Throughout the Southwest, a long historical legacy of Mexican American women working as private domestic workers, laundresses, and migrant farm workers and in canneries has been obscured. These sorts of jobs simply do not fit with models of nineteenth- and twentieth-century industrial employment. When women hold paying jobs that are performed on a seasonal schedule, on a part-time basis, or actually in the home, as are contemporary childcare and industrial home work in the garment industry, these jobs also do not seem to “count” as jobs. Similarly, when women work in the informal, unregulated sector of the economy, their income-generating activities are not likely to be counted by the census or other official surveys. Still, it is significant that Lati- nas continue to have lower rates of labor force participation than do white, black, and Asian American women in the United States.

What informs Latino women’s and men’s decisions, practices, and ideals about work and family arrangements? What explains the diversity of work and family arrangements, and what explains Latina women’s relatively lower labor-force participation rates? Are cultural attitudes the driving force, or is it social structure and its attendant arrays of institutions, resources, and rules, which prove to be the determining factor? Debates over Latinas’ approach to work and family negotiations have often been posed this starkly, although the answers are never so simple. On the one hand, a long legacy of Eurocentric social-science scholarship has located explanations for all factors of social life among Latinos in a paradigm of cultural deficiency. Assumptions of tradi- tional values and fatalism have fueled a long legacy of research based on “blame-the-victim” cultural deficiency models. Chicana and other Latina so- cial scientists writing in the late twentieth century have countered this view with one that places strong emphasis on social structure, discrimination, and material resources. Research by feminist Chicana social scientists has consis- tently countered the cultural explanations with indicators of the structural impediments to full equality for Latina women in the United States (Baca Zinn 1975, 1994; Ybarra 1982; Zavella, 1987).

While it remains true that wives, regardless of employment, class, and racial or ethnic group, still do the majority of household work, change has clearly occurred in recent decades. Still, compared to patterns that prevailed fifty

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years ago, men in the United States, acting as fathers and husbands, have begun to take on some housework responsibilities. What explains men’s will- ingness to do so?

A large body of research suggests that the amount of money that spouses earn shapes household divisions of labor. This correlation between women’s employment and men’s increased involvement in household chores holds true in Latino families, although studies disagree on the extent to which these modest changes reach meaningful levels. In a study based on in-depth inter- views with twenty middle-income Chicano couples in southern California, for example, sociologists Scott Coltrane and Elsa Valdez (1997) found that relative incomes earned by spouses proved to be a good predictor of spousal partici- pation in household chores. When Chicano men earn substantially more than their wives, they are less likely to perform a substantial amount of housework and child rearing. When Chicano men earn less than their wives and when their careers have been stymied, their wives seem to encourage more success- fully their husbands’ participation in housework and active child rearing. Consistent with a broad array of other studies, sociologists Coltrane and Valdez found men taking more responsibility in the arena of child rearing and less in the poorly visible and less rewarding work of house cleaning.

However, in another study of Chicano dual-earner families (Pesquera 1993), the researcher found that while the earning gap between husbands and wives shapes household arrangements, it is not the only factor. This study in- dicates that occupational positions held by the wives also determined the ex- tent to which Chicano men in the research sample performed housework. When this researcher compared housework arrangements among Chicana professionals, clerical workers, and blue-collar workers, she found that the professionals and blue-collar workers had the highest expectations for their husbands’ participation in household labor, while women clerical workers clung closely to traditional ideological tenets that allocate housework to women. Accordingly, not only relative earnings, but also ideological stances, occupation, and work schedules influence who does what in the home.

Among a group of undocumented Mexican immigrant families residing in northern California, my own research (Hondagneu-Sotelo 1994) reveals sub- stantial modifications in household gender arrangements, mostly in the di- rection of greater gender egalitarianism. In general, the Mexican immigrant women seem to make great strides in achieving greater spatial mobility, greater say in family decision-making processes, and, in some important cases, in achieving a more equitable division of household labor. While other studies about gender and Latino immigrants view women’s employment and earnings in the United States as the primary catalyst for these changes, I be- lieve that migration processes themselves are also critical to the reconstruction

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of gender relations in the United States. When husbands and wives are sepa- rated for long periods of time during the early stages of immigration, spousal separation mandates that men will have to take some responsibility for their own daily upkeep (cooking, cleaning, laundry) and women will face new ob- ligations previously the domain of their husbands (decision making, budget- ing, mediating public encounters). These transformative experiences inform the gendered division of household labor when the family is reunited.

Latinas are not a monolithic group, however, and hence we see tremendous variety in the ways in which work and family issues are negotiated (Baca Zinn 1994). In the last decades of the twentieth century, in an era defined by high rates of middle-class women’s labor-force participation, high rates of migra- tion from Latin American and the Caribbean, and increasingly accentuated in- equalities of wealth and income, new family and work patterns began emerg- ing among Central American, Caribbean, and Mexican migrant women. This pattern, which I have referred to elsewhere as “transnational motherhood,” (Hondagneu-Sotelo 2001; Hondagneu-Sotelo and Avila 1997) involves Latina immigrants’ employment and residence in the United States while their chil- dren and families remain “back home” in their country of origin. Although not confined to women who work as nannies or housekeepers in the United States, it does appear, for reasons specific to the schedules, pay scales, and structures of that job, to be especially salient among this group. For instance, in a non- random survey I conducted among 153 Latina immigrant domestic workers in Los Angeles, fully 40 percent of those who were mothers reported that at least one of their children lived in Mexico or Central America.

Why have thousands of Central American, Caribbean, and, increasingly, Mexican women left their children behind with grandmothers, other female kin, the children’s fathers, or paid caregivers while they themselves migrate to work in the United States? They have responded to the exigencies of a new po- litical economy of globalization, one that has extended the market for clean- ing and caring services. Now that middle-class mothers are in the workforce, relatively privileged families can outsource the work of cleaning and caring to immigrant women from third world nations. This allows these middle-class women, mostly white mothers and wives, the privilege to opt out of their own gender oppression in the home without exhorting middle-class husbands and fathers to share the burden. This, in turn, creates new family inequalities fur- ther down the global class chain, whereby some families are denied face-to- face relations.

These are not altogether new arrangements. In fact, one precursor to these arrangements can be found in the mid-twentieth-century Bracero Program, which in effect legislatively mandated Mexican “absentee fathers” who came to work as contracted agricultural laborers in the United States. This longstanding

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arrangement still occurs today, although it is no longer legislatively mandated. When these men come north and leave their families in Mexico—as they did during the Bracero Program, and as many continue to do today—they are ful- filling their breadwinning obligations toward their families. When women do so, however, they are embarking not only on an immigrant journey, but on a more radical gender-transformative odyssey. As they initiate separations of space and time from their communities of origin and from their homes, chil- dren, and sometimes husbands, they must cope with stigma, guilt, and criticism from others. The ambivalent feelings and new ideological stances that emerge in tandem with these new arrangements are still in formation, but tension is evi- dent. As they wrestle with the contradictions of their lives and beliefs, and as they leave behind their own children to care for the children of strangers in a foreign land, these Latina domestic workers innovate new rhetorical and emo- tional strategies.

Not all families are torn apart by immigration and transnational processes, and some are even brought closer together through their struggles for eco- nomic survival. In the last years of the twentieth century, many Mexican and Central American immigrant families settled into permanent jobs and com- munities in the United States, and as they did, they helped foment a new wave of community unionism. Contrary to the predictions of anti-immigration groups who long feared that immigrant workers would depress wages and weaken organized labor, this new union movement is largely fueled by the ef- forts of U.S.-born Latino workers and Latino immigrant workers from Mexi- co, Central America, and the Caribbean. Organizing as hotel and restaurant workers, as janitors, as drywall installers and other construction workers, and as home health aids, in the late 1990s they have created innovative social- movement strategies for winning demands from their employers. Job de- mands which once centered on wage and hour issues now encompass basic family issues, such as family health insurance and affordable housing.

Economic restructuring, as Cynthia Cranford’s (2000) research indicates, provides the backdrop for the emergence of these developments. As the office- janitorial industry was increasingly subcontracted to smaller firms through- out the 1970s and 1980s, small competitive office-cleaning businesses recruit- ed Mexican and Central American immigrant men and women as favored employees. The wages were typically lower than those that had been paid to U.S.-born men, the former workers in this occupation. As relatively newly ar- rived immigrants with dire financial needs, these immigrant workers often had no alternatives but to accept these low-wage, downgraded, dead-end jobs. In the process, the janitorial occupation has undergone a radical transforma- tion, as it is now a job, in Los Angeles at least, which is institutionally occu- pied by Latino immigrant men and women. In recent years, guided by the ef-

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forts of some very talented organizers, these workers have struggled to im- prove the quality of their jobs and pay, and, in the process, both labor organ- izing and familiar work/family arrangements have changed.

In Los Angeles, the creative, militant efforts of one very successful union, the Service Employees International Union’s (SEIU) “Justice for Janitors” cam- paign organized vociferous street protests in some of the toniest corporate business districts of southern California. Throughout the 1990s, in the shadows of high-rise corporate centers in Century City, Westwood, and in downtown Los Angeles, immigrant Latinos wearing brightly colored union T-shirts, and together with their children, have taken to the streets with demands for work- place fairness and economic justice. These protests culminated in a large gen- eral strike during the spring of 2000. In the process, old patterns of work and family relations have fallen by the wayside.

Fieldwork conducted by Cynthia Cranford on the union movement of Jus- tice for Janitors in Los Angeles during the late 1990s chronicles a host of inno- vative public-protest methods and new work-family-union arrangements. As women have taken to the street to shout out their demands, men have taken on greater responsibilities for children and household. And in the process, all kinds of domestic tasks have moved from the home to the streets. Particularly telling is Cranford’s rendition of how the work of caring for small children, generally associated with women and conducted in the private sphere of home, is today extended into the public sphere by striking Latino male workers:

I noted varying degrees of men’s mothering among couples of janitors. For example, at one march a woman was pushing a stroller with a small child in it around the line. After a short while, she rolled the stroller over to a man who was handing out flyers to tenants, who attached his picket sign to the stroller. As the child lay in the stroller, asleep, the man continued to hand out flyers. On a different occasion, a (married) couple of janitors brought three children with them. The woman walked the picket line with two chil- dren who looked about 5 and 7. The man looked after an infant in a stroller as he handed out flyers. This man had to engage in more mothering than the one mentioned above. When the baby began to fidget, then cry loudly the man picked her up and . . . continued to hand out flyers with the child in one arm.

(Cranford, 2000: 35).

Street scenes from contemporary Los Angeles suggest a revival of similar transformations, witnessed in the classic 1954 movie Salt of the Earth. The fic- tionalized movie, based on a real labor struggle of Mexican Americans in New Mexico, chronicled a miners’ strike that occurred in the early 1950s. A unique

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product of the mining families and blacklisted Hollywood movie makers, the film still surprises contemporary audiences with its progressive views on how racism, sexism, and class exploitation work together.

In the movie, Mexican American miners initially exclude from their organ- izing campaign their wives and their wives’ demands for better housing, run- ning water, and sanitation. Once it becomes apparent that the labor struggle can only be won with the effort of the women, the women take over the pick- et lines, and the men are relegated to passively sitting on the sidelines, hold- ing babies. When their wives are then jailed, they shout out and demand from their jailers the basic rights of social reproduction. In one memorable scene, jailed women and children shout out, “We want the [baby] formula,” and chant, bang on the jail bars, and raise their voices to demand food, beds, and bathrooms: “Queremos comida. . . . Queremos camas. . . . Queremos baños.” After the men are forced to do the housework on their own, their political de- mands change, and they too demand hot running water and learn to see that unpaid housework is work too. As one husband says to another as they are hanging laundry out to dry when the women are in jail, “There’s two kinds of slavery, wage slavery and domestic slavery.”

Scenes from contemporary Los Angeles of the striking janitors and from Salt of the Earth are certainly not necessarily representative of Latino work and family arrangements, but they do provide striking illustrations of how old pat- terns of household labor may rupture during moments of accelerated social change. During heightened moments of social- and labor-movement protest, familiar, taken-for-granted, gendered divisions of labor may be deeply con- tested. Old ideas about who should do what may be contested ideologically or simply by the urgencies of the moment.

Critical to this process may be the erosion of occupational segregation by sex in low-wage jobs. Here again, the janitorial industry serves as an impor- tant exemplar. Latina immigrant janitors are working in low-paid, low-status jobs, but these are not stereotypically “female jobs.” Unlike clerical jobs in an earlier era, janitorial jobs do not appear to be on the road to becoming “fem- inized” and deskilled. In fact, workers are organizing to upgrade their jobs and wages and to win basic job benefits. The absence of occupational segregation by sex, the job scheduling, and the relative equality in wages may open the door to more equitable household divisions of labor. While these sorts of pat- terns may emerge among unionized Latino immigrant workers with stable jobs, or among Mexican American middle-class families, the picture at the bottom of the socioeconomic ladder is less encouraging. The proliferation of female-headed households and endemic poverty among Latino immigrant workers, and among U.S.-born Chicanos and Puerto Ricans unable to get a foothold in the U.S. economy, does not suggest a trend toward great gender

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egalitarianism, but rather new entrenched patterns of poverty, and of race and gender subordination.

CONCLUSION

This essay has sketched out an overview of some of the ways in which gender informs work and family arrangements among Latinos in the United States, with a focus particularly on the largest and fasting growing segment of the Latino population—the new Latino immigrants from Mexico and Central America. While gender egalitarianism has not been attained among Latinos— or any other racial or ethnic group in the United States—we have seen, in the twentieth century, a definitive movement toward a greater plurality of gender arrangements and a general trend toward greater gender parity in the work- place and in many families. A new plurality of family and work arrangements prevails even within groups, defying easy generalizing statements.

How will the complexities of globalization and the United States’ position within the larger world economy shape gender and social relations among Latinos in the years that lie ahead? My speculations hinge on the growth of Latinos in the United States, their continuing geographical diversification, and on new patterns of employment prompted by globalization. The Latino population in the United States is now hailed as the United States’ largest “mi- nority” group, outnumbering African Americans; most demographers believe the Latino numbers will continue to grow. Accompanying this trend, as we have seen, is increasing Latino geographical diversity and occupational diver- sity. This last factor, I believe, will prove critical in reconstructing and remak- ing Latino gender relations.

In this new context of globalization, we can expect to see still more in- creases in the rates of salaried and wage employment for Latinas. Many Latinas will be working in the lower echelons of our burgeoning service in- dustry, while a few will occupy key positions in the professions and in busi- ness. Alongside college-educated, bilingual, and bicultural Latina profes- sionals and managers—some of whom will take key jobs in the command posts of globalization—we will see a much larger cohort of Latinas, many of them new immigrants, toiling in a broad spectrum of service jobs in hotels, restaurants, hospitals, offices, convalescent homes, and private residences. In this regard, as I have noted elsewhere (Hondagneu-Sotelo 2001, 2002), today’s gendered demand for immigrant labor is quite different than nineteenth- and earlier-twentieth-century patterns, where Asian, European, and Mexican male workers were recruited for manufacturing and primary extractive industries. Globalization has remade the United States so that it

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cannot function without immigrant labor, and especially without female immigrant labor. Braceras in homes and hospitals have replaced the braceros of yesterday. In this context, family and gender relations are being renegotiated in a myriad of ways.

In spite of the tremors of globalization and the diverse family and work arrangements, some very traditional ideals about how Latino women and men should act still echo throughout various institutions. Across socioeconomic groups, generations, and national/ethnic categories of Latinos, however, strong, patriarchal cultural mandates have been at least destabilized, if not de- throned. To the extent that these changes have come about, they have been prompted less by overt feminist exhortations for gender equality and more by structural changes in the economy. Even when ideas that women belong in the home and men in the workplace remain firmly entrenched, dual-worker fam- ily arrangements make those ideas hard to put into practice. When culture is trumped by class, gender inequalities do not disappear, but their articulations cannot remain the same.

NOTE

1. The first wave of feminism refers to the suffragist movement of the late 1800s and

early 1900s, and the second wave, to the women’s liberation movement of the 1960s

and 1970s. Most Americans are acquainted with the suffragist movement for

women’s rights in the United States, led by Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady

Stanton, yet remain unaware that most Latin American nations had similar

women’s movements in the same historical period. In Puerto Rico, for example,

suffragists and working women organized to promote educational and voting rights

for women in the early twentieth century (Azize-Vargas 2002), and, in Mexico, ad-

vocates for women’s rights held major feminist congresses in Mérida, Yucatán, in

1916 and in Mexico City in 1921 (Cotera 2002).

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EIGHT

FROM BARRIOS TO BARRICADES: RELIGION AND

RELIGIOSITY IN LATINO LIFE

ANTHONY M. STEVENS-ARROYO

INTRODUCTION

The recent history of Latinos in the United States is a tale of social movements that are similar to the earlier Civil Rights Movement among African Ameri- cans. History has recognized the leadership of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. and the central role of the traditional black churches in supplying a forum, eager recruits, and public legitimacy. But while there is recognition of the re- ligious origins of the movement among African Americans, religion is absent from many accounts of contemporary Latino history.1

As I will describe, the churches and the peoples’ religious convictions in the Latino experiences since 1960 have shaped our communities and their collec- tive cultural consciousness and social advancement. While not casting religion as the only factor in the emergence of a Latino community in the United States during the past forty years, this article will underline the religious di- mension in the history examined by other contributors to this volume.

Religion has always been easier to experience than to define. It is a mistake to believe that religion is confined to the four walls of church buildings, the ser- mons of clergy, or the private feelings of pious individuals. The deepest emo- tions about birth and death, sacrifice and heroism, loyalty and companionship, commitment and aspiration are wrapped in religious symbolism. This chapter departs from the premise that religion is a shared legacy that identifies a group with particular values about humanity. But if religion is not to be confined to church buildings and clergy, neither is it invisible, mystical, and completely subjective. By nature, religion binds people together in communitarian actions

that express social values. What a person believes in faith is summoned by re- ligion to praxis in civic space. Traditional religion has often been more en- compassing of value systems, largely because there was less ability in past soci- eties for Latinos to find social institutions that reflected their social cohesion. I would not think it controversial to assert that in the sixteenth century, religion was the major vehicle for collective identity for Aztecs, Mayans, Taínos, and also for the Spaniards who came to the shores of the Americas. Because of these religious origins, Latino cultures today can trace many key elements of tradi- tional expression and social practices to the hybrid Catholicism of the Ameri- can baroque period (Stevens-Arroyo 1998; Weber 1992: 329 ff.). Sixteenth- century Iberian Christianity was syncretized, at times intentionally and at times unwittingly, with the cosmic mix of races, cultures, and languages in the Amer- icas, so that many European traits of Catholicism were changed and native re- ligious experience of the Americas was recast to embrace the doctrines of Christianity. Describing this process as mestizaje, the Mexican American the- ologian Virgilio Elizondo (1992) concludes that this religious mixing has a re- sult analogous to the mixed-blood offspring (mestizo) of an interracial mar- riage: origins and heritage are shared.

Rather than enter into the philosophical definitions of this religious mesti- zaje, it may be more useful to recognize how few problems Latino people have in experiencing it. The expression of religious belief covers every niche in Lati- no society, from the churchgoers singing in processions on Good Friday or gathering families for Sunday school to the Latino pugilists who bless them- selves with the sign of the cross before a boxing match and the gang members who have religious images tatooed on their arms and chests. Decades ago, the vellonera or jukebox at the neighborhood cantina spun out boleros and corri- dos in which God, the Virgin, and the saints were frequently mentioned; today, salsa and rap singers continue that tradition. Latino families turn to re- ligion for baptism, marriage, and burial. Our homes have crosses over the bed and altars with candles and holy pictures or estampillas are found in ceremo- nial niches, especially in the poorest homes (Stevens-Arroyo and Díaz-Stevens 1993a). Latinos revere the unadorned elements of nature by placing earth, rocks, and plants within these sacred spaces. Concern for sexuality and suc- cess often find expression in rituals derived from African religions or from be- liefs in reincarnation and spiritism.

Each of these examples join personal faith with social tradition and aes- thetic expression. Moreover, the old-time religion has been invested with new and vital social meanings, for example, in the contemporary emergence of the Día de los Muertos in Los Angeles, which began as a protest against police bru- tality (Medina 2000a), or the Fiesta de Santiago Apóstol in New York’s Loisai- da neighborhood that celebrates an African heritage. Even people long sepa-

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rated from the four walls that house institutionalized religion often profess a need to nurture themselves by contact with Latino spirituality. Incense burn- ers in Aztec motif and santos, the home-carved images of the saints in the Iberian Catholic style, turn up in unlikely places.

Religious behavior, however, cannot be fully understood without reference to faith, churches, dogma, and clergy. Much as workers and management are linked by factors of economic production, popular and institutional religion are joined in a “religious production” (Maduro 1982). The relationships be- tween the “management” and the “laborers” of religion often wax and wane in accordance with social and historical currents. At times antagonistic, at times collaborative, the institutional and the popular in religion are two as- pects of a single reality. To grasp how religion has affected Latinos, we need to recognize that religion includes two dimensions: the popular, wherein cultur- al religion is operative, and the institutional, wherein religious institutions and agencies serving Latinos formulate policies. I offer here an outline of the processes that produce these kinds of changes, attempting to describe how popular and institutional religion have interacted across class boundaries.

An analogy with contemporary marketing practices may explain how Maduro’s notion of “religious production” applies to the Latino experience. In the 1970s, the Xerox Corporation’s photocopier became so identified with the process that the brand name “xerox” became a word in the English language. Since then, many other firms have improved upon the copy process and ironi- cally the Xerox Corporation faced bankruptcy during the year 2000 because the original invention has been duplicated and surpassed. Despite the sea change in technology and the economy, however, “to xerox a report” still serves as a syn- onym in everyday conversation for “to photocopy a report.” In comparison, many social experiences among Latinos rose from a religious milieu that defined them. A candlelight procession in the barrio to protest gang violence, flowers placed on the spot where a child has been killed by a stray bullet or speeding car, and calls for a “crusade” against drug dealing are all social events that use the symbols and traditions of religion to motivate and mobilize Latinos. Even if today these efforts may be classified as “cultural” or “political,” they are linked to religion much as the photocopy business is to the Xerox Corporation.

It would seem best to concede that religion and culture have overlapping categories in a synthesis that might be termed, “cultural religion” (Stevens- Arroyo 1999). This article attempts to avoid a recurrent temptation to melt down syncretic religious expression to its component parts. Syncretism, I would suggest, is best understood when its ambiguities are accepted as dy- namically interactive.2

The relationships between religious institutions and the people’s cultural religion assume various forms. We have myriad examples in the past of

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church leaders denouncing as “pagan” or “superstitious” the religious prac- tices of Latinos and Latinas acting out their cultural religion. But more re- cently, institutional religion has shown a progressive stance by encouraging and adopting practices of Latino cultural religion as doctrinally acceptable, particularly in ritual practice (see Elizondo and Matovina 1998). Many of these changes can be measured empirically. For instance, we can count how many church buildings today are meeting places for community organizers, information centers for immigrants, and refuges for victims of domestic vio- lence when compared with previous decades. That calculation tells us whether more or less resources are dedicated to serve Latinos. On such an empirical basis, we can then interpret the degree and effectiveness of the church rela- tionship to Latino social needs.

RELIGION AMONG LATINOS AND LATINO RELIGION

Religion with “Latino” as a modifier may be considered as an empirically veri- fiable social experience. Much in the way that a cuisine may be “French” or “Italian,” the Catholic or Methodist faith is enriched by being “Latino” Catholic or “Latino” Methodist. Latino religion, as distinct from Latin American and Euro-American religion, began with conquest by the United States of Texas in the 1830s and continued with the nineteenth-century wars that produced the an- nexations of the Southwest, California, and Puerto Rico. In each of these in- stances, the cultural religion of the people, which had developed under the aegis of Spanish colonial Catholicism, encountered the institutions and agencies of religion from a Protestant and Euro-American United States. It is not within the scope of this chapter to provide a detailed analysis of these annexations, but sev- eral consequences are relevant to this review of history since 1960.

Clearly, by identifying acceptance of the Gospel preached in Protestant churches with the values of individualism, capitalism, democracy, and sepa- ration of church and state, conversion of Latinos to Protestantism strength- ened the process of Americanization. The Spanish state had limited, when it had not prohibited, the establishment of Protestant churches, a legacy which was not much altered even with the rise of anticlerical liberalism in the nine- teenth century in Spain and Mexico. Behind the victorious U.S. troops march- ing into the Latino homelands came the armies of Protestant missionaries, armed with the bible and enjoying the advantages of a Protestant bias in U.S. culture. The annexations of Latino homelands after 1848 and again after 1898 in Puerto Rico launched Protestantism with immediate and often spectacular growth rates that directly parallel the eclipse of Latino cultural traditions and the abolition of Spanish institutions.

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We should be cautious, however, about too easily dismissing the potential for Protestantism to address Latino needs (See Silva Gotay 1997: 330–46; 373–75). In the 1930s during the Great Depression and again in the radical 1960s, liberal Protestants questioned the triumphalism of civil religion in the United States. Although these countermovements were uneven and not with- out contradictions, the logic of education and modernity induced the main- line Protestant churches to adopt progressive stances on civil-rights issues and to open the way for a generation of Latino leaders to receive ministerial train- ing. Thus, the 1960s witnessed the emergence of Latino Protestant spokespeo- ple, many of whom were the children of converts. A generation of Protestant Latino church leaders had been able to acquire the professional qualifications necessary for denominational influence. However, the middle-class status of those in the mainline churches is not always repeated in more conservative Evangelical and Pentecostal denominations. As a result, there are clear class differences among the various Protestant groups, making it difficult to lump them into a single category.

Latino Catholicism took a different route. The nineteenth-century Catholic Church in the United States imposed an “immigrant” paradigm upon the Latino Catholics in the conquered territories of Texas, California, the South- west, and Puerto Rico. By organizing a parish on the basis of language and of- fering services in a specific, non-English European tongue, Catholicism had delivered ministry to Germans, Poles, and Italians arriving in the United States. These churches were called “national parishes” and were contrasted with the territorial parish based on geographic boundaries and in which Eng- lish was used for services and ministry (Vidal 1988). It is understandable, if not excusable, that what had worked to incorporate the Germans, Poles, and Ital- ians into U.S. society was supposed to work as well for Mexicans and Puerto Ricans. National parishes for Latinos were supposed to disappear as soon as the Latinos learned English. There was a clear expectation from Catholic lead- ers that, with time, the English language and American customs would dis- place Spanish, just as among European immigrants, the old country’s tongue and cultural traditions had surrendered to English and Americanization (Dolan 1992: 176–78; 372–73).

However, the Latino Catholics in Texas, California, and the Southwest were not “immigrants”: they were conquered peoples, more like the Irish con- quered by the British or the Poles defeated by Prussians than like the Irish Americans in Boston or the Polish immigrants to Chicago. The imposition of an immigrant paradigm rather than an identification with a nascent irriden- tism of Mexicans and Puerto Ricans constituted U.S. Catholicism’s “original sin,” and an Americanizing attitude penalized the church’s effectiveness in preserving the faith (Stevens-Arroyo 1995). Since there were about as many

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Latino Catholics in 1850 as Euro-American Catholics, the decision to subordi- nate the Latino half of U.S. Catholicism to the Euro-American mode of or- ganization and administration has to be considered a political decision made for the purpose of proving the Americanism of Catholicism rather than for pastoral reasons, which would have sought the best mode of serving the peo- ple of God.

In New Mexico and California, where the Spanish-language churches were the oldest Catholic institutions in the territories, the official policy was to build new English-speaking parish complexes for those who spoke English. In prac- tice, that segregated the Spanish-speaking Mexicans. An ecclesiastical form of Jim Crow was repeated in much of California, Texas, and the Southwest until the 1950s: the institutions were separate but not equal (Dolan and Hinojosa 1994: 133–37). Latinos had either to continue a religious production that was of- ficially subordinated to an Americanizing Catholicism or reject Latino Catholi- cism for the sake of upward mobility. The resistance of Latino Catholic intel- lectuals to this cruel imposition of a Eurocentric Catholicism at the expense of a Latino Catholicism is outlined elsewhere (Stevens-Arroyo 1980). It appears that most Latinos preferred to remain in the “Mexican” churches, even though that produced the anomaly of converting America’s oldest Catholicism into a “foreign” Catholicism that needed missionary attention supported by philan- thropy.3 The process was repeated in its essential details in the takeover of Puerto Rican Catholicism after 1898 (Stevens-Arroyo 1994).

Latinos who clung to their traditions and who preferred to pray in Spanish were shunted to Latino national parishes, much the same as the process for European groups on the way to assimilation. Tomasi’s study of Italian na- tional parishes (1975) shows that, from the perspective of the immigrants, the national parish was usually much more than a temporary home until English was learned. Rather, it became a permanent institution that symbolized the preservation of the language and cultural religion of one’s ethnic nationality. Even for assimilated, second- and third-generation Poles, Italians, and the like, the national church in the old neighborhood was worthy of pilgrimage during ethnic festivals, family reunions, and political troubles.

In somewhat the same way, Latino Catholicism was able to maintain its identity through religious production within the confines of national parish- es. But while this kind of ecclesiastical ghettoization provided a reservoir of Catholic traditions that flowed into Latino identity, it also deepened the sep- aration between Latino popular religion as celebrated in the national parish and an institutionalized Catholic Church that wielded power within U.S. so- ciety and politics. The two were often seen as inimical, so that upward mobil- ity in the institutionalized church came at the price of abandoning Latino cul- tural religion. David F. Gómez describes the hostility he felt as a Latino in a

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Catholic seminary, and he found it impossible in the 1960s to be both Catholic and Latino (Gómez 1973: 15–29). “I discovered,” he said, that “the seminary had prepared me to be a good Catholic priest but not necessarily a good human being” (20).

The Latino “problem” within the U.S. Catholic Church was similar to the Euro-American Catholic dilemma vis à vis the U.S. public. American public opinion had frequently criticized the split loyalty among Catholics who lived in the U.S. but continued to speak the languages and sponsor the politics of the homeland. To which country were Catholics loyal: America or a foreign homeland? And were not all Catholics obliged under pain of sin to obey the pope rather than secular authorities? This questioning was part of the 1960 election-year debate over the Catholicism of John F. Kennedy. And while the Kennedy electoral victory in 1960 indicated an acceptance of Catholicism as part of U.S. civil religion, that response came only after the official church had spent a century suppressing those expressions of Catholicism that did not de- pend upon speaking English.

The process is clearest for the Euro-American Catholics. More prosperous second- generation ethnic families had left the national parish for English- speaking parishes. Such social mobility into the territorial parishes was gener- ally encouraged by the bishops. After World War II, this trend was greatly ac- celerated because of the suburbanization of the children of the European immigrants. Ironically, the movement out of the cities by these Euro- American Catholics created economic opportunities for the Latino Catholics. The urban areas abandoned by the Americanized second- and third- generation immigrant Catholics seeking the suburbs were populated by Lati- nos who had long been U.S. citizens, but whose rural origins had prevented wholesale Americanization.

THE POST–WORLD WAR II URBAN MIGRATIONS

Between 1945 and 1960, most churches had to rethink their existing ministry programs because of the massive postwar migration of Latinos out of rural Texas, New Mexico, and Puerto Rico toward big cities. The Reverend John MacKay of the Presbyterian Church, Father Leo Mahon in Chicago, Arch- bishop Robert Lucey in San Antonio, and Msgr. Ivan Illich of the Archdiocese of New York are some of the clergy who were distinguished not only by a min- isterial zeal, but also by their ability to explain to their ecclesiastical confreres the consequences of doing nothing to minister to Latinos.

Both mainline Protestantism and Catholicism were rudely awakened to the inadequacy of their approaches to Latinos because of the impressive gains in

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Latino membership by Pentecostalism. Newly urbanized Latinos had difficul- ty finding continuity with the cultural religion of their homelands in the big city. As a result, the Pentecostal churches found new Latino members throughout the 1950s. Some commentators on this process among Puerto Ri- cans in New York described anomie as the cause for conversion of Puerto Rican Catholics to evangelical and Pentecostal churches (Poblete and O’Dea 1960). In retrospect, this was an oversimplification of religious choice, but, in fact, a principal appeal of Pentecostalism has been its ability to create inter- personal relationships that constitute a fictive family (León 1994). Piri Thomas describes the Pentecostal appeal from his own experience:

The most beautiful thing about Pentecostals was their ability to pour them- selves into the power of the Holy Spirit. They could blend—like nobody’s business—into the words of the Holy Scripture and do their best to uphold their conception of Christianity. It was a miracle how they could shut out the hot and cold running cockroaches and king-size rats and all the added horrors of decaying rotten tenement houses and garbage-littered streets, with drugs running through the veins of our ghetto kids. It was a miracle that they could endure the indignities poured upon our Barrios.

(Piri Thomas, cited in Stevens-Arroyo 1980: 152)

In a conversation with his aunt, the former convict Piri hears the testimony about faith that it so common among Pentecostals:

It’s what binds much of us poor Puertorriqueños together. It gives us strength to live in these conditions. It’s like being part of a familia that is together in Cristo and we help each other with the little materials we may possess.

(Piri Thomas cited in Stevens-Arroyo 1980: 153)

As has been pointed out by scholars of the Latino Pentecostal experience, the early history of the church reflected a sense of Latino togetherness, with Mexican preachers converting Puerto Ricans and vice versa (Alvarez 1996). The success in the 1950s on the urban scene was the harvest of solid efforts of an earlier generation in offering Latinos religious experience in their language and focusing on their need for community. Pentecostalism, organized as it is on an congregational level, is not directly affected by many denominational and organizational issues. Seminary training and study are much less compli- cated among Pentecostals than among Catholics and mainline Protestants. However, although Pentecostal churches addressed the faith needs strongly felt by Latinos, they were not always accepted by their Euro-American coun- terparts. As late as the 1990s, Pentecostals from Puerto Rico were excluded

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from the largest of the U.S. Pentecostal associations because of their refusal to preach in English.

Catholicism may have been slower in mobilizing resources for Latinos, but, when action was finally taken, there were major consequences. For instance, when the governing body of the Catholic Church recognized that the postwar demographic movement of Latinos was likely to be a continuing trend, the bishops financed an office to coordinate special attention to these laborers in many different dioceses. The intent was to create an interregional network of churches as services for the seasonal migrants as they left Texas and passed through the Midwest. The Bishops’ Committee for the Spanish-Speaking was created in 1945, with Bishop (later Archbishop) Robert Lucey as its driving force (Privett 1988). A decade later, the Archdiocese of New York created a sim- ilar regional effort in the northeastern United States to coordinate Catholic programs for the Puerto Rican migrants (Díaz-Stevens 1993b). The exodus of Cubans after the fall of the Batista dictatorship in 1959 was the exception rather than the rule to the urban migration of Latinos because it brought not the rural poor, but a relatively prosperous urban middle-class Cuban cohort to the States. But the model perfected among Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans for an apostolate of pastoral outreach and organized social concern benefited these Cubans, who settled mostly in south Florida and parts of New Jersey (Pri- eto 1995). The official church efforts represented generous amounts of funding for all the Latino groups, the dedication of enormous personnel resources, and a continuing effort to review these programs for their efficiency. Along with similar commitments from mainstream Protestant churches, the early 1960s were characterized by church involvement in addressing the material needs of Latinos on a previously unreached scale (Sandoval 1990).

It is important to emphasize that the major migrations to the big cities by Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans represented the urbanization of U.S. citizens. Immigration laws until 1964 did not permit the large-scale entry of people from Latin America, although an exception was made for Cubans who could claim an exile status. It is true that the Puerto Ricans resembled “for- eigners” in that they came from an island where Spanish was the spoken lan- guage and the conventions of Spanish law and culture were institutionalized. But, since 1917, Puerto Ricans have been U.S. citizens. Similarly, the migration from New Mexico and southwest Texas to California and the Midwest con- sisted of people who had been U.S. citizens for generations. These relocations of large numbers of people who previously had lived in rural or agricultural settings became the salient demographic event of the decade (Moore 1994). In fact, the urban migration of Latinos born into U.S. citizenship—not to be confused here with Latin Americans—should be historically seen in the mold of other great internal migrations: the “Okies” to California in the lean years

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described in John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath, and Southern blacks to north- ern cities beginning in the twentieth century.

The response of urban Catholicism to the Latino migrations created a new hybridization of the popular religiosity rooted in the Iberian past. The pro- cessions, the devotions, and the pious societies that organized religious life for Latino Catholics who had left their homelands for the big city may have seemed to be the same as the earlier traditions, but the conscious effort to replicate the old in a new social context constituted an act of creativity and re- ligious imagination. The white suit or dress for First Communion, the photo- graphs taken at this rite of passage, the positioning of a banner of Our Lady of Guadalupe in the sanctuary of the church, and other such moments consti- tuted the repetition of traditional Latino Catholic culture within the context of U.S. society. Like the Pentecostal experiences described by Piri Thomas, these were Catholic experiences reshaped by migration to big cities of the U.S.

THE STRUCTURES OF CHURCH MINISTRY

By the opening of the 1960s, there had been a qualitative change in the scope of attention and the dedication of resources from the Catholic Church. In New York, for instance, the national parish, with its limited resources and rel- atively inferior status, was abandoned as the principal dispenser of pastoral care. Instead, the doors of the territorial parishes were opened up to Latinos, and the Euro-American clergy were trained in the Spanish language and Puer- to Rican culture. Now a single parish served two groups. And although unit- ed under the same roof, services were offered in separate languages, often with the English speakers in the grand setting of the large church, and the Spanish speakers in the “basement church.” Even while noting the inherent inequali- ty in this arrangement, Ana María Díaz-Stevens commends the considerable scope of this effort and its impact upon the clergy who were recruited for serv- ice to the Puerto Ricans (1993b: 117–45). She argues that the experiences of these middle-class Euro-American priests often gave them a critical perspec- tive on the limitations of their own training and the too comfortable stance of the institutional church towards the material needs of the Puerto Ricans, the major Latino group in New York at that time. We ought to recognize that the importation of a vital Latino popular religion had an impact on non-Latino clergy and the institutional church, preparing the way for a network of allies and supporters when Latino-led movements were launched.

Leadership within the U.S. Catholic Church has tended to be highly clerical- ized. The financial resources to enter a seminary, the long years of study, and the obligation of celibacy make the road to clerical leadership an especially dif-

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ficult one. However, as the migration toward urban centers throughout the post–World War II period enlarged the educational aspirations and elevated the economic status of the Latino migrants, it also produced a cohort of Lati- no priests, seminarians, and religious sisters. Thus, by the 1960s Catholicism had begun to approximate many Protestant denominations in developing eth- nic clergy to minister to the needs of Latino believers. But in Catholicism, the hierarchical nature of authority concentrated in the hands of bishops was a much higher barrier than was found in Protestantism. As a result, clericalism, that is, decision making left only to clergy, impeded the development of Lati- no Catholic lay leaders into Latino community leaders. Felix Padilla assesses why the church-sponsored Caballeros de San Juan, who had been very effective during the 1950s in Chicago, floundered in the 1970s:

In the final analysis, Puerto Ricans became just another “immigrant group” for the Catholic Church to accommodate, . . . it sought to do charity by try- ing to alleviate suffering by serving as a buffer without attacking institu- tional racism.

(Padilla 1987: 136–137)

THE CURSILLO: LATINO WITNESS AS RELIGION

The remarkable movement called the Cursillo, or “little course,” unlocked the religious potential of Latinos as no clerical program of the 1950s could have done, no matter its good intentions. The Cursillo that was brought to the U.S. in 1957 drew its origins from faraway Mallorca, Spain. In a country recovering from a bitter Civil War that ended in 1939 without fully resolving issues of an- ticlericalism and ecclesiastical authoritarianism, the clergy had been distanced from the laity. Catholic Action leaders in Mallorca had organized lay people to deliver a series of talks to cover the major points of Catholic belief, know- ing that the expression of faith convictions by ordinary believers would con- tradict the notion that religion was a clerical terrain. The peer approach found success among working-class people in Spain during the 1940s and developed into a movement approved by the Catholic Church.

It takes cursillistas to make more cursillistas. The movement crossed the At- lantic when two Spanish pilots who had made the Cursillo in Spain were sta- tioned for specialized training at a U.S. airbase in Texas. They formed a team of instructors with Father Gabriel Fernández to present the first American Cursillo in Waco, Texas, in 1957 (Kelley 2000). More cursillistas meant more Cursillo teams. By 1960, the Cursillo had moved beyond the wide-open spaces of Texas and spread to the Midwest and the East Coast.

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The doctrine taught in the Cursillo was traditional Catholicism. But while the content was conservative, the mode of transmittal proved dramatically ef- fective in moving people away from rote performance of religion toward heartfelt commitment. The Cursillo encouraged personal testimony about a faith experience. It used emotions without confusing these with superficial feelings. The dynamics of instruction during the three-day exercise take place with a strict separation of the sexes and the atmosphere of a monastery, in which there is fasting, silence, spartan living conditions, and a daily prayer regimen. The personal dynamics unfold within the context of familiar cultur- al values. Gospel values are grafted onto the elements of popular culture. Thus, for instance, the Spanish folk song “De Colores” is given a spiritual meaning, and other familiar tunes are played on a guitar, with new lyrics that recall the spiritual experience. The Cursillo concludes with a public reception for the newly initiated where they are greeted in a festive atmosphere by those who have previously undergone the experience. Each cursillista is expected to speak, offering individual testimony as to what has been experienced and what personal lifestyle choices have been made, whereupon the members of the movement pledge assistance to the new recruit in implementing the new re- solves. The Cursillo introduced a conversion movement within Catholicism, definable in sociological terms as similar to the “reborn Evangelical.” Person- alized testimony feeds the movement, motivating its members and attracting new converts.

The decision early in the 1960s to import the Cursillo Movement as a part of the Catholic outreach to Latinos was a key factor in refocusing the church’s ministries (Díaz-Stevens 1993b: 109–13). By constitution, the Cursillo is a lay movement: the priest belongs in the background—only one talk during the three-day retreat is specifically assigned to the clergy (Vidal 1988). The lay Lati- no leadership of the Cursillo, however, produced adaptations that correspond- ed to the socioeconomic realities of the U.S. For instance, in Spain, only mar- ried women were permitted to make the Cursillo, and they had to wait until their spouses became cursillistas, whereas in the United States, single women were allowed to participate. The commonsense language of the laity in the Cur- sillo helped lower the class barriers erected between official religion and be- lievers. Most importantly, each of the local parish groups was linked through a diocese to a national directorate. Puerto Rican cursillistas from New York and New Jersey were members in a national organization with Mexican American counterparts from Texas and California. And while the Cursillo did not elimi- nate clericalism, it did provide a training ground for Catholic lay leadership.

By 1962, only five years after its introduction, the Cursillo Movement was found in fifty dioceses of the United States. (Díaz-Stevens and Stevens-Arroyo 1998: 136). The movement continued to grow and integrate its leadership into

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local church structures. Twenty years later, 25 percent of Latino Catholic re- spondents considered the Cursillo the most important factor in the practice of religion, more even than the Second Vatican Council (González and LaVelle, cited in Díaz-Stevens and Stevens-Arroyo 1998: 136). The appeal of the Cursil- lo is recounted by Chicano militant Armando Rendón, who was forced to abandon his preconception that religion was only for women and children.

Not only was much revealed to me about the phony guilt lingo of religion which I had grown up believing was the Church, but there was an added and highly significant side effect—cultural shock! I rediscovered my own people, or perhaps they redeemed me. Within the social dimension of the Cursillo, for the first time in many years I became reimmersed in a tough, macho ambiente. Only Spanish was spoken. The effect was shattering. It was as if my tongue, after being struck dumb as a child, had been loosened.

Because we were located in cramped quarters, with limited facilities, and the cooks, lecturers, priests and participants were men only, the old sense of machismo and camarada was revived and given new perspective. I was cast in a spiritual setting which was a perfect background for reviving my Chicano soul. Reborn but imperfectly, I still had a lot to learn about myself and my people. But my understanding deepened and renewed itself as the years went by.

(Rendón 1971: 323–24)

Perhaps the most significant aspect of the movement was the way it demanded a new Catholic commitment. Rendón says he was “reborn” after the Cursillo, becoming actively involved in the cause of social justice for Latinos in Califor- nia. Rendón’s experience could be multiplied by more than a hundred thou- sand. “Cursillistas became the prairie grass that caught fire and spread the flame of resurgence from coast to coast” (Díaz-Stevens and Stevens-Arroyo 1998: 137).

LATINOIZATION AND MILITANCY

Although the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and 1960s was initially fo- cused on the injustices committed against African Americans, Latinos gradu- ally entered into the movement. Senator Robert Kennedy of New York added to the 1964 Voting Rights Act a clause that required a bilingual ballot in elec- toral districts with high concentrations of Spanish-speaking people. Along with the War on Poverty, this measure was designed to incorporate Latinos into the U.S. political process. President Lyndon B. Johnson may have had the elimination of poverty as his chief concern, but he also arranged measures to

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insure that the federal funds pouring into the barrios required the enlistment of African Americans and Latinos into the organizational structure of these neighborhood agencies. This met the partisan objective of recruiting new vot- ers into the Democratic Party to replace the older generations of Euro- Americans who had moved to the suburbs in the 1950s and had begun to vote as Republicans (see DeSipio, chapter 11, this volume).

The empowerment of leaders from the minority groups was canonized in the antipoverty legislation and affected the churches. Monsignor Robert Fox of the Archdiocese of New York, for instance, responded to local conditions by redirecting charitable efforts for Latinos away from clerical paternalism.

The point . . . is that the question of the liberation of others is the question of the liberation of me. Can I, in my relationship with others, allow them to challenge me? . . . And can I do this in a context with other people in which I allow them to write in my flesh the revelation of who they are, and I write in their flesh a revelation of who I am? . . . Can all of us so radically believe in love, that we will allow ourselves to get into the developing solution which human experience is, and come more and more to be conscious of who we are? This is what it seems liberation is about.

(Msgr. Robert Fox, cited in Díaz-Stevens 1993b: 169)

Alfredo López, of the militant Puerto Rican Young Lords in New York, criti- cized this program from the perspective of secular radicalism. He challenged the church’s effort to increase minority participation in the power structure because it was focused on “the fact that Puerto Ricans aren’t allowed a piece of the pie. That the pie has rotten apples is not a question” (López 1973: 275). But Lopez’s secular skepticism was contradicted by the close cooperation be- tween the Catholic Church and the Young Lords in Philadelphia. Carmen Whalen (1998) describes the mentoring in political strategy that the militants received from the Catholic priest, Thomas Craven. Unlike the cynicism to- ward Catholicism from Puerto Rican leaders like López in New York, in Philadelphia the young militants drew inspiration from the church. Los An- geles was more like Philadelphia than New York because Latino militancy was fostered by the church. Católicos Por La Raza, an important contributor to the rise of Latino Catholicism, was an organization born on the campus of Loyola Marymount, and it prospered in a Catholic environment.

Certainly, the church’s efforts did not accomplish all that secular militants expected, but there were solid achievements. Many church programs begun by non-Latino priests and nuns became essential steps in preparing Latinos to assume leadership roles in the schools and civic organizations, much as the segregated black colleges had provided a generation of educated black leaders

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for the Civil Rights Movement. By the 1960s, Catholic Latinos were offered leadership opportunities comparable to those that had been provided by Lati- no Protestantism since the 1930s. The difference was that four out of five Lati- nos professed to be Catholic, so that there were significantly more people to lead than among Latino Protestants and Pentecostals.

While the clerical character of the Catholic hierarchy meant that only priests or nuns could officially assume charge of certain ministries, many parishes in fact depended upon nonordained Latinos and especially Latinas to perform functions of organizing and educating members of the congregation. A Latino head of the Cursillo, for instance, might have leadership responsibil- ities—which included preaching—for the 120 cursillistas in his parish. The Protestant minister, who was often nonordained, performed similar functions for his congregation of 120 total members.

The most significant change in the role of Latino Catholic leadership was related to the Second Vatican Council. Social change and political involve- ment figured prominently on the postconciliar agenda. Fox’s effort in New York resonated with similar efforts in other large cities. It was a belated use of a Latin American model of Catholic Action instead of an imposition of the immigrant assimilationist paradigm. Rather than trying to protect Catholic interests as defined by a Euro-American institution, the Catholic reformers like Fox “sought to influence and transform all of society” (Díaz-Stevens 1993b: 150). While recognizing that many of these sweeping goals went unre- alized while he headed the Office for the Spanish-Speaking Apostolate, Fox in- sisted that the inclusion of Latinos in new, laic, decision-making church roles prepared these people with the skills to enter politics. In an interview after he had retired from the chancery position, he noted that he had always allowed people to “work at their own pace, and if need be, make mistakes in order to better prepare themselves for future tasks and events” (quoted in Díaz- Stevens 1993b: 171). Fox represented a “type” of non-Latino Catholic clerical activist that profoundly altered the expectations of Latino Catholics vis à vis their church (Díaz-Stevens 1993b: 172ff.).

In 1965, just as the War on Poverty was gathering resources, the racial quo- tas of the existing Immigration Law were abolished so that the majority of im- migrants to the U.S. would no longer reflect the Euro-American dominance in the nation’s population. The Dominican Republic and the nations of Cen- tral America quickly joined Mexico as major sending societies for Western Hemisphere immigration to the U.S. Significantly, the wave of Latin Ameri- can immigrants were encountered by new Latino leaders who were not in- clined to repeat the century-old doctrine of Americanization by the churches.

With the reforms of the Second Vatican Council (1962–1964) that were man- dated for world-wide Catholicism, the U.S. church made a fateful decision

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about the liturgy. The Council required that the mass be celebrated “in the lan- guage of the people,” which meant that Latin was to be replaced by the ver- nacular of each country. But what was “the language of the people” in the Unit- ed States? Clearly, English was the dominant language of the second generation of Euro-American Catholics: the Irish, Italians, Polish, and the others. But training clergy to speak Spanish in programs such as the Cursillo, which was designed with Spanish-speaking Catholics in mind, had been successful in re- taining Latinos within Catholicism. Hence, in 1965, the National Council of Catholic Bishops (NCCB) decided to allow Spanish to be substituted for Latin in parishes serving Latinos. In effect, this decision made a bilingual country out of the Catholic United States, three years before the U.S. government voted in 1967 to create the first federally funded bilingual-education program. Although it came more than a hundred years after the first annexation of Latino home- lands, this was the first of many steps that unraveled the policy of treating Lati- nos as if they were all immigrants like the Euro-Americans. Moreover, the re- form movement carried over into many other aspects of social service delivery and community development. The caricature of Catholicism as a reactionary church where clerical powers resist change was now inverted, with many pro- gressive policies mandated from above. When conservative Catholics com- plained about the conciliar reforms they found that the Vatican and the hier- archy were now enforcing the changes.

The sweeping changes of the Second Vatican Council ought not be under- estimated. For those born after 1964, the contrasts between Catholicism before and after the council may not be clearly felt, but the juxtaposition of these ec- clesiastical reforms with the sociopolitical upheavals of the late 1960s created an unprecedented opportunity for the transformation of Latino religion. As Garry Wills (1972) has shown, the Catholic Church began to advocate a pace for social change that changed its public image from a quiet supporter of gov- ernment into a nettlesome agitator. Symbolic of the new spirit was the setting aside of a fund of several million dollars for grants directly to faith-based ac- tion groups at the grassroots. Called the “Campaign for Human Develop- ment,” the NCCB created this social-justice fund at the behest of Bishop Fran- cis Magavero of Brooklyn, New York. Much like the War on Poverty, the Campaign for Human Development required petitioners for its funds to be- long to grassroots groups, often led by lay leaders from a minority group. So- cial issues were to be addressed by direct community involvement, and, be- cause most Latinos profess loyalty to Catholicism, they were the principle beneficiaries of this renewed church, just as African Americans who are large- ly Protestant had bestirred the mainline churches. A cohort of Latino Catholic leadership was shaped by these events.

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RELIGION AS A FACTOR IN LATINO IDENTITY

The Latino movements sailed on the same seas as the Civil Rights Movement among African Americans, following many of these currents, buffeted by sim- ilar opposition and dissent, with religious activism and secular militancy com- peting for dominance. But the Latino movements also had special character- istics. Latino militancy emerged during the anti–Vietnam War protests of the 1960s. The political splits that occurred among the African American com- munity, with the competition for focus between domestic reform and radical war protests, were not as damaging to the Latino movements, which instead were shaped by the convergence of the domestic and international protests (Juan González 2000). The Latino movements not only supplied a critique of unjust U.S. laws, as the early Civil Rights Movement had done, they also tar- geted the United States’ treatment of other nations. The boiling rage among the war protesters against U.S. imperialism in Vietnam was extended retroac- tively to the nineteenth-century acquisition of the Latino homelands. And just as the college campus was the incubator for the antiwar movement among the Euro-American students, there was considerable agitation in the universities among Chicano and Puerto Rican students. They protested for academic de- partments that would teach them about these Latino cultures and the history of the homelands. The stirring of a Latino consciousness was endowed with an intellectual pedigree when places as distant as City College in New York and the California State University at Northridge in Los Angeles were march- ing to the same drummer.

The result was what has been dubbed, “Third Worldism” (Stevens-Arroyo 1994: Díaz-Stevens and Stevens-Arroyo 1998: 137–140). From this perspective, militant Latinos viewed Latino communities not as “territories” or U.S. “pos- sessions” but as “the homeland”—in Spanish “la patria”—of peoples who had struggled in the past against the Spanish Empire and were struggling against twentieth-century U.S. imperialism. In Third Worldism, colonialism against Latinos assumed the role that slavery had for African Americans: it was the ex- planation for poverty and low social achievement.

The Puerto Rican independence movement had long relied on such a con- ception (see Stevens-Arroyo 1980), and there had always been a thread of in- ternationalism among Mexican Americans in the United States, particularly from visionary labor organizers like Bert Corona (M. García 1994). But Third Worldism among Latinos in the 1960s openly embraced the anti- imperialist premises of socialism, when not also advocating an end to capitalism. In Third Worldism, the heroes from Latin America were also icons for Latinos: Fidel Castro was celebrated for leading a military victory over U.S.-supported

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counterrevolutionaries; Emiliano Zapata of the Mexican Revolution in 1910 was the paragon for the movement; Pedro Albizu Campos of the Puerto Rican Nationalist Party in the 1950s was a prophet. Third Worldism gathered each of these historical leaders and their causes under its wings. It proclaimed the sovereign rights of peoplehood for Latinos in the United States, popular- izing the term “Chicano” to refer to people of Mexican ancestry in Texas, the Southwest, and California in order to show that they were neither Mexican nationals nor hyphenated Americans. The conquered territories were rebap- tized as “Aztlán,” the original homeland of the Aztecs before they migrated southward to establish an empire over the Mexican peoples (Muñoz 1989).

Perhaps the most enduring of the expressions of Latino Third Worldism of the 1960s was the poem attributed to Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzales (1972). Enti- tled “Yo Soy Joaquín,” this composition applied elements from the Mexican Revolution and a subsequent Cristero Revolt to the Chicano struggle. The mythical voice captured in Gonzales’s poetry revisits the historical events of a native of California, Joaquín Murrieta, who took revenge upon Euro- American invaders for their abuse of Murietta, his family and his people. This Joaquín was the primordial Chicano in the sense that he was not an immi- grant from Mexico, but a native of California who antedated the 1849 gold miners. The revenge Murrieta accomplished in his time is linked to the power of the Mexican Revolution and is pictured as the framework for a contempo- rary struggle. Important to Gonzales’s description of Latino religion is an identification both with Christ and a deposed Aztec ruler.

We start to MOVE. La Raza!

Mejicano! Español! Latino!

Hispano! Chicano! or whatever I call myself, I look the same I feel the same I cry and Sing the same I am the masses of my people and I refuse to be absorbed. I am Joaquín The odds are great

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but my spirit is strong My faith unbreakable My blood is pure I am Aztec Prince and Christian Christ I SHALL ENDURE! I WILL ENDURE!

The fusion of Chicano secular militancy with cultural religion may be ex- plained in part because Corky Gonzales was a youth minister for the Presby- terian Church. But the popularity of the poem as a rallying cry for the Chi- cano Movement transcended any particularized denominational affiliation.

The mixture of religious symbolism in the movements of the 1960s was not the exclusive property of Latinos. The connection of the Civil Rights Move- ment with the churches has already been described, but the antiwar move- ment also was connected to religious pacifist groups such as the American Friends Service Committee and outspoken activist clerics such as the Catholic priests Daniel and Philip Berrigan (Wills 1972: 230–50). The mixture of reli- gion, culture, and politics in “Yo Soy Joaquín” found an echo in the anti–Viet- nam War draft protests and the effort to drive the ROTC from the campus of the University of Puerto Rico. Among Chicanos, the militant combination of all three was evident in the effort by Reies López Tíjerina, beginning on 5 June 1967, to assert sovereignty over northern New Mexico by a forcible takeover of the country courthouse in Terra Amarilla, New Mexico. Something of a modern-day Quixote, López Tíjerina appealed to land grants from the days of the Spanish colonial empire as justification for confronting U.S. political power (Busto 1991). His band of militants was willing to defend their moral rights by force, although with no realistic expectation of legal victory. They chose to assault the public conscience.

The recourse to militancy in a religious defense of rights had a counterpart in Latin America. “The Theology of Liberation” was a mobilization of the people that blended religion with direct action in defense of culture and po- litical rights (see Maduro 1982). The connections between the Latin American phenomenon and its Latino counterparts was to be strengthened in coming years, but already in 1967 the pieces were in place for a Latino social move- ment to arise from among believers.

THE LATINO RELIGIOUS RESURGENCE

Recent studies of social movements have produced agreement on several characteristics that distinguish a movement from other types of organizations:

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Identity (definition of the protest group); opposition (a challenge to the re- pression of certain ideas or interests); and integrity (actions based on uni- versal values and universal realities). Social movements . . . influence the course of historical development taking a leading role in social change. They perform several functions: they mediate between individuals and structures or social realities; they serve to clarify collective beliefs; and, last- ly, they exert pressure on public authorities and the elites in power.

(Alain Touraine, cited in Díaz-Stevens and Stevens-Arroyo 1998: 130)

These elements were present in an extraordinary mobilization of religious believers in a period that has been described as “the Latino Religious Resur- gence.” The reforms of the Second Vatican Council, the liberation theology, the War on Poverty, Third Worldism, new immigration and civil-rights laws, a cohort of Latino university students, the antiwar protests, bilingual educa- tion, national networks of public Latino leadership, the emergence of nation- al Latino television networks—all were factors that interacted with the others. It is possible that if any one element had been lacking in the mix, the religious movement either would not have occurred or would have been less effective.

In these extraordinary circumstances, the discovery of common interests among Mexican Americans, Puerto Ricans, and other peoples trying to sys- tematize church reforms to benefit the Spanish-speaking people of faith had the effect of creating a Latino religious movement that transcended the par- ticular goals of any one of the participant groups. The resurgence became a re- ligious equivalent of the coalitions formed by Mexicans and Puerto Ricans in Chicago described by Felix Padilla:

Latino ethnic identification is not the combination of various group’s be- havioral patterns, nor does it persist independent of their intergroup social behavior. Rather Latinismo represents a collective-generated behavior which transcends the individual group’s national and cultural identities.

(Padilla 1985: 162)

Like Padilla’s conception of “Latinismo” in American politics, the resur- gence permitted national and local religious groups to act cohesively on a national stage.

LA CAUSA

The signal event that marshaled the religious forces was support for the Mex- ican American farmworkers’ strike organized by labor leader César Chávez in

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Delano, California. Called, appropriately, “la causa,” historians sometimes overlook this effort’s religious roots. Since the radical 1930s, labor organiza- tions had attempted to weld together Mexican migrant farm workers with limited results. The efforts of Ernesto Galarza and Bert Corona among Mexi- can Americans (M. García 1994) and Jesús Colón and Bernardo Vega among New York Puerto Ricans (Sánchez Korrol 1993) were community oriented, but shaped by secular ideologies. Chávez was a different kind of labor leader because his ideological commitment to the organizing was accompanied by a cursillista’s understanding of Catholicism. His followers among the migrant farm workers were mobilized by both his labor organizing and a fervent evo- cation of his faith. The black eagle of the nascent farmworkers’ association was accompanied by the banner of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Chavez’s Cursillo ex- perience is often evident in his speeches. Consider, for instance, the closing words of his presentation at the Mexican-American Conference held in Sacra- mento, California, 8–10 March 1968, where he scolded the participants for having neglected to invite more church leaders.

Therefore, I am calling for Mexican American groups to stop ignoring this source of power. It is not just our right to appeal to the Church to use its power effectively for the poor, it is our duty to do so. It should be as nat- ural as appealing to government, and we do that often enough. Further- more, we should be prepared to come to the defense of that priest, rabbi, minister, or layman of the Church, who out of commitment to truth and justice gets into a tight place with his pastor or bishop. It behooves us to stand with that man and help him see his trial through. It is our duty to see to it that his rights of conscience are respected and that no bishop, pastor or other higher body takes that God-given, human right away. Finally, in a nutshell, what do we want the Church to do? We don’t ask for more cathedrals. We don’t ask for bigger churches or fine gifts. We ask for its presence with us, beside us, as Christ among us. We ask the Church to sac- rifice with the people for social change, for justice, and for love of brother. We don’t ask for words. We ask for deeds. We don’t ask for paternalism. We ask for servanthood.

(César Chávez, cited in Stevens-Arroyo 1980: 121)

Chávez’s appeals to the Catholic Church should not overshadow the impor- tant role played by liberal Protestants. Protestant ministers had been the first to minister to the farm workers in the fields. After the strike was organized, Protestants were quick to create support networks. The education of minis- ters about the moral dimensions of the farmworkers’ movement led to the founding in 1969 of the Hispanic-American Institute in Austin, Texas, by the

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Presbyterian, United Methodists, Episcopalian, and Lutheran churches (Díaz-Stevens and Stevens-Arroyo 1998: 167–69).

The picket lines at Delano were supported by a wide range of church peo- ple who saw Chávez as a man of faith: Time magazine saw in this Latino Catholic a parallel to the African American Protestant Martin Luther King Jr. (Díaz-Stevens and Stevens-Arroyo 1998: 143–44, citing the article from 4 July 1969). Sensing that public opinion would prove a powerful ally against the growers, Chávez called upon the general U.S. public to boycott the table grapes produced in the Delano fields. It had taken almost two years, but la causa became a national issue when public figures such as the Kennedy fami- ly supported the grape boycott. The National Council of Catholic Bishops, the World Council of Churches, and a host of other church organizations mobi- lized their members to join in solidarity with the farm workers. Predictably, the Republican Governor of California, Ronald Reagan, declared the union “communist.” Newly elected President Richard Nixon ordered the armed forces to increase their orders of grapes in order to break the strike and weak- en the financial impact of the boycott on the growers. It was in this context of struggle that the resurgence took shape.

LATINO CHURCH MILITANCY

In Los Angeles, on the campus of Loyola Marymount University, the Chi- cano student group Católicos por la Raza (CPLR) was formed to press the church to support Chávez. But the eighty-three-year-old cardinal of Los An- geles, James Francis McIntyre, was a prelate noted as much for his conserva- tive politics as for an authoritarian style of governing. On Christmas Eve 1969, CPLR organized a procession with more than four hundred Mexican American Catholics bearing lighted candles to the steps of St. Basil’s Church, a four-million-dollar edifice where the Cardinal was to preside over a tele- vised mass (see Gómez 1973 and discussion in Stevens-Arroyo 1980: 125–33). To demonstrate the exclusion of Spanish speakers from the concerns of the cardinal, a mass in Spanish was celebrated by Euro-American priests, after which CPLR passed out leaflets demanding a release of financial reports on the premise that the Archdiocese of Los Angeles did not devote enough re- sources to the ministry of Chicanos, who, of course, represented one of the church’s largest constituencies. But when about fifty members of CPLR de- cided to attend the English services as well, they found that the main doors to St. Basil’s had been locked. Hundreds of the people still milling about after the Spanish-language mass began shouting and banging on the doors for them to open. When some Mexican Americans finally managed to enter by a

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side entrance, they were physically pushed out by off-duty policemen. The marchers outside were incensed and began shoving back. Without warning, the Los Angeles Police Department’s crack riot squad, wearing helmets, bear- ing shields, and swinging billy clubs, rushed from out of the cardinal’s resi- dence and began assaulting the Mexican Americans on Wilshire Boulevard, carting dozens off to jail. Inside the spacious church, Cardinal McIntyre ad- dressed the public after communion had been distributed. Referring to Católicos Por la Raza, McIntyre said:

We are ashamed of the participants and we recognize that their conduct was symbolic of the conduct of the rabble as they stood at the foot of the cross, shouting, “Crucify him!”

(Cardinal McIntyre, cited in Stevens-Arroyo 1980: 129)

Many of those arrested were charged with a misdemeanor for disrupting a re- ligious service, and the seven who were found guilty were sentenced to ninety days in jail.

The week after Christmas, the Puerto Rican bishop Antulio Parrilla Bonilla was in California visiting prominent activists who had been imprisoned for refusal to answer the Vietnam War draft (Stevens-Arroyo 1980: 90–91). Bish- op Parrilla was known in his native Puerto Rico for his support of independ- ence for the island and a critical stance towards American military power that also made him the first U.S. Catholic prelate to denounce the war as immoral. When he heard of the confrontation in Los Angeles, he celebrated mass in Spanish with priests and members of CPLR on an open lot within clear view of St. Basil’s. His was an act of symbolic importance that linked Puerto Ricans and Chicanos, the protests against the war and the Chávez-led strike, the prophetic voice of a bishop and the militancy of lay leadership. It was a seed that found fertile ground.

It may be argued that the reaction to the inexcusable behavior of Cardinal McIntyre helped make stronger the militancy of Latino Catholics. As cited above, a social movement is formed around a group identity, opposition to a clearly defined institution, person, or policy, and a call to moral integrity. The rejection of la causa by Cardinal McIntyre spurred other Catholics eager to emphasize the teaching of the Second Vatican Council that the church was composed of all the people of God and not merely its hierarchical leaders. Much as the African Americans had appealed to the Declaration of Indepen- dence as a document by which to judge the actions of those who opposed the Civil Rights Movement, Latinos emphasized the documents of the Second Vatican Council as the charter of their crusade and the reason that they were right and the church’s old guard was wrong about the UFW.

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In order to coordinate nationwide support for the boycott, Father Ralph Ruiz had already called for a meeting of Catholic leaders supporting la causa scheduled for Tucson, Arizona, in February 1970. Reacting to the rancor gen- erated by the CPLR confrontation and buoyed by the support of progressive clerics, the two dozen Chicano priests decided to form an association along ethnic lines that would support the farm workers. The vision for reform was not limited to the immediate crisis of the UFW. The priest organizers recog- nized that larger issues of discrimination needed to be challenged. Changes in the Catholic Church were now on the agenda, including the naming of Mexi- can American priests as bishops so that never again would the hierarchy make decisions without Mexican American input as equals within church leadership. The new group took the title Padres Asociados para Derechos Religiosos, Edu- cacionales y Sociales, or “PADRES” (Stevens-Arroyo 1980: 139–40). In forming this group, full membership was reserved for Chicano priests, relegating Euro- Americans to an associate membership and excluding them from leadership posts. At the time, the advantages of uniting Mexican American priests around a common heritage was valued above the disadvantages of excluding potential allies on the basis of ethnicity. Resurrecting a term used in the Mexican Revo- lution and invoked in the poem, “Yo Soy Joaquín,” the value of PADRES was described as “carnalismo,” a strong expression of ideological kinship.

Within three months, one member of the new PADRES, Patricio Flores of Houston, was named a bishop, the first Mexican American so designated. In June 1970, the NCCB announced a negotiated settlement with the growers that constituted a victory for the farm workers. Before the year was over, Car- dinal McIntyre had retired, and Timothy Manning, a prelate who supported la causa, was named as his replacement. By the time PADRES held its first na- tional meeting in Los Angeles in February of 1971, Juan Arzube had been cho- sen as an auxiliary bishop for the archdiocese where the ugly confrontation had taken place in 1969.

Catholic women in religious life have different networks than the priests, and it is not surprising that some Latina religious sisters sought to form an or- ganization parallel to PADRES. A planning meeting in April 1971 in Houston was convened by Gloria Gallardo, a Sister of the Holy Spirit and by Sister Gre- goria Ortega of Victory Knoll. That November in Santa Fe, New Mexico, Las Hermanas was formally organized (Medina 1998). In contrast to its male counterpart, Las Hermanas extended full membership to all Latinas, not just Mexican Americans. Both of these organizations set goals that went well be- yond the immediate task of supporting the farm workers. They sought a gen- eral reform of the church to make it more responsive to Mexican Americans on two fronts: commitment to issues of social justice and an education in cul- tural and theological matters in order to sustain that commitment. Impor-

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tantly, they echoed the secular conviction that institutional aid to Latinos should be organized and led by other Latinos (Medina 2000b).

Although they had been generated in conflict, these efforts by Mexican American priests and sisters were welcomed by progressive elements of the hi- erarchy of the Catholic Church. Some bishops recognized the value of invit- ing such energy into the policy-formation process of the church. Episcopal support for a native leadership had its repercussions on the Bishop’s Com- mittee for the Spanish-Speaking. The regional office in the Midwest, which had been a sort of social-services agency for farm workers, was transplanted to the headquarters of the United States Catholic Conference in Washington, D.C. The person chosen to administer this recast division for Spanish speak- ers was Pablo Sedillo, a layman who brought administrative skills appropriate to the task of representing interests wider than just those of Mexican Ameri- can farm workers.

The agenda of the new Washington office was compatible with the efforts of the incipient movement: in fact, the two strengthened each other. If the movement had consisted only of PADRES and Las Hermanas, the voice of Latinos would have been left outside the church, asking to be invited to inter- nal discussions. But with the inclusion of the office funded by the bishops within the bureaucracy, a special dynamic was quickly achieved. The agenda of the organizations became the plan of action submitted by the office to the bishops. Linkage of the grassroots to a highly visible office in Washington strengthened both ends of the equation. On the one hand, the movement or- ganizers were able to gain an immediate hearing in the halls of power; on the other, the office had foot-soldiers and grassroots supporters directly engaged in ministry.

A vital link in the chain was the foundation of the Mexican American Cul- tural Center (MACC) in San Antonio, Texas. Similar to the program that had been organized at the Catholic University of Puerto Rico to train priests of the Archdiocese of New York in the language and culture of the Puerto Rican mi- grants during the 1950s, MACC sprang from a program for seminarians in San Antonio. But the agitation among PADRES and Las Hermanas for education in their own culture and history—a gap in their formal education which was blamed on an overly narrow seminary curriculum—meant that MACC ap- pealed to a wider base than just seminarians in San Antonio. Moreover, the di- rector for MACC was a young and capable priest, Virgilio Elizondo, who pos- sessed great charisma as an organizer and an educator. In a sense, MACC was “adopted” by PADRES and Las Hermanas as their educational center. The tri- umph of the farm workers in California lent an aura of historical vindication to the efforts of MACC, PADRES, Las Hermanas, and the Division for the Spanish-Speaking in Washington. The desire to reform the church to provide

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more effective services to Latinos was shared by many in U.S. Catholicism, and each of the organizations encountered wide acceptance within the church.

The awareness that social change could be effected within the church to benefit the Latino poor was the distinguishing mark of a new generation. Thus, in addition to the characteristics of a social movement, the resurgence also exhibited a strong linkage to a young generation of Latino church lead- ers. The distinguished Mexican American historian Mario García has shown how important generational considerations were to Mexican American civic leaders. Noting that “a political generation is not a biological generation,” García cites Karl Mannheim:

We shall therefore speak of a generation as an actuality only where a con- crete bond is created between members of a generation by their being ex- posed to the social and intellectual symptoms of a process of dynamic destabilization.

(Karl Mannheim, as cited in M. García 1989: 4 n. 13)

The generational attraction of PADRES and Las Hermanas made them more than Mexican American organizations. Drawn into the movement were young clergy and religious women from all the Latino nationality groups who had not been directly mobilized by the call to support the strike of the Cali- fornia farm workers. The general goal of reforming the church enabled PADRES and Las Hermanas to embrace young Latino priests and sisters around the country during a period when the Second Vatican Council had created “dynamic destabilization” within Catholicism, preparing the way for a social movement.

THE ENCUENTRO

In light of the rapid organization and political energy generated by Mexican Americans within the church supporting the farmworkers’ strike, it is ironic that the most significant organizational input for the resurgence came from Puerto Rican–dominated New York and from a non-Latino church bureau- crat, Father Robert L. Stern. A canon lawyer, trained in Rome, from a Jewish- Irish family, Stern was named Director of the New York Archdiocese’s Office for the Spanish-Speaking in the fall of 1969. Distant from the la causa, he viewed his task not from the picket lines but through the lens of chancery bu- reaucracy. Stern set about codifying a structure of governance that used the dry language of canon law to secure a seat at the planning table for Latino leaders. Although in a strict sense the Coordinating Committee he created was only an

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advisory group for the decisions he would make, in fact the committee func- tioned as a democratic body that formed policy. Stern also invited as collabo- rators with his office all the priests of Latino heritage he could identify, even if this meant lending them influence and visibility beyond the normal expecta- tions of a church that usually observes strictly the rules of seniority. Ironically, many of the changes demanded in a militant voice by PADRES and Las Her- manas were quietly implemented in the New York Archdiocese through a democratic mechanism for developing policy by consulting lay leaders.

In September of 1971, at the annual meeting of the Catholic Interamerican Cooperation Program (CICOOP), Stern invited Father Edgar Beltrán, a Colombian priest who worked for the Latin American Episcopal Conference (CELAM), to conduct a planning workshop for the Coordinating Committee. Stern intended for Beltrán to help the archdiocese develop a five- year plan of action. But Beltrán’s previous position had prepared him for developing such plans for the Catholics of an entire country, not merely a diocese. In October, at a National Congress of Religious Educators meeting in Miami, Florida, Bel- trán was instrumental in gaining from the hundred or so Latino participants a formal petition to the NCCB for a greater attention to Latino affairs, in- cluding a call for a meeting at a national level to develop a five-year plan for all the Latinos in the United States. Stern and Beltrán linked their proposals and the division led by Pablo Sedillo backed the idea, as did PADRES, Las Hermanas, MACC and Bishop Patricio Flores, auxiliary Bishop of San Anto- nio, Texas (Stevens-Arroyo 1980: 181–83). With such an array of interest groups united in a single request, the NCCB could hardly refuse to authorize a congress, called “The Hispanic Pastoral Encounter” (or simply the “encuen- tro”). The ecclesiastical approval solidified the legitimacy of all of the Latino groups that had allied themselves under the banner of reform and mobilized greater church resources to benefit Latinos.

Astutely, Stern connected the East and West Coasts by persuading the New York Archbishop, Terrence Cardinal Cooke, to advocate the appointment of a Puerto Rican laywoman, Encarnación Padilla de Armas, to the Washington office. Mrs. Padilla had rich experiences in efforts during the 1950s in the training and educating of clergy for ministry to Latinos. As an administrator in the labyrinthine ways of New York’s social-service bureaucracy, she brought an East Coast sophistication to the efforts of the Washington office.

The first encuentro was held 19–22 June 1972 at Trinity College in Washing- ton, D.C. The conference was organized around workshops devoted to seven specific issues of church concern. Several general sessions offered the partici- pants a theological and pastoral framework. Plenary sessions considered the documents prepared by each of the workshops that were designed to develop a plan of action around specific goals. The idea of Fr. Stern, the canon lawyer,

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was to require that each of the dioceses should send representatives chosen in a process approved by their bishop. Consequently, the several hundred par- ticipants who gathered in Washington were official delegates of their dioceses.

The encuentro spoke the language of the church. For example, Father Eli- zondo of MACC used theology to describe Latino culture as a “popular reli- giosity.” Cast in that way, what anthropologists often classified as “religious culture” became “cultural religion.” By thus bestowing theological signifi- cance upon Latino traditions, Elizondo argued that it was a church duty to preserve a culture that had helped preserve the Catholic faith. Bishop Flores’s presentation crowned Latino popular religiosity with a historical legitimacy that echoed the Latino history spelled out in the poem “Yo soy Joaquín“ and in countless university classrooms of Chicano Studies:

The church cannot ignore the presence of fifteen million Spanish-speaking persons in the United States. They cannot be put into the same institution without taking into account their own particular background. The Mexican Americans who were here before the coming of the English-speaking, as well as the Spanish-speaking who have migrated here recently, have brought and have their own mentality, their language, their culture, their religion and their own needs. All of these elements are part of a beautiful spiritual heritage which will last in the Spanish-speaking outside of their Motherland. . . . The church cannot insist that in order to be first-class cit- izens and Christians we must “Americanize ourselves” . . . the mere state- ment disorients us. If we were born on this continent we are already “Amer- icans.” What do we have to be or do in order to “Americanize” ourselves?

(Patricio Flores, cited in Stevens-Arroyo 1980: 192)

Bishop Flores detailed ways in which the Catholic Church should empow- er Latinos to organize their own ministry for themselves rather than pass through the process of slavishly imitating programs run for immigrants by Euro-Americans. The bishop concluded with a veiled warning:

The bishop who has not wanted to share his authority and responsibility with another Catholic [Latino] bishop has already shared it with Protestant ministers and bishops who have taken away so many of his people.

(Patricio Flores, cited in Stevens-Arroyo 1980: 194.

The effect of the 1972 encuentro was what journalist Moises Sandoval has aptly characterized as “A People on the Move” (Sandoval 1990). The documents de- tailing each of the workshop conclusions were submitted to the NCCB for re- view. While not all of the resolutions were adopted, their general goals were

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accepted in a response issued by a commission of bishops the following year (Stevens-Arroyo 1980: 201–7). Instead of pacifying the movement, the favor- able reception from the bishops engendered a resolve to intensify the pace of reform. Latino leadership believed that since the efforts behind the first en- cuentro had produced positive results, more encuentros would produce more concessions from the Roman Catholic hierarchy.

From 1972 until 1977, twenty local encuentros were held to examine new is- sues and evaluate progress on those already proposed. The local encuentros generally followed the same processes of delegate selection, democratic par- ticipation in developing issues, and consensus on plans for specific action. Ironically, the centuries-old hierarchical discipline of Catholicism had made the democracy of the Latino leaders all the more potent, since the strategy of securing official standing for the delegates gave them clout within Catholi- cism. By the time the second encuentro was assembled in June of 1977 at the same Trinity College in Washington, the movement had penetrated to all lev- els of church organization throughout the United States, installing the same principles of empowerment and church reform. Importantly, the lay people, such as those in the Cursillo, stood together with the clergy and sisters in pushing for the reforms. The gathering of the Latino delegates even merited a special prerecorded radio message from Pope Paul VI at the Vatican in Rome:

We wish the best for you, beloved brothers and children. Hence We invite you to conserve and nourish your own heritage, adapting it to local needs without forgetting, among other things, those valid elements of popular re- ligiosity which, when well oriented, can prepare for an authentic encounter with God in Christ.

(Paul VI cited, in Stevens-Arroyo 1980: 322–23)

That recorded message put the prestige of the papacy on the side of a move- ment that insured bilingualism and biculturalism within the church, advocat- ed strong action in defense of social justice, and fostered native Latino leader- ship at all levels of church decision making. Such achievements in five short years were of historic proportions.

The principal achievements of the Catholic encuentros from 1972 until 1985 can be summed up in four basic notions that permeated the theological, polit- ical, and organizational goals of the delegates (Díaz-Stevens and Stevens- Arroyo 1998: 155–58). The successes within the churches closely parallel similar victories through the myriad federal programs that improved the educational, health, economic, and social status of most minorities between 1965 and 1980 (Haveman 1997). The encuentros argued for representation so that Latinos would be found at every level of church leadership. The encuentro documents

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were premised upon the idea that if all ethnic groups were to be given equal op- portunity, they would usually achieve equal success. But it was clear that Lati- nos were drastically underrepresented in ecclesiastical leadership positions, such as the Catholic episcopacy, when compared with the numbers of Latinos in the church. A goal was set to name Latino bishops and other kinds of lead- ers in proportion to the numbers of Latinos in a diocese. This represented a considerably large step, considering that Latinos constituted at the time 25 per- cent of all Catholics and in some dioceses were a majority. Nor were bishops the only leaders subjected to this logic: principals of Catholic schools and di- rectors of finance and religious education were included, thus opening doors for Latina sisters and lay persons to assume functions once reserved to the male clergy. These arguments were the ecclesiastical versions of affirmative action, and they were generally successful.4

The movement also advanced the argument that Latinos were the best expo- nents of their own culture, a principle I have called “cultural idiosyncrasy“ (Díaz-Stevens and Stevens-Arroyo 1998: 156, passim). There already had been a commitment to celebrate rituals by using the Spanish language. Some of the non-Latino bishops may have viewed the use of Spanish as a stopgap measure until Latinos learned English. But the encuentro documents transformed the lin- guistic need into an affirmation of cultural difference. Spanish was to be used in order to maintain the Latino cultures. On that basis, the need to have Latino leaders at every level of church activity was now considered a permanent en- richment of U.S. Catholicism. How better to assure the people that their cultural differences would be preserved than to have one of their own placed in charge?

In addition, the new liberation theology from Latin America brought the premise that poverty was a sign of oppression. Latinos argued that the church’s commitments to social justice around the world could not exclude their needs within the United States. By pointing to the colonial history of in- vasion and conquest by U.S. troops of Texas, the Mexican territories, and Puerto Rico, the neocolonialism that framed a Latin American denunciation of the United States was adapted to the Latino experience.

Finally, the encuentros appealed to the calls of the Second Vatican Council for a democratization of church leadership. By structuring the workshops so that each of them produced a set of resolutions and a working plan that was voted upon only by diocesan delegates, the encuentro had broken new ground for democracy within U.S. Catholicism. Lay leaders, especially women, were able to participate as equals with priests and sisters in the encuentro delibera- tions of the 1970s, just as the Cursillo had empowered the laity in the 1960s. The militancy of the Chicano activists was strengthened by adopting a model of lay participation in policy formulation that closely followed the initiative developed by Fr. Stern in New York.

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The key to the movement was education. The most acceptable of the en- cuentro’s recommendations for the bishops had been the call for special cours- es of empowerment, especially for lay leaders. The Mexican American Cultur- al Center in San Antonio was held as a model for all dioceses. At MACC throughout the 1970s, the best and the brightest leaders and educators devel- oped the recommendations from each of the five-year plans into a vital theol- ogy that was to permanently enrich U.S. Catholicism. The curriculum at MACC was not just history or theology, but praxis—an effective plan for ac- tion developed from shared reflection. The emphasis upon what might be called “continuing education” was accompanied by a modest opening of Catholic parochial schools to more Latino students. However, even with youth, the principal tools for education were retreats and training programs (Stevens-Arroyo and Díaz-Stevens 1993b).

THE INTELLECTUAL ROOTS OF THE RESURGENCE

Although this Latino militancy was initially targeted at the Catholic Church, the primary faith institution for Latinos, most of these key notions were to carry over to the other denominations. There was little that was automatic in the adaptation to the theological and organizational premises of the church- es. Without a leadership with strong commitments to build and maintain this social movement, the resurgence would not have been successful.

The arguments may have been borrowed from the secular militant groups, but they were adapted to fit a religious context. For instance, the conclusions of the first encuentro began with a preamble that used the argument of pro- portional representation to make diversity, not Americanization, the “true value” to be fostered by the church:

“E pluribus unum” and “In God we trust” mark the spirit of the people of the United States of America and of the Church of Christ. The strength of the unity of our country and our Church is proportionate to the respect for the individual persons, families and ethnic groups that compose them.

(Encuentro document, cited in Díaz-Stevens and Stevens-Arroyo 1998: 187)

The principle of cultural idiosyncrasy was invoked as well:

Every people has a right to self-determination and . . . the most effective in- strumentality of development of a people is an indigenous leadership. . . . In education and formation, a harmonious and organic development of each person demands a respect for, understanding of, and realization of the

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potentialities of the culture and society in which he lives and from which he has sprung.

(Encuentro document, cited in Díaz-Stevens and Stevens-Arroyo 1998: 185–86)

The documents employed statistics on poverty and low educational achieve- ment among Latinos to specify what sort of church-based programs were re- quired in the promotion of social justice. Acceptance of the encuentro docu- ments by the bishops—which had been ensured by the structure of delegate selection—legitimized the democratization in the formulation of church policies.

Most importantly, these documents became blueprints for action. Unlike some secular manifestos and declarations of the Latino movements whose stipulations went unimplemented, the majority of the reforms outlined by the encuentro were incorporated into Catholic Church policies. Moreover, new organizations at the local level were created to implement the changes and to provide a constant monitor on progress, or the lack of it, and report to a rec- ognized authority, the Office for the Spanish-Speaking. After the first encuen- tro, the office was elevated to the rank of a secretariat within the complex USCC. With its new title, the office was no longer limited to social services and was expected to inject the concerns of the movement into all of the agen- cies of the national organization of the Catholic Church: liturgy, education, political lobbying, and the like. At the same time, local parishes benefited from a more open climate that encouraged grassroots engagement in govern- ment programs (I. García 1996).

While many secular counterparts such as La Raza Unida Party, MEChA, and the Young Lords (see Torres and Katsiaficas 1999; Muñoz 1989; and Gutiérrez, chapter 1, this volume) have floundered in the 1990s, Latino church movements have demonstrated more stamina. This pattern reflects a similar trend reported for religiously affiliated organizations of “direct action” that are more stable than secular equivalents (Epstein 1991). The growth of faith- based groups, in contrast to the diminution of the secular militant organiza- tions, has made community organizations more likely to be linked to church- es than to political or labor associations (Gittell et al. 1981). I believe the superior effectiveness of the church movements can be explained by their abil- ity to unite different ideologies. This capacity prevented a splintering over in- ternal squabbles. This is not to deny that there were different camps within the resurgence. The principal differences were defined in Prophets Denied Honor (Stevens-Arroyo 1980: 175–79; see Díaz-Stevens 1993b: 220–43) as the “pas- toralists,” who were primarily interested in reforming church institutions and the “liberationists,” who sought church resources to address the material needs of the people through social service and community agencies. There was

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a natural convergence of both groups around common plans of action that required the church to practice internally among Latinos the same concern it professed outwardly in public and political issues of social justice. The usual course was to appoint a Latino leader to an ecclesiastical position as adminis- trator of a program targeted on Latino needs. Thus both the pastoralist and liberationist expectations were met simultaneously.

THE SHORTCOMINGS

Of course, the resurgence was not without its struggles and failures. For in- stance, the New York Office for the Spanish-speaking Apostolate was disman- tled between 1972 and 1975 by a hierarchy frightened by the power of the Lati- no laity that had been sent as delegates to the first encuentro (Díaz Ramírez 1990). Díaz-Stevens views the resurgence in Gramscian terms, as the develop- ment of organic intellectuals within the Latino church communities. She compares the achievements of the movement to the definition by Antonio Gramsci of democratic centralism that requires “an organic unity between theory and practice, between intellectual strata and popular masses, between rulers and ruled” (1993b: 213). A similar analysis of PADRES has been supplied by the Chicano scholar Gilbert Cadena (1987). Both scholars point to an in- evitable conflict arising when the institution considered its hegemonic control to have shifted towards Latinos. This tail-wagging-the-dog phobia of the bish- ops is described in detail by Díaz-Stevens in terms of the New York Archdio- cese (1993b: 229–43). However, the repressive measures in New York and in some other dioceses could remove the messengers, but not the message. Local dioceses had to participate in all the encuentros because refusal to do so would have violated national policy, and harsh policies were often reversed under peer pressure from other bishops. Today, one is more likely to hear com- plaints from progressive Latinos that the director of the office for Latinos does not do enough instead of encountering the protest from the 1970s that there was no church office for Latinos.

The resurgence of Latino religion has continued to contribute significantly in shaping contemporary Catholicism. For instance, Latinos devised programs to deal with a lack of native clergy, which caused a reliance on lay leadership. Today, those conditions describe all of U.S. Catholicism (Schoenherr and Young 1993), not just the experience of Latinos. The emphasis upon a cultur- ally rich liturgy and the empowerment of the laity are areas where the pro- grams devised for Latinos have been carried over to other Catholic groups. In light of current demographic projections, it is safe to say that U.S. Catholicism in the twenty-first century will greatly resemble the model espoused by Latinos

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at the third encuentro, held in August 1985 with some 1,150 diocesan delegates gathered in Washington, D.C.:

We also announce a model of Church that is open to the people’s need, placing its buildings at the disposal of the people and recognizing the real- ity of Hispanics as a poor community. We affirm a model of priesthood that is more in contact with the people it serves, dedicated to persons, not ma- terial buildings, and exercising leadership in smaller communities.

(Secretariat for Hispanic Affairs, Pueblo Hispano—Voz Profetica, Washington, D.C.:

National Catholic Conference, cited in Justo González 1990: 65)

Without obscuring its considerable successes, the resurgence can be criti- cized for having emphasized the Mexican American experience at the expense of other national groups. While the successes of the Mexican Americans in Texas and New Mexico were spectacular in institutional terms, the demo- graphic homogeneity and historic roots of Catholicism in these regions were unrepeatable in other settings where Latinos were not as numerous nor as well established. Non–Mexican American leadership in areas such as south Flori- da, where Cuban Americans were a majority, and in the New York area, where Puerto Ricans and Dominicans predominated, looked to themselves rather than the national office for solutions to their particular problems (Stevens- Arroyo 1994; see also Tweed 1997), thus lessening the movement’s national co- hesiveness. For example, the struggle related by Goris (1995) about Domini- cans seeking church sponsorship for a protest against the execution of a Dominican immigrant in the state of Texas was a cause with national impli- cations that received no support from the national secretariat.

Perhaps the greatest surprise in the resurgence was the church’s inability to fully anticipate that the Charismatic movement would replace the Cursillo in importance among Latino Catholics and that Pentecostal and Evangelical con- gregations would grow at the expense of mainline Protestantism. The Catholic Charismatics and Pentecostals pray alike, rely on healing rituals, and prefer emotionally pitched preaching, although the Catholic Charismatics accept the teachings of the Catholic Church on grace, justification, devotion to Mary, and the papacy. To maintain this distinction, Catholic Charismatics will close their prayer session with a hymn to the Blessed Mother—something totally absent from the Pentecostal tradition. Once the Charismatics made this and other concessions to dogma, the movement gained considerable support from the Catholic hierarchy. In Houston, Texas, there is a downtown church building that coordinates all Charismatic Catholic ministries and provides an official space in which the unique prayer style of the Charismatics has full dominion.

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As a movement focuses on the interiority of spiritual renewal, the Charis- matics have been generally less likely than the cursillistas to incorporate social action as part of their faith commitments, although the cursillistas, Charis- matics, and Pentecostals all function as a sects within the parish, with close- knit associations and strong bonds of fictive family. But whereas the Cursillo is made only once in a lifetime, the Charismatics and Pentecostals hold their prayer meetings several times a week. Today, Catholic Charismatics have soft- ened the differences between the original Pentecostal religion and Catholi- cism, making Pentecostalism more a way of praying and less a distinct (and often anti-Catholic) religion.5

MAKING THE BARRICADES INTO ORGANIZATIONS

The elections of a new and more conservative pope, John Paul II, in 1979 and the conservative Ronald Reagan as president of the United States the next year began to close opportunities for the expansion of the resurgence goals both on the ecclesiastical front, where more conservative prelates were chosen, and on the political side, where drastic cuts in social programs were dictated from Washington. Moreover, the established principles of the movement were now rebuffed with counterarguments about “reverse discrimination” and the need to “end the welfare mentality.” Latino Catholics and mainline Protestants were forced to beat a retreat from the front lines (Díaz-Stevens and Stevens- Arroyo 1998: 180–211). The expansive phase of the resurgence was over.

In the conservative tide of the 1980s, the alliance between the pastoralists and the liberationists wore thin at a national level. Since the pastoralists had always been interested in church organization, they were usually the directors of policy for the institution. As funds contracted and public support for social programs waned, the pastoralists were often forced to choose between dedi- cating resources to community services or continuing church-based projects. Most often, the church-based projects won out. Liberationists complained that the movement was no longer serving the material needs of the people in combating oppression. Lupe Angiano, then Director of the South West Office for the Spanish-Speaking, articulated the liberationist position:

I would like to challenge us to depart from traditional church structures— where orders come from the top down—or competitive structures that iso- late one program or organization from the other. I see little value in His- panics trying to organize an Apostolic Plan of Action if in fact such a plan is based on repeating or trying to duplicate what already exists. It seems to

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me more in keeping with our Christian ideals and cultural values that we organize structures based on a philosophy of broad participation complete- ly given to community, cooperation and service.

(Lupe Anguiano, cited in Stevens-Arroyo 1980: 311)

In contrast, pastoralists viewed the affirmation of culture within religious expression as the first step in liberation. In a minor scale, this was an ecclesi- astical repetition of the conflict between Hegelian idealists and Marxist mate- rialists arguing over where the highest priority should be placed. Most pas- toralists did not disparage community organizing around material needs: in fact, they anticipated that winning the “cultural war” within the church would make community organizing more effective because the Americanizing ten- dency of U.S. Catholicism would be replaced. The 1996 visit of Pope John Paul II to the United States crowned the achievement of the pastoralist goals:

The pope also loves the sons and daughters of the church who speak Span- ish. Many of you have been born here or have lived here for a long time. Others are more recent arrivals. But you all bear the mark of your cultural heritage, deeply rooted in Catholic tradition. Keep alive that faith and culture.

(Sermon on the Great Lawn in New York City’s Central Park, 1996, cited in Díaz-Stevens

and Stevens-Arroyo 1998: 191; emphasis added)

Significantly, the pope admonished both those recently arrived from Latin America and those who, as Latinos, were born and raised in the United States to avoid Americanization. There are indications in the results offered by the PARAL Study (Stevens-Arroyo et al. 2002) that the pastoralist emphasis on culture is not disconnected from the capacity of a parish or congregation to foster agencies that address material needs along the lines advocated by liber- ationists. Today, as governments both federal and local, have developed pro- grams throughout the 1990s that fund faith-based community agencies, the churches are well positioned to once again unify the pastoralist and libera- tionist impulses (Wood 1999; see also Verba, Schlozman, and Brady 1995).

THE ACHIEVEMENTS

Although this analysis has focused upon the Catholic experience of a Latino Resurgence, the four principles at the root of the resurgence ideology were also adapted by Protestants (Justo González 1990). Mainline Protestant de- nominations, such as Methodists, Presbyterians, and American Baptists, did not have Latino membership that in any way was as large as in Catholicism

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(Díaz-Stevens and Stevens-Arroyo 1998: 37), but they did have a rich tradition of service and social outreach to the needy. Utilizing the principles of the movement, the Protestant leadership not only asserted a need for attention to Latino social needs, but they repeated the Catholic message about the repre- sentation of indigenous leadership and a new focus upon maintaining cultur- al diversity (I. García 1996). In not so subtle ways, Latino Protestants defini- tively cut away the Americanization tendency that had plagued their denominations even more than Catholicism. By repeating the arguments ar- ticulated at the Catholic encuentros, many denominations secured roles for various caucus and advisory boards that shaped policy for their churches in ways that paralleled the agencies that administered to Latino Catholicism. In- terestingly, many Protestant churches now house multiple congregations speaking multiple languages under the same roof, echoing the “basement church” of the Catholic experience. The Methodist theologian Justo González wrote of the fruits of the resurgence in an award-winning 1990 book:

We find ourselves walking along the same path with Roman Catholics. This new ecumenism has a practical and political side. The civil rights move- ment has its counterparts in the Hispanic community, and in those coun- terparts Catholics and Protestants have been drawn together. In these struggles, Protestant and Catholic Hispanics march arm in arm and are thus learning to undo many of the prejudices that have divided them. . . . Furthermore, this new ecumenism is not limited to issues of “life and work.” It also includes what have traditionally been called matters of “faith and order.” Indeed, it is our contention that there can be no division be- tween life and work on the one hand and faith and order on the other, for as we work and live out the gospel we gain new insights into the meaning of our faith and the proper order for the church.

(González 1990: 74)

The PARAL Study (Stevens-Arroyo et al. 2002) confirms that, except for differ- ences resulting from the size of a typical urban community, the mainline Protes- tant congregations and the Roman Catholic parishes provide virtually the same services to the people and consider cultural expression important in virtually identical ways. Moreover, the ARIS Study found that the percentage of Hispan- ics identifying with any Protestant denomination has dropped in the past ten years from 26 percent in 1990 to 22 percent in 2001 (Kosmin, Mayer, and Keysar 2001). These results suggest that there is a growing need for a redefinition of Latino Protestantism within the general boundaries of Latino identity.

The slowest of the churches to adopt Latino-movement principles and the- ology were the Evangelicals, Pentecostals, and the Jehovah’s Witnesses, many

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of which had long-standing theological traditions of avoiding entanglements with politics. These theologies did not lack commitment to the issues that concerned all Latinos, but they did not encourage the churches to create or- ganizational mechanisms to mobilize collective action around these issues (Pérez y González 1995; Wood 1999). Well ahead of his Evangelical peers, the Reverend Raymond Rivera interpreted the Pentecostal experience as one fo- cused on “the theology of survival,” arguing as early as 1976 that this was a form of the theology of liberation cited by the Catholic and mainline Protes- tant leadership (Stevens-Arroyo 1980: 338–39).

The entry of conservative churches into the political arena came just as the impetus from the Latino religious resurgence among Catholics and mainline Protestants was diminishing. Evangelicals in the United States were mobilized in the 1980s by the Moral Majority of the Rev. Jerry Falwell and the Christian Coalition formed by the televangelist Pat Robertson (Williams 2000). Al- though these efforts were targeted primarily at English speakers, they had a noticeable impact on Latino Pentecostals and Evangelicals. Thus, for instance, Puerto Rican Pentecostals fostered community organizing in the South Bronx as an antidote to programs led by radicals and liberals. Reaganite politics eventually placed Pentecostal ministers in influential positions. Ironically, once placed in positions of political influence, many Evangelicals pressed for additional funds for federally funded housing programs, food stamps, and other such “liberal” efforts to alleviate poverty.

The theologian Eldin Villafañe adopted a Pentecostal perspective to reflect on the entry of Pentecostals and Evangelicals into politics:

When justice is understood as “love rationally distributed,” in essence one principle, a certain “wholism” is maintained in socio-political affairs. This prevents a dichotomy that can lead to atomistic realms— . . . a negative role for government, and a conservative and status quo political ideology. . . . Actions on behalf of the oppressed in the arena of politics and society at large are actions of love. Love can seek the expansion of the role of govern- ment, one that is concerned for social and economic welfare, thus a positive and active role for government. . . . The strategy of the Spirit is to empow- er its people to incarnate its love in just action in the world.

(Villafañe 1993: 214–15).

His theology helps explain why Pentecostals and Evangelicals support an agenda of governmental involvement with faith-based communities that re- quires significant levels of funding. In sum, Pentecostal and Evangelical lead- ers have come to find more in common with their activist Catholic and Protestant counterparts than might have been expected on the basis of ideol-

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ogy alone. The needs of the people became a most important factor in bring- ing together denominations that had carefully avoided cooperation in the past (Villafañe 1993: 84–102). In sum, although Latino Pentecostalism entered pol- itics as an ally of the Republican Party against liberal policies, nearly two decades later, it has changed that orientation. The Republican Party’s embrace in 2001 of an expanded social-service funding through churches, called “Char- itable Choice,” is a reversal of the antigovernment stance of the Reagan years. The PARAL Study (Stevens-Arroyo et al. 2002) found that although Evangel- icals and Pentecostals were more likely to classify themselves as “conservative” in politics than Catholics and Protestants, there was not a significant differ- ence between them and all other pastors towards the use of government funds by churches to aid the material needs of the people.

For its part, Latino Catholicism continued to make adaptations in the 1990s, even after many of the more ambitious programs and agencies suffered declines in effectiveness. Catholicism can be credited with reducing the dif- ferences between Latinos and Latin Americans. Because of the territorial na- ture of parish organization, most Catholic churches often have several lan- guage and national groups as members. Newly arriving immigrants from Latin America automatically become members of a parish when they move into a neighborhood. Thus, the process that originally forged unity among the different regions, each of which had a different nationality, now seeks the same unity within a single parish unit. The pattern is sometimes repeated in the Protestant and Pentecostal experiences.

The constant influx of Latin American immigrants helps preserve the Span- ish language among Latinos who often become bilingual rather than abandon the Spanish language. At the same time, the organizations and agencies head- ed by Latinos with social and political skills are put at the service of the Latin American immigrants. The analysis provided by Anneris Goris (1995) of a Puerto Rican/Dominican parish, suggests that the newly arrived and already settled meet most effectively in a church setting. In an area that requires more systematic study, it appears that in many instances the contemporary assimi- lation of Latin American immigrants is to the Latino community and not the Euro-American society of the United States.

THE RESULTS OF THE RESURGENCE IN RELIGION TODAY

The successes of the resurgence can be summarized on several key fronts. First, church resources, both Catholic and Protestant, have been substantially reallocated to serve the varied needs of Latinos. A wide gamut of educational, social, and material issues are addressed by many denominations as part of

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their ministries. Among faith-based Latino communities, social ministries are often run by the lay people (Coleman 1996). Second, the number and visibil- ity of Latino clergy in policy-making positions has increased, especially at more local levels where Latino leaders exercise considerable influence. Virtu- ally every denomination has its caucus or council that allows Latinos to speak to policy formulation. Third, cultural religion has moved to center stage in the United States. Traditions that were once opposed by Americanizing leader- ship have been embraced as elements of cultural religion. For instance, the Hispanic Liturgical Commission has fashioned a new ritual—not found among Euro-American Catholics—for a church celebration of the quinceañera, wherein a young woman pledges chastity until marriage. The young woman, wearing an elaborate white dress similar to a bridal gown, en- ters the church with attendants in tuxedos and formal dress. Kneeling before the altar, the young woman makes a solemn promise at the invitation of the priest. The church celebration is crowned with a reception mirroring the so- cial status of the young woman. Some Latino Protestants practice the quinceañera, emphasizing its cultural rather than religious importance, thus blurring the distinctions in an already ambiguous mix. In the more ordinary circumstances of weekly rituals, the ecumenical exchanges follow this same pattern. Pentecostals include Latino folk rhythms in the repertoire of worship, enriching services that formerly overrepresented the Euro-American and African American traditions, while Catholics sing the Pentecostal coritos with gusto. Both sing from a hymnal that publishes compositions from many tra- ditions. Fourth, the raison d’être of Latino religion has been explained in the- ological terms, such as Virgil Elizondo’s theological mestizaje and other no- tions, such as “local theologies” (Schreiter 1985). Denominations that often preferred citing biblical passages to systematic theological reflection are par- ticipating in efforts to ground Latino religious experiences upon a set of core principles that at once are theological and crossdenominational. Fifth, lay people are generally more disposed to cooperation in faith-based community- development organizations that strive to concretize social justice and holistic ministry in specific projects targeted on local needs and led by indigenous leaders. In this way the public realm has acquired a sense of moral responsi- bility (Stevens-Arroyo 1997). While the social involvement of Latino church- es is substantial, I do not wish to suggest that they have ended or will end poverty and discrimination. In fact, the continuing impoverishment of Lati- nos vis à vis the general U.S. society argues for even more attention from the churches to the needs of the community (Moore and Pinderhughes 1993; Díaz-Stevens and Stevens-Arroyo 1998: 20–34).

Sixth, the feminization of religious leadership was intensified among Lati- nos. By building on traditions wherein the fostering of religious practice was a

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role assigned primarily to women, the professionalization of church leadership as an effect of the resurgence meant that Latinas gained enormous influence and prestige within religious institutions. For instance, women are the heads of 19 percent of Latino parishes in the Roman Catholic Church, despite the rules in that denomination that ordain only males (Stevens-Arroyo et al. 2002). Called “the matriarchal core” (Díaz-Stevens 1993a), this trend adds a uniquely Latina dimension to the study of gender roles in contemporary society. Sev- enth, the Latino experiences have fostered a transnational Latino identity. As many of the contributors to this volume have noted, “transnationalism” refers to the capacity for a person to possess simultaneously different national iden- tities. While it has always been recognized that immigrants to the U.S. reflect cultural, linguistic, and political loyalties to the country they left behind, the as- similationist premise held that incorporation into U.S. society would replace these old loyalties with new ones dictated by life in the States (see Stevens- Arroyo 1994). I view contemporary transnationalism among Latinos as a repu- diation of the bias toward only one loyalty and inevitable assimilation into U.S. society. It seems to me that a growing number of Latinos today have multiple identities, some that reflect needs specific to life in the United States, but not exclusive of continuities with the Latin American experience. In the context of a global economy, instant communications, and easy transportation between countries, the old pattern of immigrant nostalgia for the abandoned homeland is no longer as common. Instead, immigrants can alternately choose among the politics, sports, and entertainment of the United States and Latin America, lit- erally by pushing a button on a television remote. The increasing frequency of dual nationality and/or citizenship gives legitimacy to these multiple identities that transcend national boundaries. The new and more complex ties to various homelands discernible in the Latino experiences are also found among other immigrant groups in the United States (see Ebaugh and Chafetz 2000; Warner and Wittner 1998), adding importance to a study of this phenomenon as a new dimension of contemporary U.S. society.

CONTEMPORARY SPIRITUALITY

The general absence of religion as a theme in academic discourse about Lati- no history and culture has already been lamented (see note 1). But ironically, the sacred has been restored to popular culture (Kavolis 1988), especially since the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991. Accordingly, religion has made a comeback among Latino elites, particularly among those producing literary works or commenting on culture from within the academy. The tendency to use culture as ideology has been documented among several groups and is in

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fact a worldwide trend (Williams 1996). Today, cultural religion and religious culture have been utilized to protect group identity not only for Latinos, but also for African Americans, Filipinos, Vietnamese, and many other national groups (Roof 1998). U.S. Catholicism in particular has witnessed a revival of traditional piety (Johnson 1998) and of ethnic traditions among older immi- grant groups, such as the Italians and Irish, manifested by restoration of tra- ditional devotions (Orsi 1996) and Celtic practices (Baumann 2000).

Among Latinos and Latinas, sacred symbols and practices of popular reli- gion are elements of a Latino cultural identity that serve as a critical ideology. Although this issue is addressed in the theological description of mestizaje, at- tachment to these symbols derived from religion does not always equate to re- ligious practice in a worshiping community. In fact, some, like Gloria An- zaldúa (1987), consider religious symbols as their own cultural property and prefer to speak of “spirituality” in order not confuse their embrace of the sa- cred with practices linked to institutionalized religion (see also Stavans 1995).

There is a sense in which this mode of thinking about religious issues is a nondenominational claim to the popular religiosity described by theologians. Whereas Elizondo and others would see popular religiosity and institutional- ized religion as inseparably linked, this nonconfessional view of spirituality sees opposition and resistance to the formal workings of church. Appeal to symbols and traditions is not intended to bring the popular and the preached closer together, but to sever them so that the people no longer need have re- course to organized religion in the practice of a religious spirituality.

There are different degrees in this resistance: some are simply antibureau- cratic and secularizing versions of the orthodox theological insistence on the importance of popular religiosity: others are overtly anti-Christian and ap- proximate what is usually called “paganism.” In many cases, spirituality with- out religion makes no moral claims based on God. Spiritual choices are pre- sented as expressions of one’s own values, independent of divine commandments.6 Individuals may discover a preference for certain behavior in their spiritual journey, but sin does not exist as a theological category.7

Spirituality freed from Christian faith is claimed to be both antithetical and superior to religion (Griffin 2000). Discourse on the body, in great part trace- able to Foucault, has been used to assault Christian conceptions of marriage, virginity, and sexual identity (see Gutiérrez 1991). Together with ecology, fem- inism, astrology, and New Age beliefs, indigenous religious expressions have become a part of contemporary spirituality that does not utilize religious structures or agencies. With the license provided by postmodernism for revi- sionist versions of history, a new interpretation of Latino history is being com- posed wherein the sixteenth-century mestizaje of civilization and religion can be discounted in favor of a anti-institutional Latino spirituality. Artists and

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writers, in particular, have incorporated this sentiment into their production, suggesting meanings for the Cross of Christ or Our Lady of Guadalupe that have been interpreted by many as antagonistic to Christian faith.8

It is important to include these expressions as part of Latino religion on the premise that wherever there is a “sacred,” there is religion. I might be faulted by some for including spirituality in this review of Latino religion and reli- giosity because these products of literary and artistic elites do not represent the faith of tens of millions of Latino Christians. Nonetheless, my premise has been that religion goes beyond the four walls of religious buildings and per- meates much of society. Whether as “religious culture” or as “cultural reli- gion,” such expressions are part of the Latino experience. David Carrasco, in a provocative essay about “Jaguar Christians” (1995), paints a scene of Ri- coeur’s phenomenological distress as the occasion for syncretism, which is rooted in “a much harder, deeper, more complex matter than what is in im- mediate consciousness” (77–78). Following his lead, I think these religious ex- pressions outside the embrace of organized religion are contributors to a so- ciohistorical process that is much larger than any one of its interactive parts. These expressions produced by an articulate and talented Latino elite, whether within religious orthodoxy or not, affect the conceptualization (some would say “construction”) of Latino culture.

Ricoeur’s notion of phenomenological distress ties together these disparate expressions because, in its various manifestations, Latino religion continues to struggle against injustice. Even if the paintings, poetry, and novels of the lit- erary elites neither build buildings nor give food to the hungry, clothe or con- sole the suffering, or organize strikes or marches for social justice, they make a contribution to the ongoing Latino experience of religion. The new religious art and literature develop further symbols of resistance. They cast African and indigenous religious expression as foil to Americanization and Europeaniza- tion. Like the spirituality movements in cultural matters, Latino parishes and congregations within Christianity exhibit trends away from a rigid Eurocen- tric orthodoxy, continuing the process begun during the resurgence.

THE INDIGENOUS REVIVAL IN LATINO RELIGION

Indigenous religious traditions in the Americas have gained a significant influ- ence over Latino religion since 1992. What was conceived as a hemispheric cel- ebration of the transatlantic voyage of Christopher Columbus witnessed instead a revival of a Native American identity. The reaffirmation of pre-Hispanic cul- ture took various forms. There is renewed pride in those sectors of Latin Amer- ica where the native population survives physically and linguistically in distinct

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societies, as, for instance, in Chiapas, Mexico, where the revival had important political repercussions. But the indigenous heritage is present in less dramatic ways, such as the seeking of herbal cures, the experience of an initiated healer or curandera/o, and the usage of sweat as a form of purification.

The indigenous religious revival at times constitutes a rejection of Chris- tianity for the “old ways”: it is now common to see groups practicing Aztec (Mexico) or Taíno (Caribbean) rites at the powwows, or Native American cel- ebrations that are held periodically in the United States. However, the revival is also present among tens of millions of Latino Christians. The celebration of Mass in San Fernando Cathedral in San Antonio features children dressed as Aztecs who dance down the main aisle during the offertory procession (Eli- zondo and Matovina 1998). The identification of religion with Latino popular culture extends to the civic and social arena for public events. For instance, the celebration of the Mexican Day of the Dead is a sixteenth-century result of the syncretism of Aztec ancestor worship with the Catholic Feast of All Souls (which itself was a syncretization in the sixth century with the Celtic New Year). Intended as a day of prayer for the souls in Purgatory, in Los Angeles el Día de los Muertos has been organized as a civic commemoration of victims of police brutality (Medina 2000a). These examples demonstrate that the reli- gious imagination of Latinos continues to be creative, both within and outside church settings.

THE AFRO-CARIBBEAN EXPERIENCES

Among Latinos from the Caribbean, the affirmation of Afro-Caribbean reli- gions runs parallel to the reclaiming of Native American roots elsewhere. Many of these religions originated among slave populations of the islands and have acquired a theology by incorporating heavy doses of Iberian Catholicism and elements of theosophy and spiritualism (Stevens-Arroyo and Pérez y Mena 1995). These Afro-Caribbean religions have functioned ubiquitously, if clandestinely, in all of the island societies from colonial times into the twenti- eth century. The niche occupied by these religions was hidden within the ample diversity of Catholicism. Believers attended Catholic masses and pro- cessions, wore medals and crosses, blessed themselves with holy water, and re- ceived communion. But they also practiced specialized rites such as animal sacrifices, sought protection from curses, requested hexes on their enemies, and prayed to the spirits for sexual powers, success in business, and good luck. In the contemporary context of urban centers such as New York, the different strands of traditions from Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, and Haiti have been woven together (Pérez y Mena 1998).

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Different theories have emerged among academics to explain the persist- ence of these religious beliefs, such as slaves’ ignorance of the difference be- tween African and Christian believers or purposeful deception of their mas- ters. Most of these explanations reflect the low tolerance in organized religion for African elements. Church approval has been less forthcoming for the Afro-Caribbean experiences than for Native American religious expressions, probably because the religious legitimacy given to vengeance, animal sacrifice, and sexual power in the Afro-Caribbean religions has made them vulnerable to a Christian denunciation as “devil worship.” With a new-found respect for diversity in religious expression, however, it is more common for Christian leaders to search for ways to interpret these Afro-Caribbean traditions within Latino popular religiosity.

Nonetheless, the vitality of Afro-Caribbean religion is outside of Christian- ity today. Santería is the most widespread of the Afro-Caribbean religions in the United States. Called “Lucumí” in Cuba where it originated as an Ameri- can expression of Yoruba religion, Santería among Latinos has now absorbed many other elements as well. Santería requires animal sacrifice to obtain a blood offering for the rituals of worship and healing. These sacrifices were tar- geted by the city of Hialeah in Florida in a series of prohibitions issued in 1987. But after lengthy legal battles, in November 1992 the U.S. Supreme Court up- held a 1989 Florida decision striking down the ordinances of Hialeah against the Lucumí Church of Babalú Ayé (Campo 1995). The effect of the Supreme Court decision has been to augment the tendency to establish Afro-Caribbean worship as a religion among many others in the United States, where all the rituals are constitutionally protected. In the future, Afro-Caribbean religions will increasingly stand alone without the need of a Catholic “disguise.” One can expect that new religions will appear among Latinos, probably attracting non-Latino members in the process.

CONCLUSION

Religion among Latinos continues to be the social vehicle that transports the majority of our people through the moments of joy and tragedy that constitute for families and individuals life’s rites of passage. But during the period under examination, its institutionalized resources also have assumed a major role in shaping cultural identity, giving impulse to social movements, motivating mil- lions to community action, fostering the feminization of community leadership, and stimulating a greater awareness of a pan-Latino and transnational reality.

In this chapter, particular attention has been given to the Latino religious resurgence that made the greatest of changes in religious expression for a

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period beginning in 1967 with the strike by the farm workers in California led by César Chávez. The rallying of support for the many phases of la causa was quickly turned into a militancy to reform the churches and was led by a generation of Latino clergy and religious women. Considered as a social movement, the Latino religious resurgence mobilized institutional resources through the encuentros and a host of church-based educational and commu- nity agencies to the benefit of large numbers of Latinos nationwide. In the space of less than twenty years, church people moved from the barrios to the barricades, transforming religious institutions into bulwarks of social change.

Although the original movement and its leaders do not enjoy their former prominence, there is a palpable difference in the scope and style of church or- ganization, resembling what Antonio Gramsci described as “organic leader- ship.” It remains to be seen if the churches will continue to support the ad- vancement of Latinos as African Americans are replaced as the nation’s largest “minority.” But several measures can be introduced to provide a yardstick with which to measure religious contributions to the social benefit of Latinos. Will the Catholic Church make accessible to Latinos its schools, not only in terms of admitting pupils to the classrooms, but especially in adapting cur- riculum to reflect Latino identity? Will mainline Protestantism continue to foster the development of Latino leadership, even if that leadership diverges from the traditional class setting of Protestantism in the U.S., wherein one changes denominations along with income? Will Latino Evangelicals and Pen- tecostals mobilize their followers towards social activism and aggressive pur- suit of funding for grassroots agencies that attend to material needs? Will the artistic expression of a religious culture that emanates from a highly talented and influential intellectual elite contribute to the rescue of alienated youth in the barrios where drugs, teenage pregnancies, and gang values threaten the fabric of social cohesion? Each of the components of the Latino religious world faces a challenge in the shaping of a common future. The social role of the churches may change from revolutionary to evolutionary points of people power, but it appears that religion has placed itself irreversibly within the civic space as a voice for Latinos and Latinas.

Nonetheless, there are questions to be asked about the future. Since the Catholic Church continues to hold a policy that refuses baptism for a child unless the parents practice Catholicism by church attendance, there are Lati- nos who find themselves without a church for their “religious culture.” Where will these people go to celebrate life, death, and marriage? This loss is reflect- ed in the drop of the percentage of Latinos calling themselves “Catholic” from 65.8 percent in 1990 to 59 percent in 2001 (Kosmin, Mayer, and Keysar 2001). Lack of affiliation with a particular religion, however, is not the same as be- coming an atheist. The ARIS study found that the fastest growing member-

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ship category for the U.S. was “no religion,” growing for Hispanics from 6 percent in 1990 to 12 percent in 2001. The growth in the number of unaffiliat- ed believers may make nondenominational expressions of spirituality more important for larger numbers of Latinos.

Whatever the results, religion must be judged by religious norms to fully as- sess its impact. We need to recognize that the utopian dimension of religion al- ways makes its political goals “not of this world.” Even as these words are writ- ten, a new causa has triumphed in the case of massive community resistance to the U.S. Navy bombing of the Puerto Rican island of Vieques (Stevens-Arroyo 2000). In peaceful marches and conscientious civil disobedience, the religious leadership of virtually every denomination in Puerto Rico has begun a move- ment to force the withdrawal of U.S. militarism in the Caribbean. Despite fail- ures and deceptions through all of human history, religion and religious insti- tutions continue to inspire people in ways that hint at the marvelous.

NOTES

1. Religion is absent from two recent books on Latino social movements, Juan

González’s A Harvest of Empire (2000) and Latino Social Movements (1999), edited

by Torres and Katsiaficas. A similar absence is evident in Stavans’s (1995) review of

Latino literature, and neither “religion” nor “church” are in the index of the copi-

ous The Latino/a Condition (Delgado and Stefancic 1998). While the scholarly effort

of the authors in each of these works might be respected, their exclusion of religion

results in works of narrow scope. One is left with serious doubt as to the reliability

of such studies in describing Latino experiences.

2. For more on this issue, see Díaz-Stevens and Stevens-Arroyo 1998: 48–78. While in

the past, the rejection of syncretism as a legitimate process in religion led some to

overestimate the importance of orthodoxy from the Iberian Catholic perspective,

there is now a similar rereading of syncretism from the viewpoint of indigenous re-

ligions. I believe with David Weber (1992: 359) that the attempts to stereotype Iber-

ian Catholicism as a unilaterally imposed hegemonic control of Native American

religion is a modern version of the sixteenth-century black legend that unfortu-

nately is more a result of bigotry than of objective analysis. I encourage the reader

to adopt a critical stance towards syncretism as an uneven process that combines

coercion and free choice, power with powerlessness, faith commitment with self-

interest, and the sundry ambiguities of human social behavior.

3. We find, for instance, that the Extension Society of the Catholic Church dedicated

many efforts at fund-raising to support Catholic parishes in the Southwest, Texas,

and California, just as Protestant Mission Societies provided similar aid for their

denominational outreach to Spanish speakers. See Dolan and Hinojosa, 1994: 98.

4. For instance, in 1972 there were only two Latino bishops (not counting Puerto

Rico’s five bishops). Five years later there were a dozen, and in 2002 there were

more than twenty.

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5. Pentecostalism may be classified into five categories: 1) classical Pentecostal move-

ments based on the teachings of Charles F. Parham and William J. Seymour; 2)

neo-Pentecostalism, increasingly common among mainline Protestant churches

since 1960; 3) Catholic Charismatics, founded as a movement in 1967 at Duquesne

University and which has approximately ten times as many members as the As-

semblies of God, the largest Pentecostal denomination; 4) independent, interde-

nominational, or unaffiliated churches, which may be the fastest growing category

in the Protestant experience; 5) third world indigenous movements, many of which

have added indigenous religious beliefs into Pentecostal worship. See Villafañe

1993: 86–87, discussing the study of Vinson Synan.

6. There is a long-standing debate among experts of religion as to whether the “im-

manent divine,” such as that found in many forms of Buddhism, constitutes an

equivalent to the “transcendent divine” of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Tran-

scendent thought places God as a person distinct from the creature; immanent

thought places divine power within the individual, something like a force that can

be touched after undergoing intense training. The issue is a theological one beyond

the scope of this chapter.

7. However, morality should not be considered the exclusive property of religious

persons, because the god of religion is not the only transcendent goal possible to

individuals. Patriotism, altruism, and professional integrity are among the other

goals that can summon transcendence.

8. The painting The Piss Christ by artist David Serrano captures the ambiguity of jux-

taposing a traditional religious image in a degrading contemporary setting.

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NINE

U.S. LATINO EXPRESSIVE CULTURES

FRANCES R. APARIC IO

CULTURAL EXPRESSION always involves more than simply artistic creation or entertainment. For politically subordinated groups like Latinos, cultural expressions help them acquire a sense of space and belonging within their local communities and in the larger, dominant society (See Roach 1995). Given the history of migration, displacement, and marginalization that many Latinos have faced in the United States, forms of expressive culture such as popular music, visual arts, performance arts, film, and literature have served as important sites for exploring bicultural identity, debates on representa- tion, and the cultural agency and role in U.S. history of people of Latin American descent.

The historical and colonial relations of power that have characterized U.S.–Latin American relationships need to be considered in understanding the role of expressive cultures among Latinos in the United States. They have been displaced by the historical and economic forces of colonialism, capital- ism, industrialization, and, most recently, the globalized economy. This dis- placement is experienced not only physically and geographically, as in the case of Puerto Rican migration or Mexican and Central American immigration, but also psychologically and culturally, as in the case of native-born Latinos and Latinas. U.S. schools and other dominant social, educational, political, and cultural institutions undermine culturally different behavior and tradi- tions in the name of assimilation and Americanization. Thus, young Latinos have been dispossessed, to varying degrees, from their cultural heritage, be it language, rituals, cultural memories, or other forms through which all people reaffirm their social and cultural selves.

In this context, expressive cultures play multiple roles. The arts are not only entertainment, but also expressions through which U.S. Latinos, both as per- formers and as audience, can reconnect—either symbolically or through their bodies and senses—to their traditional cultures of origin, to their heritages and languages. Expressive cultures have offered Latinos in the United States a space for collective identification and self-recognition in the larger context of their invisibility within the dominant society.

Expressive cultures also serve to reactivate Latinos’ memories of cultural traditions by integrating many of the elements of history, identity, and self that the process of cultural colonization has fragmented. As Juan Gutiérrez, the director of a Puerto Rican folkloric musical group in New York, has stat- ed, the teaching, performance, and recovery of Afro–Puerto Rican folkloric music in New York, among U.S. Puerto Ricans in particular, exemplifies the recuperative role of music for a community whose members have lived under constant symbolic and material attacks as a racial minority (WBGH 1993). Likewise, a Mexican American woman from San Antonio, Texas, who has been an active participant in the tradition of the pastorelas, a representation of the Nativity scene, has expressed the central role that local cultural perform- ances play in establishing a collective memory for her community:

We need our traditions to be noticed here in America and here in our na- tion. I mean, we can’t lose them along the way, you know. Striving to go for- ward, yes, I mean, technology brings us forward and everything, but we can’t lose where we came from, it’s very important, and that’s why I stay, too. Like I said, it comes from education. We have to preserve what’s ours. Yes, go forward and be a united nation, but also don’t forget where you came from.

(quoted in Flores 1997: 124)

Elsie’s words illustrate the strong awareness among Latinos of the importance of reaffirming cultural memory through expressive cultures. For her, the pastore- las not only reconnect local Mexican Americans to their past and to Mexican folklore—that is, they create a continuity in memory and serve as an educa- tional tool—but they also serve to diminish the dehumanizing and fragmentary aspects of modern society, particularly the impact of technology. Although Lati- no cultures are not necessarily antithetical to the technologies of modernity, and indeed many Latino artists and writers have capitalized on new technologies, Elsie’s comment illustrates what Stuart Hall has argued is the recuperative mode of producing cultural identity, a process that offers “a way of imposing an imag- inary coherence on the experience of dispersal and fragmentation, which is the history of all enforced diasporas” (Hall 1990: 224). Through these “imaginative rediscoveries” of “essential identities” that take place through the recovery and

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reconstruction of the past, Latinos in the United States strengthen the connec- tions between their own selves and their “expropriated” histories, silenced and taken away from them by dominant institutions.

Indeed, U.S. Latino expressive cultures offer alternative narratives in which the voices and perspectives silenced by dominant histories are foregrounded. For instance, Puerto Rican folkloric and urban working-class music, like ple- nas and salsa, and Mexican American corridos (ballads in the oral tradition that tell stories of local heroes and events), often relate stories of immigration, racism in the United States, and the vicissitudes of living subordinated by eco- nomic, social, racial, and cultural factors. These oral traditions express the point of view of the working-class and marginalized sectors. Afro-Caribbean and Chicano urban experiences are likewise revealed in the lyrics of rap, a mu- sical form that represents historical continuities with both popular musical and deeply political forms of the Caribbean and African American experience. The Chicano murals in California and the Southwest visually document fig- ures and important historical characters in Mexican and Mexican American history that have been systematically excluded from official U.S. history texts. They give visibility, through forms and figures, to the points of view of the local, disenfranchised communities and to the struggles waged against dis- placement, racism, and police brutality, on the very same public walls and spaces that witnessed such struggles. In Chicago, for instance, the Puerto Rican and Mexicano communities have produced a variety of murals throughout the city that recognize local and national heroes in their history. From local firemen represented as winged angels, to Chicano, Puerto Rican, and Latin American political figures such as César Chávez, Che Guevara, and Pedro Albizu Campos, these figures in the Chicago murals trigger a process of commemoration for their viewers. In New York City, memorial murals have emerged since the 1980s to remember the many local victims of police brutal- ity and mourn the loss of local heroes.

In the literary realm, the ethnic memoir, the predominant genre in U.S. Latino literature, attempts to reclaim a past and a childhood not because they are “uniquely one’s own” (Fox 1996) informed by the individualist ethics of Anglo-America, but instead because they claim a space for the local and col- lective presence of Latino cultures in the larger narrative of U.S. history. In ad- dition, these autoethnographies—so called because they explore how the in- dividual is continuously formed and informed by the history and political economy of local communities—document the myriad ways in which Latinos negotiate between or among two or more cultures. These narratives fore- ground not only the participation and contributions of the communities to the making of the United States, but also explore instances of resistance and the reaffirmation of cultural difference. From young, female narrators such as

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Sandra Cisneros’s Esperanza (1989) and Nicholasa Mohr’s Nilda (1973), to the highly male-centered narratives about growing up Latino and male in the bar- rio—for instance, Piri Thomas (1967) and Luis Rodríguez (1993)—these voic- es, read together, serve as alternative narratives that demand recognition of the significance of everyday Latino lives in the public sphere of literature.

However, as Latinos become increasingly integrated into U.S. institutions, and as large conglomerates and the mainstream media begin to act as the sole producers of the arts, film, and popular music, the alternative values of these expressive cultures are not as clearly delineated as in the past, when cultural productions remained at the margins of the industry and were still predomi- nantly under the control of individual artists, writers, filmmakers, and local producers. Many cultural expressions have been transformed from local, community rituals to nationally visible expressions or to official folklore for tourist consumption, a process of recontextualization that inevitably alters their original meanings, their ideal audiences, and the social and cultural in- terpretations made possible by the texts and their contexts.

By the turn of the twenty-first century, the expression of U.S. Latino cul- tures have shifted, and they represent a much more diverse array of perspec- tives about what it means to be of Latin American descent within the United States. Factors such as the mainstreaming of expressive cultures, the increas- ing presence and power of a Latino bourgeois sector within the United States, the diversification of experiences related to social class, immigration, genera- tional differences, race, gender, and sexuality, among other factors, have led to a much more complex repertoire of expressive cultural texts and produc- tions. Thus, while many cultural texts continue to play an important role in decolonization, as previously discussed, it is also true that the positions repre- sented in Latino expressive cultures have become much more divergent and heterogeneous as diverse artists, musicians, filmmakers, and writers position themselves individually in their explorations of their bicultural identities.

Historically speaking, Latino arts and cultural texts have shifted because of the different positions from which they have emerged. This essay explores these transformations, as Latino expressive cultures move from the margins of the dominant U.S. society during the 1960s and 1970s into an increasing inte- gration within U.S. industries. A process of co-optation has been evident as oppositional expressions become absorbed by industry or institutions, thus neutralizing their radical content. Yet as co-optation takes place, new forms of resistance emerge from the ground up. If a growing awareness of multicultur- alism during the 1980s had a tremendous impact on the increasing acceptabil- ity and consumerism of Latino identities and cultures, at the same time it lim- ited the degree and transformed the expressions of political opposition that were present in the 1960s and 1970s. During the 1990s, a globalized music and

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literary market, for instance, made possible the national and international vis- ibility of a select number of Latino musicians, actors and actresses, and writ- ers. Yet this boom, motivated by an increasing consumer power among U.S. Latinos, has not necessarily translated into social equity and empowerment for the larger Latino population in the country. How, then, do Latino expres- sive cultures continue to address issues of self-empowerment for their pri- mary audiences while addressing the cultural needs and desires of larger, in- tercultural, and even non-Latino audiences?

An overview of the various forms of Latino expressive culture, as these have emerged, developed, and been consumed and received by both Latinos and non-Latinos since 1965, will shed light on the complex ways in which these ex- pressive cultures serve as sites from which to explore negotiations about iden- tity, power, and history. They are located in shifting dialectics between resist- ance and consent, between reaffirming cultural differentiation and the constant pressure for integration into U.S. society. The fact that many of these cultural texts explore Latino hybrid identities suggests that Latino expressive cultures have played a major role in the ways in which Latinos themselves de- fine their identities, and these expressions also provide insight into the processes through which the dominant society has represented Latinos.

THE STRUGGLES OVER REPRESENTATION

When Brazilian actress, dancer, and singer Carmen Miranda came to the Unit- ed States in the 1930s, her body, her accent, and her fruit basket together be- came the principal markers of the ways in which Hollywood objectified and made exotic the cultures from “south of the border” (Aparicio and Chávez- Silverman 1997: 1–7). Both Miranda and Desi Arnaz served as “the foundation- al images” for dominant representations of Latinos in the United States (San- doval-Sánchez 1999: 21–61). Social critics have argued that these egregious stereotypes represent a continuation of the political conflicts between Spain and England during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and of the defini- tions of Latin America in U.S. expansionist projects, such as Manifest Destiny (Kanellos 1998: 12–142). From Disney’s Three Caballeros in the 1940s, which ar- ticulated the politics of the hemispheric Good Neighbor policy, a precedent to today’s globalization, to more recent, still highly egregious yet contradictory examples of Latin stereotypes in media—the scene of Selma Hayek dancing barefoot in the kitchen and sitting in the toilet in Fools Rush In, the Taco Bell chihuahua, the prototypes of love and violence in Desperado, and the collective gaze and fixation on Jennifer López’s butt, recently regendered by Ricky Mar- tin’s own pelvic movements—the representations of Latinos both by dominant

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institutions and, at least in part, by cultural insiders continue to trivialize the contributions of our communities to the United States. If, as Stuart Hall has ar- gued, identity is contingent on representation, then Latino identity in the pub- lic space continues to be partly informed by these stereotypical constructions. These images tend to be much more accessible and disseminated throughout the United States and globally than the cultural representations that U.S. Lati- nos have constructed for themselves. That Latinos, in contrast to Anglos and other European ethnic groups, do not have alternative images to counteract the negative, exoticized, or stereotypical ones, is an essential component of under- standing why these images are so highly contested.

For example, a discussion of the representation of Puerto Ricans in the popular TV show Seinfeld and the ensuing controversy and responses regard- ing the 1998 Puerto Rican Day Parade sheds light on the relations between media images and Latino cultural expressions, as well as on the role of ex- pressive cultures in contesting dominant stereotypes. In May 1998, Seinfeld’s second-to-last episode depicted Jerry and his friends stuck in a major traffic jam due to the congestion caused by the Puerto Rican Day Parade in New York City. Kramer, at one point, accidentally sets the Puerto Rican flag on fire and, in order to put it out, he stomps on it, angering the Puerto Ricans around him. At one point a crowd of Puerto Ricans, referred to as a “mob,” tries to push their car to the side, an act that, as one of the protagonists puts it, “hap- pens everyday in Puerto Rico.” In an Internet survey by Latino Link (1998) fol- lowing the episode, numerous viewers shared their reactions to this media representation of Puerto Ricans and to a statement by William Santiago (1998) asking the networks for a public apology. While the episode evoked public outcries over the disrespect and the caricature-like image with which Puerto Ricans were depicted, the network insisted that they did not feel they had in- sulted or stereotyped the community.

While some Puerto Ricans felt that the show had been innocuously hu- morous, most of those surveyed agreed to boycott the program and were able to articulate a historical perspective on the politics of representation for U.S. Puerto Ricans. It is significant that many respondents referred to West Side Story as the film that had helped to fix dominant constructions of Puerto Ri- cans in the United States, a sort of representational watershed from which it has been difficult to disengage. That in 1998, forty years after West Side Story, the media would still not recognize the problematic politics behind the Sein- feld episode, speaks to the lingering cultural segregation in this society. As Manuel Mirabal, president of the Puerto Rican National Coalition, com- mented, “Obviously they [the media executives] are on another planet to be- lieve no one would be offended” (Associated Press 1998).

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Both William Santiago’s statement and Mirabal’s response allude to the core of this controversy. Given the invisibility of Puerto Ricans in the domi- nant media, the representational choice by Seinfeld’s writers was extremely significant. As Raúl Yzaguirre, president of the National Council of La Raza, commented at the time, “The image of a mob vandalizing Seinfeld’s car may be the only one NBC audiences will have of Puerto Ricans after Thursday night’s episode” (Associated Press 1998). Finally, the fact that the Seinfeld episode is set during the Puerto Rican Day Parade in New York City trivial- ized the forty-year tradition of this public event. This event has symbolically and physically allowed Puerto Ricans to appropriate the public space of the city and become its protagonists for one day in a cultural performance and in a performance of culture, one of the most important symbolic achievements for Puerto Ricans in the United States. This annual public display serves as a ritual of renewal and hope for the community, as it has been described:

It was a joyous occasion and a vibrant parade, with drum majorettes dressed like Middle Americans but moving to syncopated Caribbean rhythms exemplifying the mix of North and Latin American that is today’s “Nuyoricans,” or New York Ricans. As the marchers made their way up Fifth Avenue past Rockefeller Center, little girls in red, white, and blue waved Puerto Rican flags from their fathers’ shoulders in time to the salsa beat. “We are here to show our pride in being Puerto Rican and to celebrate our culture,” one man in the crowd explained as others nodded agreement. “We are both Americans and Puerto Ricans.”

(Winn 1992: 579)

Seinfeld’s episode “wiped that record away in 15 minutes” (Associated Press 1998). For Jerry and his friends, the parade was reduced to another daily urban nuisance, traffic congestion, and one exacerbated by the anger of the passers- by. This discrepancy over the meaning of the parade reveals that there is very little space for intercultural understanding or, at least, tolerance, on the part of television writers. Most revealing, however, is that two years after the episode, Anne Peyton Bryant, a white woman who was one of a number of fe- male victims of sexual assaults by a group of young males in Central Park dur- ing the Puerto Rican Day Parade of 2000, invoked the Seinfeld episode to refer to the violence that society could expect from this particular event. This state- ment was made during an interview on the Geraldo Rivera Show on 13 June 2000. While the central issue at hand was the sexism, the violence against women, and the indifference of the New York police agents to these attacks, all of which revealed the insensitivity of our society to women’s safety, Ms.

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Peyton Bryant’s comment clearly evinced the long-term impact that the Sein- feld show had on Anglo and non-Latino viewers regarding Latinos as crimi- nals and inherently violent. On 16 June, in contesting Ms. Peyton’s statements and the criminalizing discourse around Puerto Ricans, the National Congress for Puerto Rican Rights issued a statement denouncing the Central Park at- tackers, the abuse against women, and the racist assumptions of the news and media accounts that associated these crimes with the Puerto Rican Day Parade (National Congress for Puerto Rican Rights 2000).

The protest over this episode and the ensuing discourse reveals the histori- cal continuity with which dominant media have shaped and controlled images of Latinos and Latin Americans or have outright excluded them from the screen. It also suggests that dominant forms of Latino representation super- sede Latino accounts of themselves and their expressive cultures in the for- mation of the popular imagination in this country. That most Latinos made reference to West Side Story on the e-mail responses to the Seinfeld episode and did not include, for instance, Latino theater in the 1960s and 1970s as an alternative cultural expression, reveals that both Latino and non-Latino audi- ences use dominant media, rather than Latino expressive cultures, as their pri- mary agents for cultural referencing. While many U.S. Latino cultural expres- sions, performances and texts attempt to question dominant notions about Latinos, their existence does not preclude the impact that dominant images continue to have on how Latinos see themselves. Indeed, the impact of dom- inant images on the ways in which young Latinos define themselves and val- ued their identity, culture, language, and heritage was a major concern that fueled the oppositional Chicano and Nuyorican poetry of the 1960s and 1970s.

CULTURAL NATIONALISM IN THE EAST AND THE WEST: PERFORMING OPPOSITIONAL IDENTITIES

When the Chicano poet Alurista published Floricanto en Aztlán in 1971, he de- fied the dominant dictates of Anglo publishing houses that had rejected his manuscript because it mixed English and Spanish. This linguistic hybridity, to be sure, was only a euphemism for the rejection of the significantly radical voices that Alurista’s performative and political poetry represented. The alter- nation of English, Spanish, Nahuatl, and black English, the diverse linguistic registers and local dialects in the poems, challenged the monolingual assump- tions of U.S. editorial practices at the time, assumptions that, despite the in- creasing public presence of Spanish in media, advertising, and literary markets twenty years later, still permeate attitudes and policy making in major institu- tions. That Floricanto en Aztlán was ultimately published by the UCLA Chicano

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Research Center suggests that the U.S. literary institutions never really opened up to the particular literary production of this politically effervescent period.

Because of its oppositionality and the articulation of an ideology of Chicano cultural nationalism, this particular literary corpus and period remain rela- tively ignored by the general public. Cultural nationalism for Chicanos in the west and Southwest and for Nuyoricans in the east strongly opposed the racism, the exclusion from power and institutions, and the silencing of the history of Mexican Americans and U.S. Puerto Ricans from official texts. In order to oppose the forces of Americanization, assimilation, and outright racism implemented through education, federal laws, land ownership, the po- litical economy of the barrios, criminal laws, and the justice system, among other sources, members of the Chicano and Nuyorican movements not only denounced the inhumanity of Anglo America, but also reaffirmed, through symbols, language, music, and the arts, the Mexicanness and the Afro–Puerto Rican and indigenous aspects of these two communities in the United States. For example, the concepts of “Aztlán” and “Borinquen”—both references to mythical historical homelands—respectively, reaffirmed the notion of a geo- cultural territory that marked the origins of Chicano and Puerto Rican histo- ry and identity through the recovery or invention of indigenous myths and stories. Cultural nationalism thus became a movement that constructed a par- ticular, essential, and collective identity that activists argued was needed to de- colonize and motivate members of the larger community to become more ac- tive in fighting the system.

However, as critics have written, this essentialism became one of the major failures of cultural nationalism. On both coasts, the recuperative project of cultural reaffirmation and preservation weakened the potential for social change because cultural nationalism limited its audiences and potential iden- tifications (Klor de Alva 1998: 70). While it is true that cultural essentialism limited the impact of the Chicano and Nuyorican movements because it ex- cluded women, gay and lesbian individuals, and others who may not have identified with the mostly working-class, male, and nationalist perspectives forwarded by this position, it is also true that this literary production did en- gage in critically questioning official history, as in the case of the colonial re- lations between the United States and Puerto Rico or the silenced contribu- tions of migrant workers in the labor force of the United States. Some rereadings of this literary corpus suggests that Chicano and Nuyorican artists, writers, and intellectuals at the time were aware of the challenges of address- ing multiple, heterogeneous identities and creating potential interracial coali- tions, at least in their symbolic language. A clear example of this intercultural dialogue was Carlos Santana’s Chicano rock, which was centrally informed by Afro-Caribbean rhythms and musical forms.

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It can also be argued that the national myths of origin for Chicanos and Puerto Ricans were necessary first steps in the development of a decolonizing cultural politics. For cultures under attack by the dominant society and sys- tematically invisible in it, the challenge of analyzing internal cultural differ- ences and acknowledging internal hybridity may have been a political risk at a time when members of these movements were being policed and investigat- ed, arrested and killed. It also may have represented a symbolic risk at a time when collective mobilization was essential for attracting the attention of the media and major institutions such as the schools and city and federal govern- ments. While these movements may have relied too heavily on essentialist no- tions of identity and on mythical versions of history, it is also true that cul- tural nationalism, especially in its symbolic forms, partly succeeded in empowering subordinated Mexican Americans and U.S. Puerto Ricans by of- fering a historical corrective to their invisibility in U.S. society. By offering a social vision that relocated their identities and “home” within themselves and the barrio rather than outside of themselves—as dominant society attempts through assimilation—this period of activism and artistic production provid- ed hope and a source of empowerment for the dispossessed. While in the twenty-first century cultural nationalism would fail even to recognize the in- ternal diversity of the U.S. Latino population, the act of reading this literary production still empowers many young Latinos across the country who are striving to identify with what they read. In this sense, it still serves as an edu- cational decolonizing tool.

From the mid-1960s through the 1970s, Chicano literature, music, and arts and Nuyorican poetry, music, and theater, emerged in the specific context of political struggles and mobilization. In the west, César Chávez’s activism, the grape boycotts, the Delano March, and the development of the United Farm Workers, the Los Angeles School Blowouts, Reies Tijerina’s radical opposition to the appropriation and occupation of Mexicans’ lands in New Mexico, and Corky Gonzales’s Crusade for Justice in Denver, Colorado, all marked the particular style, language, and ideologies of Chicano literary production (See David Gutiérrez, chapter 1, this volume). Alurista’s performative and political poetry was composed for and recited and widely performed during marches, boycotts, and rallies. The Actos by the Teatro Campesino—one-act plays writ- ten collectively—emerged as a tool for raising political consciousness among the farm workers. And the pinto poetry—poetry written by Chicano prison inmates such as Raúl Salinas—denounced the injustices of the legal system against the Chicano male. “El Louie,” an archetypically ironic and defiant poem by José Montoya, articulated the experiences and cultural contradic- tions experienced by the pachuco. The pachuco period was informed by an aesthetics of style and surface that allowed these young, urban, zoot-suited

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Mexican Americans to redefine and reaffirm their marginalized identities in the urban centers of the west and Southwest (mostly Los Angeles and El Paso). Chicano murals emerged also in the midst of urban struggles, struggles that expressed opposition to the dislocation of Chicano neighborhoods and com- munities due to highway construction, police brutality, and urban neglect. Numerous didactic murals attempted to create consciousness by depicting the figures of significant historical heroes and mythical figures, from Moctezuma to Zapata, from César Chávez to la Virgen de Guadalupe, and by involving the youth in the collective making of the murals themselves. Agency and dignity were reclaimed in these vivid depictions of Mexican and Mexican American participation in world, Latin American, and U.S. histories while simultane- ously appropriating the walls and public spaces within the barrios and cities.

The multilayered conflicts embedded in these murals are revealed in the historical shifts they have undergone. For instance, Willie Herón’s The Wall That Cracked Open, first painted in 1972 in East Los Angeles, was recently un- veiled and reconstructed after it had been whitewashed. In Lansing, Michigan, a mural originally painted in the 1970s by the Centro Renacimiento collective was discovered in 2000 as a restaurant owner demolished a second wall in the process of renovation. That these murals had been physically erased, through whitewashing, by superimposing walls, and even by other Chicano artists as part of city-led efforts at graffiti blasting, exemplifies the struggles over repre- sentation and public space that Latinos continue to face. Their survival can also be seen as a sign of Latino strength and persistence in the face of histori- cal and political challenges.

In New York, the Young Lords Party also worked hand in hand with artists, musicians, and poets in the creation of social consciousness to fight racism and colonialism. Salsa music from the early 1970s—such as that of Eddie Palmieri, Willie Colón, and Héctor Lavoe—evinces strong voices and com- pelling lyrics reaffirming the African heritage of Puerto Rican culture, de- nouncing U.S. colonialism, and reaffirming the popular image of the Puerto Rican male as the cultural hero of the community in his confrontation with the dominant system. Salsa musicians such as Charlie Palmieri and others were also active in community workshops, educating Puerto Rican youth about their musical heritage as a corrective to the assimilationist educational system. In 1975, Nuyorican poets Miguel Algarín and Miguel Piñero estab- lished the Nuyorican Poet’s Cafe as an alternative venue for the performance of minority and subordinate cultures. Poems such as Miguel Piñero’s “A Lower East Side Poem” (1978) and Pedro Pietri’s “Puerto Rican Obituary” (1973) denounced Anglo capitalism and imperialism while reaffirming a new, hybrid cultural identity rooted in the urban plight of the New York barrios. A poetry that was conscientiously articulated in antibourgeois aesthetics—that

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deployed the imagery of the neglected and deplorable conditions of the neigh- borhoods, such as cockroaches, tar, lack of heating, blades, and drugs—it claimed a space of its own at a time when there were no poetic voices repre- senting that world.

In “speaking truth to power,” this strong denouncement, however, was ac- companied by a utopian view that found hope under the bleak living condi- tions of racism and economic neglect. Encapsulated at the end of Pietri’s poem in the phrase “Aquí to be called negrito / means to be called LOVE,” this tone also underscored the reaffirmation of the Lower East Side as a new geo- cultural space where hybrid, Nuyorican identities found a home. The ideal au- dience for this literary corpus was not the Anglo “other,” but the Puerto Rican working poor in New York. Like their Chicano counterparts, these texts— musical, visual, or verbal—were directed primarily to the Latino residents of the barrios, although they mostly circulated among intellectuals. They served to create political and social consciousness and mobilization, although their distribution was limited at the time. In order to achieve this, they constructed a fixed and clear binary between the humanitarian Latino cultures and the de- humanized Anglo capitalist society, as seen in Alurista’s Floricanto en Aztlán. Yet they powerfully critiqued the colonized minds of our own communities— as in Miguel Algarín’s “Mongo Affair” (1978) or Pietri’s “Puerto Rican Obitu- ary,”—as both are calls to dismantle the internalized materialist values that capitalism has engendered.

Theater was also an important literary genre on both coasts. Drama and staged performances have been central to Latino expressive cultures since Luis Valdez first worked with the farm workers in developing the Actos—short ag- itprop dramatic pieces that enacted the conflicts and power dynamics between growers and workers, the oppressors and the oppressed, and explored possi- bilities for liberation and social change (see Valdez 1990). This theater was fu- eled by a strong legacy of indigenous rituals; a strong historical tradition of re- ligious dramas, such as the pastorelas (shepherd plays); popular theater; and social critique in Mexico and the Southwest. For instance, the Mexican popu- lar traditions of carpas and tandas served as traveling comedy and entertain- ment that addressed local and national issues through satire, parody, or humor. These were oppositional performances aimed at the popular masses.

The political aims of the emerging Chicano movement were enhanced and disseminated through staged performances. The Actos, the later work of the Teatro Campesino, student theater groups, and other community-based pop- ular theater (for example, Teatro de la Esperanza and Teatro Libertad) were deployed as didactic tools for creating consciousness and eventual empower- ment. Again, the ideal audiences were the local and regional Latino commu- nities who were exhorted into social awareness and political and cultural ac-

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tivism through these texts. As Alberto Sandoval-Sánchez has summarized, “Actos: Inspire the audience to social action. Illuminate specific points about social problems. Satirize the opposition. Show or hint at a solution. Express what people are feeling” (Sandoval-Sánchez 1999: 105).

In New York City, likewise, community-based theater groups emerged dur- ing the 1970s. Some, like Pregones, established in 1979 by Rosalba Rolón and other Puerto Rican actors and actresses, have worked with the Puerto Rican and Latino communities in the Bronx, doing presentations for the schools and for local audiences that integrated popular traditions, oral tradition, and working-class expressions. Other theater groups wrote using the social condi- tions of the community itself as the bases for their scripts. Issues such as mi- gration, the struggles of adapting to the United States, unemployment, lin- guistic colonialism and the imposition of English, gender and family conflicts, domestic violence, and AIDS and health concerns have all been addressed by these groups in the process of “community empowerment” (Winn 1992: 584). These dramatic traditions, then, should not be considered uniquely entertain- ment, but rather alternative forms of political, social, and cultural mobiliza- tion that were strongly informed by Latin American political theater, the Cuban Revolution, and Brechtian innovations in drama. Given their margin- ality and limited economic resources, many of these theater groups disap- peared, while others have developed into larger companies. However, if, as Al- berto Sandoval-Sánchez (1999) reminds us, Latino theater moved “from community-building into entertainment” in the 1980s and 1990s, it is also true that new forms of theatrical performance—for example, the solo performance artist—will emerge and counteract the mainstreaming tendency of the 1980s to, in turn, be co-opted over time.

BETWEEN ABSORPTION AND DIFFERENCE: THE FAILED DECADE OF THE HISPANIC

Chicana scholar Yolanda Broyles-González (1986) writes that the 1980 Teatro Campesino production, El fin del mundo, marked their last performance as a collective theater and signaled Luis Valdez’s entry into Hollywood and Broad- way and the eventual demise of El Teatro Campesino as a collective. This oc- currence signals a partial shift from the alternative spaces of community arts to the mainstream, individualist logic of art as a commodity. This shift, in terms of process of production, ideal audiences, and institutional spaces, is in- dicated by the contrast between the early Actos and the musical entitled Cor- ridos (Broyles-Gonzáles 1986: 179). In fact, the collective cultural work of the 1970s subsided into the mainstreaming tendency informed by the political

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context of the 1980s: the Reagan/Bush years, the wars in Central America, and the self-proclaimed decade of the “Hispanic.” Yet while some cultural pro- ductions, such as Teatro Campesino and the visual arts, moved toward main- streaming and dominant audiences, indeed complying with the politics be- hind the homogenizing, government-imposed term “Hispanic,” this does not automatically imply that contestatory ideologies altogether disappeared.

Inserting their work in more mainstream venues—some theater on Broad- way, some films in Hollywood, the first Hispanic Arts Exhibit, and salsa romántica—meant that many Latino cultural authors had to negotiate in more subtle ways the contradictory needs of ideal Anglo and Latino audi- ences. These artists also came from different social and class experiences and educational backgrounds, which, in many cases, differed from the marginal identities and self-taught formations of the authors, writers, and artists of the 1960s and 1970s. The local, community-based languages that were used in ex- pressive venues in the 1970s—the Spanglish, colloquialisms, slang, and re- gionalisms—shifted mainly to English, a change that accommodated a diver- sity of audiences but also represented the dominant language of the cultural producers of the 1980s, mostly second-generation Latinos who had been the recipients of affirmative action and had been schooled in English. The pro- duction of murals in public spaces began to shift to the private realm of mu- seums, where Latino visual arts assumed a new value as an individual, bour- geois commodity rather than as a collective, community-building process. In turn, salsa music was commodified by the Cuban American music industry in Miami. Salsa romántica was a nonpolitical, romantic trend in salsa that ho- mogenized the strident sounds of the 1970s and replaced the oppositional lyrics with romantic formulas and individually based love songs that served as background music for dancing and entertainment.

Yet this partial mainstreaming, which represented one strain of cultural production, did not lead exclusively to a systematic shift in ideologies. While the hard-core, masculinist salsa of the barrio was being displaced by the ho- mogenizing, more commercial salsa romántica in the 1980s, artists such as Willie Colón—nicknamed El Malo (the bad guy) in the 1970s—and Rubén Blades continued to compose and record songs with relevant and timely lyrics, such as “Tiburón” (The shark) and “Siembra” (Sowing), songs that, re- spectively, denounced U.S. imperialism in Latin America and proposed utopi- an forms of social interaction. In view of the co-optation of salsa music by the conglomerates, it is not a coincidence that Latino rap and hip-hop styles be- came more popularized among the youth, who rejected salsa as the music of their parents.

After emerging in the 1970s as local forms of intercultural and interracial ex- pression among African American, Puerto Rican, and Chicano urban youth,

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rap, break dancing, and hip-hop eventually also became commodified and produced by the large musical conglomerates. However, the voices of artists such as Mellow Man Ace, Kid Frost, Gerardo, Latin Empire, and others ex- pressed strong critiques of U.S. society and continued to explore, in ways anal- ogous to the interlingual poetry of the 1960s and 1970s, the diverse cultural and racial nature of Latino identity and collective self. In other words, in important ways the oppositionality of Chicano and Nuyorican poetry was continued in the discourse of rap. While certain cultural forms and expressions were being co-opted, other cultural expressions constantly emerged from the communi- ties themselves, which counteracted the homogenizing tendencies of the for- mer. As was true of other immigrant subcultures in the United States, Latino expressive cultures during the 1980s exhibited the effects of the push and pull of the forces of mainstreaming, integration, and institutionalization, on the one hand, and new and continuous oppositional forces, on the other, that ex- plored new forms of identity and urged resistance to assimilation.

Yet Latino cultural productions during the 1980s also revealed a much more sophisticated, intercultural, and heterogeneous definition of collective identi- ty than the cultural nationalism of the 1960s and 1970s had seemingly offered. As more Latinos began to write, perform, compose music, and paint, they began to speak to each other through cultural productions and performances, establishing internal critiques of older paradigms like cultural nationalism, embodying and celebrating the heterogeneity of the Latino community, and redefining identity as a process, a social construction rather than the product of fixed, essential being. First, the strong, radical critiques of Chicano cultur- al nationalism by Chicana feminists opened up new paths for understanding hybrid, postcolonial identities and questioned the male-centered utopian views of the Chicano cultural renaissance. Secondly, in the 1980s the public voice of a writer like Richard Rodríguez revealed that Latinos could be politi- cally heterogeneous, as conservative, indeed, as their Anglo counterparts, who had been demonized by the cultural expressions of the 1970s. However, his classic Hunger of Memory (1982) ironically documents the personal experience of cultural and linguistic dispossession that the Chicano movements had so strongly struggled against.

While Chicano critics largely dismissed Rodríguez’s autoethnographic nar- rative as the act of a vendido (sell out) and a problematic story of blind assim- ilation, in hindsight critics now see that Rodríguez’s body, language, and per- sonal choices were themselves products of the internal colonialism experienced by Mexican Americans, particularly during the 1950s before the institutional gains of the Civil Rights Movement. Hunger of Memory, then, ex- emplifies the ambiguities of the 1980s, a period marked by an apparent main- streaming of many Latino productions, yet whose own internal conflicts and

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contradictions revealed the continuing colonizing processes that inform the everyday lives of Latinos and, more specifically, the fractured nature of Chi- cano history since World War II, if not before. The English-only movement— which emerged in Dade County in opposition to the official bilingualism that the Cuban exile community had effected—the emerging attacks against bilin- gual education exemplified in and mediated by Richard Rodríguez, and the growing anti-immigrant sentiment that led to California Propositions 187 and 209 in the 1990s were all in fact reactions to the demographic growth of Lati- nos, as much as to their increasing presence in the public spheres.

The 1980s and 1990s witnessed the largest influx of Latin Americans into the United States. This growth, with its concomitant diversification of the popu- lation’s demographic profile, not only triggered reactionary and nativist atti- tudes against Latinos, but, most significantly, a growing awareness among Latinos themselves of their internal and growing heterogeneity. In this con- text, the emergence of a Cuban American literary corpus that expresses and effects a shift from Cuban-exile literature in Spanish to a literary identity more akin to ethnic Americans, particularly among women writers (see Rivero 1989; Torres 1986), exemplifies this tendency. This shift was partially informed by the internal racial and class transformations that the Cuban exiles unwitting- ly confronted as a result of the Mariel boatlifts. At this time, there is a grow- ing interest among authors, musicians, and performance and visual artists to begin exploring the hybrid spaces of identity suggested by demographic changes, ideological transformations, and new identities in formation. These explorations, however, came to fruition in the early 1990s, particularly in the works of Latino performance artists such as Culture Clash and John Leguízamo, which I will discuss below.

Yet the internal critiques and gender bending of performance art would not have been possible without the pioneering work of Chicana writers and schol- ars, whose incisive gender critiques of Chicano cultural nationalism consti- tuted the most significant development in literary and critical studies since the early 1980s. Authors such as Gloria Anzaldúa, Cherrie Moraga, and Chela San- doval were pioneers in proposing new identity paradigms and models of sol- idarity that would cross racial, gender, class, and geographical boundaries. While the Chicano cultural renaissance and the Nuyorican movement marked a strong opposition to the dominant society in the 1970s, both largely ignored the gender inequities in U.S. society, as well as in their own communities. Cul- tural nationalism maintained women figures within the patriarchal paradigms inherited from Mexico, the Caribbean, and Latin America at large. Women characters and voices were either absent, secondary, or cast into stereotypes of the saintly mother or the whore. Most of the women who were writing or oth- erwise producing cultural expressions during the 1960s and 1970s were not

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recognized or published, although many of these artists actually provided leadership and vision to projects supposedly authored by men.

Chicana feminists such as Elizabeth Martínez, Magdalena Mora, Marta Cotera, and others objected to the masculinist tenets of the early Chicano movement. Criticism extended even to the otherwise venerated El Teatro Campesino, for, as Yolanda Broyles-Gonzalez writes, the tendency in theater history has been to “place individuals, usually male individuals” at the center of cultural productions, thus silencing the contributions of women and other members of these collectives and groups (1986: 163). Broyles-Gonzales argues that scholarship and cultural historiography erased the collective nature of these theater groups and, following the tenets of American individualism and Mexican patriarchy, associated these movements with individual Chicano men. As one of the actresses involved with the theater movement observed, it was El Teatro Campesino who created Luis Valdez, rather than the opposite. Broyles-Gonzales’s work on El Teatro Campesino begins to rectify this pattern and reclaims the contributions of the many women who participated in its writing, composition, production, and performances. Her critique is a part of a larger revisionism of late-twentieth-century history. On the one hand, the gender critiques of the Chicano movement and the male-centered Chicano cultural renaissance proposed an epistemological critique that led to a pro- found revisionary movement among a growing number of Latino studies scholars in the 1980s and 1990s. On the other hand, they led to the leadership of Chicanas in the development of theories about third-world women and women of color in the United States and in the formation of theories about transnational, postcolonial identities and relationships. These critiques proved so powerful that they in turn helped to transform U.S. feminism and Latino studies as fields of inquiry.

During the second half of the 1980s, Chicana writers in particular emerged and gained visibility as cultural producers. Initially published either by their own independent presses, small feminist outlets, or Latino presses in the Unit- ed States—Arte Público Press, Bilingual Review Press, Third Woman Press— Chicana poets, essayists, and fiction writers began to establish a strong pres- ence in the literary world. The voices of Lorna Dee Cervantes, Bernice Zamora, Sandra Cisneros, Ana Castillo, Helena María Viramontes, Gloria Anzaldúa, Cherrie Moraga, and others have engaged readers in a doubled feminist and cultural critique: they denounced the patriarchy of the Chicano world and the Chicanas’ systematic exclusion by Anglo, middle-class, white feminism. By foregrounding the economic, labor, social, cultural, and gen- dered contributions of mostly working-class Mexican American women to U.S. society and the development of a Chicano “familia” (“familia” as family and as metaphor for the larger cultural entity) and by exploring the multiple

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forms of oppression—based on class, gender, and sexuality—that they and their mothers and grandmothers experienced, these writers have been re- sponsible for initiating one of the most dynamic and central literary and cul- tural bodies in Latino letters.

On the East Coast, the contestatory voices of Puerto Rican women writers such as Sandra María Esteves, Luz María Umpierre, Rosario Morales, and Ju- dith Ortiz Cofer also provide a much-needed female alternative to the male- dominated Nuyorican corpus. Esteves has been officially included as one of the few female writers who were part of the Nuyorican movements during the 1970s, and, of those voices, only Esteves has had continued recognition as a published poet. Despite their diverse social experiences, U.S. Puerto Rican women writers have explored how Puerto Rican national identity has been his- torically represented through female figures and how migration has impacted the identities and social roles of Puerto Rican women. As they write about the many cultural and gender negotiations they have had to engage as first- or second-generation Puerto Ricans in the United States, their works offer femi- nist alternatives to the male-centered narratives of island-based authors who located the evils of immigration and displacement in the female body (such as René Marqués in La carreta) or who created exclusively male, homosocial worlds as their points of reference (Miguel Piñero’s work comes to mind here).

Exploring the history and power dynamics of the border and south Texas, as well as the ensuing bicultural identities that emerged out of the U.S./Mex- ican historical conflict and political struggles, Gloria Anzaldúa’s Border- lands/La Frontera (1987) represented a foundational text for border theory, hybridity, sexuality, and postcolonial studies. Aurora Levins Morales, her neighbor in Oakland, California, also proposed new paradigms that would transcend national boundaries, patriarchy, and cultural colonialism in the context of U.S. Puerto Ricans. In collaboration with her mother, Rosario Morales, Levins Morales, in Getting Home Alive (1986), explores the different historical experiences of mother and daughter, informed by migration, home, gender roles, racism, and social injustice. Both Rosario and Aurora also rec- ognize and reflect on their own social and racial privileges. In the chapter en- titled “Child of the Americas,” Levins Morales reaffirms the hybrid nature of her multiple racial and cultural identities as a Jewish, North American, Puer- to Rican woman. Like Anzaldúa’s “new mestiza,” these complex, multifaceted identities have emerged from the violence of colonial encounters in the con- tact zones of the Southwest and the colony of Puerto Rico. Morales and Morales also explore the multiple circulation of cultures by reconstructing the history of their Jewish and Puerto Rican ancestors, proposing new models of feminist solidarity that would do away with the masculine paradigms and the machismo embedded in Latin American socialism. Even class identity is rela-

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tive and shifts from one generation to another, as mother and daughter nar- rate very different stories about growing up poor and middle-class on the is- land and on the mainland.

Although certain similarities can be discerned in the work of Chicana and U.S. Puerto Rican women writers, Chicana feminism stands in contrast to what became a largely middle- or upper-class, white, Caribbean Latina liter- ary corpus in the 1990s (Esmeralda Santiago, Judith Ortiz Cofer, Aurora Levins Morales, Julia Alvarez, Cristina García, and Rosario Ferré). Many of these Latina writers represent the lives of middle-class, white Caribbean women in the United States, lives that validate in many ways the American Dream mythology. Chicana writers such as Cisneros (1989) and Castillo (1994), in contrast, propose social critiques of gender and culture that are in- formed by and deeply rooted in their experiences as working-class women of color. Indeed, Chicana literature differs significantly from the fictions of the authors mentioned above not only because they are rooted in the lives of working-class and working poor women, but because they sharply critique as- similation and the structural forms of racism and oppression as these are im- posed on the bodies, psyches, and lives of working-class women of color. The works of Helena María Viramontes, for instance, in Under the feet of Jesus (1995) or “Cariboo Cafe” (1985) can only stand in sharp contrast to the world inhabited by Alvarez’s García Girls (1991). Although the first two are narra- tives of immigration and foreground political refugees as protagonists, Al- varez’s narrative of an upper-class, white Dominican woman does not even begin to scratch the surface of how class oppression, citizenship, and race are intertwined with the politics of gender.

In fact, the marketing in the 1990s of Caribbean Latina narratives of inte- gration into U.S. society as “bestsellers” by New York literary agents and edi- tors has co-opted the two central elements of oppositionality from Latino lit- erature: gender and sexuality, as well as the form of the ethnic memoir. Marketing decisions, such as the inclusion of Rosario Ferré in the U.S. Latina literary corpus or the publicity built up around Julia Alvarez as “the” voice of Dominicanos in the United States, attest to the power of mainstream institu- tions in transforming and mediating the U.S. Latino literary canon. Few, if any, of the Chicano and Nuyorican poets of resistance ever signed contracts with the big publishing houses, and when they did they confronted major ide- ological conflicts regarding the editing, marketing, packaging, and represen- tation of their work, as was the case for Martín Espada—which speaks strong- ly to the real effects of mainstreaming on the power of Latino cultural and ideological critiques.

The most dynamic illustration of expressive cultures’ articulation of a new look at the growing diversity within the U.S. Latino community comes from

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comedy and performative work, especially that of John Leguízamo, whose scripts rewrite and challenge not only Latino national identities, but also tra- ditional gender roles. Performance artists as diverse as Carmelita Tropicana, Mónica Palacios, Guillermo Gómez-Peña (1993, 1996), Culture Clash, and the Taco Shop Poets have developed a contestatory language about Latino invisi- bility in the media through performance arts. As diverse as this artistic form is, the solo and the group performances of these individuals reveal the need to move beyond traditional theater and comedy venues in order to create effec- tive, original scripts that address the broad range of contemporary issues affecting U.S. Latinos. For instance, Guillermo Gómez-Peña, Coco Fusco (1995), and Roberto Sifuentes—in performances such as “Border Brujo” (1988–1989)—have explored the border as a concept through which one can examine bicultural identities and the ways in which Anglo society and the U.S. government have subordinated Mexicans through labor practices and public policy on immigration, language, race, and gender politics. Gender roles and sexuality have been equally foregrounded as categories of social and individ- ual identities that need to be explored alongside national, racial, and ethnic identities. The works of queer performance artists, such as Carmelita Tropi- cana, Marga Gómez, and others, question dominant notions about Latina les- bians and propose new, oppositional views that foreground both the conver- gences and ruptures between sexuality and cultural identities (Arrizón 1999).

John Leguízamo’s Mambo Mouth, performed in 1991 and released as a video in 1992, constitutes a radical critique of essentialized, national identities among Latinos, as well as of dominant views about them. Leguízamo has suc- cessfully maintained a progressive political stance while also accepting acting roles in Hollywood. Mambo Mouth, first aired by HBO in 1992, gave voice to the negative images that have been ascribed to Latinos, such as the prostitute, the Latin lover, and the “illegal” immigrant, thus demythifying and devaluing both the dominant notions of Latinos and the internal racism and hierarchies among Latinos themselves. Leguízamo’s political comedy in Mambo Mouth stems from the heterogeneous Latino identities that the Colombian American comedian and writer performs. Capitalizing on a uniquely chameleonic talent for performing flowing identities, Leguízamo provocatively explores the di- versification of Latinos in the United States and the internal conflicts among them, but he also highlights the collective oppression by racist structures and normative gender roles both “within” and “outside” the Latino sector. In vi- gnettes full of fast-paced monologues, Leguízamo forces audiences to invert and dismantle stereotypes. For instance, the scripts for the Latin lover and for the Latina prostitute constantly remind the audience that their identities are based on exterior definitions rather than individual traits. The impact of lan- guage and images on the social attitudes toward these characters is reaffirmed

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through the self-parodic stance of the scripts and the nonverbal gestures Leguízamo employs, that is, the performative aspects of the body. Leguízamo constantly plays with definitions of cultural identity as fixed, biological essence in order to suggest its basis as a social construction. His vignette on the Latino/Japanese crossover is a complex, fascinating study on how Latinos perceive Asians as much as it is an examination of the nature of culture and of the culture of nature. Leguízamo performs a Latino who passes for Japanese in order to be acceptable to dominant U.S. society. To locate cultural identity as it is revealed on the body of the performer challenges audiences to reflect on the processes by which society subordinates individuals and on how defi- nitions of culture take place on the very bodies of Latinos themselves.

Leguízamo’s political oppositionality is most clearly seen in the vignette about the undocumented Latino who is arrested at La Guardia airport. His words address a dominant audience, threatening it with an inversion of the typical dominant/subordinate dyad. In this performance, Leguízamo compels audiences to imagine and engage with a future in which Latinos will be the majority and will push Anglos out of the United States and into Canada, mak- ing them “illegal” bodies in a foreign country. He also enumerates the contri- butions to the labor and economy of the United States that Latinos make, naming jobs that are as invisible as the bodies that perform them. Most inter- esting about this particular vignette is the denouncement of Latinos who are used as agents of the state, as the undocumented subject addresses the Latino border patrol agent who has imprisoned him. Recognition of diverse political positions within the Latino population became an increasingly important part of Latino cultural texts of the late 1980s, a set of narratives that began to con- struct a much more multilayered, contradictory, and ideologically heteroge- neous profile of Latino identities in the United States. Leguízamo’s skit and the larger body of his work speak directly to dominant U.S. institutions and to audiences who are complicit in national efforts to demonize and eject Lati- nos from the United States. John Leguízamo’s exploration of traditional gen- der roles is as radical as his scathing critiques of the flaws in his own culture.

CROSSING OVER IN THE 1990S: TRANSNATIONAL IDENTITIES AND GLOBALIZATION

According to Alicia Gaspar de Alba (1998), the CARA Exhibit (Chicano Art: Resistance and Affirmation) that began in 1990 and ended in 1993 marked an important point in the cultural politics of Chicano art. First, it was an attempt to present a more politically authentic representation of Chicano art as it has developed since the heyday of the Chicano movement and as it has engaged

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the local communities from which it emerged, a perspective that was absent from the Hispanic Arts in the United States Exhibit during the 1980s. The 1980 exhibit in Washington, D.C., was based on the “Hispanic” paradigm and di- luted the historical specificity of the visual arts of each national group. The CARA exhibit, in contrast, was planned precisely to show that Chicanos could enter the master’s house—the spaces of the museum—without compromis- ing the political critique inherent in their arts nor the specific political histo- ry that informed their artistic production.

This exhibit also demonstrated that Chicano visual artists themselves had very different views as to the political nature of their collective project. As Gaspar de Alba suggests, the various social and political positions of the artists, academics, and administrators involved in the planning of this event indicated that, by the late 1980s, Chicanos themselves could not be easily lo- cated as either inherently “oppositional” or “integrationist,” to put it in schematic terms. While the “veteranos stressed an essentialized level” of Chi- cano identity as determined by “differences without and similarities within its community,” the “new kids on the block” (feminists, gays, and lesbians) ad- vocated an “Americanized level of representation in which Chicano/a identi- ty extends outside of its essentialist demarcations and finds affinity with po- litical crosscurrents in mainstream culture, particularly issues of gender, sexuality and artistic license that actually oppose the ‘essential’ Chicano iden- tity” (Gaspar de Alba 1998: 101). The long discussions and difficult negotia- tions that took place within and among the various planning committees, be- tween Chicanos and Anglos, and among Chicanos of different generational, gender, and ideological positions, illustrate how heterogeneous Chicano artists had become by the late 1980s and early 1990s. While the CARA Exhibit successfully reclaimed, reaffirmed, and relocated Chicano political and cul- tural oppositionality in the hallowed spaces of a museum and a dominant so- ciety intent on diluting the political effervescence of the past, it was also sig- nificantly contained by the very politics of funding, administration, and museum policies, which were fueled by the conservative national politics ar- rayed against the arts and minorities and informing cultural politics in the United States at the end of the 1980s.

As a cultural event of national magnitude, the CARA exhibit exemplified the dilemmas facing producers of Latino expressive culture in the 1990s. This decade evinced an increasing contradiction and gap between the integration of minority cultures into dominant institutions under the politics of “multi- culturalism” and the simultaneous processes of cultural marginalization and subordination of U.S. Latinos in the legal and public-policy realms, which were evident in the campaigns to abolish bilingual education and affirmative action. Internally, the 1990s also posed a challenge to Latinos themselves as

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they grappled with increasingly complex issues of individual and collective identity. By the 1990s, the three principal groups–Mexican Americans, U.S. Puerto Ricans, and Cuban Americans—faced local, regional, and national de- mographic diversification as a result of the migratory flux of the 1980s, as well as an increasing class differentiation. As always, U.S.-born Mexican Ameri- cans, many of whose families have lived in the Southwest for generations, were being conflated with recent immigrants, undocumented workers, and non–English speakers. In New York City, Puerto Ricans lost their primary place as the largest Latino group and began to confront new social realities as they adjusted to the growing presence of Dominicans, Colombians, other South Americans, and, particularly, indigenous Mexican immigrants from Oaxaca. Cuban Americans in Miami now have to share their public identity and political privileges with Nicaraguans, Salvadorans, and myriad South Americans, not to mention the working-class, poor, and Afro-Cuban refugees who continue to arrive on the coasts of Florida. How then do Latinos now rec- oncile the history of their own political and social struggles as domestic mi- norities and the collective memory of the civil-rights struggles with immi- grants whose historical memory resides outside the U.S. borders? How can expressive cultures speak to the ongoing colonial politics of the United States without eliding the new realities of the circulation of identities, cultures, peo- ples, and capital between the United States and their original countries in Latin America? In short, how can Latinos as ethnic minorities speak for other Latinos as immigrants? Can expressive cultures continue to serve as a sym- bolic space of belonging for such diverse social and historical subjects?

Throughout the first half of the 1990s, the paradigm of multiculturalism impacted all spheres of the arts in the United States, and since then a clear trend emerged in which “Latino culture” enjoyed a new vogue. Mainstream acceptance of all things Latino was manifest in a number of areas: Latino arts and installations in museums; the use of Latin popular music in TV ads; the use of Spanish and Spanglish in the advertising industry; and Latino writers signing major contracts with the New York literary establishment, as each press selected one or two writers as their multicultural icons. In 1988, re- warming an old trope, Time proclaimed that Hispanic culture was “break[ing] out of the barrio” and announced the impending, yet already cemented, mainstreaming of U.S. Latinos, from fashion designers to actors and actress- es, from musicians such as Celia Cruz to the growing audibility of Spanglish in U.S. cities. This phenomenon preceded and anticipated an even more visi- ble “Latin boom” in the late 1990s (Time 1988).

Multicultural practices in education and the arts did more than acknowl- edge Latinos; they also catered to the aesthetic, cultural, and educational needs of the dominant society. How, then, do Latino artists negotiate the pressure to

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write and produce for larger mainstream audiences instead of exclusively for an ideal audience of other Latinos, as the writers of the 1970s set out to do within the complex “freedom” of their marginality? How can they develop and maintain their own sense of cultural and political oppositionality and dif- ference when they are inserted in dominant venues and mediated by Anglo agendas? As Chicano artist Malaquías Montoya asked about the CARA artists:

“What became of those commitments and what caused their modification? Could it be that the same system, which was opening the museum doors and at the same time planning the overthrow of Allende in Chile had changed? Or was it the artists who had started to change? Had Chicano artists really not understood that the system that supported apartheid in South Africa and at the same time provided funds for the advancement of Chicano liberation had something up its sleeve? A system that feeds with one hand and strangles with the other?”

(quoted in Gaspar de Alba 1998, 99)

Indeed, Latino identity politics and oppositionality in the 1990s contested the systematic racism and colonization in the legal and political realms, such as anti-immigration policies, anti–affirmative action policies, anti–bilingual ed- ucation policies, further economic stratification, an increase in drop-out rates due to educational crises in the public school systems, revolving-door policies at the workplace, and antiunion tactics. As Montoya (quoted in Gaspar de Alba 1998) so trenchantly noted, in the midst of deepening systematic in- equities in American society, a central issue was how Latinos would react to their perceived mainstreaming in the popular imagination of the United States. The question became one of reconciling growing media visibility and the sexual objectification of pop singers with a continuing and systematic ex- clusion from television and the body politic. Other pressing questions loom: Where can Latinos locate their agency at this time? Will Latino transnational experiences dilute or revitalize the traditional discourses around Latino cul- tures and identities?

In an effort to at least speculate about possible answers to these questions, the last section of this essay will examine three case studies of Latino expres- sive cultures: the musical career of slain Tejana singer Selena and the more general question of the role of Latino singers as cultural heroes for their local and regional communities; the Latin-music boom and the crossover dilemma; and the multimedia project of Americanos, led by Mexican American actor and cultural activist Edward James Olmos. Together, these three examples elucidate the processes by which Latino cultural expressions continue to func- tion as sites of resistance, negotiation, and even outright oppositionality at the

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turn of the new century. In response to the increasing public perception of Latinos as foreigners and “illegal” immigrants, the result of anti-immigration policy and sentiments, the question of belonging in the United States has been a central one. Yet, as most Latino singers and actors evince, integration is nei- ther smooth nor unidirectional; it is a process fraught with contradictions. For instance, the bicultural Tejana identity of Selena, or the ways in which U.S. citizens such as Ricky Martin are labeled as musicians “crossing over,” exem- plify the ways in which Latino cultural agents negotiate their own sense of be- longing with dominant notions about Latinos as cultural others.

CULTURE, AGENCY, AND BELONGING

Killed in 1995 by the president of her fan club, Selena Quintanilla Pérez, known simply as Selena, became an icon of Tex-Mex border culture, Latina sexuality and sensuality, and the promise and possibilities of a Latina artist crossing over to a non-Latino market. While Selena established herself in her lifetime as a central and significant role model for Mexican American youth in Texas and the Southwest, after her death her face and her figure, her music, her fashions, and her life became commodities in high demand, not only in Texas, her home state, but all over the United States. Selena also became a healing and almost sacred figure for the Mexican American community, 30,000 of whom paid their respects to her during her funeral (Patoski 1996). Many of her admirers have subsequently made pilgrimages to her burial place in Corpus Christi. Selena’s power and pervasiveness after her death represent a double and antithetical phenomenon, at once characterized by a communal spirituality and by its opposite, an ever-increasing commercialization of her music, her persona, and her fashions.

While it has been said that Selena only became nationally renowned be- cause of her tragic and untimely death, she had already recorded her first English-language album, Dreaming of You, before she died. This project indi- cated the coming direction of her singing career. Beginning as a local and re- gional star of Tex-Mex music, particularly traditional cumbias that her broth- er and composer, A. B. Quintanilla, transformed into pop songs in the cumbia and ranchera styles, Selena eventually became a mainstreamed act, singing and recording only in English. In the process, both the Tejano/Latin texture of her music and her audience changed. A particular scene in the movie Selena pow- erfully captures the historical irony of the singer’s decision to attract a main- stream audience. While Selena is performing in San Antonio, the producers suggest to Abraham Quintanilla, her father and agent, that Selena is ready for a crossover project. Quintanilla’s face, set against the background of the

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Alamo, asserts with great certitude that Selena is ready to take over the Anglo market. In this context, the decision to seek a crossover audience suggests a symbolic reconquest of Texas and of the United States by Mexican Americans, represented by the voice, body, and charisma of Selena. Already hailed by crit- ics and journalists as the next Gloria Estefan in the genealogy of Latina super- stars, Selena had signed major contracts and agreements with companies such as Coca-Cola and Sony Discos even before recording in English. In early 1990 Capitol-EMI Latin bought Cara Records from Bob Grever, bringing Selena, as well as Tex-Mex musical groups such as La Mafia and Mazz, into major dis- tribution networks and at least potential national visibility (Patoski 1996).

After her death, however, she became an overnight icon of Tejana identity and culture in the United States and in Latin America. Her face appeared in major magazines and print venues such as Texas Monthly, and People dedi- cated a whole issue to her life and career. Her music was anthologized, remixed, and remastered. A month after her death, “Selena had five CDs on The Billboard 200 chart, an accomplishment previously only achieved by su- perstars like Garth Brooks, Elvis Presley, and The Beatles” (Burr 1999: 189). Five years later, an entire cottage industry celebrating her life and music had sprung up. Her father opened the Selena Museum; fans visit El Mirador de la Flor, her memorial site in Corpus Christi; the musical Selena Forever has been performed in San Antonio; her fashion styles continue to sell; and Q Pro- ductions has issued a number of Selena dolls. In addition, various Web sites pay homage to her music, style, and persona and continue to memorialize her as a cultural and artistic hero who gave Tex-Mex border culture un- precedented visibility.

The cultural irony behind Selena’s potential crossover, which truly oc- curred only after her death, is that Selena was a U.S. citizen, born and raised in Texas, and an English speaker. She learned Spanish in order to sing about her cultural heritage. However, the historical marginalization of the Tejano Mexican community from the mainstream musical market and from domi- nant institutions limited Selena’s visibility until after her death. The com- modification of her figure, music, and persona at the hands of the industry and her own father does not erase the hope that she brought to many Tejanos during her career, a hope that has been explained, in part, by her strong charisma, her function as a role model for young Tejanas, and by the spiritu- al elements accorded to her after her death. The symbolically healing function, combined with her powerful personality on the stage and in everyday life and her accessibility, has allowed subordinate sectors to feel hope about their own lives through her life and music, a hope that has also been attributed to the disappointment of Tejano Mexican constituencies with their elected officials (Limón 1998: 189–91)

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If Selena’s posthumous success marked her ultimate mainstreaming, Ricky Martin’s show-stopping performance at the 1999 Grammy Awards took this phenomenon to another level. Martin’s personal success opened the door to a growing number of Latino artists, including rock-and-roll veteran Carlos San- tana, who scored with the multiplatinum Supernatural (also in 1999), and other Latinos such as Marc Anthony, Jennifer López, Enrique Iglesias, Christi- na Aguilera, and Shakira.

While the growing success of these artists reflects, on one level, their crossover appeal, their recent successes are also at least partially attributable to the steadily expanding Latino consumer market in the United States and, in- deed, in all of greater Latin America. In the United States, Latino buying power has already exceeded an earlier estimate made for the year 2020: 500 billion dollars. Latin music sales were more than $570 million dollars in 1998 (Farley 1999: 77) This suggests that U.S. Latinos are finally being recognized as con- sumers, although this new status has not totally erased the criminalizing dis- courses that traditionally surround them. It also suggests that music is a glob- al market and multicultural in terms of its consumers. Diverse audiences attend the concerts of Ricky Martin and other Latino entertainers, and, in this sense, these spectacles themselves lead to potential intercultural interactions and knowledge. Martin’s public performances, for example, reveal how ele- ments of resistance and consent are inextricably intertwined and embodied by the same singer. For example, audiences can identify specific forms of Afro–Puerto Rican styles in Martin’s bodily movements. The rhythms of the Puerto Rican bomba, historically performed on the island by the slaves and later by working-class Afro–Puerto Ricans, are evident, in residual ways, in Martin’s pelvic dancing and in his dialogue with his drummers. In addition, many Latinos also know that the title of the song “Living la vida loca” consti- tutes a more generalized and mainstreamed version of the urban Chicano ex- pression, a reference to gang life. In contrast, in Martin’s song “la vida loca” refers to parties and feeling good. This example of mainstreaming and rewrit- ing a complex, painful, and marginalized life—la vida loca—would suggest that Martin’s music represents a co-optation of Latino life in the United States. It is. On the other hand, the position that the Puerto Rican singer took against the presence of the U.S. Navy on the island of Vieques attests to the overt opposi- tional political roles that Latino public figures such as him can assume.

The dominant discourse that labels these Latino singers a “crossover” phe- nomenon is evidence that Latinos are still situated outside the U.S. national body, and it is, as many critics would argue, that eroticized difference that makes them so attractive to mainstream U.S. audiences. This also reveals the residues of racism that are still at play in the national embrace of Latino pop music. While it is true, as U.S. Puerto Rican writer Esmeralda Santiago has

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observed, that many of these Latino singers are white and European looking (a statement that can be equally applied to Latina Caribbean writers) and that racial identities inform the selection of particular individuals as “stars,” it is also true that the subordination of Latinos operates in other forms of ex- pression, including the realm of language. While the term “crossover” refers to performers who sing in another language and to other audiences and then shift to a general, mainstream U.S. audience, in the case of the Latin music boom it has served to relocate these singers—who are all U.S. citizens and born in the United States or Puerto Rico—as foreigners, outside of the U.S. national body. If Ricky Martin is a crossover because he sang in Spanish in the past, his U.S. citizenship, accorded by virtue of the Jones Act of 1917 to all Puerto Ricans (at a time when the U.S. needed young men to enter the mili- tary), is erased or elided from the question of belonging. This raises the ques- tion: Is Martin crossing over to an U.S. audience, or is the U.S. crossing over to Puerto Rican music?

Ricky Martin has not necessarily changed his repertoire. Since he was in the prototypical “boy group” Menudo, his style has continued to be pop rock. In fact, Menudo was as much a mainstream act in the 1980s as Martin is in the 1990s. In 1980, Menudo’s arrival in New York City was compared “to the ar- rival of the Beatles in the same city back in 1964.” In 1983, the group broke the record for “the largest audience ever assembled” at Mexico’s 150,000-seat Azteca Stadium (Krulik 1999: 18). The difference is temporal; in the late 1990s the U.S. music industry has promoted these singers and opened up the mar- ket for their increasing consumer power. While the U.S. audience is now much more ethnically diverse, given the demographic growth of Latinos, the crossover label seems ironic when applied to Latino singers such as Martin and Selena, who have been part of a national pop scene throughout. While Latin music is technically defined by the industry as music that has 51 percent or more Spanish lyrics, then speaking about Ricky Martin as crossover may not be totally incorrect. Yet Latin music in Spanish has had a long history of production, performance, and reception within the domestic borders of the United States (the first plenas were recorded in Spanish in New York City in the late 1910s, and Tex-Mex conjunto music has been performed in Spanish since the late nineteenth century). Yet, as long as Latino communities, as a subordinate sector, constitute the central consumers of that music, their music will be defined by the industry as a secondary market. Once Anglo lis- teners buy the music and attend performances, then these performers will more likely be legitimized by the industry. Ricky Martin’s high level of popu- larity and consumption, for instance, is due to the ways in which he deploys Latin rhythms while diluting and masking them through more generic pop and rock song structures. While he capitalizes on the exoticizing erotics of his

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pelvic movements, his white skin color is also at play with the blackness sug- gested through his dancing styles, a form of self-blackening that becomes, in fact, the site for intercultural meanings and reception.

Salsa meets pop and hip-hop in the works of Marc Anthony, Jennifer López, Brenda Starr, Corrine, DLG, the Dominican group Proyecto Uno, and other interpreters of the 1990s, giving way to new, hybrid musical hits that combine the traditional salsa sounds of their parents’ generation with the new forms of musical expression preferred by urban Latino youth. Just as Selena fused Anglo pop sonorities with the traditional rhythms and genres of Tex- Mex to appeal to the youth market, these musical hybrids attest to the con- tinuing need for re-membering, for collective history and memory, among U.S. Latinos. The ways in which Latino artists rewrite older, extant musical lyrics, structures, melodies, and rhythms into new musical arrangements speak to the constant need of artists—and their audiences—to recognize themselves simultaneously in the traditions of the past with the innovations of the present. Thus, the presence of past musical classics within new, hybrid structures evinces the central role of cultural and historical memory for U.S. Latinos, a memory that, as discussed earlier, has helped Latinos to survive their experiences of displacement and fragmentation. Musical fusions with hip hop, gospel, and r&b, as in La India’s recordings and singing styles, estab- lish associations between Latinos and African Americans, cultural affiliations that have persisted historically throughout the diaspora in music and popular culture. The styles and sounds of pop that mediate some salsa music from the East Coast allow this music to be more easily embraced by Anglo-Americans and a larger, less specialized listening audience, particularly the youth sector. While the music, video images, and some singers are still marketed and pack- aged through the lens of the dominant society, the fact that they are playing on mainstream radio has also opened up the potential for the identification with, and reaffirmation of, Latinidad (a strong sense of Latin American and interlatino cultural affinity and solidarity) among minority and Latino youth, a Latinidad that expresses a higher degree of integration into U.S. society yet does not necessarily index assimilation.

Interlatino musical forms have also become significant at a time when Latino groups have begun to interact and to share more systematically with other Latino national groups in urban centers. For instance, Carlos Santana’s music since the 1960s has always been a fusion of Afro-Caribbean rhythms and Mexican and Mexican American themes and melodies, all driven by tra- ditional rock and roll sensibilities. He popularized “Oye como va,” a compo- sition by the late Puerto Rican “King of Salsa,” Tito Puente. Olga Tanón’s recording of Mexican romantic ballads in collaboration with Marco Antonio Solís, and Marc Anthony’s version of Juan Gabriel’s song, “Hasta que te

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conocí,” foreground the common affiliations among Latino listeners, which romantic ballads, or boleros as they are known in Spanish, have established across generations. These incursions into Mexican ballads by Caribbean singers reflect the long historical interactions between Puerto Rico and Mex- ico through popular music. They could also reflect the recognition on the part of the singers that Mexicans are now New York’s new Latino cultural presence.

Latino transnationalism has been most evident in the growing popularity of rock en español in California and throughout the United States. That a musical form totally produced and performed in Spanish would experience such high levels of popularity within the United States indicates the increasing power of Latino communities in defining cultural commodities. It has also fueled the in- creasing presence of Spanish as a public language in the United States, while it continues an oppositional critique that emerged in Latin American expressions of resistance against U.S. imperialism and capitalism. Like hybrid salsa forms from the East Coast, rock en español inflects rock rhythms with the diverse repertoire of Latin American rhythms and musical forms, from Aztec and pre- Columbian melodies and instrumentation to the tropical rhythms of mambos and música tropical and the urban sounds of hip-hop and rap.

Many traditional salseros in New York have denounced these new hybrid forms of salsa and Latino music as evidence of co-optation and mainstream- ing. Any contamination with styles and arrangements of pop music is suspect in the eyes of musicians who have struggled to create “authentic” styles that would reaffirm their cultural difference from dominant Anglo society. Yet these hybrid forms and musical fusions have helped to structure new genera- tional identities and interracial styles. Rather than renounce the positions of difference and resistance that their parents articulated in the 1960s and 1970s, these new Latino musicians, interpreters, and artists reconfigure them in new arrangements. Perhaps, as cultural producers, they feel an urgent need not to reaffirm their difference, but rather to appeal to a generational identity and to an urban youth sector whose lives more closely match theirs.

In the context of exploring a Latino sense of belonging and our historical contributions to the making of the United States, the Americanos project (2000) exemplifies the most ambitious attempt ever to rewrite stereotypes and extol and celebrate Latino hybrid culture. It shows the dialectics between the integrationist impulse and the reaffirmation of Latino cultural difference and diversity from U.S. mainstream society. Conceptualized by Edward James Olmos, Lea Ybarra, and Manuel Monterrey, this multimedia project has cap- italized on new technologies and on the simultaneity of various artistic media in order to saturate U.S. audiences with their cultural corrective. Americanos includes a photography book, a traveling exhibit for the next five years, a CD

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of a variety of Latino musicians (Debrow 2000), a concert, an HBO docu- mentary, and Internet sites that accompany the exhibits from city to city. This project speaks to the potential for intercultural collaboration between Latinos and Anglos and to the tactical value of establishing cosponsorships with major corporations such as Time Warner, U.S. West, and Farmer’s Insurance, and with the federal government (the Smithsonian was a key player in this proj- ect). Thus, the visibility and social power of a figure such as Edward James Olmos, known for his social activism on behalf of Latino youth, were central in ensuring the commitment of these private and public organizations. The project has only just begun, as the book is now being widely sold nationwide; the HBO documentary received the Sundance Film Festival Award in 2000, and the traveling exhibit has been viewed by thousands in the City Museum of New York and in other urban centers throughout the country.

According to the producers and writers, Americanos is an ideal title for this project because it foregrounds the incomplete and ambiguous meanings of la- bels and terms. Informed by the ways in which Latino poets such as Tato Laviera (1985) have transformed the term “American,” the project’s creators decided on Americanos because it explicitly labels Latinos as an integral part of an America that had heretofore only seen itself as Anglo. It also simultane- ously reaffirms Latinos’ cultural difference through the use of the Spanish ver- sion of “American.” The project’s creators intended, through the use of this term, to correct the internalized colonialism that underlay Latin Americans’ use of “Americanos” to refer only to Anglo-Americans and not to themselves. Thus, once again, this title is recuperative as well as critical, and it is intended to rectify the common misconception of Latinos as outsiders and to exhort audiences to embrace Latinos as part of U.S. society.

All texts in the Americanos project, however, foreground the unresolved tensions among Latinos between the integrationist urge and the reaffirmation of difference. The project’s goal is twofold: to educate non-Latinos about Latino contributions to the United States and to offer Latinos images and cul- tural texts with which they can identify and insert themselves into history. As Olmos stated in the project’s opening lecture at Chicago’s Field Museum on 18 August 2000, this collection of photos is “like a glass of water in the desert.” Echoing the concerns raised by Latino leaders regarding the need for more re- alistic and comprehensive images of Latinos in the media (in the discussion about Seinfeld), Olmos’s metaphor foregrounds the need for self-produced images that will capture the everyday life and the big and small contributions of this population to the United States.

However, the decolonizing potential of the project is limited by its strong celebratory, unitary, and utopian tones. Because Americanos is ultimately about fostering integration and reaffirming Latino dignity, there is little space

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for honestly exploring either the history of racism or the social injustices, chronic and worsening educational crises, and current structural obstacles that Latinos face in their everyday lives in contemporary American society. For instance, as Jiménez-Muñoz and Santiago-Valles make abundantly clear in chapter 2 of this volume, for many Puerto Ricans even on the mainland, the term “Americanos” is not one with which they can identify given the long his- tory of colonial violence against them and their island. Because Americanos in- tends to insert Latinos into the U.S. social imaginary as agents and contribu- tors to “American” society, it seems to have been wary of producing images of victimization or powerlessness. In this way, then, what is not said is as power- ful as what is told or visually represented.

The photography itself, which represents the collective work of thirty prizewinning photographers from across the country, focuses on close-ups of Latino faces, a technique that, throughout the book, creates a visual text and narrative of Latino lives as a human story. Indeed, this technique is central to the book’s decolonizing project for Latino viewers. It allows them to envision themselves as part of this visual history, thus providing a partial corrective to their invisibility in the media and in television. This goal is reaffirmed in the open-ended text of the traveling exhibit, in which Latinos can contribute their own photos to the Web sites. The viewers thus function as coauthors of the ongoing history that is being shared. In Chicago, the exhibit included a photo exhibit by Latino youth sponsored by the Yolocalli Youth Program, thus pro- viding marginalized youth the opportunity to be producers of knowledge and art in the public space.

While the collection of photography addresses important sites, such as labor, the family, spirituality and the sacred, gender, social contributions, racial diversity, rituals, sports, and cultures and the arts, the idealistic and gen- erally celebratory tone of the written texts undermines the dramatic ironies of many of these images. For example, the image of a Latina seamstress sewing a U.S. flag is particularly telling. While on the surface it speaks to the contribu- tions of Latino workers to the literal making and material production of America, the Gap sweatshirt that she is wearing could be read to symbolize the labor struggles of Latinas and women who toil in sweatshops contracted by the Gap, Nike, and other American multinational corporations in so-called free processing zones. The sewing machine, then, can be seen as a symbol of the relationship between economic development, female labor, and racism, so clearly delineated in this feminist icon of the Latina worker sewing. Yet view- ers may read this photo as an integrationist pose in the absence of the other, alternative discourses of reference about labor, gender, and race. Thus, what Americanos lacks is precisely a contextualization of its images within the his- torical tradition of Latino cultures of resistance.

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While the photo book overtly denounces the poverty and invisibility of the migrant worker along the U.S./Mexico border through photos of a woman named Marisol and her family and pictures of migrant workers—and uses for the CD cover and publicity stills the image of Luis Estrada picking tulips in Oregon—images of successful Latinos and Latin Americans are also used to counteract the reality of the working-poor Latino sector. In the documentary, for instance, Cuban American advertising executive Tere Zubizarreta clearly explains that her agenda is to erase stereotypes, yet her work replaces one uni- dimensional imagery—the poor Latino—with another, that of the execu- tive/professional, white Latino. While the representation of multiple social classes among Latinos is necessary and historically appropriate, it is also im- portant for Latino and non-Latino audiences to understand the historical and political factors that have led to socioeconomic differences.

The documentary speaks much more overtly about the structural, political, educational, and cultural forms of racism that Latinos face within the United States. It features the very heterogeneous identities and racial complexity of Latino communities, as well as the politically contradictory positions among U.S. Latinos, poignantly illustrated in the figure of Glicet Garvey, a second- generation Mexicana who is a Border Patrol agent. What distinguishes this doc- umentary from the photo book, the CD, and the travel exhibit is the structur- ing and recurring presence of El Vez, the Chicano singer whose performative mimicry of Elvis Presley expresses strong critiques about racism in the United States. This particular device allows audiences to reflect on and critique the di- verse Latino voices and what is said about Latinos in the documentary. Tradi- tional symbols of U.S. patriotism and the dominant society, such as the Statue of Liberty, the term “American,” the U.S. flag, and the song “America, the Beau- tiful” (on the CD) are constantly recontextualized through the more radical Latino voices, the hybrid mixing with Latino rhythms and sounds, or their jux- taposition with images and voices that dismantle their very historical power.

Americanos is an open-ended text and a collective process. Despite its ideo- logical limitations, as it continues to travel around the country for the next five years it almost certainly marks a significant intervention in Latinos’ long struggles over representation. The power of the project to mobilize Latino au- diences is still to be seen. Viewers can become active agents in giving meaning to these texts and in enhancing the awareness of their own lives. Americanos capitalizes on this potential and on the possibilities for generating a truly pos- itive intercultural knowledge. I can imagine, for a moment, Lisa Demetriou, a Puerto Rican police officer whose photo and voice were included in the trav- eling exhibit, running into Jerry Seinfeld at the City Museum of New York, where Americanos is featured, and reiterating to him the profound connec- tions between this public ritual and her own identity as a “Nuyorican.” The

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shared, intercultural knowledge made possible by cultural interventions such as the multimedia Americanos and the agency of Latino voices telling their sto- ries may well make a difference in interethnic relations in the future. But care must be taken. Instead of a message communicating a facile and harmonious vision of integration, a message that argues that “we are all the same” and erases the history of colonization and the ongoing subordination of the peo- ples of Latin American descent in the United States, it is imperative that we increase the public knowledge about Latino expressive cultures in a manner that gives voice to Latinos’ own collective self-conceptualizations, rather than representations that objectify their lives and silence their voices. In this light, Latino artists, writers, musicians, and intellectuals continue to struggle and strategize over issues of representation, despite our increased participation in the industry and our growing demographics.

REFERENCES

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Alurista. 1971. Floricanto en Aztlán. Los Angeles: Chicano Research Center, University of

California, Los Angeles.

Alvarez, Julia. 1991. How the García Girls Lost their Accents. Chapel Hill, N.C.: Algonquin

Books.

Anzaldúa, Gloria. 1987. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. San Francisco: Aunt

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Aparicio, Frances R., and Susana Chávez-Silverman. 1997. Tropicalizations: Transcultur-

al Representations of Latinidad. Hanover, N.H.: University Press of New England.

Arrizón, Alicia. 1999. Latina Performance: Traversing the Stage. Bloomington: Indiana

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Associated Press. 1998. “Hispanic Group Protests ‘Seinfeld.’ ” 8 May. http://

www.msnbc.com/news/164409.asp. Accessed 15 May 1998.

Broyles-Gonzales, Yolanda. 1986. “Women in El Teatro Campesino: ‘Apoco Estaba mo-

lacha La Virgen de Guadalupe?’” In Chicana Voices: Intersections of Class, Race, and

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Burr, Ramiro. 1999. The Billboard Guide to Tejano and Regional Mexican Music. New

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Castillo, Ana. 1994. Massacre of the Dreamers: Essays on Xicanisma. New York:

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Cisneros, Sandra. 1989. The House on Mango Street. New York: Vintage.

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Debrow, Steve. 2000. Americanos: A Musical Celebration. Atlantic Records. 83181-2.

Farley, Christopher John. 1999. “Latin Music Pops.” Time, 24 May, 74–79.

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Flores, Richard R. 1997. “Aesthetic Process and Cultural Citizenship: The Membering of a

Social Body in San Antonio.” In Latino Cultural Citizenship: Claiming Identity, Space,

and Rights, ed. William V. Flores and Rina Benmayor, 124–51. Boston: Beacon Press.

Fox, Geoffrey. 1996. Hispanic Nation: Culture, Politics, and the Constructing of Identity.

Tuscon: The University of Arizona Press.

Fusco, Coco. 1995. English is Broken Here: Notes on Cultural Fusion in the Americas. New

York: The New Press.

Gaspar de Alba, Alicia. 1998. Chicano Art: Inside/Outside the Master’s House. Austin: The

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Gómez-Peña, Guillermo. 1993. Warrior for Gringostroika. Saint Paul, Minn.: Graywolf

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——. 1996. The New World Border. San Fransisco: City Lights.

Hall, Stuart. 1990. “Cultural Identity and Diaspora.” In Community, Culture, Difference,

ed. Jonathan Rutherford, 222–37. London: Lawrence and Wishart.

Kanellos, Nicolás. 1998. Thirty Million Strong: Reclaiming the Hispanic Image in American

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Klor de Alva, J. Jorge. 1998. “Aztlán, Borinquen, and Hispanic Nationalism in the United

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Laviera, Tato. 1985 AmeRícan. Houston: Arte Público Press.

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Mohr, Nicholasa. 1973. Nilda. Houston: Arte Público Press.

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National Congress for Puerto Rican Rights. 2000. “Central Park Attackers Are Enemies

of the Community.” 16 June. E-mail statement by [email protected].

Olmos, Edward James, Lea Ybarra, and Manuel Monterrey, eds. 1999. Americanos: Lati-

no Life in the United States. Boston: Little, Brown And Company.

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Patoski, Joe Nick. 1996. Selena: Como La Flor. New York: Boulevard Books.

Pietri, Pedro. 1973. Puerto Rican Obituary. New York: Monthly Review Press.

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TEN

THE CONTINUING LATINO QUEST FOR FULL MEMBERSHIP

AND EQUAL CITIZENSHIP: LEGAL PROGRESS, SOCIAL

SETBACKS, AND POLITICAL PROMISE

KEVIN R. JOHNSON

INTRODUCTION

Latinos historically have had an ambiguous and problematic status in the U.S. system of law and jurisprudence. This tenuous relationship has complex origins. On the most fundamental level, Latinos have been disadvantaged legally as well as socially because they have long been considered racially in- ferior by many Anglo-Americans. In addition, as “foreigners,” Latinos were often viewed as culturally, religiously, and linguistically different and inferi- or as well.

As was the case for African Americans, the inferiority ascribed to Latinos was legally codified in many ways. Although perhaps not as systematic as the structure of racial repression constructed in the Jim Crow South, Latinos suf- fered legally enforced discrimination in public education; public accommo- dations, such as theaters, swimming pools, hotels, and restaurants; access to jobs and economic opportunity generally; and in their ability to serve on ju- ries and be judged by juries of their peers. As was also the case for African Americans, Latinos frequently availed themselves of legal rights and remedies. Indeed, repression often served as the catalyst that led Latinos to protest, form advocacy and civil-rights organizations, and pursue litigation to challenge civil-rights violations. However, until recently, legal rights and remedies avail- able to African Americans often were denied Latinos because they were clas- sified as “white” under the law.

This essay explores three interrelated sets of legal issues that have most in- fluenced the Latino population of the United States since the 1960s. Although

other issues also have been important to Latinos over the period, the legal is- sues surrounding (1) immigration, nationality, and citizenship; (2) civil rights in the U.S. juridical context; and (3) access to public education have been among the most serious and most chronic facing the growing Latino com- munity in the later part of the twentieth century. How the United States addresses these increasingly critical, overlapping concerns in the new millen- nium will help determine whether Latinos will move toward enjoying equal status with “white” Americans as they steadily grow as a proportion of the U.S. population.

If history serves as any indication, Latinos will face many challenges in vindicating their civil rights in the United States. The past has been marred by legally sanctioned anti-Latino discrimination. At the same time, the law occasionally has served as a powerful tool for guaranteeing Latino rights. It has helped spur activism and political organizing. As a double-edged sword, law will in all likelihood have a continuing relevance to the Latino quest for civil rights.

U.S. IMMIGRATION LAWS AND THEIR ENFORCEMENT: THE LATINO STRUGGLE FOR FULL CITIZENSHIP

Since 1960, immigration and nationality issues in the United States have be- come increasingly complex and controversial. Two interrelated sets of factors have contributed to the increasing social ferment over immigration. The first and most obvious is the increasing rate of migration from Latin America and Asia. The second has to do with the attendant demographic transformation of American society and the growing realization that the United States is an in- creasingly multicultural and multiracial nation. These two factors in tandem have generated widespread and growing adverse reaction to the newcomers. This, in turn, has led to a renewed interest in public support for an overhaul of the U.S. immigration laws.

1965: THE END OF FORMAL RACIAL DISCRIMINATION IN IMMIGRANT

ADMISSIONS AND THE EMERGENCE OF THE IMMIGRATION “PROBLEM”

As has long been true in U.S. immigration history, much of the modern de- bate over immigration in fact centers on race. This remains true even after the most overt racist elements of U.S. immigration law and policy were scrapped in the mid-1960s. In 1965, Congress abolished the discriminatory national- origins quota system that had been a cornerstone of U.S. immigration law since 1924. This change in the law dramatically transformed the racial demo-

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graphics of immigration. Whereas nearly 80 percent of all immigrants to the United States in the 1920s originated in Europe, by the 1990s this trend had been reversed. Since then, only about 11 percent of all immigrants originated in Europe. Most of the rest of the lawful immigrants came from developing nations populated by people of color, especially people from the Spanish- speaking nations of Latin America.1 In fiscal year 1997, for example, Mexico was the country of origin of 18.4 percent of all lawful immigrants—and a much higher proportion of all immigrants if undocumented entries are con- sidered.2 Mass migration from the Dominican Republic has changed the fla- vor of New York,3 as well as the “all-American” game of baseball.4 Immigrants from Mexico, Central America, the Dominican Republic, Cuba, and other Latin American nations joined established Latino communities in this coun- try, such as the Cuban community in south Florida and the Mexican Ameri- can community in the Southwest.

Latin Americans also dominate the immigration that occurs outside of of- ficially sanctioned channels. In 1996, for example, the estimated undocu- mented Mexican population in the United States was at least 2.7 million per- sons, or about 54 percent of the estimated U.S. total of 5 million undocumented persons. In addition to Mexico, El Salvador, Guatemala, Hon- duras, the Dominican Republic, Nicaragua, Colombia, Ecuador, and Peru ranked in the top twenty sending countries of undocumented immigrants.5

As has been true historically, most immigrants to the United States come to the country seeking economic opportunity. However, since the 1965 revisions to the Immigration and Nationality Act, a preference system has been estab- lished that gives immigration preferences based on the principle of family re- unification and, to a lesser extent, to the entry of immigrants with skills deemed necessary to the U.S. economy. In addition, refugee and human rights provisions of U.S. immigration laws also offer relief to aliens fleeing political persecution in their homelands, which has proven to be an important legal av- enue for Latin American immigration. From the time that Congress passed the Refugee Act of 1980 and other legislation, tens of thousands of Central Americans have applied for asylum each year.6 Of course, Cuban refugees have also contributed significant numbers to the growing influx of Latin American immigrants since 1960. They have transformed south Florida, “La- tinized” Miami, and deeply affected the national political scene as politicians strive to secure the “Cuban vote.”7 The national furor over the extraordinary custody battle over young Elián González, if nothing else, shows the political importance of the Cuban American community to national politics.8

One of the great ironies and largely unintended consequences of the liber- alization of U.S. immigration law in 1965 was that the policy change rekindled the same racist attitudes that the reforms sought to remedy. Much of this was

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due to the rapid increase in undocumented migration from south of the bor- der that occurred after the law passed. Coinciding with the demise of the “Bracero Program”—the massive foreign-labor importation program that Congress ended at the end of 1964—the reform of U.S. immigration law had little effect on the patterns of labor migration from Mexico and other Latin American nations, which had already become a deeply rooted part of the American economy. Indeed, as the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) began apprehending and repatriating increasing numbers of Spanish- speaking undocumented workers in the late 1960s and 1970s, immigration of- ficials were replaying a process that had occurred in similar circumstances sev- eral times before, most notably in the great repatriation campaigns of the early 1920s, in the 1930s, and again during the INS’s infamous “Operation Wet- back” in 1954.9 Although the repatriation of Mexican and other Latin Ameri- can nationals since then has been much less publicized than the campaigns that occurred during the Great Depression and the 1950s, apprehensions and repatriations (by then called “voluntary departures”) reached half a million annually by the early 1970s and have fluctuated between that level and more than one million every year since.

RESPONSE: THE IMMIGRATION REFORM AND CONTROL ACT OF 1986

In the early 1970s, Congress began to explore ways to reassert control over the nation’s borders. Most of these legislative efforts were blocked by a strong, if in some ways odd, coalition of Latino civil rights activists and employers’ lob- bies. However, after years of debate, in 1986 Congress finally passed the so- called Immigration Reform and Control Act (IRCA). IRCA reflected both the punitive mood in Congress and the extent to which Latinos had become a po- litical force to be reckoned with: although the legislation imposed harsh penalties on American employers who “knowingly” hired undocumented workers, Latino activists had also forced Congress to add a provision for the “regularization of status”—popularly known as an amnesty—of undocu- mented noncitizens who could prove continuous residence in the United States since 1 January 1982. The law also allowed nearly 100,000 entrants from Cuba and Haiti to gain legal U.S. residency. As a result of the “amnesty” pro- visions of IRCA, by 1991 nearly 2 million former “illegal aliens” were allowed to become legal residents under the law.10

However, IRCA ultimately did little to stem the flow of undocumented en- tries into the United States, and by the late 1980s, the anti-immigrant senti- ment that had simmered below the surface of American politics again began to be heard. The strange coalition of corporate interests and Latino political activists was able to fend off moves to impose immigration restrictions for a

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time, but pressure continued to mount, especially after California voters sent Congress a clear message by passing the anti-immigrant measure, Proposition 187, in 1994. That law, which a court enjoined from going into effect, would have eliminated all public benefits for undocumented immigrants and barred undocumented immigrant children from the public schools. Unmistakably directed at Mexican immigrants, the Proposition 187 campaign played on anti-Mexican themes.11

RESPONSE: 1996 IMMIGRATION “REFORM”

After a period of intense debate, in 1996 the U.S. Congress followed Califor- nia’s lead by passing a series of draconian immigration and welfare reform laws designed to facilitate the removal of aliens and to ensure that immigrants who remained did not “abuse” welfare benefits. The new legislation also fund- ed the Border Patrol at its highest levels in U.S. history. The INS instituted new operations along the southern border designed to cut off undocumented immigration from Mexico. This military presence redirected Mexican and other Latin American migrants to more dangerous routes in desperate efforts to make it to the United States, often suffering and dying from inclement con- ditions and rough terrain, as well as being victimized by crime.12 Thousands of migrants have died as a direct result. As will be discussed below, Cubans, Central Americans, and other Latino immigrants have experienced the sting of the recent intensification of immigration enforcement as well.

The 1996 immigration reforms, which include such features as mandatory detention, expedited removal, and the extraordinary elimination of judicial review of certain removal orders, have significantly impacted the Latino com- munity in the United States. Namely, immigration “reform” facilitated de- portation of long-term Latino residents. In a much-publicized example, the INS initiated removal proceedings under the new law against Jesus Collado, convicted of a single nonviolent crime more than two decades ago as a youth (when it was not a deportable offense) and currently a law-abiding family man, to the Dominican Republic.13 In fiscal year 1999, the INS formally de- ported a record number of aliens (nearly 179,000) with Mexicans and Latin Americans constituting more than 92 percent of those removed from the coun- try.14 It is important to note that these formal deportations were in addition to the normal number of “voluntary departures” effected by the INS, which continued at a rate of several hundred thousand per year. Not coincidentally, the 1990s saw an increase in hate crimes against Latinos, including some di- rected at those assumed to be immigrants by private citizens acting as vigi- lantes claiming to enforce the immigration laws along the U.S. border with Mexico.15

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THE IMPACT OF IMMIGRATION-REFORM EFFORTS ON LATINOS:

DISCRIMINATION IN EMPLOYMENT

Efforts to combat illegal immigration have ripple effects on Latino employ- ment in this country. Because the 1986 reform law subjects employers who employ undocumented persons to sanctions, many businesses engage in dis- crimination against all “foreigners,” including U.S. citizens and lawful immi- grants of Latin American ancestry.16 Lawful and undocumented immigrants have long faced difficulties in organizing unions because of their uncertain immigration status as well as their employment in the unskilled, low-wage labor market.17 However, despite the crackdown on illegal immigration, un- documented workers readily find jobs in the United States. Employers often claim that undocumented immigrants will do work that ordinary “Ameri- cans” will not do, such as farm work, for the wages that employers want to pay.18 To a large degree, their claims are true, but the massive use of undocu- mented Latino labor in the United States is also a clear manifestation of the extent to which economic restructuring in the Western Hemisphere has in ef- fect integrated the labor market across borders (for elaboration of this argu- ment see Gutiérrez, chapter 1, and also Jiménez-Muñoz and Santiago-Valles, chapter 2, this volume).

DENIAL OF SOCIAL MEMBERSHIP

The monumental efforts over the course of the 1990s to seal the borders to prevent migration from the south sent an unmistakable message to Latinos in the United States about their place in society. These measures helped cement the notion that they are second-class citizens and fortunate to be in this coun- try at all. Such attitudes have inevitably influenced how the established Latino community has viewed the immigration issue. Indeed, at least part of the es- tablished Latino community in the United States shares some of these con- cerns over immigration.19 Fault lines have developed between established Latino communities and recent immigrants from Latin America. In the Southwest, for example, Mexican Americans and Mexican immigrants at times have experienced tense relations in places like East Los Angeles and Phoenix, Arizona. Similarly, some established Cuban Americans in south Florida did not welcome the new migrants from Cuba in the “Mariel boatlift” of 1980.20 As we shall see, however, the nature of immigration enforcement, which is directed at all people of Latin American ancestry, often galvanizes the Latino community against the calls for immigration enforcement.

The diversity of opinion about undocumented immigrants reflects deep ambivalence about the place of undocumented immigrants in U.S. society,21

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an ambivalence that is reinforced by the reluctance of the general public to ac- knowledge how the United States’ pursuit of global free market economic policies virtually ensures the continuous circulation of both sanctioned and unsanctioned immigrant workers into the American labor market. Undocu- mented immigration continues, and cheap labor remains available for em- ployers. Increased border enforcement creates the illusion of addressing the problem, but the reality is that, in the absence of jobs that pay at least a living wage in the immigrant “sending” nations of Latin America, labor migration will almost certainly continue for the indefinite future.

DEMANDS FOR ASSIMILATION

A kind of social myopia is reflected in the frequently made charge that, unlike past European immigrants, Latin American immigrants fail to assimilate into the mainstream. Arguments to restrict immigration have historically incorpo- rated exaggerated claims that racially different immigrants—such as the Irish in the 1800s, who today appear fully integrated into U.S. society—fail to as- similate.22 Some, including high profile Latinos like Linda Chávez and Richard Rodríguez, criticize Latin American and Asian immigrants who al- legedly maintain a separate ethnic identity and refuse to become a part of the American mainstream.23 The alleged failure has been cited as an argument to restrict immigration levels and to limit the migration of people from develop- ing nations populated primarily by people of color.24

Such assimilationist arguments tend to ignore the effects of globalization in stimulating mass human migrations and the deep racism that exists in U.S. so- ciety. While assuming that Latin American immigrants refuse to assimilate, the proassimilationists ignore the fact that enduring racism in the United States makes it more difficult for immigrants of color, particularly those from com- munities that have suffered long histories of discrimination in this country, to assimilate into the mainstream. The restructuring of the U.S. economy since the 1970s has also militated against the potential assimilation of immigrants. If, as in the past, successful integration into the socioeconomic mainstream of American society is still based at least in part on the access to the kinds of jobs that allowed immigrants and their children to develop an economic stake in that society, then the steady movement of those jobs to cheaper, overseas job markets has undermined the possibility of that kind of integration today. The continuing segregation of Latinos in housing and schools, the emergence of inner-city gangs centered on the drug trade, and the passing on of disadvan- taged status from one generation of Latinos to the next all exemplify this point.

Moreover, the continued salience of racial difference is further demon- strated by the fact that society continues to demand and expect “assimilation”

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from Latinos who are already citizens. For example, Puerto Ricans, who are often perceived by the general public as immigrants even though they (in- cluding those born in Puerto Rico) are legally U.S. citizens, have been accused of not assimilating.25 As systematically demonstrated by Jiménez-Muñoz and Santiago-Valles’s contribution to this volume (chapter 2), even though Puer- to Ricans have been citizens of the United States for nearly a century, when as- sessed by any socioeconomic or political measure, it is obvious that the Puer- to Rican community remains on the margins of American society. With large numbers mired in poverty on the mainland and those on the island denied di- rect representation in the United States Congress and the right to the vote for president, Puerto Ricans continue to “enjoy” what is at best a form of second- class citizenship.26

In any event, as the evidence demonstrates, Latinos in fact assimilate, learn English and embrace American work and family values.27 This fact is general- ly ignored by the advocates of restrictionist measures who level the “failure to assimilate” claim against today’s immigrants.

LATINO RESPONSE: NATURALIZATION AND POLITICAL ACTION

The demand for citizenship among Latinos increased in the 1990s as the social costs of noncitizen status rose along with anti-immigrant hysteria, aggressive deportation campaigns, and sharply reduced public benefits for noncitizens.28

Facilitated in part by the relaxation by many Latin American nations of various legal requirements on dual nationality, the naturalization rates of Latin Ameri- can immigrants, previously criticized for being relatively low, increased dra- matically in the 1990s. However, in an unfortunate replay of previous historical periods of high immigration, increasing requests for naturalization provoked a backlash and claims that “criminal aliens” were unlawfully naturalizing with the help of a presidential administration seeking to increase Democratic voters. Such charges resulted in a congressional investigation.29 Not coincidentally, INS denials of naturalization petitions during this period rose significantly.30 Thus, Latin American citizens experienced a classic catch-22: they were criticized for not assimilating if they did not naturalize, but when they tried to change their citizenship status they were accused of abusing the process.

More ominously, the recent increase in rates of immigration helped to reignite a movement to review the fundamental rules of U.S. citizenship, es- pecially the clause of the Fourteenth Amendment that grants birthright citi- zenship to all persons born in United States territory—including those who are born to undocumented parents.31 Such a change would constitute a break with over a century of legal precedent.32 The fact that the proposal would deny citizenship to so many Latinos alone suggests racial motives. Not coincidentally,

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concerns with naturalization and citizenship have grown at a time that the ranks of Latino citizens are increasing substantially and many observers ac- knowledge growing Latino political power.

Ultimately, as Louis DeSipio argues in his contribution to this volume (chapter 11), increasing naturalization of U.S. citizens of Latin American an- cestry may well translate into Latino voting strength and facilitate Latino ef- forts to attain full membership and equal citizenship. Successful voting-rights litigation since the 1960s has helped level the playing field in the political arena, although much remains to be done.33 During the 1990s, Latinos have been elected in increasing numbers to political office.34 Recent developments also bode well for future political participation and activism. Community ac- tivism has fueled change. Organized labor, once a staunch opponent of im- migration because of the fear of cheap immigrant labor, now courts undocu- mented immigrants in its organizing efforts and political activities.35 On the negative side, the tragic events of September 11, 2001, have spawned a new na- tivist outburst. The U.S. government has made increased efforts to seal the borders, tighten visa monitoring, and facilitate deportation of noncitizens for relatively minor immigration violations. Anti-immigrant sentiments have in- fluenced the political process and have damaged Latino immigrants through heightened border enforcement and restrictionist laws and policies.36

LATINO CIVIL RIGHTS: LEGAL PROGRESS AND SOCIAL SETBACKS

In the American legal system, Latino civil rights have not been traditionally thought of as “civil-rights” concerns at all. U.S. society generally has viewed civil rights as primarily an issue of African American/white relations.37 The Latino population, however, has a long tradition of civil-rights activism in the United States, and this activism has intensified all the more with the demo- graphic changes brought by immigration and immigration laws since 1965.

The history of Latinos’ quest for full membership in U.S. society began al- most at the moment of their incorporation. For example, in the case of Mex- ican Americans, protest against unequal treatment in violation of their rights as citizens began immediately following the end of the Mexican American War in 1848. Although their rights of citizenship were consistently assaulted by practices such as gerrymandering, encroachment on their lands (both communal lands and property held in fee simple), discrimination in public fa- cilities, poll taxes, and prohibition from serving on juries, Mexican Americans fought back either through litigation, or through more direct means up to, and including, acts of violence.38

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Since the early 1960s, Latinos of all national backgrounds have built on this tradition of activism to press their civil-rights claims. Among the most im- portant of these have been the areas of immigration law and enforcement and language (and, by extension, other “cultural”) issues. As argued above, Lati- nos have long been perceived by white—and black—Americans as “foreign” in the United States, a dubious stereotype that continues to have concrete im- pacts on modern Latino lives. The presumption of foreignness causes more than simply intangible injury.

IMMIGRATION AND CIVIL RIGHTS

Since the 1970s, Latinos have become increasingly active in protesting and tak- ing legal and political action against what are widely regarded as heavy- handed immigration-law enforcement efforts by the INS. For obvious rea- sons, much of the activism in this area in the early 1970s emanated from the Mexican American and Mexican immigrant community.39

This is clear when we consider recent Latino reactions to the excesses of routine immigration enforcement by the INS and other agencies of the law. For years, people who “look” Latino have been more likely to be stopped and questioned by the Border Patrol at the border, at airports, and in the work- place. Indeed, as noted above, in some instances, U.S. citizens of Latin Amer- ican ancestry have been unlawfully deported, especially during periods of re- pression such as the removal campaigns of the Great Depression, the 1950s, and again in the 1970s. In the 1990s, Congress went to great lengths to expe- dite and increase the removal of Latin Americans from the country.

Today, INS enforcement efforts increasingly occur far from the border, in places such as Georgia, Illinois, and Nebraska. This development results from the fact that Latin American migration is no longer limited to the border re- gion but also is transforming the Midwest, South, and the East Coast. Latinos now work in a broad variety of occupations in virtually every state of the union. Although the highest levels of the U.S. government have condemned racial profiling in criminal law enforcement, the practice remains central to modern immigration enforcement in the United States.40 As a result, Latinos routinely find themselves questioned about their citizenry and subjected to immigration enforcement procedures.

MEXICAN IMMIGRATION AND THE CIVIL RIGHTS OF PEOPLE OF

MEXICAN ANCESTRY

In 1975, the U.S. Supreme Court held that Border Patrol officers on roving pa- trols may lawfully stop vehicles “only if they are aware of specific articulable

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facts, together with rational inferences from these facts, that reasonably war- rant suspicion that the vehicles contain aliens who may be illegally in the country,” not simply because the persons appear to be of Latin American an- cestry.41 However, the Court also noted that “the likelihood that any given person of Mexican ancestry is an alien is high enough to make Mexican ap- pearance a relevant factor, but standing alone . . . does not justify stopping all Mexican-Americans to ask if they are aliens” (emphasis added). Racial stereo- types about people of “Mexican appearance” being undocumented immi- grants, thus can help justify an immigration stop.

INS enforcement efforts have resulted in many civil-rights lawsuits. For ex- ample, in 1992, faculty, students, and staff at Bowie High School in El Paso, Texas, brought a class action claiming a pattern and practice of serious civil- rights deprivations by the Border Patrol.42 In this case, Border Patrol officers stopped the automobile of local high school football coach Benjamin Muril- lo, a Mexican American and U.S. citizen whose family has lived in this coun- try for generations, who was wearing a Bowie High School football coach shirt, pointed a gun at his head, and conducted a search of his car without probable cause. Border Patrol officers also stopped David Rentería and Juan Carlos Jacquez while they walked home after a high school graduation re- hearsal, questioned them about their citizenship status and, without provoca- tion, beat Rentería. On another occasion, the Border Patrol demanded to know the citizenship status of Nieden Susie Díaz as she walked home from school; one officer “for no apparent reason knocked Nieden down to the ground and kicked her about twenty times.” A court entered an injunction prohibiting such lawless conduct. The parties subsequently settled the lawsuit, with the INS agreeing not to violate the constitutional rights of the class in the future and created a complaint procedure to remedy any INS violations of the settlement.

In July 1997 in the city of Chandler, a suburb of Phoenix, Arizona, local po- lice, in cooperation with the Border Patrol, in an action dubbed “Operation Restoration” among law-enforcement officials but known as “Operation Round-Up” in the Mexican American community, stopped cars with occu- pants who “looked Mexican” at checkpoints to inquire about their immigra- tion status. In a practice that is common in many other locales in the United States, police also stopped patrons at stores allegedly frequented by undocu- mented persons to inquire about their immigration status. According to the Arizona Attorney General, the police entered the homes of suspected undoc- umented immigrants without warrants or probable cause and stopped “nu- merous American citizens and legal residents . . . on multiple occasions . . . for no other reason than their skin color or Mexican appearance or use of the Spanish language.”43

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Allegations like these have been made too frequently over too long a period to be dismissed as mere aberrations.44 Community activists long have argued that law enforcement officers regularly stop Latinos for nothing other than “driving while brown.” In a 1985 case challenging such enforcement efforts, a chief Border Patrol agent testified that “he relied upon a person’s appearance to substantiate ‘reasonable suspicion’ so long as it was ‘not strictly Hispanic appearance.’” He said “an officer could rely, along with Hispanic appearance, on a ‘hungry look,’ or a person’s age. . . . [A]gents testified they relied on, in addition to Hispanic appearance, [other factors including] a ‘dirty, unkempt appearance,’ . . . and the fact that a person wears work clothing.”45 The court enjoined the INS from unlawful stops based on Hispanic appearance.

The civil-rights lawsuits continue. In a typical action brought by Latino plaintiffs, Hodgers-Durgin v. de la Vina, a court of appeals in 1999 addressed a case in which the INS stood accused of stopping motorists of Latino descent in the state of Arizona—a state with a large Latino population—without rea- sonable suspicion.46 In many cases of challenging Border Patrol stops, the of- ficers admittedly relied upon Hispanic appearance.47 The government ex- plained its position clearly in one case:

The government urges the fact that the driver was Hispanic tends to give the agent reasonable suspicion that the driver was involved in illegal activity. The government reasons that most illegal immigrants in Texas are Hispanic and . . . that this makes it more likely that this driver was also an illegal immi- grant, or was involved in the trafficking of aliens. . . . The government [by pointing out that the officer] noticed that the driver was Hispanic, is trying to demonstrate a direct correlation between the driver being Hispanic and the likelihood that he is an illegal alien or is concealing illegal immigrants. This correlation is not adequate, especially given the percentage of Hispan- ic people that make up the population of this area.48

Cases challenging the use of undocumented immigration profiles are by no way limited to the border region. For example, a court in 2002 addressed a case in which Ohio State Highway Patrol Officers stood accused of stopping, detaining, and interrogating Latinos about their immigration status based on their race. A federal court had addressed a similar claim against Michigan and Illinois law-enforcement officers in the 1970s.49

Unlike other areas of law enforcement, immigration enforcement can law- fully be premised on race. Once Border Patrol officers are permitted to con- sider race, however, there is no realistic check on their discretion—and this obviously opens the door to rampant civil-rights violations of U.S. citizens of Latino ancestry. Proclaiming that race was only one factor for an investigatory

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stop, they can easily rationalize acting on a racial “hunch.”50 Moreover, as one court observed, “Border Patrol officers may use racial stereotypes as a proxy for illegal conduct without being subjectively aware of doing so.”51 Nor do de- vices exist that effectively deter Border Patrol abuses. The Supreme Court has held that the exclusionary rule generally does not cover deportation proceed- ings, so that the fruits of an unlawful stop, including one based exclusively on race, may be admissible. Similarly, internal INS complaint systems have proven to be of marginal utility in deterring unlawful conduct by Border Pa- trol officers.52

Ultimately, the perception among many Latinos is that race is the determi- native factor to Border Patrol officers investigating alleged violations of the immigration laws. Despite the Supreme Court’s directive to the Border Patrol not to consider race as the exclusive factor in deciding to investigate a person’s immigration status, it is difficult to dispute that

immigration authorities can still effectively stop and interrogate anyone they meet . . . providing only that the [person] looks foreign. While they cannot in theory question people on the basis of racial or ethnic appearance alone, they in fact do so consistently, and no one familiar with the realities of immigration enforcement would suggest the contrary.53

At times, the INS correctly targets undocumented Latin Americans but abuses their civil rights. Abuse of Mexican and Central American immigrants attempting the arduous trek across the southern border has been well docu- mented. For example, in 1996, law-enforcement authorities in Riverside, Cal- ifornia, without provocation beat two undocumented Mexican immigrants (Alicia Sotero Vásquez and Enrique Funes Flores) in a horrific event captured on videotape. In an even more tragic case, two Marines in Texas in 1997 shot and killed a Mexican American goat-herder, Esequiel Hernández Jr.—a U.S. citizen with no previous criminal record—while looking for drug traffickers along the increasingly militarized border. New border enforcement opera- tions in high-volume border hubs such as El Paso and San Diego have redi- rected migrant streams to more dangerous routes, and, as a result, thousands of migrants have died both of exposure and crime.54

EFFORTS TO HALT CUBAN MIGRATION

Although the United States welcomed those who fled Cuba after the revolu- tion through the 1970s as part of the international war on communism, the in- flux of Cuban migrants known as the “Mariel boatlift” in 1980 changed every- thing (see García, chapter 3, this volume). Concerned with a possible mass

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migration of the poor, blacks, criminals, homosexuals, and otherwise “unde- sirable” immigrants, the United States detained many Cuban immigrants who came in 1980.55 The courts authorized such conduct and even permitted the indefinite detention of people whom the Cuban government refused to allow to return.56 In the 1990s, fear of another influx of Cubans led the U.S. gov- ernment to scramble to reach an agreement with the Cuban government to prevent another such mass migration.57

In their attempts to keep Cuban migrants on rafts from reaching the Unit- ed States, the Coast Guard has resorted to questionable tactics, including using pepper spray and physical force.58 Such conduct is encouraged by the law, which affords Cubans a full panoply of rights (and likely asylum) if they make it to shore, but few (and probable return to Cuba) if apprehended on the high seas.59 Known by the U.S. Coast Guard as the “feet wet, feet dry” pol- icy, relief is afforded to Cubans who make it to land (“feet dry”) and denied to those apprehended on the sea (“feet wet”).

EFFORTS TO STOP CENTRAL AMERICAN MIGRATION

As Chinchilla and Hamilton note in their contribution to this volume, Cen- tral Americans fleeing the political violence of their homelands have fared no better than other migrants. In the early 1980s, President Reagan’s administra- tion began a policy of detaining Central Americans and making affirmative ef- forts to convince them to “voluntarily” return to their homelands without pursuing their right to apply for asylum. A court in 1990 declared the policy to be unlawful.60 In 1991, the U.S. government settled a lawsuit in which Guatemalan and Salvadoran asylum applicants alleged foreign-policy bias in the denial of their asylum claims.61 In this case, the evidence showed that the U.S. government encouraged people fleeing Sandinista-led Nicaragua, a sworn enemy of the Reagan administration, to apply for asylum in the 1980s, although it previously had denied almost all claims of Nicaraguan applicants when an authoritarian ally had led the country.62 In 1997, political action ulti- mately helped Central Americans obtain immigration relief through an act of Congress.63

THE NEGATIVE IMPACTS ON LATINOS

The concerted efforts to deny entry and deport Latinos cause symbolic and status injuries beyond the immediate harms to the people directly affected. Latin Americans often are presumed as the primary, if not sole subjects of immigration-law enforcement, often regardless of their actual citizenship sta- tus or whatever their family and personal history in the United States. This

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necessarily takes a personal toll on them and certainly affects whether they enjoy the status of full members and equal citizens of U.S. society. The efforts to limit entry of Latin Americans into the United States reveal volumes about Latinos’ true status in this country. In too many cases, it confirms their second- class citizenship.

LANGUAGE AS A CIVIL-RIGHTS ISSUE FOR LATINOS

Language proves to be another point of contention in the civil-rights arena between people of Latin American ancestry and members of the “non- Hispanic white” majority in the United States. In 1990, there were more than 17.3 million homes in the United States in which Spanish was the principal non-English language spoken, and this number has obviously increased dra- matically since then.64 As immigrants came to this nation, U.S. society has pressured them to assimilate and become “American,” which includes adopt- ing English.65 Early in the twentieth century, legal excesses in the efforts to en- force language conformity among immigrants resulted in Supreme Court landmarks protecting the rights of linguistic minorities.66 Assimilationist pressures have generally been one of many factors, including the need for English-language skills for economic survival, which contributed to immi- grant minorities’ learning English. Assimilationists nonetheless condemn multiculturalism’s tolerance of language diversity and claim that it is “splin- tering” U.S. society.67

Latin American immigration has unquestionably fueled the English-only movement in the United States. Cuban migration, for example, spurred English-only legislation in Florida, and many other states have passed either English-only laws or referenda.68 Latin American immigration has proven es- pecially troublesome to adherents of mandatory English. Spanish obviously is the primary language in most of Latin America, and with millions of Ameri- cans now speaking Spanish as their primary or secondary language, the wide- spread use of Spanish in daily life is guaranteed well into the future. Indeed, unless new draconian immigration laws are passed and even harsher enforce- ment measures are adopted, Latin American immigrants will continue to come to the United States, thus continuing to bring Spanish with them and thereby ensuring its continued presence in the United States.

The law has played a central role in the attempted implementation of lan- guage conformity. In 1991, the U.S. Supreme Court in Hernández v. New York held that, despite the obvious racial impacts, Spanish speakers could be strick- en from juries when Spanish would be translated at the trial of a Latino crim- inal defendant.69 Although ultimately invalidated on First Amendment grounds, a racially divided electorate in Arizona adopted a law prohibiting

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state employees from communicating in a language other than English in con- ducting governmental business.70 A number of states, including California, have passed advisory laws declaring English to be the state’s official language. In response to growing numbers of linguistic minorities, employers, with the acquiescence of the courts, have increasingly embraced English-only regula- tions in the workplace.71

It is perhaps too early to tell how the continuing controversy over language issues will play out in the resident Latino population. But it is clear that English-only laws and regulations have provoked controversy and tension be- cause some Latinos view them as demeaning, unfair, and racist. The subtle message is that Spanish is “foreign” and causes problems that would evapo- rate if the language, and Latinos, would disappear. Such actions effectively tell Latinos that the Spanish language, which is central to their identity, is inap- propriate for conducting professional affairs or private conversations in the workplace. Similarly, bilingual education, which Cuban immigrants—often held up as the exemplar of assimilation—initially pressed for in the 1960s, and which later grew in popularity among other Latinos, has become a continuing source of controversy. With the changing immigrant demographics since 1965, it has been increasingly under attack. In 1997, for example, the Califor- nia voters enacted a law, in the face of heavy Latino opposition, which barred bilingual education in public schools.72

In modern times, as has been true historically, language often is employed as a proxy for race. English-only rules and attacks on bilingual education dis- parately impact the Latino community. Despite the concerns of English-only advocates, the empirical evidence is that Latin American immigrants in fact learn English and that English is embraced by subsequent generations.73

Nonetheless, language remains a source of racial tension in a fight for status in U.S. society. Mandatory English undercuts Latino claims to full member- ship and equal citizenship and will almost certainly remain a major bone of contention in American political life for years to come.

EDUCATION: ENSURING EDUCATIONAL EQUALITY FOR LATINOS

The issue of education historically has always been a crucial issue for minor- ity and immigrant mobility in the United States. As the Supreme Court em- phasized in the landmark case of Brown v. Board of Education in 1954, educa- tion “is the very foundation of good citizenship.”74 From 1960 to the present, ensuring access to public education for Latinos—and the full citizenship rights that at least in theory are supposed to come with higher levels of edu-

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cation—has been extremely difficult. Primary and secondary education for Latinos has long been the victim of what can most generously be termed be- nign neglect drifting toward crisis. And access to institutions of higher edu- cation, which increased for a time in the 1970s and 1980s, has since drastical- ly diminished. Such developments promise to have a lasting negative impact on future generations of Latinos. Because Latino educational attainment lags far behind other groups, one blue-ribbon presidential commission pro- claimed in 1996 that “educational attainment for most Hispanic Americans is in a state of crisis.”75

IMPROVING PUBLIC ELEMENTARY AND SECONDARY

EDUCATION: SCHOOL-FINANCING LITIGATION

Over the course of the late twentieth century, attempts at intentional de jure segregation of Mexican Americans in the United States in the public school system for the most part failed.76 Beginning early in the twentieth century, legal cases brought by Latino advocacy groups, such as the League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC) and, more recently, the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund (MALDEF), slowly but surely chipped away at the structure of segregated public education that had characterized the schooling experience of most Latinos since the mid-nineteenth century. Land- mark cases won by Latino plaintiffs, such as Alvarez v. Owen (The Lemon Grove School District Case, California, 1931), Westminster School District v. Méndez (California, 1947), and Delgado v. Bastrop Independent School District (Texas, 1948), all established important legal precedents in the national legal battle to end formal segregation that culminated in the U.S. Supreme Court’s landmark decision in Brown v. Board of Education in 1954.77 These cases all se- cured the rights of Mexican American children from segregation in the pub- lic schools.

But as has been true for African Americans in the wake of Brown v. Board of Education, Latinos continue to be subjected to de facto segregation in pub- lic school districts across the nation. This primarily resulted from housing seg- regation throughout the United States and the practice of sending children to neighborhood schools. Indeed, school segregation of Latinos has increased in the 1980s and 1990s. According to a 1999 study, “the data shows continuously increasing segregation for Latino students, who are rapidly becoming our largest minority group and have been more segregated than African Americans for several years.”78

Given the difficulties experienced in attempting to end de facto segregation of the schools and housing, Latinos have redirected focus and pressed for equality in public school financing. Public school funding based on local

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property taxes has created and maintained inequitable educational systems; poor neighborhoods have fewer resources for schools than more affluent lo- calities. The U.S. Supreme Court in the 1973 decision of San Antonio Indepen- dent School District v. Rodríguez held that education is not a fundamental in- terest that subjects school-financing schemes to strict judicial scrutiny.79 This holding effectively removed educational rights from the purview of the U.S. Constitution. Upholding a claim challenging disparate school funding, the California Supreme Court, however, in the famous decision of Serrano v. Priest in 1976, held that education was a fundamental interest under the Cali- fornia Constitution and that remedial action was necessary.80 Since that deci- sion, however, little has changed. School-finance litigation in several states over a span of three decades has failed to meaningfully improve Latino access to equal educational opportunities.81 In California, as the percentage of Lati- no students has increased in the public schools, spending per pupil has de- clined precipitously.

Latino efforts to achieve educational equity have proven increasingly im- portant as they have grown as a proportion of the students in public schools.82

In 1996 and 1997, a plurality (nearly 40 percent) of the students in the Cali- fornia and New York City public schools were Latinos. Latinos constituted over 50 percent of the students in public schools in Miami and Houston, 32.1 percent in Chicago, and 12.5 percent in Milwaukee.83

Not coincidently, with the increase in Latinos in the public schools, efforts, including California’s much publicized Proposition 187, have been made to keep undocumented children out of the classroom. In the 1982 decision of Plyler v. Doe, however, the Supreme Court invalidated a Texas law barring un- documented children from public elementary and secondary school educa- tion.84 The Court rejected the creation of a “permanent caste of undocument- ed [Mexican] resident aliens, encouraged by some to remain here as a source of cheap labor, but nevertheless denied the benefits that our society makes available to citizens and lawful residents.” Similarly, bilingual education, once required by the Supreme Court, has come under attack and now is generally banned in the public schools in California, Massachusetts, and other states.85

Other problems, such as crime, arise from the limited educational oppor- tunities available to Latinos. Dwindling educational opportunities and high dropout rates no doubt contribute to the relatively high incarceration rates among young Latino males. Moreover, the criminal-justice system targets young Latinos, and to a lesser extent Latinas, in the United States. Puerto Ri- cans in New York, Cubans in south Florida, and Mexican Americans in the Southwest have experienced the sting of racial profiling in law enforcement. The dogged persistence of the popular stereotype of Latinos as criminals, gang members, and the like, contributes to this dynamic.86

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THE BATTLE OVER AFFIRMATIVE ACTION IN HIGHER EDUCATION

As the twentieth century came to a close, the burning national debate on af- firmative action in higher education deeply affected the Latino community. From the 1960s through the 1980s, affirmative action was in place in almost all institutions of higher education. In 1978, the U.S. Supreme Court, in Regents of University of California v. Bakke, endorsed the consideration of race in public-university admissions as a tool to ensure a diverse student body.87 The 1990s, however, opened an entirely new chapter as attacks on affirmative ac- tion increased. Besides the claim that affirmative action deviated from admis- sion based on “merit,” the claim also was made—sometimes by those known as progressives—that Latinos illegitimately reaped the benefits of programs designed to remedy discrimination against African Americans.88

The evolving law influenced the attacks on affirmative action. Over the course of the 1980s and 1990s, a conservative majority of the Supreme Court moved toward a color blind conception of the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment and away from the concept that race might legiti- mately factor into admission and other decisions to remedy past discrimina- tion.89 This evolving jurisprudence encouraged a federal court of appeals to invalidate the University of Texas law school’s affirmative-action plan. It also led rejected white applicants to sue the University of Michigan law school, with the backing of conservative political organizations, for considering race in the admissions process.90 The political process followed suit. A vanguard in the affirmative-action rollback of the 1990s, the Board of Regents of Universi- ty of California eliminated race and gender from any consideration in admis- sion to the University of California. The California voters subsequently passed an initiative proclaiming an end to all “racial preferences” in the state.91 The results of these actions have been devastating. Latino enrollment in institu- tions of higher learning dropped immediately, and earnest attempts by ad- missions committees to develop weighted admissions formulae that somehow make up for the loss of Latino students have generally proven futile. Although aggregate numbers of Latino enrollment in institutions of higher education have begun to climb, they continue to be significantly underrepresented as a proportion of the population in colleges and universities.92

Latinos did not silently acquiesce to the devastating attacks on affirmative action. In Texas, a concerted political effort by Latino and other minority leg- islators convinced the state legislature to pass a law that made the top 10 per- cent of the graduates of every high school in the state, including predomi- nantly minority schools, eligible for admission to the University of Texas. The Regents of the University of California endorsed a watered-down 4 percent version of the Texas plan and more recently have advocated doing away with

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LEGAL PROGRESS, SOCIAL SETBACKS, AND POLIT ICAL PROMISE

one of the SAT exams as a requirement for UC admission.93 The “solution,” however, avoids the hard question of how to improve elementary and sec- ondary public schools in poor- and working-class neighborhoods and ensure that high school graduates are adequately prepared for college.

Other measures have been taken in higher education that disparately affect the Latino community. Consistent with political efforts to keep undocument- ed children out of elementary and secondary schools, efforts have been made to exclude the undocumented from public colleges and universities.94 More- over, ethnic-studies programs, including Chicano studies, have been chal- lenged as lacking intellectual rigor. The percentages of Latino faculty on col- lege campuses across the country remain low and promise to become lower as the numbers in colleges and universities dwindle due to the demise of affir- mative action.

Assuming that affirmative action remains part of the nation’s future, Latinos must face some difficult questions. For example, should students from estab- lished Latino families subject to discrimination in this country and recent Latin American immigrants from well-to-do families stand on equal footing? In part this depends on the rationale for affirmative action, that is, whether it is de- signed to remedy past discrimination or ensure diversity in the student body. Similarly, should only poor, rather than middle-class, Latinos be entitled to affirmative-action benefits?95 Because Latino students constitute such a large and growing proportion of the United States’ school-age population, these net- tlesome issues will undoubtedly continue to dominate debates over the direc- tion of U.S. public education in the first years of the new century and beyond.

Ultimately, Latino access to elementary, secondary, and college education is related. Absent improved elementary and secondary education, true access to higher education, with or without affirmative action, appears to be a dimin- ishing dream for many Latino students. Only with a true commitment to an overhaul of the system of public education in this country are educational op- portunities for Latinos likely to improve. The law obviously has its limits, and political action holds the true promise for such far-reaching change.

CONCLUSION

As the year 2000 came and went, Latinos faced formidable barriers to their struggle for full membership and equal citizenship in the United States. Al- though U.S. law often served to thwart the struggle, it sometimes also worked as an avenue for positive social change. As I have argued in this essay, Latinos’ relationship to the U.S. legal system will in all likelihood continue to cut both ways; Latinos have been able to secure important civil-rights gains through

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THE LATINO QUEST FOR FULL MEMBERSHIP AND EQUAL CITIZENSHIP

the legal system. At the same time, however, Latinos have experienced set- backs in their quest to reduce discrimination in immigration law and its en- forcement, educational equity, and language rights.

In the end, political solutions may be the most promising for addressing the many legal and policy issues facing the Latino community. Recent activism, and the increasing naturalization rates of Latin American immigration, sug- gest the positive potential for political action. Legal relief, such as that provid- ed through voting-rights litigation may be a means to facilitate political ac- tion. As was the case for African Americans, legal and political efforts in combination appear necessary to achieve lasting social change.

At least for the foreseeable future, the civil-rights concerns of Latinos are unlikely to change substantially from the those that remained at the close of the twentieth century. Immigration and citizenship, civil rights, and educa- tion are central to the advancement of Latinos in the United States. Until these foundational issues are addressed satisfactorily, Latinos will experience great difficulties joining the mainstream and becoming full members and equal cit- izens of the United States. Part of the overall solution will be raising con- sciousness among lawmakers, policymakers, and the public that civil rights concerns implicate Latinos, Asian Americans, Native Americans, and others, as well as African Americans. This will be no small feat. As the recent nation- al flap over Senator Trent Lott’s racially tinged comments at Strom Thur- mond’s 100th birthday party indicate, despite the explosive growth of the Lati- no population over the past forty years, black/white relations continue to dominate the national consciousness. Nonetheless, recognition of the civil- rights complexities of a multiracial, multicultural United States is a necessary first step toward addressing the problems faced by Latinos.

NOTES

1. See U.S. Department of Justice, 1997 Statistical Yearbook of the Immigration and

Naturalization Service (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1999),

26, table 2.

2. See U.S. Department of Justice, Immigration and Naturalization Service, Office of

Policy and Planning, Annual Report: Legal Immigration, Fiscal Year 1997, (Wash-

ington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, January 1999), 5.

3. For an analysis of the impact of Dominican, as well as Colombian, immigration on

New York City, see Alejandro Portes and Rubén G. Rumbaut, Immigrant America:

A Portrait, 2d ed. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 110–12.

4. For the history of Dominican players, as well as Latinos generally, in major league

baseball, see Marcos Bretón and José Luis Villegas, Away Games: The Life and Times

of a Latin Baseball Player (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1999).

5. See U.S. Department of Justice, 1997 Statistical Yearbook, 200, table N.

411

LEGAL PROGRESS, SOCIAL SETBACKS, AND POLIT ICAL PROMISE

6. See ibid., 77, table E. For discussion of Central American migration from 1970 to

1990, see Carlos B. Cordova and Raquel Pinderhughes, “Central and South Ameri-

cans,” in A Nation of Peoples: A Sourcebook on America’s Multicultural Heritage, ed.

Elliott Robert Barkan (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1999), 103–10. See gen-

erally Susan Bibler Coutin, Legalizing Moves: Salvadoran Immigrants’ Struggle for

U.S. Residency (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000); Cecilia Menjívar,

Fragmented Ties: Salvadoran Immigrant Networks in America (Berkeley: University

of California Press, 2000).

7. See generally María Cristina García, Havana USA: Cuban Exiles and Cuban Ameri-

cans in South Florida, 1959–1994 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996);

Felix Roberto Masud-Piloto, From Welcomed Exiles to Illegal Immigrants: Cuban

Migration to the U.S., 1959–1995 (Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield, 1996).

8. See González v. Reno, 212 F.3d 1338 (11th Cir.), cert. denied, 530 U.S. 1270 (2000).

9. See Francisco E. Balderrama and Raymond Rodríguez, Decade of Betrayal: Mexican

Repatriation in the 1930s (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1995);

Juan Ramón García, Operation Wetback: The Mass Deportation of Mexican Undoc-

umented Workers in 1954 (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1980); Camille

Guerin-Gonzales, Mexican Workers and American Dreams: Immigration, Repatria-

tion, and California Farm Labor, 1900–1939 (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers Univer-

sity Press, 1994). For an analysis of the legal history of undocumented Mexican mi-

gration to United States, see Gerald P. López, “Undocumented Mexican Migration:

In Search of a Just Immigration Law and Policy,” UCLA Law Review 28 (1981): 615.

10. Reed Ueda, Postwar Immigrant America (Boston: St. Martin’s Press, Bedford Books,

1994), 48–49.

11. See Kevin R. Johnson, “An Essay on Immigration Politics, Popular Democracy, and

California’s Proposition 187: The Political Relevance and Legal Irrelevance of

Race,” Washington Law Review 70 (1995): 629.

12. See, for example, Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act of

1996, Pub. L. No. 104–208, secs. 501–553, 110 Stat. 3009, 3670–81; Antiterrorism and

Effective Death Penalty Act of 1996, Pub. L. No. 104–132, secs. 423, 502, 110 Stat.

2105, 2260–77; Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act

of 1996, Pub. L. No. 104–153, 110 Stat. 2260 (1996); also see below for discussions of

human rights abuses along border. See generally Peter Andreas, Border Games:

Policing the U.S.-Mexico Divide (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2000); Tim-

othy J. Dunn, The Militarization of the U.S.-Mexican Border, 1978–92: Low-Intensity

Conflict Doctrine Comes Home (Austin: CMAS Books, University of Texas at

Austin, 1996); Douglas S. Massey, Jorge Durand, and Nolan J. Malone, Beyond

Smoke and Mirrors: Mexican Immigration in an Era of Economic Integration (New

York: Russell Sage Foundation, 2002).

13. See Matter of Collado-Muñoz, 21 Immigration and Nationality Decisions 106, In-

terim Decision No. 3333 (Board of Immigration Appeals, 1998).

14. See U.S. Department of Justice, Immigration and Naturalization Service, “INS Sets

New Removals Record” (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 12 No-

vember 1999).

15. See, for example, National Council of La Raza, The Mainstreaming of Hate: A Re-

port on Latinos and Harassment, Hate Violence, and Law Enforcement Abuse in the

412

THE LATINO QUEST FOR FULL MEMBERSHIP AND EQUAL CITIZENSHIP

1990s (Washington: National Council of La Raza, 1999), which documents hate

crimes against Latinos; San Diego Unified Port District v. U.S. Citizens Patrol, 63 Cal.

App. 4th 964, 74 Cal. Rptr. 2d 364 (1998), addressing case in which private citizens

known as the “Airport Posse,” wearing shirts stating “U.S. Citizen Patrol,” searched

for undocumented persons at an airport; Michael Janofsky, “Immigrants Flood

Border in Arizona, Angering Ranchers,” New York Times, 18 June 2000, reporting

on Arizona ranchers using force and taking undocumented persons into custody

along border.

16. See U.S. Commission on Immigration Reform, U.S. Immigration Policy: Restoring

Credibility (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1994), 78–81,

summarizing patterns of discrimination by employers against national origin mi-

norities; U.S. General Accounting Office, Immigration Reform—Employer Sanctions

and the Question of Discrimination: Report to the Congress (Washington, D.C.: U.S.

Government Printing Office, 1990), which found evidence of a pattern of wide-

spread discrimination by employers against national-origin minorities.

17. See, for example, Maria L. Ontiveros, “To Help Those Most in Need: Undocu-

mented Workers’ Rights and Remedies under Title VII,” NYU Review of Law and

Social Change 20 (1993–1994): 607. Organization efforts, however, have proven

more successful in recent years. See David G. Gutiérrez, “Ethnic Mexicans and the

Transformation of ‘American’ Social Space: Reflections on Recent History,” in

Crossings: Mexican Immigration in Interdisciplinary Perspectives, ed. Marcelo M.

Suárez-Orozco, (Cambridge: Harvard University Press ed., 1998), 309, 325–26. See

generally Héctor L. Delgado, New Immigrants, Old Unions: Organizing Undocu-

mented Workers in Los Angeles (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1993).

18. See Wayne A. Cornelius, “The Structural Embeddedness of Demand for Mexican

Immigrant Labor: New Evidence from California,” in ,” in Crossings: Mexican Im-

migration in Interdisciplinary Perspectives, ed. Marcelo M. Suárez-Orozco, (Cam-

bridge: Harvard University Press ed., 1998), 115, which offers empirical evidence of

demand for immigrant labor in California. This view feeds on stereotypes about

people of Mexican ancestry as less than human. See John O. Calmore, “Exploring

Michael Omi’s ‘Messy’ Real World of Race: An Essay for ‘Naked’ People Longing

to Swim Free,” Law and Inequality 15 (1997): 25, 72, which says that the “ ‘dirty Mex-

ican’ image permits the justification for restricting Mexicans to laboring in the agri-

cultural fields—in this context, ‘dirty’ means ‘suited for labor in the fields.’” (foot-

note omitted); see also Guadalupe T. Luna, “ ‘Agricultural Underdogs’ and

International Agreements: The Legal Context of Agricultural Workers Within the

Rural Economy,” New Mexico Law Review 26 (1996): 9, for an analysis of the dis-

possession of persons of Mexican ancestry from agricultural lands in Southwest.

19. See David G. Gutiérrez, Walls and Mirrors: Mexican Americans, Mexican Immi-

grants, and the Politics of Ethnicity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995).

20. See Gloria Sandrino-Glasser, “Los Confundidos: De-Conflating Latina/os’ Race

and Ethnicity,” UCLA Chicano-Latino Law Review 19 (1998): 69, 89–90, n. 81, which

mentions the “intra-Cuban American community conflict” caused by influx of

Cuban immigrants in 1980.

21. See Linda S. Bosniak, “Exclusion and Membership: The Dual Identity of the Undoc-

umented Worker Under United States Law,” Wisconsin Law Review 1988 (1988): 955.

413

LEGAL PROGRESS, SOCIAL SETBACKS, AND POLIT ICAL PROMISE

22. See, for example, The Chinese Exclusion Case (Chae Chan Ping v. United States), 130

U.S. 581, 595 (1889), which upheld the Chinese exclusion law, explaining that “it

seemed impossible for [the Chinese] to assimilate with our people or to make any

change in their habits or modes of living.”

23. See, for example, Linda Chávez, Out of the Barrio: Toward a New Politics of Hispanic

Assimilation (New York: Basic Books, 1991); Richard Rodríguez, Hunger of Memory

(Boston: Godine, 1981); see also John J. Miller, The Unmaking of Americans: How

Multiculturalism Has Undermined the Assimilation Ethic (New York: Free Press, 1998).

24. See, for example, Peter Brimelow, Alien Nation: Common Sense About America’s

Immigration Disaster (New York: Random House, 1995); Richard D. Lamm and

Gary Imhoff, The Immigration Time Bomb: The Fragmenting of America (New York:

Truman Talley Books, 1985); see also George J. Borjas, Heaven’s Door: Immigration

Policy and the American Economy (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press,

1999), which notes that increased emphasis on the skills of immigrants in immi-

gration laws would change the current racial demographics of immigration and

contends that certain immigrant groups develop and propagate a culture of public-

benefit dependence.

25. See Chávez, Out of the Barrio, 139–59.

26. See Carmen Teresa Whalen, “Puerto Ricans,” in A Nation of Peoples: A Sourcebook

on America’s Multicultural Heritage, ed. Elliott Robert Barkan (Westport, Conn.:

Greenwood Press, 1999), 446, 456–61, for data on the status of Puerto Ricans in con-

temporary United States. See generally José A. Cabranes, “Citizenship and the

American Empire,” University of Pennsylvania Law Review 127 (1978): 391; Ediberto

Román, “The Alien-Citizen Paradox and Other Consequences of U.S. Colonial-

ism,” Florida St. University Law Review 26 (1998): 1.

27. See generally Pew Hispanic Center and Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation, 2002

National Survey of Latinos (Washington, D.C. and Menlo Park, Calif.: Pew Hispan-

ic Center and Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation, 2002), for survey data reflecting

Latino assimilation into U.S. social life.

28. See T. Alexander Aleinikoff, “The Tightening Circle of Membership,” Hastings

Constitutional Law Quarterly 22 (1995): 915.

29. See Linda Kelly, “Defying Membership: The Evolving Role of Immigration Ju-

risprudence,” University of Cincinnati Law Review 67 (1998): 185, 197–209. A subse-

quent Justice Department investigation concluded that, although some naturaliza-

tion petitions were erroneously approved due to hasty processing, the Clinton

Administration had not acted for political ends in the Citizenship USA program.

See “IG Report Finds INS’s ‘Citizenship USA’ Program was Flawed, But Not for

Political Reasons,” Interpreter Releases 77 (2000): 1198.

30. See Patrick J. McDonnell, “INS Denials of Citizenship Climb Sharply,” L.A. Times,

14 June 1999, reporting that denial of naturalization petitions by INS rose by 25 per-

cent during first six months of the 1998–99 fiscal year, including a 1,624 percent in-

crease in Los Angeles.

31. See Peter H. Schuck and Rogers M. Smith, Citizenship Without Consent: Illegal

Aliens in the American Polity (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1985).

32. See United States v. Wong Kim Ark, 169 U.S. 649 (1898).

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THE LATINO QUEST FOR FULL MEMBERSHIP AND EQUAL CITIZENSHIP

33. See, for example, Garza v. County of Los Angeles, 918 F.2d 763 (9th Cir. 1990), cert.

denied, 498 U.S. 1028 (1991). See generally Rodolfo O. de la Garza and Louis DeSi-

pio, “Save the Baby, Change the Bathwater, and Scrub the Tub: Latino Electoral

Participation After Seventeen Years of Voting Rights Act Coverage,” Texas Law Re-

view 71 (1993): 1479, analyzing the impact of the Voting Rights Act on Latino elec-

toral participation.

34. See Elliot Robert Barkan, And Still They Come: Immigrants and American Society

1920 to the 1990s (Wheeling, Ill.: Harlan Davidson, Inc., 1996), 174–75.

35. See, for example, Mary S. Pardo, Mexican American Women Activists: Identity and

Resistance in Two Los Angeles Communities (Philadelphia: Temple University Press,

1998), for a discussion of resistance and activism by working- and middle-class Chi-

canas in Los Angeles area; George M. Anderson, “New Tides of Immigration: Im-

migrants and Labor Unions,” ASAP 183 (2000): 12, for a discussion of organized

labor’s changing position on immigration and immigrants; Nancy Cleeland, “Mi-

grant Amnesty Urged; Rally: About 20,000 Rally in Los Angeles to Demand Feder-

al Legislation,” L.A. Times, 11 June 2000, a report on a rally sponsored by organized

labor that attracted 20,000 people clamoring for new amnesty.

36. See Kevin R. Johnson, “September 11 and Mexican Immigrants: Collateral Damage

Comes Home,” DePaul Law Review 52 (forthcoming, 2003).

37. The focus of this essay is on domestic civil-rights law, which is dominated by the

anti-discrimination model. International human-rights law, which often seeks to

guarantee substantive rights in addition to eliminating invidious discrimination, is

beyond the scope of this essay. Elsewhere, I have expressed skepticism about the

ability of international law to eliminate racial discrimination in the U.S. immigra-

tion laws. See Kevin R. Johnson, “The Moral High Ground? The Relevance of In-

ternational Law to Remedying Racial Discrimination in the U.S. Immigration

Law,” in Moral Imperialism: A Critical Anthology, ed. Berta Esperanza Truyol-

Hernández (New York: New York University Press, 2002), 285.

38. For analyses of early Mexican American civil-rights struggles, see David J. Weber,

Foreigners in the Native Land: Historical Roots of the Mexican Americans (Albu-

querque: University of New Mexico Press, 1973); Robert J. Rosenbaum, Mexicano

Resistance in the Southwest: The Sacred Right of Self-Preservation (Austin: Universi-

ty of Texas Press, 1981); Juan Gómez-Quiñones, The Roots of Chicano Politics,

1600–1940 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1994).

39. For discussion of the coalescence of Latino political action on behalf of immigrants

in this period, see David G. Gutiérrez, “‘Sin Fronteras?’: Chicanos, Mexican Amer-

icans, and the Emergence of the Contemporary Immigration Debate, 1968–1978,”

Journal of American Ethnic History 10, no. 4 (1991): 5–37. Since then, other Latinos

have been integrally involved in the debate over both U.S. immigration policy for-

mulation and immigration-law enforcement.

40. See “Memorandum on Fairness in Law Enforcement,” Weekly Compilations of Pres-

idential Documents (President Clinton), 35 ( 9 June 1999): 1067: “no person should

be targeted by law enforcement because of the color of his or her skin.”

41. United States v. Brignoni-Ponce, 422 U.S. 873, 886–87 (1975); see United States v.

Martínez-Fuerte, 428 U.S. 543 (1976). But see United States v. Martínez-Fuerte, 428

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LEGAL PROGRESS, SOCIAL SETBACKS, AND POLIT ICAL PROMISE

U.S. 543, 572 (1976) (Brennan, J., dissenting), contending that permitting the Bor-

der Patrol to consider race in stops will “target motorists of Mexican appearance”

and will ensure that border enforcement “inescapably discriminate[s] against citi-

zens of Mexican ancestry and Mexican aliens in this country for no other reason

than that they unavoidably possess the same ‘suspicious’ physical and grooming

characteristics of illegal Mexican aliens.”; United States v. Montero-Camargo, 208

F.3d 1122 (9th Cir. 2000) (en banc), disregarding Brignoni-Ponce and holding that,

because of the dramatic increase in the Hispanic population since 1975, Border Pa-

trol cannot consider “Hispanic appearance” in making immigration stops.

42. Murillo v. Musegades, 809 F. Supp. 487 (W.D. Tex. 1992); see Arizona, California,

New Mexico, and Texas Advisory Committees to the United States Commission on

Civil Rights, Federal Immigration Law in the Southwest: Civil Rights Impacts on Bor-

der Communities (Los Angeles: U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, 1997), 15–20, de-

scribing the litigation and settlement.

43. Office of the Attorney General of Arizona, Results of the Chandler Survey (Phoenix:

State of Arizona,1997), 31; emphasis added.

44. See, for example, LaDuke v. Nelson, 762 F.2d 1318 (9th Cir. 1985), modified, 796 F.2d

309 (9th Cir. 1986). See generally Alfredo Mirandé, Gringo Justice (Notre Dame,

Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1987), documenting the long history of Bor-

der Patrol abuse of persons of Mexican ancestry.

45. Nicacio v. INS, 797 F.2d 700, 704 (9th Cir. 1985).

46. 199 F.3d 1037 (9th Cir. 1999) (en banc), dismissed the case on technical jurisdic-

tional grounds.

47. See, for example, United States v. Cruz-Hernández, 62 F.3d 1353, 1355–56 (11th Cir.

1995); United States v. Rodríguez, 976 F.2d 592, 595 (9th Cir. 1992), amended, 997

F.2d 1306 (9th Cir. 1993); United States v. Franco-Muñoz, 952 F.2d 1055, 1056 (9th

Cir. 1991), cert. denied, 509 U.S. 911 (1993).

48. United States v. Rubio-Hernández, 39 F. Supp. 2d 808, 835–36 (W.D. Tex. 1998), em-

phasis added; see also United States v. Jones, 149 F.3d 364, 369 (5th Cir. 1998).

49. See Farm Labor Organizing Comm. v. Ohio State Highway Patrol, 308 F.3d 523 (6th

Cir. 2002); see also Ramírez v. Webb, 787 F.2d 592 (6th Cir. 1986), enjoining dis-

crimination by INS against Latinos in Michigan; Illinois Migrant Council v. Pilliod,

540 F.2d 1062 (7th Cir. 1976), the same ruling in Illinois, modified, 548 F.2d 715 (7th

Cir. 1977), en banc.

50. See Edwin Harwood, “Arrests Without Warrant: The Legal and Organizational En-

vironment of Immigration Law Enforcement,” UC Davis Law Review 17 (1984): 505,

531–32, which states, based on fieldwork in border enforcement, that “it is easy to

come up with the necessary articulable facts after the fact,” which is known among

Border Patrol officers as “ ‘canned p.c.’ (probable cause).”

51. González-Rivera v. INS, 22 F.3d 1441, 1450 (9th Cir. 1994), citing Charles R.

Lawrence III, “The Id, The Ego, and Equal Protection: Reckoning With Uncon-

scious Racism,” Stanford Law Review 39 (1987): 317; see United States v. García-

Camacho, 53 F.3d 244, 248 n.7 (9th Cir. 1995), quoting González-Rivera.

52. See INS v. López-Mendoza, 468 U.S. 1032 (1984); Bill Ong Hing, “Border Patrol

Abuse: Evaluating Complaint Procedures Available to Victims,” Georgetown Immi-

gration Law Journal 9 (1995): 757.

416

THE LATINO QUEST FOR FULL MEMBERSHIP AND EQUAL CITIZENSHIP

53. Elizabeth Hull, Without Justice for All: The Constitutional Rights of Aliens (West-

port, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1985), 100.

54. See, for example, Amnesty International, United States of America: Human Rights

Concerns in the Border Region with Mexico (New York: Amnesty International,

1998), 44–47, describing events surrounding the killing by U.S. Marines patrolling

the border of U.S. citizen Esequiel Hernández; American Friends Service Commit-

tee, Human and Civil Rights Violations on the U.S. Mexico Border 1995–97 (San

Diego: American Friends Service Committee, 1998), documenting human rights

abuses; Karl Eschbach et al., “Death at the Border,” International Migration Review

33 (1999): 430, documenting deaths caused by border crossings from Mexico to

United States; Bill Ong Hing, “The Dark Side of Operation Gatekeeper,” UC Davis

Law Review 7 (2001): 121, documenting the human costs of border-enforcement op-

eration near the U.S./Mexico border in southern California; Kevin R. Johnson,

“Some Thoughts on the Future of Latino Legal Scholarship,” Harvard Latino Law

Review 2 (1997): 101, 124–25, analyzing the significance of beating undocumented

people on videotape; Jorge A. Vargas, “U.S. Border Patrol Abuses, Undocumented

Workers, and International Human Rights,” San Diego International Law Journal 2

(2001): 1, documenting human-rights abuses of undocumented Mexican immi-

grants by the Border Patrol; see also Arizona v. Manypenny, 451 U.S. 232 (1981), re-

viewing the criminal prosecution of a Border Patrol officer convicted of the assault

with a deadly weapon of a migrant near the U.S./Mexico border. See generally

Dunn, Militarization of the U.S.-Mexico Border.

55. See Sandrino, “Los Confundidos,” 85–90.

56. See, for example, Barrera-Echavarría v. Rison, 44 F.3d 1441 (9th Cir. 1995) (en banc).

See generally Mark S. Hamm, The Abandoned Ones: The Imprisonment and Upris-

ing of the Mariel Boat People (Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1995).

57. See T. Alexander Aleinikoff, David A. Martin, and Hiroshi Motomura, Immigration

and Citizenship: Process and Policy, 4th ed. (St. Paul, Minn.: West Group, 1998),

1174–75. See generally Joyce A. Hughes, “Flight from Cuba,” California Western Law

Review 36 (1999): 39, summarizing legal responses to Cuban migration to United

States since Fidel Castro came to power in 1959.

58. See James Kitfield, “A Fast Boat to Miami,” National Journal 31 (1999): 765; Rick

Bragg, “Cubans Now Choosing Smugglers Over Rafts,” New York Times, 21 July 1999.

59. The legal justification for this policy was established in Sale v. Haitian Ctrs. Coun-

cil, Inc., 509 U.S. 155 (1993), in which the Supreme Court held that Haitians inter-

dicted on the high seas had no legal right to apply for relief from return to Haiti,

even if they feared political persecution upon return.

60. See Orantes-Hernández v. Thornburgh, 919 F.2d 549 (9th Cir. 1990).

61. See American Baptist Churches v. Thornburgh, 760 F. Supp. 796 (N.D. Cal. 1991).

62. See Kevin R. Johnson, “A ‘Hard Look’ at the Executive Branch’s Asylum Deci-

sions,” Utah Law Review (1991): 279, 338–39, 347–48.

63. See Nicaraguan Adjustment and Central American Relief Act, Pub. L. No. 105–100,

111 Stat. 2160 (1997).

64. See Barkan, And Still They Come, 152–53, table 8.1.

65. See, for example, Kevin R. Johnson, “ ‘Melting Pot’ or ‘Ring of Fire’? Assimilation

and the Mexican-American Experience,” California Law Review 85 (1997): 1259;

417

LEGAL PROGRESS, SOCIAL SETBACKS, AND POLIT ICAL PROMISE

Sylvia R. Lazos Vargas, “Deconstructing Homo[geneous] Americanus: The White

Ethnic Immigrant Narrative and Its Exclusionary Effect,” Tulane Law Review 72

(1998): 1493; George A. Martínez, “Latinos, Assimilation, and the Law: A Philo-

sophical Perspective,” UCLA Chicano-Latino Law Review 20 (1999): 1. See general-

ly Kevin R. Johnson, How Did You Get to Be Mexican? A White/Brown Man’s Search

for Identity (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1999).

66. See, for example, Meyer v. Nebraska, 262 U.S. 390 (1923), invalidating state law pro-

hibiting teaching of any language other than English in schools.

67. See, for example, Arthur M. Schlesinger Jr., The Disuniting of America (New York:

Norton, 1992).

68. See Sylvia R. Lazos Vargas, “Judicial Review of Initiatives and Referendums in

Which Majorities Vote on Minorities’ Democratic Citizenship,” Ohio State Law

Journal 60 (1999): 399, 438–47.

69. 500 U.S. 352 (1991). The Supreme Court previously held that Mexican Americans

could not be excluded from petit and grand juries. See Hernández v. Texas, 347 U.S.

475 (1954); Castañeda v. Partida, 430 U.S. 482 (1977).

70. See Ruiz v. Hull, 191 Ariz. 441, 957 P.2d 984 (Arizona Supreme Court, 1998), cert. de-

nied sub nom., 525 U.S. 1093 (1999).

71. See Christopher David Ruiz Cameron, “How the García Cousins Lost Their Ac-

cents: Understanding the Language of Title VII Decisions Approving English-Only

Rules as the Product of Racial Dualism, Latino Invisibility, and Legal Indetermina-

cy,” California Law Review, 85 (1998): 1347; Yxta Maya Murray, “The Latino-

American Crisis of Citizenship,” UC Davis Law Review 31 (1998): 503, 546–59; see

also Steven W. Bender, “Direct Democracy and Distrust: The Relationship Between

Language Law Rhetoric and the Language Vigilantism Experience,” Harvard Lati-

no Law Review 2 (1997): 145.

72. See California Secretary of State, California Voter Information Guide Primary Elec-

tion: June 2, 1998 Ballot Pamphlet (Sacramento, Calif.: California Secretary of State,

1998), 75–76, reprinting the text of Proposition 227. See generally Kevin R. Johnson

and George A. Martínez, “Discrimination by Proxy: The Case of Proposition 227

and the Ban on Bilingual Education,” UC Davis Law Review 33 (2000): 1227; Rachel

F. Moran, “Bilingual Education as Status Conflict,” California Law Review 75

(1987): 321. For analysis of early bilingual education litigation pursued by Mexican

Americans, see George A. Martínez, “Legal Indeterminacy, Judicial Discretion, and

the Mexican-American Litigation Experience, 1930–1980,” UC Davis Law Review 27

(1994): 555, 606–11.

73. See T. Alexander Aleinikoff and Rubén G. Rumbaut, “Terms of Belonging: Are

Models of Membership Self-Fulfilling Prophecies?” Georgetown Immigration Law

Journal 13 (1998):1, 11–14 (1998), reviewing empirical evidence.

74. 347 U.S. 483, 493 (1954); emphasis added.

75. President’s Advisory Commission on Educational Excellence for Hispanic Ameri-

cans, Our Nation on the Fault Line: Hispanic American Education (Washington,

D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1996), 16; see also, for example, Elias López, En-

rique Ramírez, and Refugio I. Rochín, Latinos and Economic Development in Cali-

fornia (Sacramento: California Research Bureau, 1999).

418

THE LATINO QUEST FOR FULL MEMBERSHIP AND EQUAL CITIZENSHIP

76. See Martínez, “Legal Indeterminacy,” 574–606, documenting litigation to desegre-

gate public schools from 1930 to 1980.

77. See generally Thomas P. Carter, Mexican Americans in School: A History of Educa-

tional Neglect (New York: College Entrance Examination Board, 1970); Guadalupe

San Miguel, Let All of Them Take Heed: Mexican Americans and the Campaign for

Educational Equality in Texas, 1910–1980 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1987);

Rubén Donato, The Other Struggle for Equal Schools: Mexican Americans During the

Civil Rights Era (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1997); Stanton

Wortham, et al., eds., Education in the New Latino Diaspora (Westport, Conn.:

Ablex Publishers, 2002); Margaret E. Montoya, “A Brief History of Chicana/o

School Segregation: One Rationale for Affirmative Action,” La Raza Law Journal 12

(2001): 159; Westminister School Dist. v. Méndez, 161 F.2d 774 (9th Cir. 1947); Delga-

do v. Bastrop Independent School District, Civ. No. 388 (D.C.W.D. Tex. 1948); Al-

varez v. Owen, No. 66–625 (California Superior Court, San Diego County, filed

17April 1931, The Lemon Grove case.

78. Gary Orfield and John T. Yun, Resegregation in American Schools, (Cambridge,

Mass.: Harvard University, 1999), 2, emphasis added.

79. 411 U.S. 1 (1973).

80. See Serrano v. Priest, 18 Cal. 3d 728, 557 P.2d 929 (1976), cert. denied sub nom., Clowes

v. Serrano, 432 U.S. 907 (1977); Serrano v. Priest, 5 Cal. 3d 584, 487 P.2d 1241 (1971);

see, for example, Edgewood Ind. School Dist. v. Meno, 893 S.W.2d 450 (Tex. 1995),

reviewing the latest efforts of the Texas legislature to ensure compliance after find-

ing that the school financing system violated various provisions of Texas Constitu-

tion; see also J. Steven Farr and Mark Trachtenberg, “The Edgewood Drama: An

Epic Quest for Educational Equity,” Yale Law and Policy Review 17 (1999): 607, trac-

ing the history of the Edgewood litigation and its impact.

81. See Peter Enrich, “Leaving Equality Behind: New Directions in School Finance Re-

form,” Vanderbilt Law Review 48 (1995): 101; Note, “Unfulfilled Promises: School

Finance Remedies and State Courts,” Harvard Law Review 104 (1991): 1072; see also

James E. Ryan, “Schools, Race, and Money,” Yale Law Journal 109 (1999): 249, an-

alyzing the relationship between school finance and school desegregation litigation.

See generally Martha Minow, “Reforming School Reform,” Fordham Law Review

68 (1999): 257.

82. See Orfield and Yun, Resegregation in American Schools, 7, table 3. presenting sta-

tistical data showing nearly that 40 percent of public school students in California

were Latino, slightly higher than white students.

83. Ibid., 8, table 4.

84. 457 U.S. 202, 218–19 (1982).

85. See Lau v. Nichols, 414 U.S. 563 (1974), holding that the San Francisco School Dis-

trict violated Title VI of Civil Rights Act by failing to provide an appropriate cur-

riculum to non–English speaking children.

86. See Robert García, “Latinos and Criminal Justice,” UCLA Chicano-Latino Law Re-

view 14 (1994): 6; Cynthia Kwei Yung Lee, “Race and Self-Defense: Toward a Nor-

mative Conception of Reasonableness,” Minnesota Law Review 81 (1996): 367,

442–52: Mary Romero, “State Violence, and the Social and Legal Construction of

419

LEGAL PROGRESS, SOCIAL SETBACKS, AND POLIT ICAL PROMISE

Latino Criminality: From El Bandido to Gang Member,” Denver University Law Re-

view 78 (2001): 1081. See generally Cruz Reynoso, “Hispanics and the Criminal Jus-

tice System,” in Hispanics in the United States: An Agenda for the Twenty-First Cen-

tury, ed. Pastora San Juan Cafferty and David W. Engstrom (New Brunswick, N.J.:

Transaction Publishers, 2000).

87. 438 U.S. 265 (1978).

88. See, for example, Roy Howard Beck, The Case Against Immigration, (New York: W.

W. Norton & Co., 1991), 191; Michael Lind, The Next American Nation (New York:

Free Press, 1995), 116, 131.

89. See, for example, Adarand Constructors, Inc. v. Peña, 515 U.S. 200 (1995), holding

that all racial classifications, including those in federal programs designed to foster

minority businesses, are subject to strict scrutiny; and City of Richmond v. J.A. Cro-

son Co., 488 U.S. 469 (1989), holding to similar effect.

90. See Hopwood v. Texas, 78 F.3d 932 (5th Cir.), cert. denied sub nom., 518 U.S. 1033

(1996); Grutter v. Bollinger, 288 F.3d 732 (6th Cir. 2002); see also Podberesky v. Kir-

wan, 38 F.3d 147 (4th Cir. 1994), which invalidates as unconstitutional a merit schol-

arship open only to African Americans, cert. denied, 514 U.S. 1128 (1995). In De-

cember 2002, the Supreme Court agreed to review the constitutionality of the

University of Michigan’s affirmative action policies. See Grutter v. Bollinger, 123

S.Ct. 602 (2002).

91. See Coalition for Economic Equity v. Wilson, 122 F.3d 692 (9th Cir.), upholding the

initiative in the face of a constitutional challenge, cert. denied, 522 U.S. 963 (1997).

92. See Kenneth R. Weiss and Mary Curtius, “Acceptance of Blacks, Latinos to UC

Plunge,” Los Angeles Times, 4 April 1998; Kenneth R. Weiss, “SAT Gap for Latinos

and Blacks Grows,” Los Angeles Times, 8 August 2000; and “For Immigrant Kids, A

World of Struggle,” Los Angeles Times, 29 May 2001.

93. See Tex. Educ. Code sec. 51.803(a) (1998); Kenneth R. Weiss, “UC Regents OK Plan

to Admit Top 4%,” L.A. Times, 20 March 1999. The events culminating in the pas-

sage of the Texas law are discussed in David Montejano, “On Hopwood: The Con-

tinuing Challenge,” in Reflexiones: New Directions in Mexican American Studies, ed.

Neil Foley (Austin, Tex.: CMAS Books, University of Texas at Austin, 1998) , 133.

94. See Michael A. Olivas, “Storytelling Out of School: Undocumented College Resi-

dency, Race, and Reaction,” Hastings Constitutional Law Quarterly 22 (1995): 1019;

Victor Romero, “Postsecondary School Education Benefits for Undocumented Im-

migrants: Promises and Pitfalls,” North Carolina Journal of International Law and

Commercial Regulation 27 (2002): 393.

95. See Kevin R. Johnson, “Immigration and Latino Identity,” UCLA Chicano-Latino

Law Review 19 (1998): 197, 207–8; see also Rachel F. Moran, “Unrepresented,” Rep-

resentations 55 (1996): 139.

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THE LATINO QUEST FOR FULL MEMBERSHIP AND EQUAL CITIZENSHIP

ELEVEN

THE PRESSURES OF PERPETUAL PROMISE:

LATINOS AND POLITICS, 1960–2003

LOUIS DESIPIO

AT THE dawn of the contemporary era of Latino politics, Latinos1 arguably determined the outcome of a presidential election. In 1960, Mexican Ameri- cans in Texas organized to elect John Kennedy through a network of Viva Kennedy! clubs and voted at unprecedented levels. Their votes tipped the Texas election to the Democrats. With Texas’s Electoral College votes com- mitted to Kennedy, there was little incentive for his opponent, Richard Nixon, to contest Illinois’s electoral votes (which included fraudulent votes for both parties). These two states gave Kennedy the victory.

In the forty years since, and despite a vast growth in the Latino population, this accomplishment has not been repeated. On the contrary, and despite a vast expansion in the number of Latinos voting, Latino votes are frequently ir- relevant to electoral outcomes. Of perhaps greater concern, it has been rare to see grassroots community organization in Latino communities that compared to what the Viva Kennedy! clubs established in 1960. While there have cer- tainly been exceptions, mass mobilization has been the exception in Latino communities. Like the population as a whole, then, Latino politics (whether electoral or community) has become less participatory over time.

This chapter begins by examining the Viva Kennedy! campaign to identify why its experience was unique in Latino political history. Using Viva Kennedy! as a foundation, the essay then examines the structural limits and

The author would like to express his appreciate to David Gutiérrez for a thoughtful and careful

reading of an earlier draft of this essay.

opportunities that Latinos have faced in politics over the last forty years and assesses how they have organized to overcome limits and seize political op- portunities. The chapter concludes with an evaluation of Latino participation in electoral and community politics today.

As will be evident, there is no one form of Latino politics. This essay broad- ly looks at three forms—electoral, organizational, and interest based. Many in the Latino community cannot participate in electoral politics, and many who are eligible do not participate regularly. Electoral politics is, nevertheless, the primary means by which Latinos have sought to organize and make demands on American politics in the years since 1960. Elections are also the primary way in which majority political institutions engage Latinos and Latino inter- ests. A second form of politics that is a focus in this essay is community- organizational politics. Organizations offer a resource for all Latinos to make demands on political institutions. Organizations allow for the articulation of much more focused demands—such as the needs of parents in a specific school or workers in a specific workplace—than do electoral politics. As a re- sult, organizations (and therefore, organizational politics) are somewhat more ephemeral, but they remain an active focus of Latino political activity. Final- ly, this essay examines Latino political interests. It is these interests that will guide the future of Latino organizing. Equally importantly, these interests in- dicate that despite the many actual and potential divisions in Latino commu- nities—such as divisions arising from different national origins or ancestry; generational differences; legal or juridical status; and so on—the majority of Latinos can increasingly be understood as having core political issues and concerns in common.

Regardless of the locus of politics, Latino politics between 1960 and the present has been characterized by a recurring pattern—specifically that ex- pectations for Latino political impact precede the ability of Latino communi- ties to deliver on these expectations. These unmet expectations create anoth- er barrier that Latinos must overcome to ensure that their interests are met by U.S. political institutions.

VIVA KENNEDY! AND THE FOUNDATIONS OF LATINO ELECTORAL INFLUENCE

In 1960, Latinos—primarily Mexican Americans—organized and voted at un- precedented levels. Polling was in its infancy, and polling of Latinos nonexist- ent, but it is reasonable to argue that Mexican Americans in Texas provided John Kennedy with the key margin he needed in the Electoral College to win the Presidency (García and de la Garza 1977).2 While this would be a remark-

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THE PRESSURES OF PERPETUAL PROMISE

able achievement today, it was all the more so in 1960. Nationally, the Latino population was small, and in Texas even smaller. In addition, Latinos in Southwestern states including Texas were still limited in how freely they could exercise the franchise. Latinos had organized at the local level since at least the 1880s, but there was only limited contact between Latino community organi- zations across communities. Nevertheless, the closeness of the election and the unprecedented mobilization of Mexican Americans (and, to a lesser de- gree, Puerto Ricans) ensured the Kennedy victory. Although this remarkable success has yet to be repeated, the 1960 Latino campaign laid the foundation for the next generation of Latino politics.

The next section of this essay examines the norms of Latino politics in 1960 and beyond. For now, it is important to recognize the accomplishments of Viva Kennedy! and the strategies they offer as an important lesson from which today’s campaigns could learn (I. García 2000). With organizational and fi- nancial support from the national Kennedy campaign, Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans established community-based Viva Kennedy! clubs in heav- ily Latino areas in the Southwest, upper Midwest, and New York. These or- ganizations built on existing local organizations but added several important dimensions. Viva Kennedy! was the first explicitly partisan national Latino or- ganization. The clubs maintained their autonomy from the national campaign and linked the objectives of the national campaign to local needs. They built a membership base and, in many cases, charged dues, but their primary goal was to register voters, pay poll taxes, and turn voters out for the Kennedy-Johnson ticket. Finally, the clubs were loosely linked, not just across the Southwest, but nationwide. The language was not used at the time, but 1960 was the first case of “Latino” electoral politics, in that Viva Kennedy! targeted Mexican Ameri- cans and Puerto Ricans through the same campaign structure.

Organization of this scale for partisan ends was new in Latino communities, but it alone was not enough to ensure Latino influence on the outcome of the election. Instead, this influence occurred because of three exogenous fac- tors—the closeness of the election, the near equal division of non-Hispanic votes in Texas, and the importance the Kennedy campaign placed on winning Latino votes in Texas. Few presidential elections in U.S. history have proved to be as close as 1960. In the popular election, Kennedy beat Nixon by just 119,000 votes. The Electoral College was similarly close, with the victory com- ing down to two states—Illinois and Texas. In Texas, the Kennedy victory was a mere 46,000 votes.

Although a number of factors contributed to Kennedy’s victory in Texas, the mobilization of Latino voters—many of them for the first time—may well have tipped the balance in JFK’s favor. White voters in Texas were nearly evenly di- vided, and neither candidate was confident of victory. The Kennedy campaign

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consequently decided to dedicate a significant part of its resources to winning Tejano votes. In addition to the organizing funds dedicated to the Viva Kennedy! clubs, the Kennedy campaign also dedicated a national campaign staff member—Carlos McCormick—to coordinate Viva Kennedy! efforts. More importantly, John and Jacqueline Kennedy personally campaigned in heavily Mexican American areas. John Kennedy spoke of his immigrant and Catholic roots to establish a bond with Mexican Americans. He also made a specific promise—the appointment of a Mexican American to an ambassado- rial post in Latin America. Jacqueline Kennedy spoke Spanish at rallies target- ed to Mexican Americans and cut what is probably the first Spanish-language television commercial dedicated to winning Latino votes. None of these out- reach strategies had previously been used in a national campaign.

Did this effort make the difference in Texas? Without opinion polling, it is not possible to say conclusively. Estimates from the era, however, indicate that Kennedy won more than 90 percent of the Mexican American vote in Texas and that approximately 200,000 Mexican Americans voted in that state, giv- ing Kennedy a 160,000 vote cushion from Mexican American voters—180,000 Kennedy votes minus 20,000 Nixon votes (García and de la Garza 1977: 101; Gómez-Quiñones 1990: 88–92). White voters gave a 150,000-vote plurality to Nixon. Clearly, Kennedy could not have won without the Mexican American voters. A more interesting question, but one that can never be answered, is whether it was the newly mobilized Mexican American voters—those regis- tered or mobilized by Viva Kennedy!—who gave Texas and the national elec- tion to John Kennedy.

Why was Latino influence not to be felt again for many years in national electoral politics? Perhaps most importantly, no presidential race was as close for another forty years. In 1964, for example, Lyndon Johnson could well have redeployed the Viva Kennedy! infrastructure, but he did not need to (Pycior 1997). Johnson’s lead was large throughout the race. This pattern repeated it- self in all races but 1976 and 2000. In 1960, and for many years beyond, the small size of the Latino electorate meant that races had to be very close and to depend on the electoral votes of one of the states of high Latino residence for Latino influence to be felt. It was only in the 1980s and 1990s that Latinos could realistically be influential in all but the closest elections.

Secondly, Latinos themselves failed to maintain the level of organization that they had achieved in 1960. The Viva Kennedy! infrastructure remained for a time after the election and served as the foundation for the Political Associa- tion of Spanish-Speaking Organizations (PASSO). Its leaders lost a common focus, though, and the membership bases rapidly disappeared (I. García 2000). It would be at least a decade and a half before there was another “national” Latino political organization, and the organizations that emerged in the mid-

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THE PRESSURES OF PERPETUAL PROMISE

1970s did not make building a mass base one of their priorities. Some Viva Kennedy! leaders focused their organizational energies on receiving govern- ment jobs (of which few were successful). Others sought election to office or returned to a focus on local politics. Whatever the new direction of these lead- ers, it is important to note that after 1960, no national Latino coordinating structure existed. It would take at least a decade and a half to reestablish the foundation for coordinating activities nationally or regionally. Finally, the near unanimity of Latino voters in the 1960 race had slowly dissipated over time.

Thus, in the beginning of the contemporary era of Latino politics, Latinos achieved their most electoral influence. The strategies used to win their votes—a targeted ethnic campaign under the direction of a campaign-staff member with group-specific responsibilities—were to reappear in various campaigns that followed, but the circumstances under which their votes proved important—a close race in which their votes were actively sought by one of the candidates—was not to reappear for forty years.

BARRIERS AND OPPORTUNITIES

The Latino influence felt in the 1960 election and the relative lack of political influence in the period since can be explained in large part by the impact of the two political and institutional regimes of Latino community mobilization in this period. The first regime was shaped by the manipulation and selective exclusion of Latino participation that characterized the early years of the con- temporary era (roughly from the 1960s through the early 1970s). The regime was in decay by the 1970s but was largely ended through state action—the im- plementation of the federal Voting Rights Act (VRA) of 1965 and, more specif- ically, the extension of coverage of the act’s provisions to Latinos in 1975. The second regime—in which some Latinos are active and influential politically and others are not—could only appear once the VRA ended machine manip- ulation and state exclusion of Latino votes.

Today’s Latino politics reflect the evolution of this second regime, in which demography largely shapes who participates and who does not. Institutions that have in the past mobilized new residents and nonparticipants are weaker today than they have been in the past. Elections, for example, are frequently noncompetitive. Parties focus their energies on regular voters and expend lit- tle effort to make participants of nonparticipants. And community-based or- ganizations in Latino communities are often weak and elite driven. As a result, the majority of Latinos who are eligible do not vote, nor are they active in community-based organizations. An ever-growing share of the Latino popu- lation cannot participate in electoral politics, and many do not participate in

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LATINOS AND POLIT ICS, 1960–2003

community politics. These demographic limits and the failure of institutions to engage many Latinos in politics create an “ electorate in reserve” that is the source of the perpetual expectations for Latino political influence. The fol- lowing section addresses each of these issues in turn and argues that while Latinos have not come close to achieving the impact they had on the 1960 presidential election, they should eventually become more politically influen- tial in U.S. national, state, and local politics.

DECAYING MACHINES AND EXCLUSION

Although many have argued that the modern era of Latino politics began with the success of the Viva Kennedy! campaign, the extension of the Voting Rights Act (VRA) to Latino and other specified “language-minority” populations in 1975 was probably much more important to the long-run expansion of Latino electoral opportunities and the goal of Latino empowerment. Prior to 1975, Latino politics, as such, did not exist. Mexican Americans faced obstacles to political participation that included political machines, gerrymandering, poll taxes, and, in some areas, the threat of violence comparable to that experi- enced by African Americans in this era. Puerto Ricans were selectively includ- ed and excluded from urban political coalitions in areas where they resided (Jennings and Rivera 1984; Cruz 1998). Cuban American politics was in its in- fancy, and its focus was primarily on the politics of exile and the destruction of the Cuban Revolution and Fidel Castro (M. C. García 1996; Torres 1999. See also García, chapter 3, this volume). To the extent that these diverse experi- ences can be homogenized, the Latino politics of this era was made up most- ly of U.S.-born Latinos, as new immigration was comparatively low, and fo- cused on demands for civil rights and equal educational opportunity.

The Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans who composed the Latino elec- torate in 1960 were largely marginal to national and local politics both before and after 1960. Undeniably, there had been some notable political “firsts” in the 1950s and 1960s, such as the first Latinos elected to the U.S. Congress from Texas, California, and New York in the modern era (Henry B. González from Texas in 1961, Edward R. Roybal from California in 1962, and Herman Badil- lo from New York in 1969) or the first Latino elected as the mayor of a major American city in the modern era (Raymond Telles elected in El Paso in 1957).3

But, the more dominant pattern was manipulation and exclusion of Latino votes throughout much of the country.

As was true of other ethnic groups at different points in American history, Mexican Americans and Latino voters were often manipulated, if not actual- ly controlled, by political machines, some of which were Latino controlled. Political machines are groups that control the activities of a political party and

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THE PRESSURES OF PERPETUAL PROMISE

trade a combination of rewards (such as jobs, government services, or money) and threats for the support of voters. Machines often rely on a large popula- tion of ill-informed voters who trade their loyalty for personalistic connec- tions to the machine’s leader, or the “boss,” who controls the rewards that the machine offers its supporters. The power of the boss was that he (there were few women bosses) controlled the votes of a high enough share of the elec- torate to ensure that the machine remained in power.

This machine manipulation of Latino votes in the late nineteenth and first half of the twentieth centuries was more the norm in South Texas, urban Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, New York, and Chicago. As a result, at the dawn of the contemporary era of Latino politics in the 1950s and 1960s, Latino elec- toral participation was more common than in the African American commu- nity, and, because of their involvement with machines, Latinos were often elected to local offices. Despite these opportunities, most Latinos who partic- ipated in politics did not do so freely. It is important to keep in mind, howev- er, that the Latino participation machines were not without reward to some Latinos. Throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Latinos were elected to office in the Southwest, particularly in areas of high Latino population densities like New Mexico, certain districts of Arizona, and some communities in Texas along the U.S.-Mexico border. This ongoing experi- ence with electoral politics meant that Latino community organizing in the 1950s and 1960s focused as much on how to use the franchise (and to over- coming the barrier of the poll tax) as to getting it, which was one of the major emphases of African American activism until 1965.

While there are little data on Latino voting before 1960, some data exist from the 1960s and early 1970s. These show the difference between African American and Latino electoral participation in this era. Prior to the VRA, black participation in the South ranged from the low single digits to no more than 20 percent (Davidson and Grofman 1994). In this same period, however, the share of Mexican American adult citizens voting ranged from the high 30s to the low 50s, depending on the survey and the locality (there are no compa- rable data on Puerto Ricans in this era).

A study of registration and voting in Los Angeles and San Antonio at the time of the 1964 election, for example, showed Mexican American voter-turnout rates of 50 and 38 percent, respectively (Grebler, Moore, and Guzmán 1970: 564). A study of “Mexican American counties” in Texas (primarily rural counties) from the 1960s showed voter turnout of between 30 and 55 percent (McCleskey and Merrill 1973). A third study from the 1960s demonstrated a gap between the eligible Latino electorate (adults who had paid the poll tax) and the actual Lati- no electorate. Latinos made up 5.6 percent of the former and 3.1 percent of the actual electorate (McCleskey and Nimmo 1968). Only one national study of

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LATINOS AND POLIT ICS, 1960–2003

Latino voting prior to the 1975 extension of the Voting Right Act exists. Ac- cording to this study, in the 1972 presidential election, approximately 44 percent of the “Spanish surnamed population” reported that they were registered and 37 percent reported that they voted (U.S. Bureau of the Census 1973).4

These voter-turnout rates should not obscure the fact that some Latinos faced intimidation or violence if they tried to exercise the franchise (Navarro 1998). But they should also make clear that Latinos did not face complete ex- clusion. Instead, machines used Latino votes when they needed them. By the 1960s, when the influence of machines began to weaken nationwide, Latinos were increasingly able to organize and elect candidates of their choice, with- out machine interference, particularly in urban areas.

This pattern of voter manipulation and selective exclusion might seem to resemble the experiences of European ethnics in the early part of the twenti- eth century, but it differed in one key respect. The machine domination of Eastern and Midwestern cities generally lasted no more than two generations or, if it did last longer, shifted the manipulation from one ethnic population to another. In the Southwest, on the other hand, manipulation of the Mexi- can American vote lasted for nearly one hundred years. Machine domination of the Mexican American vote was certainly in decline by the 1960s, and Lati- nos were organizing and electing candidates independently. But it was the ex- tension of the Voting Rights Act to Latinos in 1975 that ultimately broke the influence of machines and spurred the creation of an independent Mexican American and Latino electorate.

THE VOTING RIGHTS ACT AND MAJORITY-MINORITY DISTRICTS

In many ways, modern black and Latino politics began with the passage of the Voting Rights Act in 1965 and its extension to Latinos in 1975. Initially, the VRA covered only African Americans. The act provided procedural guaran- tees that ensured that blacks in the South could register and vote without in- timidation and that local jurisdictions could not change voting rules or pro- cedures without Justice Department approval (Davidson and Grofman 1994). This nationalization of voter protection ensured a dramatic increase in black voter participation and an increase, albeit slower, in the number of African American elected officials.

In 1975, Congress extended the VRA to Latinos and other “language mi- norities” (ethnic groups that were determined to have faced multigenerational discrimination in the United States—Latinos, Asian Americans, Native Amer- icans, and Alaskan natives). In addition to the protections guaranteed to African Americans in 1965, Congress added one resource for Latinos and the other language minorities—bilingual election materials.

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The initial impact of the VRA for Latinos was nowhere near as dramatic as for African Americans. As indicated, prior to the VRA, Latinos did vote, so the impact was not to be felt in new electoral participation. The VRA did reduce machine control of the Latino vote, but this was already substantially in de- cline. The bilingual election materials provided a resource for some voters and are certainly of great symbolic importance. These bilingual materials were mandated to remedy the failure of schools in the Southwest to teach English to Mexican Americans. The generation that suffered this educational discrim- ination has largely aged and developed English competence. To the extent that bilingual election materials are used today, naturalized citizens are their prime users. But studies have demonstrated that they not widely used (de la Garza et al. 1992: 126, table 8.22)

A more significant impact for Latinos as well as African Americans came in 1982 when Congress amended and extended the VRA. The most important amendment was one that required that jurisdictions covered by the act draw districts that would be likely to elect the candidate of their choice, usually a co-ethnic, when the concentration of racial or ethnic minorities allowed it to. This requirement to create so-called majority-minority districts marked a substantial shift in the balance of power between minority communities and the redistricting process. Prior to the amendments, jurisdictions often divid- ed black and Latino population concentrations into multiple districts and therefore limited the impact of new black and Latino votes. After the 1982 Amendments, on the other hand, minority community leaders could use the Justice Department and, ultimately, the federal courts, to overcome local re- sistance to the creation of districts likely to elect minority officeholders.

Majority-minority districting requirements have had dramatic effects. In 1973, the six states with the largest Latino populations had 1,280 Latino elect- ed officials. By 2000, this number had grown to 3,645 in the same states (Ari- zona, California, Florida, New Mexico, New York, and Texas), an increase of over 184 percent (Pachon and DeSipio 1992; NALEO Educational Fund 2000). By 2002, this number had risen to 5,537 Latino elected officials.

Whether these rapid gains will continue in future redistrictings is an open question. In the 1990s, the Supreme Court began to question the constitu- tionality of VRA mandates to create majority-minority districts (Shaw v. Reno 1993: 113 S. Ct. 2816; Bush v. Vera 1996: 116 S. Ct. 1941), but has yet to rule de- finitively on the subject. The most recent ruling at this writing (Hunt v. Cro- martie 2001: 121 S. Ct. 1452) indicates that the swing justice (O’Connor) has come to accept the argument that the odd shape of many majority-minority districts results more from partisanship and incumbency protection than from a disproportionate (and unconstitutional, in her view) attention to race. Regardless of the outcome of this ongoing constitutional debate, the number

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of districts electing Latinos to office will almost certainly continue to grow be- cause the Latino population is growing so rapidly. The VRA’s mandate that local jurisdictions draw districts likely to elect Latino, black, or Asian Ameri- can officeholders speeds this process because it ensures that local jurisdictions face the potential of costly litigation if they fail to draw districts that reflect the changing demographics of their communities.

LATINO PARTICIPANTS AND NONPARTICIPANTS

The VRA succeeded at ending machine manipulation and expanded the op- portunity for Latinos to elect Latinos to office. Other factors, however, con- tinue to limit Latino participation in electoral and community politics. Among the most important of these are four demographic limits—the relative youth of the Latino population; the low levels of formal education in the Lati- no population; the corresponding concentration of Latinos in the lower stra- ta of the U.S. class system; and, perhaps most crucially, the fact that many Latinos are not U.S. citizens and thus are ineligible to participate in electoral politics. While other ethnic populations have faced similar impediments in the past, none has faced all of them together over such a long period of time.

In the twentieth century, all U.S. electorates have seen increased demo- graphic and class bias in voting and other forms of political participation. These barriers reduce the likelihood that the poor, the less educated, and the young will participate in electoral and community politics. The Latino popu- lation has higher concentrations of each of the segments of the population less likely to participate politically and, thus, pays a disproportionate price for the class bias in U.S. electoral politics. In addition to these constraints, as dis- cussed in the next section, Latinos face another barrier to electoral empower- ment that is often found among populations with large numbers of recent im- migrants: noncitizens cannot vote in most contemporary elections.

The impact of these demographic characteristics on Latino electoral partic- ipation is dramatic. Of every 100 Latinos, just 64 are adults (authors’ calcula- tions based on U.S. Bureau of the Census 2000a: table 1.1). For the non-Latino population, nearly 75 are adults. Among these adults, Latinos are less likely to be voters. Of the remaining 64 Latino adults in the 100, 17 are voters (in pres- idential elections), 22 are U.S. citizens who do not regularly vote, and 25 are adults who are not U.S. citizens. For the non-Latino population, 43 of the 75 adults are voters, 29 are U.S. citizen adults who do not vote regularly, and just 3 are not U.S. citizens. Why is this gap between Latinos and the non-Latino population so dramatic?

The impact of the first of these factors—youth—is relatively easily ex- plained. Latino families are larger on average than non-Latino families. As a

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result, a higher share of the Latino population is under eighteen and cannot vote. Even among adults, however, Latinos are younger on average than non- Latinos by about eight years. The average Latino is twenty-six and the average white non-Hispanic is thirty-four (U.S. Bureau of the Census 2001; see also Gutiérrez, introduction, this volume). Among all populations, the young are less likely to vote. The reasons for this are several and apply equally to Latinos and non-Latinos. The young are less familiar with candidates and voting pro- cedures, and as a result they feel more distant from elections. They are more cynical about the utility of the vote and tend to be more dissatisfied with the options they are presented. Finally, they move more often and, as a result, are less likely to be registered. Thus, the relative youth of the Latino electorate dampens turnout—many are too young to vote, and many adults are rela- tively less likely to vote than older adults. Both of these characteristics, how- ever, presage at least a potential increase in participation in the future as today’s young adults age into the years when voting is more likely. Slightly less than one-quarter of adult U.S. citizen Latinos aged 18 to 20 voted in 1996 com- pared to over 60 percent of voters aged 65 and older (see table 1).

Voters with lower incomes are also less likely to vote than voters with high- er incomes—just as voters with lower education are less likely to vote than voters with higher levels of education. These patterns are true for all popula- tions, but, again, the impact is disproportionately felt among Latinos. Among U.S. citizens twenty-five and older, for example, fewer than 2 percent have less than five years of formal education. In contrast, among Latino U.S. citizens, 9 percent have no more than four years of formal education. At the other ex- treme, Latinos are less likely to have college degrees or postgraduate educa- tion. Only 9 percent of Latino U.S. citizens have earned such degrees com- pared to 22 percent of U.S. citizens in the population as a whole (U.S. Bureau of the Census 1998). In terms of household income, Latinos also trail the pop- ulation as a whole. In 1999, households headed by white non-Hispanic U.S. citizens had a median income of $43,287. Latino households headed by a U.S. citizen had median incomes of $29,110 (U.S. Bureau of the Census 2000b: table B). Thus, a higher share of the Latino adult population is found in the education and income cohorts where voting is less likely.

Why do the poor and less educated face greater barriers in registering and voting? Both take time, do not have an immediate reward, and must be done weeks in advance of the election (when interest in the outcome of elections generally is not as high). Knowledge of candidates and issues may be more dif- fuse, and the procedural requirements, particularly for voter registration, may be unclear, especially for inexperienced potential voters. The poor and the less educated are less likely to be part of networks. For all voters, networks simpli- fy access to information. People with low incomes often work multiple jobs

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and have less time to acquire information about politics. Finally, the parties and most candidates neglect issues of economic justice and service provision that might prove more engaging to such potential voters.

As with age, the impact of these barriers on the likelihood of voting is dra- matic (see table 1). Among adult Latino U.S. citizens, Latinos with some col- lege vote at a rate of 53 percent, and those with a college degree turn out a rate exceeding 66 percent. For Latino U.S. citizens with less than a college degree,

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TABLE 1 Latino Voting, 1996, for Age Cohorts, Years of Formal Education Cohorts, and Household Income Cohorts, for U.S. Citizens.

AGE LATINO VOTER TURNOUT %

18–20 23.6

21–24 24.4

25–34 37.5

35–44 45.1

45–54 56.6

55–64 59.7

65–74 64.8

75+ 60.6

FORMAL EDUCATION

Less than 5 years 44.9

5–8 years 41.2

9–12 years, no degree 29.7

High school graduate 36.9

Some college 52.8

BA or equivalent 66.9

Advanced degree 80.6

HOUSEHOLD INCOME

Less than $5,000 30.8

$5,000–$9,999 32.8

$10,000–$14,999 36.5

$15,000–$24,999 38.5

$25,000–$34,999 45.4

$35,000–$49,000 48.9

$50,000–$74,999 59.6

$75,000 or more 64.8

Not reported 41.6

Note: These calculations exclude non-U.S.-citizen Latinos.

Source: Author’s calculations based on U.S. Bureau of the Census 1998.

turnout rates are lower, with, for example, just 30 percent of Latinos with 9 to 12 years of formal education but no high school degree. Household income has a similar impact. Slightly more than 30 percent of U.S. citizen adults with household incomes of less than $5,000 voted, compared to nearly 65 percent of Latino U.S. citizens with household incomes of $75,000 or more. While there are few Latino households in either of these categories, there are more at the lower end of the income spectrum than the higher end.

Each of these demographic factors reinforces the other to widen the gap be- tween the eligible Latino electorate and the actual electorate. The impact of these demographic characteristics has been much more studied in terms of its impact on voting, but the same patterns appear for other forms of communi- ty electoral participation. In other words, Latinos who are younger, have less formal education, or have lower incomes are less likely than more economical- ly or educationally advantaged Latinos to be engaged in community politics. While community groups provide the social networks and sense of efficacy in solving community problems that can overcome the participation-dampening effects of youth, poverty, and low education, the available research evidence finds relatively low rates of membership in Latino community organizations (de la Garza and Lu 1999).

It bears repeating that these patterns of lower than average electoral partic- ipation and lower than average engagement in community politics are a func- tion of demographics, not of culturally or ethnic-specific traits.5 Latinos, how- ever, pay a price for behaving as other populations do because a higher share of the Latino population is young, has low incomes, and/or has low levels of formal education.

NON-U.S. CITIZENSHIP

So far, this discussion of nonvoters has only focused on U.S. citizens who do not go to the polls or are less likely to participate in community organization- al politics. A much larger Latino nonvoting population is made up of non- U.S. citizens who cannot vote. Nationally, more than 8 million of the nearly 22 million Latino adults, or approximately 39 percent, are not U.S. citizens (see table 2). To put these 8 million non-U.S.-citizen Latinos in context, their numbers exceeded the number of Latino voters in the 2000 elections by more than 2 million. Noncitizen Latinos are not spread evenly across the nation. In California and Illinois, for example, slightly less than half of Latino adults are not U.S. citizens.

Clearly, it would take much more to move these noncitizens into the elec- torate and, for many, it is unrealistic to expect this to happen. Latino immi- grants without legal status—who number approximately six million—would

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have to regularize their status (Bean, Van Hook, and Woodrow-Lafield 2001; Bean et al. 2001). In the present political environment, there appears to be lit- tle support among political leaders for an amnesty that would grant wide- spread legalization, though many undocumented immigrants are able to “be- come legal” over time through marriage to a U.S. citizen or through the petition of an immediate relative who is a U.S. citizen or a permanent resi- dent. Among those with legal status, immigrants would have to reside in the United States for at least five years and naturalize. Latino permanent residents number approximately three million. Despite the fact that nonnaturalized im- migrants cannot participate in electoral politics in most jurisdictions, they are counted for purposes of representation and, probably more importantly, are included in popular discussions of the size of the Latino population that leads to expectations for its influence.

What distinguishes permanent residents (immigrants who reside in the United States legally and may under most circumstances remain in the Unit- ed States for the rest of their lives) who naturalize from those who do not?

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TABLE 2 Voting, Nonvoting, and Non-U.S. Citizenship Among Latino Adults, United States and Selected States, 2000

TOTAL 18+ VOTERS (%) CITIZEN NON–U.S.

POPULATION NONVOTERS (%) CITIZENS (%)

United States 21,598,000 5,934,000 7,225,000 8,439,000 (27.5) (33.5) (39.1)

Arizona 910,000 247,000 369,000 294,000 (27.1) (40.6) (32.3)

California 6,514,000 1,597,000 1,892,000 3,025,000 (24.5) (29.0) (46.4)

Colorado 478,000 158,000 191,000 129,000 (33.1) (40.0) (27.0)

Florida 2,162,000 678,000 1,065,000 897,000 (25.7) (40.3) (34.0)

Illinois 771,000 218,000 182,000 371,000 (28.3) (23.6) (48.1)

New Jersey 583,000 179,000 167,000 237,000 (30.7) (28.6) (40.7)

New Mexico 484,000 191,000 235,000 58,000 (39.5) (48.6) (12.0)

New York 1,706,000 502,000 575,000 629,000 (29.4) (33.7) (36.9)

Texas 4,414,000 1,300,000 1,873,000 1,241,000 (29.5) (42.4) (28.1)

Source: Author’s calculations based on U.S. Bureau of the Census 2002.

Across all immigrant populations and periods of immigration, immigrants who reside in the United States longer are more likely to naturalize than those with shorter periods of residence (Gavit 1922; U.S. Immigration and Natural- ization Service 2002a: 222–25, table 55). That said, the speed of naturalization varies by nationality and by region of origin. These variations traditionally showed consistency across regions—with Asian immigrants naturalizing the fastest and immigrants from the Americas naturalizing the slowest—but the patterns are now in flux. Over the past decade, the average immigrant who naturalized from Asia waited approximately seven years after immigrating, the average European immigrant waited nine to ten years, and the average im- migrant from Latin America and the Caribbean waited twelve to fourteen years (see U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service, Statistical Yearbook of the Immigration and Naturalization Service, various years). Traditionally, the nationalities with the longest wait between immigration and naturalization are nationals of the two countries that border the United States—Mexico and Canada.

At the individual level, scholars have identified several clusters of factors that explain these diverse rates of naturalization—demographic characteris- tics, attitudinal and associational variables, immigration and settlement char- acteristics, and inconsistent bureaucratic treatment. These clusters overlap somewhat. Of these, demographic characteristics of immigrants are the most studied. Income, white-collar employment, professional status, home owner- ship, years of schooling, and English-language abilities increase the likelihood of naturalization (Barkan and Khokolov 1980; Portes and Mozo 1985; Jasso and Rosenzweig 1990; Yang 1994; DeSipio 1996a). The married are more like- ly to naturalize than the unmarried, and women are more likely than men. Immigrants who arrived as young children are more likely to naturalize than are those who arrived as teenagers or adults. These demographic characteris- tics partially explain the more rapid naturalization rates of Asian immigrants and the slower rates of naturalization among Latino immigrants. On average, Asian immigrants are more likely to have the traits that predict speedy natu- ralization. Latinos, on the other hand, are more likely to have low wages, low levels of formal education, and lower English skills—all factors that discour- age naturalization.

In the 1990s, the number of immigrants seeking naturalization surged, with nearly 6 million immigrants naturalizing. The comparable figures for the 1970s and 1980s were 1.5 million and 2.2 million, respectively. The are several clear reasons for this increase in demand for citizenship (DeSipio 1996b). The pool of citizenship-eligible applicants grew dramatically in the early 1990s. The approximately 3 million permanent residents who legalized under the provisions of the 1986 Immigration Reform and Control Act (IRCA) became

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eligible to naturalize in the early 1990s. The traditional ambivalent attitudes of native U.S. citizens toward immigrants also contributed to this trend. On the one hand, positive national rhetoric about immigrant contributions to U.S. society drove many immigrants to pursue U.S. citizenship. On the other hand, the turn in attitude against immigrants that occurred in many areas of the United States in the mid-1990s had the same effect. California passed Propo- sition 187 in 1994, which denied state education and social-service benefits to immigrants, and Congress passed the 1996 Welfare Reform bill, which elimi- nated permanent resident eligibility for federal social-welfare benefits such as Supplemental Security Income and Aid to Families with Dependent Children. Congress also made it easier to deport permanent residents who committed crimes in the United States. Fearing for their children’s ability to stay in the United States, these developments drove some parents to pursue naturaliza- tion. Administrative changes at the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) also encouraged permanent residents to pursue naturalization. Perma- nent residents with “green cards” (permanent resident visas) more than ten years old had to replace their cards for the first time in the agency’s history. The application process for the replacement of a green card was nearly as ex- pensive as applying for U.S. citizenship and also required another renewal of the newly issued greed card after ten years. The INS also repeatedly raised the fee for naturalization in this period.

At the same time, Latino and immigrant organizations increased the re- sources available to assist immigrants pursue U.S. citizenship. Univisión and other Spanish-language media promoted the importance of naturalization to Latino audiences. In the end, it is not possible to disaggregate the impact of changes on individual Latinos’ propensities to naturalize (DeSipio and Pa- chon 2002), but the cumulative effect was to move the largest number of im- migrants in American immigration history to apply for naturalization.

With this surge in naturalization in the late 1990s, the size of the potential Latino electorate (U.S.-citizen Latino adults) immediately increased by ap- proximately 2 million (or slightly less than 20 percent). It is not yet clear whether these new Latino citizens will become new Latino voters. If past ex- perience is a guide, however, the majority will not (DeSipio 1996c; Levitt and Olson 1996; Bass and Casper 1999; Minnite, Holdaway, and Hayduk 1999; Ra- makrishnan 2000; Mollenkopf, Olson, and Ross 2001). Each of these studies identifies a common pattern in which the naturalized vote at rates compara- ble to, or lower than, comparably situated U.S.-born citizens. The one excep- tion to this pattern finds the newly naturalized voting at higher levels than U.S.-born Latinos (Pantoja, Ramírez, and Segura 2001). This study looks at Latinos in the 1996 California election, arguably the high point of the anti-

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immigrant rhetoric that contributed to the factors that drove many immi- grants to seek U.S. citizenship.

Skepticism on this point is reinforced by the fact that naturalization of Lati- no residents has not continued at the record pace of the late 1990s. Approxi- mately 500,000 immigrants applied to become U.S. citizens in 2001, and 700,000 applied in 2002 (DeSipio, Pachon, and Moellmer 2001; U.S. Immi- gration and Naturalization Service 2002b). Of these, approximately 500,000 are Latino. Historically, this is a high number of applicants, though the num- bers applying for naturalization generally remain below the number of immi- grants who become eligible to naturalize each year. There is no exact figure for the newly citizenship-eligible each year because there are no official records of permanent residents who emigrate or who die, but it is reasonable to assume that 600,000 to 700,000 immigrants become eligible to naturalize each year.

CONCLUSIONS: AN EVER LARGER ELECTORATE-IN-RESERVE

In the twenty-eight years since the extension of the Voting Rights Act to “lan- guage minorities,” more Latinos have turned out to vote in each election, and they have made up an increasing share of the national electorate and the elec- torates of several of the largest states (see table 3). At the same time, the share of adult Latino citizens who turn out to vote has stagnated and, in some cases, declined. In this same period, the number and prominence of Latino com- munity organizations has increased, but there is no evidence to indicate that Latinos are actively engaged in these organizations. Yet, because of the rapid growth in the Latino population, the increasing size of the Latino electorate has masked this stagnation.

What is less commented upon is the even more sizeable growth of nonpar- ticipating Latinos, which include both citizens who do not vote and non-U.S. citizens. These nonparticipants can be understood as an “electorate-in- reserve” who are the victims of a political order in which the more advantaged are more likely to participate. The electorate-in-reserve numbered nearly 16 million in 2000. Of these, 7.2 million were adult U.S. citizen and 8.4 million were adult non-U.S. citizen. Given the proper stimuli, many might choose to participate. Evidence to support this assertion would include the increased Latino demand for naturalization in the 1990s and the surge in Latino voting in California in 1996.

Some of the citizen nonvoters have participated in past elections, and many are registered to vote. Overwhelmingly, when polled, they acknowledge the importance of voting and their desire to vote, but for many reasons, includ- ing the demographic ones identified, they do not. Similarly, many permanent residents want to naturalize but have tried and failed to accomplish this goal

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(Pachon and DeSipio 1994; DeSipio, Pachon, and Moellmer 2001). Approxi- mately twice as many Latino immigrants who are eligible for U.S. citizenship have begun to naturalize in some concrete behavioral manner as have com- pleted the process. According to another study, approximately 85 percent of Latino immigrants have either naturalized or want to pursue naturalization (de la Garza et al. 1992: 45, table 2.34). Interestingly, the single most important reason for naturalizing provided by Latino immigrants is to achieve the right to vote (Pachon and DeSipio 1994: 96–97, table 6.11, based on a 1989 survey; DeSipio and Pachon 2002, based on a 2001 survey). Given the right stimuli and community resources, this desire to participate and, among noncitizens, to join the polity, can be tapped, and the reserve can be made part of the elec- torate (and become active in community organizations), but the resources for mobilization are frequently absent.

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TABLE 3 Latino Voters and Share of the National Electorate, 1976–2000.

LATINOS AS A SHARE OF THE NATIONAL ELECTORATE

TOTAL VOTE LATINO VOTE LATINO SHARE %

1976 86,698,000 2,098,000 2.4

1980 93,066,000 2,453,000 2.6

1984 101,878,000 3,092,000 3.0

1988 102,224,000 3,710,000 3.6

1992 113,866,000 4,238,000 3.7

1996 105,017,000 4,928,000 4.7

2000 110,826,000 5,934,000 5.4

LATINO REGISTERED VOTERS AND VOTERS AS A SHARE OF LATINO U.S.-CITIZEN

ADULTS, 1980–2000

LATINO REGISTERED VOTER/ LATINO VOTERS/

U.S.-CITIZEN LATINOS % U.S.-CITIZEN LATINOS %

1980 53.3 44.1

1984 58.9 48.0

1988 56.6 45.9

1992 58.5 48.3

1996 58.6 44.0

2000 57.3 45.1

Note: These calculations exclude Latinos who are not U.S. citizens.

Sources: 1976–2000 data: U.S. Bureau of the Census. Various Years. Voting and Registration in the Election of November 19XX. Current Population Survey. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office; and 1996 and 2000, on line. These results are summarized in de la Garza and DeSipio (1992, 1996, 1999).

In other eras of American political history, community-based organizations served as a resource for political involvement among the politically marginal- ized. However, contemporary survey data indicate that similar participation patterns exist among those who are active in organizations as among all vot- ers. In any case, as with the propensity to vote, younger, poorer, and less ed- ucated Latinos are less likely to participate in community-based organizations and other forms of community politics than are the more economically or so- cially advantaged (Pachon and DeSipio 1994; DeSipio et al. 1998; de la Garza and Lu 1999). Except for church membership, no community-based organi- zational activity sees as much participation as does voting. So, at the mass level, community organizations do not overcome the dearth of Latino partic- ipation evident in voting (the next section examines how these organizations have shaped Latino political expression in the contemporary period).

The Latino electorate is growing and also making up a steadily greater share of the national electorate, while a minority of the Latino population turns out in each election. The fundamental contradiction is not unique to Latinos, but it appears somewhat more dramatically because Latinos make up a much larg- er share of adult non-U.S. citizens who are prevented from voting in most U.S. elections and also a larger share of adult U.S. citizens who are less likely to do so. The future engagement or disengagement of the electorate-in- reserve is, in many ways then, the future of Latino politics.

LATINO COMMUNITY ORGANIZING, 1960–2003

Traditionally in the United States and other democracies, ethnic, racial, and other groups of shared interest have overcome barriers by organizing. This is, perhaps, a truism that can be quite difficult to implement, but organization has eventually been rewarded despite the intransigence of the majority popu- lation. Perhaps the best example is the African American civil-rights struggle, which required nearly one hundred years of organization to make real the procedural guarantees of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments. Latino organization dates to the years just after the Treaty of Guadalupe Higaldo and has been an ongoing characteristic of community politics since. Viva Kennedy! was successful in part because it was able to build on the organizational infra- structure of an important existing Mexican American civic organization that was established and especially active in Texas—the American G.I. Forum.

Community organizational politics take many forms. They include explic- itly political organizations seeking to obtain specific goods and services from the government. They also include less explicitly political religious, civic, cul- tural, national origin, community, and other organizations that bring people

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together around a common, often nonpolitical, need. Once this network is in place, however, it creates the opportunity to seek collective solutions to com- mon problems (Rogers 1990; Hardy-Fanta 1993; Ramos 1993; Pardo 1998; Shirley 2002; Warren 2001).

In the years since 1960, organizational efforts and organizational structures in Mexican American and other Latino communities have proliferated. The general trend in organization, however, like the trend in electoral participa- tion, has been the absence of widespread participation and a class bias in who participates.

FROM VIVA KENNEDY! TO THE CHICANO MOVEMENT

As argued before, the Viva Kennedy! clubs are well remembered in political history for their influence in the outcome of the election of 1960. Arguably, though, their long-term importance is based on quite a different reason. They transformed Latino community mobilization, nationalized it for the first time, and laid the roots for the more aggressive demand making that flowered in the late 1960s and remains a part of the Latino political dialogue today.

Prior to 1960, Latino political mobilization focused primarily on nonparti- san civic organizations, unions, and national origin–based associations that sought to cement the bonds between Latinos in the United States and their countries of origin. The focus of these pre-1960 civic organizations was civil and educational rights, but there was little effort to build a mass movement comparable to the African American civil-rights movement. Unions were something of an exception to this pattern, but the concentration of Latinos in the Southwest—an area of weak unionization—did not work to the advantage of Latino community organization in this era. Most pre-1960 unions focused on specific sectors of the economy, such as mining, agriculture, and, after 1940, defense, metal, and manufacturing industries.

Viva Kennedy! began to change this equation in three ways. After the 1960s, Mexican American and Latino community organizations began to focus more energy on voting and electing Latinos to office. Second, as organizational en- ergies shifted to elections and electing people to office, these organizations ex- panded their memberships, or, at least, those that they attempted to mobilize. Finally, dissatisfaction with the tokenistic way in which political institutions treated Latinos who were elected to office spurred an increased radicalism in organizational demand making and the creation of new organizations that re- jected electoral politics. While these efforts were not universally successful, they did create the foundation for mass movements later in the decade.

The rhetoric of post-1960 Latino community organizations also changed. Civil-rights demands that had long been made became much more strident.

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Expectations for government redress increased and government failures were no longer passively tolerated. In addition, for the first time in American polit- ical history, Latinos were inside key political institutions and could advocate for Latino civil rights. By the later years of the 1960s, the result was the emer- gence of a diverse range of community politics and political organizations mobilizing Latinos around a civil-rights agenda. These issues, which were by no means new, included the pressing of land rights claims among descendants of Mexicans who lived in the Southwest in 1848 (the Alianza Federal de Pueb- los Libres); exclusion from the agendas of the dominant political parties (La Raza Unida Party and the Young Lords); disaffection among urban Latinos and their exclusion from Anglo political institutions (the Crusade for Justice and the Brown Berets); and exploitation of Latinos in agriculture and their neglect by traditional unions (the United Farm Workers) (Muñoz 1989; I. García 1990; Gutiérrez 1998; Navarro 2000; R. González 2001; López Tijerina 2001). These organizations were, in a real sense, the tip of the iceberg in terms of community mobilization in this era. Latinos also organized at the local level around similar issues. These efforts included high school student walkouts in urban school districts throughout the Southwest and antiwar efforts that cul- minated in the 1970 Chicano Moratorium in Los Angeles, the largest single Mexican American political demonstration to that point in American history.

This new breed of Latino civil rights organization and activism that emerged in the 1960s differed both in leadership and membership from pre- 1960s organizations. The leaders of each of these organizations, and their local equivalents, saw the need to build a political movement. Thus, these organi- zations sought to incorporate a large membership base in a way that Latino organizations had simply not done prior to this era. Equally importantly, while these organizations had specific foci, they shared a broader interest in ensuring that the United States lived up to its national rhetoric of equality of opportunity. Efforts to unite these various Latino civil rights efforts into a broad national movement ultimately failed, the victim of personality conflicts, ideological divides, and government infiltration (I. García 1990; Navarro 2000). But they transformed Latino political organizing nevertheless. No longer would Latino community mobilizing be primarily a resource for com- munity elites. Equally importantly, the vociferousness of the demand making and the alliances built between these Latino organizations and organizing in other ethnic and racial communities ensured that Latino needs could no longer be simply overlooked or dismissed by national political leaders. The Chicano and Puerto Rican civil-rights movements put Latino needs on the national agenda and laid the foundation for the creation of a pan-ethnic Lati- no politics that linked local needs and the history of race-based exclusion to a national Latino agenda.

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PAN-ETHNIC LATINO ORGANIZATION

With the decline of the activism of the Chicano and Puerto Rican movements in the early 1970s, a new form of Latino organization emerged. These new or- ganizations focused on making a reality of the effort to link the interests of dis- parate Latino national origin groups into a Latino or Hispanic politics and on influencing public policies affecting Latino communities; thus, mass mobiliza- tion generally was not their goal. Some of these new organizations focused on national politics and others on state or local, but they shared a pluralist con- ception of American politics in which competition between groups with com- mon interests leads to policies that reflect the needs of all the groups that com- pete. This pluralist approach, and its underlying sense that American politics will reward all citizens as long as they organize and participate, reflected a change from the radicalism of the Chicano and Puerto Rican movements. At the same time, it shifted the focus of community organizing from the mass level to the elite level. Partly as a consequence, this pluralist politics has not proved very effective at regularly mobilizing the electorate-in-reserve. Instead, it makes claims on U.S. society based on the size of the Latino population.

In response to the perceived radicalism of the Chicano movement, nation- al political actors and philanthropies like the Ford and Rockefeller Founda- tions thought that it was in their interest to invest in building pluralistic na- tional Latino organizations. Consequently, in the late 1960s and early 1970s, the first national Latino organizations were established. These included the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund (MALDEF) and the National Council of La Raza (NCLR). Existing organizations that had tend- ed to be more regionally focused, such as the League of United Latin Ameri- can Citizens (LULAC), also became national. Each of these organizations had its roots in the Southwest, but the 1970s saw them become pan-ethnic in focus. The inspirations for these new national Latino organizations were often parallel organizations in the African American community. MALDEF, for example, was created to serve as a Mexican American/Latino parallel to the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People Legal De- fense Fund.

These organizations reflected a new resource for Latino politics. They sought to link Latino interests nationwide and to speak for all Latinos with a more unified voice. This sometimes has required avoiding divisive issues, such as the explicitly partisan or U.S. relations with the home countries of the var- ious Latino populations. Even with these limits, however, these organizations have identified a broad interest-based agenda that attempts to articulate a united Latino front that transcends individual national origins or ancestries (see further discussion below). They advocate and lobby on specific issues, but

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more importantly they ensure that Latino needs are always considered in the national policy-making process.

These new Latino advocates from the post–civil rights era represent a re- source for identity building and the articulation of a Latino agenda that sim- ply did not exist before 1975. That said, these pluralist Latino organizations are constituted in such a way that they do not help mobilize the electorate-in- reserve. They are top-down organizations that do not rely on a mass base. No contemporary national Latino organization relies on membership contribu- tions to support its operations. Instead, Latino organizations rely on philan- thropic, corporate, and government support to sustain them. Their focus on the minutia of policy formulation and intervention and the need to build coalitions with other like-minded groups, further distance these organizations from the mass of the Latino community. The reliance on top-down organiza- tion and the elite nature of this form of community organization does not make the Latino community unique, by any means. The cost, however, is somewhat higher for Latinos because larger shares of the Latino population are distant from politics. Mass-based Latino community organizations are the exception, and they rarely survive to sustain a mass-based organizational in- frastructure (Padilla 1986; Pardo 1998; Rosales 2000. See also Rogers 1990, as an exception).

IMMIGRANT ACTIVISM

The top-down nature of Latino organizations is continually challenged by the dynamic nature of the Latino population. This pattern of challenge was seen in the 1960s and 1970s in the pressures that led to the new styles of organiza- tion and techniques of demand making in the Chicano and Puerto Rican civil- rights movements. The movement organizations supplanted, at least tem- porarily, the more established community and civic organizations in Mexican American and Puerto Rican communities and replaced forever their accom- modationist approach to Latino politics. Today, the most significant challenge to the existing structure of Latino community-based organizations is coming from Latinos whose interests are not immediately served by the civil rights–focused, pan-ethnic Latino organizations that have emerged since the early 1970s.

The surge in immigration over the past thirty-five years is perhaps the most dramatic example of Latinos excluded from contemporary political institu- tions. The impact of these new Latino migrants appears in three newly emerg- ing forms of Latino community activism (each of which harkens back to ear- lier periods of Latino-immigrant community organization): mutual aid and cultural maintenance; a transnational politics that exists simultaneously in

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both the United States and in the country of the migrant’s origin; and labor organizing in Latino communities (and the concomitant rebirth of U.S. unions in certain sectors of the labor market).

It is a truism that immigrants organize to meet common needs and to pre- serve cultural ties to their communities of origin. This pattern continues today and is aided by new forms of communication and transportation that allow ongoing contact with communities of origin. Immigrant communities overflow with clubs, sports leagues, festivals, and cultural celebrations that link migrants, their home communities, and others from the same area in the United States (Levitt 2001; see also Levitt, chapter 5, this volume). These are not inherently political, though they have the potential to become so when the group faces a challenge (either in the United States or in the home communi- ty). They can also quickly reform as mutual-aid societies when migrants (or the home community) face need.

These ongoing contacts with the migrant’s home community (and home country) have the potential to create a U.S. immigrant politics focused on immigrant-sending countries (Gutiérrez 1999; de la Garza and Pachon 2000; Guarnizo 2001). Initially, many immigrants report that it is the sending coun- tries where their primary political attachments lie. These efforts to create a transnational politics do not greatly distinguish today’s Latino immigrants from immigrants from other parts of the world or immigrants from earlier eras.6 Two aspects, however, are new. Some of these transnational political ac- tivities among immigrants are being encouraged by the migrant-sending na- tions, and some migrants are able to sustain political engagement both in the United States and in their sending countries to an extent that perhaps was not true in the past.

There is no single way in which this transnational politics manifests itself (Smith and Guarnizo 1998). Groups of migrants living in the same communi- ty in the United States organize to provide goods or services, such as sponsor- ing a festival or purchasing a fire engine or ambulance, for the home commu- nities. Evidence exists of migrants returning to the home country or home community to vote or to participate in a community decision (Guarnizo, Sánchez, and Roach 1999; Rivera-Salgado 1999). Immigrants contribute to parties or political candidates from their home countries, and candidates fre- quently travel to the U.S. to visit with émigrés during the campaign. Finally, some Latin American immigrant-sending countries allow voting from abroad.

Just as immigrant participation in these transnational political activities is on the increase, so are sending-country efforts to solidify the link to their émi- grés. Most notably, Mexico, which has long disdained its émigrés, has offered dual nationality and the promise a rapid renaturalization to Mexicans who nat- uralize as U.S. citizens (González-Gutiérrez 1999). This offer is tempered in

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that out-naturalized émigrés and their children are offered Mexican nationali- ty, but not full citizenship. This offer of Mexican nationality, nevertheless, re- flects a dramatic change in Mexico’s historical treatment of its emigrants. Other Latin American nations have gone even further. Colombia allows voting by it nationals abroad, as will the Dominican Republic in its next presidential election. Colombia considered but rejected a proposal to provide representa- tion for Colombians abroad in the national parliament. And all Latin Ameri- can nations with sizeable émigré populations in the United States now have senior government ministries with responsibility for maintaining ties with émigré organizations (de la Garza and Pachon 2000). This top-down transna- tional politics is perhaps less new than the grassroots version (González 1999).

There are no reliable data on the frequency of transnational political be- haviors among Latino immigrants. The research that does exist indicates that transnational political behaviors decline relatively rapidly as the migrants’ so- cial and family networks become more focused on the United States (DeSipio 2000, 2002).

But even if only a small share of Latino immigrants engages in a transna- tional politics and those that do only do so for a few years after migration, this new emergence of a Latino transnational politics is an important resource for reducing the size of the electorate-in-reserve. Transnational politics offers im- migrants a political tool not offered by the pluralist, pan-ethnic organizations that dominate the community politics of U.S.-born Latinos. When issues emerge that affect immigrants, these networks can be mobilized to shape the politics not just of the home country, but also of the United States (Portes and Stepik 1994; Gutiérrez 1999). Transnational politics also offers the opportuni- ty for recent migrants (those most disengaged from U.S. politics) to develop political skills and become part of political networks. It is these skills and net- works that can overcome the demographic barriers that many Latinos face when trying to become politically involved. Finally, the issues that transna- tional politics puts on the table have the potential to broaden the Latino agen- da into foreign policy in a way that it has not in the past. A more broadly based transnational politics does run some risks for Latino politics nationally. If the majority population comes to believe that Latino immigrants are more en- gaged in the politics of their sending countries and that those interests run counter to U.S. interests, transnationalism could spur a new wave of anti- immigrant sentiment. As Latino transnational politics operates today, howev- er, this risk seems low.

The impact of immigrants on Latino community mobilization is not felt just in terms of a nascent transnational politics. Immigrants are shaping do- mestic politics as well. Perhaps the most dramatic impact has been seen in the revitalization of labor unions in the economic sectors where immigrants are

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most commonly found (Delgado 1993; Milkman 2000; Parker 2001). In the 1990s, service-sector unions and some skilled-trade unions saw dramatic gains in membership and clout because of a growing membership base among im- migrants, particularly undocumented immigrants. Unions, such as the Service Employees International Union, New York’s Health and Hospital Workers Union, and Los Angeles’s hotel employee unions, are the brightest areas of growth for U.S. trade unions, and these are all immigrant-driven unions. Linda Chávez-Thompson was elected Vice President of the AFL-CIO, ar- guably partly in recognition of the union’s desire to expand their base.

This new spurt in unionization driven by Latino immigrants is important politically for more than just Latino organization. American unionism has been changed. Throughout its history, most mainstream unions have advo- cated limited migration and opposed any legalization program for undocu- mented workers. The narrow position of unions toward immigrants has di- vided liberal coalitions. This has largely changed. Unions, seeing that their future depends on organizing immigrants and, in many cases, undocumented immigrants, have become advocates both of the rights of the undocumented and of legalization.

The impact on domestic politics of immigrants is not simply the result of their seeking to influence their home country’s politics or their presence in trade unions. It is immigrant numbers that make the Latino community so appealing a target for parties and candidates. Even though many immigrants cannot participate in electoral politics today, parties and forward-looking candidates recognize that many will someday be participants not just in orga- nizational politics, but also electoral politics. As a result, neglect of the Latino community or Latino needs involves an increasingly greater risk today than it has in the past. Certainly, efforts by the Bush administration to become more sensitive to Latino concerns and issues can only be understood in this light.

LATINO COMMUNITY MOBILIZATION TODAY

In the forty years since Viva Kennedy! shifted Latino community organizing from civic (and mostly elite) organizing to partisan and more broadly based community mobilization, Latinos have vastly enriched their resources for non- electoral politics. The infrastructure of national, state, and local Latino organ- izations is diverse and offers civic, issue-based, community-based, and partisan organizations to advance Latino (as well as Latino national-origin group) in- terests. Unlike the situation in 1960, these organizations are players in the allo- cation of government resources and ensure that Latino demands are heard.

Despite this rich palate of organizations, however, the general direction of Latino community and organizational politics has followed the patterns of

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Latino electoral participation, in that it rewards the educated and the socially and economically advantaged. Since the demise of the Chicano and Puerto Rican movement organizations, there has not been a national or even large, regional mass-based Latino organization. Survey data show that few Latinos report membership in national, state, or local Latino organizations (de la Garza et al. 1992: 115, table 8.2; de la Garza and Lu 1999). Again, in this pattern, Latinos follow the general direction of organizational involvement of the population as a whole (Putnam 2000).

The growth of Latino immigrant populations and the nascent efforts among Latino immigrants to shape a politics both in their countries of ori- gin and in their communities in the United States present a fundamental challenge to the pattern that has emerged over the past forty years. This chal- lenge is twofold. The issues of concern to immigrants present a challenge to the agenda of the organizations that have been primarily focused on civil rights (DeSipio and de la Garza In press). Second, immigrants seek an insti- tutional base for demand making. As today’s immigrants move toward in- corporation into U.S. society and politics, they may well follow the pattern of previous generations of immigrants and see dampened levels of participa- tion. Their large numbers and the multiple foci of their political energies, however, create the possibility that they will invigorate the mass dimension of Latino community and organizational politics in a way not seen since the 1960s (Davis 2000).

LATINOS AND ELECTORAL POLITICS IN THE NEW MILLENNIUM

The discussion so far has evaluated the opportunities and barriers faced by Latinos in seeking to influence U.S. politics over the past forty years and how they have tapped institutional structures to achieve their goals. Despite the relatively low levels of electoral participation and community organization, Latinos are in a much stronger position to influence outcomes at the begin- ning of the new millennium than they were at any previous time. The num- ber of Latino voters is increasing (though not at as rapid a rate as the Latino population as a whole); the number of Latino elected officials and other lead- ers has increased dramatically. These elected officials have moved into new positions of prominence, and Latinos of different national origins are in- creasingly coming into contact with each other and organizing to meet pub- lic policy needs that they share. Thus, at the beginning of the new millenni- um, it is accurate to speak of a Latino politics and of Latino influence on electoral and policy outcomes. This section evaluates three dimensions of

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this Latino politics: Latino partisanship, Latino issue preferences, and Latino influence in national (or presidential) politics.

PARTISANSHIP

Latinos are strong partisans. This generalization is true of both U.S. citizens who can participate and noncitizens who cannot. Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans report strong adherence to the Democratic Party and Cuban Americans to the Republican Party (de la Garza et. al. 1992; San Jose Mercury News 2000; Pew Hispanic Center/Kaiser Family Foundation 2002). In most elections, Democratic candidates will receive well more than 65 percent of the Mexican American and Puerto Rican vote and Republican candidates more than 65 percent of the Cuban American vote. Less is known about the parti- sanship of newer Latino communities, such as Dominicans or Salvadorans, but what is known indicates that they are following the Democratic party loy- alty of Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans, though at slightly lower levels (DeSipio et al. 1998). For each national-origin group, there is also a small but reliable vote for the “minority” party, in other words the Republicans for Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans and the Democrats for Cuban Ameri- cans. This support for the less favored party usually taps 20 percent of each community’s vote. These rates of partisanship showed some decline for the Democrats in the 1960s and 1970s (as the Latino vote diversified and polling became more accurate), but they have remained largely constant in the con- temporary era (see table 4). Third-party candidates have rarely reached out to Latinos, and Latinos have supported these candidates at lower rates than non- Hispanic whites.

The meaning of partisanship is less clear for noncitizens. They generally fol- low the partisan leanings of their co-ethnics. Noncitizens are somewhat more likely to report no partisan leanings, but the numbers who report affiliation with neither of the parties generally make up no more than one-third of Lati- no immigrants. Perhaps the best indication of the partisanship of noncitizens is the partisanship of the newly naturalized. Data exist only for two states. In California, naturalized Latinos register as Democrats at rates higher than the U.S.-born (Arteaga 2000). In Florida, the same pattern appears, though with the opposite partisan outcome: the naturalized are more likely than the U.S.- born to be Republicans (Cuba Research Institute 2000). The highest rate of Republican partisanship is found among émigrés who arrived in the 1960s (see also, García, chapter 3, this volume).

Pundits often like to speak of Latinos as a “swing vote,” in other words, as a vote that can convert its preferences in response to specific candidate en- treaties and who are, consequently, more appealing to candidates. But this

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TABLE 4 National Latino Voting Patterns, 1960–2000.

YEAR/LATINO DEMOCRATIC REPUBLICAN OTHER

ELECTORATE VOTE % VOTE % VOTE %

1960

Mexican Americans 85 15 –

1964

Mexican Americans 90 10 –

1968

Mexican Americans 87 10 3

1972

Mexican Americans1 64 36 –

Mexican Americans2 85 15 –

1976

Mexican Americans 92 8 –

Latinos 82 18 –

1980

Latinos 56 37 7

1984

Latinos (CBS) 66 34 –

Latinos (NBC) 68 32 –

Latinos (ABC) 56 44 –

1988

Latinos (CBS and ABC) 70 30 –

Latinos (NBC) 69 31 –

Latinos (LA Times) 62 38 –

1992

Latinos (VRS) 62 24 14

Latinos (LA Times) 53 31 16

1996

Latinos 72 21 6

2000

Latinos 62 35 3

1. García and de la Garza 1977: 103.

2. Gann and Duignan 1986: 210.

Source: Adapted from de la Garza and DeSipio (1999): table 1.1, with data on 2000 election added.

perception is wrong (de la Garza 1996). The importance of the Latino vote is in its reliable support for one of the parties (the Democrats, except in Florida) at rates far exceeding the non-Latino vote. Latinos are an obvious target for a Democrat in a close race in California, New York, Texas, Illinois, New Mexi- co, Arizona, or Colorado. Republicans in Florida can similarly rely on Florida Cuban Americans in close races.

Were state-level races to be routinely close, Latinos would be in an enviable position (with the concentration in a few states and high levels of partisan- ship). In practice, however, the victory margins in many state-level races are quite large, sufficiently large that Latinos cannot be said to have had influence. In California, for example, of the nine general-election races in the 1990s (two presidential, three gubernatorial, and four senatorial), only one would have seen a different outcome if Latinos had not voted (Fraga and Ramírez 2000). Without Latino votes, Diane Feinstein would not have defeated Michael Huff- ington in California’s 1994 Senate race.

That said, it would be inaccurate to undervalue the reliable support that Latinos offer to the Democrats in all states but Florida. California, for exam- ple, is now generally a Democratic state in statewide elections because the De- mocrats can routinely count on 1.25 million Latino votes. Like California, New York statewide races would be more competitive without the 500,000 Latino votes the Democrats can count on. Though routinely Republican in the 1990s, Texas may soon again see greater partisan competitiveness. If Texas does see more partisan competitiveness in the near future, it will be because of the steady growth of the Latino vote, which goes to Texas Democrats by a margin to seven to three.

Republican strategies (outside of Florida) are often pitched as “winning” the Latino vote, but in practice are aimed at reducing this Democratic advan- tage. For example, if George Bush can push the Republican share of the Lati- no vote to 40 percent in 2004 from the 35 percent that he earned in 2000, the Republican ticket would earn at least an additional 300,000 votes from Lati- nos who voted Democratic in 2000. A gain of this number of votes (and the comparable loss to the Democrats) would erase Bush’s margin of defeat in the 2000 popular vote (approximately 540,000 votes).7 If such a switch in Latino balance between the parties were to occur without any change in non-Latino voting, New Mexico would join the Republican vote in the electoral college.

Clearly, the Cuban American case is something of an exception. Cuban Americans, particularly Cuban Americans in Florida, are reliable Republicans, though they use their votes (and their campaign contributions) more tactical- ly than do other Latinos. Cuban Americans in Florida have supported De- mocrats who take strong anti-Castro positions on U.S. relations with Cuba (Moreno and Warren 2000). Why are Cuban Americans the exception? As

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they became socialized to U.S. politics, the issue of greatest salience was Cuba. Here, the Republicans had an advantage—they took a harder line against communism in general, and the Democrats paid a price for perceived failures by the Kennedy administration to support Cuban insurgents at the Bay of Pigs and for the resolution of the Cuban Missile Crisis, which, among other things, amounted to a tacit acceptance of Castro’s rule in Cuba. In the late 1990s, Cuban Americans demonstrated a new openness to the Democrats, creating the foundation for a higher share of support for the Democrats among Cuban Americans. This opening quickly closed when the Clinton administration pursued its policy of returning Elián González to his father in Cuba (Cuba Re- search Institute 2000).

Cuban American support for the Republican Party, however, also grew from opportunity. As Cuban Americans began to shift their focus from exile to immigrant politics, they were able to move into elective office in Florida more rapidly through Republican Party channels than Democratic ones (Portes and Stepik 1994). There was only a weak Republican Party infrastruc- ture in south Florida, so winning office did not require both primary- and general-election victories. This focused Republican strategy has been very suc- cessful over the past twenty years. Cuban Americans now control most offices in South Florida in areas of their population concentration.

What does the future hold in terms of Latino partisanship? Data from new registrants indicate that Latinos will continue to be strong partisans in the coming years. Voting patterns demonstrate that Republican outreach to Lati- nos has not seen a higher share of the Latino vote going to the GOP Interest- ingly, there may be a change among Cuban Americans. Over the past two elec- tions, a higher share of the Cuban vote has gone to the Democratic presidential candidate. These two elections alone may not reflect long-term change. When leadership change comes in Cuba, however, the domestic-issue agenda of Cuban Americans will bring them closer to the Democratic Party, a circumstance that has come to pass several times in the Florida legislature.

ISSUE PREFERENCES

Latino partisanship has historical roots, but more importantly, it is issue driv- en. The issues that are salient in Latino communities link Latinos to the De- mocratic Party. This is not to say that there is a perfect match, but the issues that are most important to the majority of Latinos are closer to the Democ- rats than the Republicans.

Opinion polling from the 1980s and 1990s show a remarkably consistent pattern (de la Garza et al. 1992; DeSipio 1996a; DeSipio et al. 1998; San Jose Mercury News 2000; Washington Post/Kaiser Family Foundation 2000; Pew

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Hispanic Center/Kaiser Family Foundation 2002). The issue agenda of Lati- nos nationwide is a domestic-policy agenda focused broadly on issues that assist the incorporation of new members and those who have faced past ex- clusion. Thus, education tops any list of the most important issue facing Latino communities. It is crucial to note, however, that education as it is mentioned by Latinos is the not the education reform that candidates de- manded in the 2000 election, for example, student testing, teacher compe- tency, and accountability. Instead, Latinos call for increased funding for ed- ucation, reduced class sizes, access to higher education, and culturally sensitive curriculums. There have been some exceptions, but Latinos over- whelming support bilingual education as a tool to assist children to learn English (de al Garza et al. 1992: 99, table 7.19). Depending on the survey and the way the question is asked, other issues that shape the Latino policy agen- da include public safety, housing, health care, job training, public trans- portation, and access to economic opportunities.

Ethnic-specific issues are somewhat more likely to appear when Latinos are asked about local issues facing their families or their communities. For the most part, however, the Latino issue agenda is not that distinct from that of the population as a whole. What does distinguish them, however, and places them more centrally in Democratic partisanship, is an expectation that the responsi- bility for providing these services rests with government. Unlike the majority population, Latinos are willing to pay extra taxes for a richer palette of govern- mental services. This combination of an agenda built around a domestic social welfare agenda and a call for a larger and more activist government ensures Latino loyalty to the Democratic Party for the foreseeable future.

Republicans, however, can certainly find reasons to hope for a shift in par- tisan loyalty among some current Latino Democrats. Republicans note, and perhaps overvalue, the strong patriotism voiced by many Latinos, as well as their conservatism on social issues, such as abortion and the death penalty. They also note strong religiosity among many Latinos. They see each of these as opportunities to make inroads among Democratic Latinos. To date, these efforts have not been particularly successful. Latinos are somewhat more so- cially conservative and traditionally patriotic than other Democrats, but, for most part, these issues do not dominate their agendas.

Non-Cuban Latinos will vote for Republican candidates in some elections, but the circumstances under which they will are rare. First, some Latino De- mocrats (though not a majority) will support Republican Latino candidates. To date, the Republican Party has nominated few Latinos, and these candi- dates have not been particularly strong. The second circumstance in which traditionally Democratic Latinos will vote for Republicans is when the Re- publican is a well-known incumbent and faces a poorly funded Anglo Demo-

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crat who does not invest in outreach to Latinos. Texas Senator Kay Bailey Hutchinson (R), for example, won a slight majority of Latino votes in 2000 against a poorly funded Democrat who barely campaigned.

It is also important to observe two issues that are not central to the Latino issue agenda. The first of these is foreign-policy issues relating to Latin Amer- ica. Latinos are interested in Latin America (or, more accurately, their coun- tries of origin or ancestry), but these foreign policy issues do not dominate their agenda. More importantly, their concern with foreign policy generally has more to do with the situation of family members and communities of ori- gin abroad (de la Garza and Pachon 2000; de la Garza and Lowell 2002). Sec- ond, immigration does not dominate the agenda, though the rights of immi- grants are of significant concern (de la Garza and DeSipio 1998). Latinos, like the population as a whole, would prefer that the number of immigrants to the United States be reduced, but the volume of immigration is not a highly salient issue. They become engaged in immigration as a policy issue when the rights of immigrants are challenged, such as when California considered Proposition 187 (Gutiérrez 1999) and when Latinos are singled out in immi- gration debates. The primordial tie to the immigration experience can be reinvigorated when the rights of immigrants are challenged. The policy agen- da of nonnaturalized Latino immigrants, particularly recent immigrants, is somewhat more focused on home communities (the transnational politics discussed earlier) and on local social-service needs (DeSipio et al. 1998).

Thus, while the priorities of the Latino community may differ somewhat from the population as a whole, the specific issues of concern are very much the same. Generally, Latinos are closer to the Democratic Party nationally, and this issue congruence ensures that they will not soon become a swing vote.

PRESIDENTIAL POLITICS

Between 1960 and 2000, the United States conducted eleven national elec- tions. Only at the end of this period, in the 1990s, have campaigns achieved again what was first accomplished by Latino activists in 1960. The 1990s, for the first time since 1960, saw presidential campaigns dedicate resources to or- ganizing a Latino campaign to parallel Viva Kennedy! While Latinos have not since proved as central to the outcome of a presidential election as they did in 1960, they are increasingly likely to be important as their numbers grow, par- ticularly if a higher share of U.S. citizens can be encouraged to go to the polls.

In these eleven elections, three models of Latino participation have ap- peared—organizational strength and electoral importance, electoral margin- ality, and organizational strength that did not result in significant electoral in- fluence. The most common of these models is electoral marginality. Arguably,

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all elections between 1964 and 1984 saw this pattern.8 Beginning with 1988, it is possible to discern organization within the Latino community to influence outcomes and efforts by campaigns to mobilize Latinos as a cohesive vote. Of the four elections since 1988, Latinos had virtually no influence in the first, and shaped the results of some state elections in each of the other three. Their im- pact was greatest in 1992 when, arguably, six statewide results (and the ac- companying Electoral College votes) would have been different had no Latino voted (although the outcome of the race would have remained the same). In 1996 and 2000, two statewide votes would have changed with no Latino vot- ers. This standard—no Latino voting—is, of course, silly. Latinos are a per- manent and growing element of the electorate. In only one of the statewide elections over the four most recent presidential elections in which there were organized efforts to win Latino votes was a statewide result changed by change in the Latino vote, a combination of a surge in Latino voting and a change in partisanship (in this case an intensification of Democratic partisanship). This occurred in Arizona in 1996. With all the rhetoric about the surge in Latino voting, why is their influence felt so rarely?

The answer has dimensions both internal and external to the Latino com- munity itself and suggests why the growth of Latino influence is incremental in an electoral system like that of the United States (Guerra and Fraga 1996). U.S. presidential elections (the only national election) are organized around states. Most states award Electoral College votes on a winner-take-all basis. So the size of the Latino vote is not as important as its concentration in the states and the division of non-Latino votes in those states. Latinos will be influential when the states they reside in are competitive (in other words, when the non- Latino vote is relatively evenly divided) and when the states where Latinos can influence the outcome are needed by one candidate or the other to build the winning coalition of 270 electoral votes.

These limits serve to reduce the regularity of Latino influence. Over the four elections since 1988, for example, Latinos in New York and Illinois have had little opportunity to use their votes to shape outcomes. Non-Latinos, like Lati- nos, in these states overwhelmingly voted Democratic. Latino votes are lost in this type of election. Latinos in Arizona and Texas, on the other hand, usual- ly see their votes lost because of the states’ strong Republican partisanship (1996 was the exception in Arizona). Thus, close elections work to magnify the impact of the strong partisanship of Latino voters. Texas in 1960 was the per- fect example of this. The Tejano vote in 1960 was much smaller than Texas Latino votes today, but the 1960 vote shifted the state from a Nixon to a Kennedy plurality.

By this logic, the 2000 race, which was as close as any U.S. presidential elec- tion since 1960, should have worked to Latinos’ advantage. With two excep-

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tions, however, the states that were competitive were not states with signifi- cant Latino concentrations. The two remaining states—Florida and New Mexico—undeniably saw Latino influence by the lower standard of “had no Latino voted.” Had no Latino voted in these two states in 2000, Bush would have won New Mexico and Gore would have won Florida and the presidency. It is hard to argue, however, that Florida or New Mexico Latinos gave the presidency to George Bush. In the 2000 election, the Republican share of the Florida Latino vote declined from the levels of the 1980s and early 1990s. Thus, the increase in Florida’s Latino vote arguably weakened the (victorious) Re- publican ticket. In New Mexico, the Latino vote declined between 1996 and 2000. So Latinos gave a comparable share of their votes to the Democratic candidate as in previous elections, but that meant fewer Democratic votes be- cause of a decline in Latino turnout.

Clearly, numbers alone do not guarantee Latino electoral influence. The in- stitutional arrangements of elections shape the importance of their votes. These examples apply to presidential races, but similar institutional structures shape the opportunities for Latino influence in state and local elections. As the Latino electorate grows, it will be able to influence elections in which there is less of an equal division in the non-Latino electorate (as has been the case in New Mexico for some time). This pattern has increasingly appeared in states like California and Texas, but change comes slowly. Unless there is a sudden surge in Latino electoral participation, however, the growth in Latino influ- ence will be incremental (see table 5).

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TABLE 5 Latino Share of the Vote in States with Sizable Latino Populations, 1988–2000.

1988 % 1992 % 1996 % 2000 %

Arizona 8.9 9.0 11.0 15.0

California 7.9 9.6 11.7 13.9

Colorado 8.9 8.1 7.6 9.7

Florida 7.0 7.1 9.2 11.3

Illinois 3.0 3.0 2.7 4.3

New Jersey NA 4.8 7.6 5.3

New Mexico 28.4 25.5 32.9 29.5

New York 5.7 5.0 7.5 7.2

Texas 13.8 13.6 17.1 18.6

Sources: U.S. Bureau of the Census. Various Years. Voting and Registration in the Election of November 19XX. Current Population Survey. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office. These results are summarized in de la Garza and DeSipio (1992, 1996, 1999).

Organization, either from within the Latino community or without, can jump-start Latino influence. Electoral mobilization comparable to what was seen in 1960 has not been absent from Latino communities, but it has often been misdirected and shortsighted. The most common form of Latino elec- toral mobilization is voter registration. Beginning in the 1960s, and particu- larly after the passage of the VRA, Latino organizations have invested exten- sively in registering Latinos to vote. In this goal, they have succeeded. Because of these efforts, however, Latinos have much higher rates of registered voters who do not go to the polls than do either whites or African Americans (U.S. Bureau of the Census 2002). More labor-intensive voter mobilization efforts, such as personal-candidate or campaign contacts with registered voters, have been demonstrated to be much more effective at getting Latinos to the polls (Shaw, de la Garza, and Lee 2000). Today’s campaigns, however, often pass by Latino communities and neglect the personal politics that can be effective in speeding the growth of the Latino electorate (de la Garza, Menchaca, and De- Sipio 1994). The 1996 Clinton presidential campaign offers an example of the absence of the personal. In what was otherwise an unprecedented effort to win Latino votes, the campaign focused on an “air war,” not a “ground war;” in other words, it was a media campaign, and not a door-to-door campaign. In this, the Clinton campaign implemented a strategy to win Latino votes simi- lar to the one it used to win white non-Hispanic votes (DeSipio, de la Garza, and Setzler 1999).

Campaigns, of course, need to win elections, and an air war gets regular voters to the polls to support the candidate of their choice. As shown, how- ever, Latinos have a much higher share of the adult citizen population who need the initial mobilization to participate and, often, some cues about how to participate (how and where to register, how to negotiate the ballot, and who to vote for when there is not the indicator of “D” or “R” by the candi- date’s name). So campaigns are necessarily shortsighted. Latino leaders have not developed a parallel set of institutions to promote electoral participation (other than around voter registration). Until these institutions appear or until a new mobilizing issue appears, Latino electoral participation will only grow slowly. Even with continued incremental growth in the Latino vote, however, this is an increasingly risky strategy for candidates and parties. In states and localities with close elections (and close presidential elections that might turn on Latino-concentration states), candidates will increasingly turn to Latinos as a voting resource that can be mobilized. Latinos will re- spond to issues and mobilization and the electorate-in-reserve will increas- ingly be a ripe resource for candidates (primarily Democratic candidates) in close races.

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CONCLUSIONS: LATINO EMPOWERMENT AT THE DAWN OF THE NEW MILLENNIUM

Throughout the past forty years, the rhetoric of growing Latino political in- fluence has repeatedly preceded true influence. In this sense, Latinos have faced an unusual burden in American politics—the burden of perpetual, though only partially realized, promise. Latinos have undeniably overcome many barriers in the past forty-three years. The legacies of discrimination and exclusion on political behavior have largely been eliminated. What were dis- tinct national-origin groups with some common cultural identifiers in the 1960s now have a common policy agenda and an increasingly intermingled population that frequently identifies as such. Organizational Latino politics ensures that Latinos have the evidence, the technical skills, and are at the table when resources are allocated. Despite the weakness of their top-down organi- zational style, the national Latino organizational infrastructure was unimag- inable in the 1960s. And Latinos make up a steadily greater share of the na- tional electorate and the electorate in several major states. This means that they can increasingly elect the candidate of their choice and are actively sought after as coalition partners in multiethnic local politics. Yet the core dilemma of Latino politics that existed in 1960 remains today. The majority of Latinos are nonparticipants in the community’s electoral and community- organizational politics. Few exclude themselves, and most report that they want to participate in elements of the community’s politics. But many are ex- cluded in practice because of their immigrant status or demographic profile.

The reasons, then, for the gap between potentially politically active Latino adults and those who actually participate were dramatically different in 1960 than they are today. The manipulation of and general disregard for Latino civil rights in the 1960s has given way to a more passive though no less insid- ious neglect that characterizes today’s politics. Today’s “electorate-in-reserve” may make up no greater a proportional share of the Latino population than it did in the past, but with the huge growth in Latino numbers of the past forty years, it is now much larger in real terms.

As a result, the costs to U.S. society of this neglect are greater than they have been at any point in the past. And, more probable nonparticipants join the polity each year. Immigration is at a historic high and shows no signs of abat- ing. In addition, community demographics continue to be weighted toward younger citizens with low levels of formal education and low incomes. The number of these politically marginalized Latinos far exceeds the entire U.S. Latino population in 1960. Unless this disfranchised component of the popu- lation is brought into politics (whether electoral or community), there is a

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strong risk that both they and, perhaps, their U.S.-born children will be lost to the nation and to the Latino community, guaranteeing a longer period of search for the perpetual promise of Latino empowerment.

The rise of Latino politics over the past forty years can be characterized by this notion of perpetual, if only partially realized, promise. This creates a bur- den for the next era of Latino political development. It will have to balance a continued assertion of political influence based on raw numbers with organi- zation and mobilization to ensure that another generation is not left behind. The organizational politics that was created in response to the civil-rights pol- itics of the 1960s and 1970s alone will not be able socialize this new population to participation. Instead, Latinos must tap new resources and organizational structures to capture the energy and hope that immigrants bring with them to the United States and channel this drive into politics (as immigrants them- selves report that they want to). The nascent institutions of transnational pol- itics and union mobilization in the United States—that admittedly engage only a minority of Latino immigrants today—offer the best hope for the foun- dations of this new generation of Latino mobilization. Only with this incor- poration of the vast immigrant electorate-in-reserve and the continued mobi- lization of the U.S.-born will Latinos close the political gap between inflated expectations and perpetual promise.

NOTES

1. Latino and Hispanic are used interchangeably to identify U.S. residents who trace

their origin or ancestry to the Spanish-speaking countries of Latin America or the

Caribbean. When possible, this essay disaggregates the experiences of Latino

national-origin groups, e.g., Mexican Americans, Puerto Ricans, etc.

2. Two competitive states—Illinois and Texas—gave their Electoral College votes to

Kennedy and with them went the presidency. Illinois’s election was subject to in-

tense media scrutiny and probable fraud. Had Texas’s Electoral College votes gone

to Nixon, his campaign would have been able to win with Illinois’s votes and would

have been much more likely to contest the outcome. Interestingly, Texas’s vote was

equally subject to machine manipulation, and Mexican Americans were at core of

the Texas machine’s power, but this “normal” manipulation was subject to much

less public concern than was that of Illinois.

3. The first Cuban American was not elected to Congress until 1989 when Illeana Ros-

Lehtinen was elected from Florida.

4. These, and all other, Current Population Survey (CPS) data reported in this paper

probably overestimate actual levels of Latino voting and registration. The CPS asks

its respondents to report on whether they were registered and voted in the nation-

al election. This survey is done in the weeks just after the election. All populations

overreport at rates between 10 and 20 percent, and one study indicates that Latinos

458

THE PRESSURES OF PERPETUAL PROMISE

overreport at even higher rates (Shaw, de la Garza, and Lee 2000). Despite this

weakness, the CPS voting data are the only national sources of Latino registration

and voting that can be compared across elections.

5. There has been some research that indicates that the generation of immigrants has

an independent impact above and beyond the impact of demographics on the like-

lihood of Latino electoral participation and on Latino participation on communi-

ty and organizational politics (DeSipio 1999). These results are at best preliminary,

but they suggest that, relative to naturalized members of the immigrant genera-

tion, the third-generation population (the grandchildren of immigrants) are more

likely to be members of organizations, to register to vote, and to vote than are the

second-generation population (the children of immigrants). Immigrants, regard-

less of naturalization status, are less likely than the second generation to partici-

pate in one or more of seven nonelectoral political activities (signing a petition,

writing to the press, attending a public meeting, wearing a campaign button, at-

tending a political rally, volunteering for a political party, or making a campaign

contribution).

6. The historical record certainly documents earlier efforts of Latin American immi-

grants to influence their home country politics—revolutions in Cuba from the late

nineteenth century on tapped troops and money from exiles in the United States,

and Puerto Rico’s transition from Spanish colony to U.S. Commonwealth mobi-

lized migrants in the U.S. to an even more widespread degree than today’s contro-

versies over Vieques or the island’s status. What distinguishes today’s immigrant

effort to shape Latin American politics is the degree to which Latin American gov-

ernments solicit the involvement of their émigrés abroad.

7. This estimate has a large margin of error, due to the weaknesses of exit polling in

Latino communities. More importantly, it does not take into account the votes of

new Latino voters who, even under this rosy scenario for the Republicans, would

still give the Democrats a 60 percent to 40 percent advantage.

8. The possible exception is 1976. Because of a close national election, a small shift in the

Electoral College would have given the presidency to Gerald Ford. For Latinos to have

caused this shift would have been unlikely, however. Ford was the Republican, and

Carter took 82 percent of the Latino vote (see table 4). More importantly, there is no

evidence of a comprehensive effort to mobilize Latinos by either candidate.

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tailed tables. http://www.census.gov/population/www/socdemo/voting/p20–542.html.

Accessed 20 August 2002.

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THE PRESSURES OF PERPETUAL PROMISE

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migration and Naturalization Service. Springfield, Va.: National Technical Informa-

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——. 2002b. Fiscal Year 2002, Monthly Statistical Report. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Immigra-

tion and Naturalization Service. October. http://www.ins.usdoj.gov/graphics/aboutins/

statistics/msrsep02/index.htm. Accessed 11 December 2002.

Warren, Mark R. 2001. Dry Bones Rattling: Community Building to Revitalize American

Democracy. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press.

Washington Post/Kaiser Family Foundation. 2000. National Survey of Latinos in America.

Menlo Park, Calif.: The Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation. http://www.kff.org/con-

tent/2000/3023/. Accessed 16 August 2001.

Yang, Philip Q. 1994. “Explaining Immigrant Naturalization.” International Migration

Review 28, no. 3: 449–77.

465

LATINOS AND POLIT ICS, 1960–2003

CONTRIBUTORS

FRANCES R. APARICIO is professor and director of Latin American and Latino studies

at the University of Illinois at Chicago. In addition to producing numerous articles

and books chapters on various aspects of Latino popular culture and cultural produc-

tion, she is the author of Listening to Salsa: Gender, Latin Popular Music, and Puerto

Rican Cultures (1998); and is co-editor, with Suzanne Chávez-Silverman, of Troplical-

izations: Transcultural Representations of Latinidad (1997), and,with Candida Jaquez,

of Musical Migrations: Transnationalism and Cultural Hybridity in Latin/o America

(2003). She is also a consulting editor to the journal Latino Studies.

NORMA STOLTZ CHINCHILLA received her Ph.D. in sociology from the University of

Wisconsin, Madison. She is currently professor of sociology and women’s studies at

California State University, Long Beach, where she also teaches classes in internation-

al studies and directs the Latin American Studies Certification Program. She has pub-

lished numerous articles on Latin American feminism and on social and economic

change in Guatemala, and is co-author,with Nora Hamilton, of Seeking Community in

a Global City: Guatemalans and Salvadorans in Los Angeles (2001).

LOUIS DESIPIO is associate professor in political science and Chicano/Latino studies at

the University of California, Irvine. Prior to joining the faculty at UC Irvine, DeSipio

was on the faculty of the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, where he served

as a member of the political science department and interim director of the

Latina/Latino studies program. He has published widely in the field of Latino politics

and is the author of Counting on the Latino Vote: Latinos as a New Electorate (1996),

and co-author, with Rodolfo O. de la Garza, of Making Americans/Remaking America:

Immigration and Immigrant Policy (1998). He is also author and editor of a six-volume

series on Latino political values, attitudes, and behaviors. The seventh volume in the

series, on Latino politics in the 2000 election, will be published in 2004. DeSipio’s re-

search focuses on Latino politics, the process of political incorporation of new and

formerly excluded populations into U.S. politics, and public policies involving immi-

gration, immigrant settlement, naturalization, and voting rights.

MARILYN ESPITIA is an assistant professor in the Department of Sociology and a re-

search associate of the Center for Immigration Research (CIR) at the University of

Houston. She received her Ph.D. from the University of Texas, Austin, where she spe-

cialized in demography and immigration. Her current research examines the ways the

naturalization experiences of contemporary Latin American immigrants in the Unit-

ed States challenge the assimilation narrative of citizenship acquisition and how the

formation of transnational social spaces shifts the meaning of national belonging.

MARÍA CRISTINA GARCÍA is associate professor of history and director of the Latino

studies program at Cornell University. She is the author of Havana USA: Cuban Ex-

iles and Cuban Americans in South Florida, 1959–1994 (1996), as well as numerous ar-

ticles on immigration and the Latino populations in the United States. She is present-

ly completing a book-length study on Central American migration to Mexico, the

United States, and Canada.

DAVID G. GUTIÉRREZ is a member of the faculty in history at the University of Cali-

fornia, San Diego, where he teaches courses on Mexican American history, compara-

tive immigration and ethnic history, and the recent political history of the United

States. Previous publications include Walls and Mirrors: Mexican Americans, Mexican

Immigrants, and the Politics of Ethnicity (1995); and (as compiler and editor) Between

Two Worlds: Mexican Immigrants in the United States (1996). He is currently complet-

ing a book-length study on the debate over citizenship in twentieth-century U.S. his-

tory, tentatively entitled Ethnic Minorities and the ‘Nation’: Ethnic Minorities and the

Debate over Citizenship. Gutiérrez received an undergraduate degree in history at the

University of California, Santa Barbara, and earned his master’s and Ph.D. in Ameri-

can history at Stanford University. He has taught at the University of Utah, Stanford

University, and the California Institute of Technology.

NORA HAMILTON is professor of political science at the University of Southern Califor-

nia. A specialist in Latin American politics with an emphasis on migration, political

economy, and the politics of Mexico and Central America, she is the author of The Lim-

its of State Autonomy: Post-Revolutionary Mexico (1982), and the co-author, with Norma

Chinchilla, of Seeking Community in a Global City: Guatemalans and Salvadorans in Los

Angeles (2001). She is the author of numerous articles and book chapters and is co-editor

of Global Productions: The Garment Industry in the Pacific Rim (1994) and Crisis in Cen-

tral America: Regional Dynamics and U.S. Policy in the 1990s (1988). Her current research

interests include international migration, particularly Central American migration, and

the evolution of the Salvadoran and Guatemalan communities of Los Angeles.

PIERRETTE HONDAGNEU-SOTELO is professor of sociology at the University of South-

ern California. She is the author of Gendered Transitions: Mexican Experiences of Immi-

gration (1994) and editor of Gender and U.S. Immigration: Contemporary Trends (2003).

Her book Doméstica: Immigrant Workers Cleaning and Caring in the Shadow of Afflu-

ence (2001) won the C. Wright Mills Award from the Society for the Study of Social

Problems, three awards from the American Sociological Association, and the 2002 Dis-

tinguished Scholarship Award from the Pacific Sociological Association. Her current

research examines faith-based mobilizations for immigrant rights in the United States.

GLADYS M. JIMÉNEZ-MUÑOZ is associate professor in the School of Education and

Human Development at Binghamton University—State University of New York. She

was a Gaius Charles Bolin Fellow in History at Williams College (1992) and a Ford

Foundation Post-Doctoral Fellow (1998). She has published numerous articles on

race, class, gender, sexuality, nationality, multicultural education, Latinas, cultural

468

CONTRIBUTORS

studies, AIDS, women’s suffrage, and critiques of coloniality. She is currently working

on two book-length studies: “A Storm Dressed in Skirts”: Colonial Ambivalence and

Puerto Rican Women’s Suffrage and the tentatively titled Women and Race in Puerto

Rico in the Interwar Period.

KEVIN R. JOHNSON is associate dean for academic affairs and professor of law and

Chicana/o studies at the University of California at Davis. Johnson has published ex-

tensively on international migration, immigration law and policy, and civil rights,

with a particular focus on Latinos. His books include Mixed Race Americans and the

Law: A Reader (2002); Reader on Race, Civil Rights, and the Law: A Multiracial Ap-

proach (2001); and How Did You Get to Be Mexican? A White/Brown Man’s Search for

Identity (1999), which was nominated for the 2000 Robert F. Kennedy Book Award. A

graduate of Harvard Law School, where he served as an editor of the Harvard Law Re-

view, Johnson earned his undergraduate degree in economics from UC Berkeley.

PEGGY LEVITT is associate professor of sociology at Wellesley College and a research

fellow at the Hauser Center for Nonprofit Organizations and the Weatherhead Cen-

ter for International Affairs at Harvard University. Her book, The Transnational Vil-

lagers, was published in 2001. Another volume, The Changing Face of Home: The

Transnational Lives of the Second Generation, which she compiled and edited with

Mary Waters, was published in 2002. Her current research explores the nexus between

transnational religion and politics and the relationship between varied forms of

transnationalism in different parts of the world.

KELVIN SANTIAGO-VALLES is associate professor of sociology at the State University

of New York, Binghamton, and author of “Subject People” and Colonial Discourses:

Economic Transformation and Social Disorder in Puerto Rico, 1898–1947 (1994). He is

currently finishing a book tentatively entitled Atlantic Racial Regimes in World-

Historical Perspective: Coloniality, Class Composition, and the Linking of Puerto Rico

and the United States, 1765–2000. His research and teaching focus is on the Americas

and the broader Caribbean with emphasis on the Hispanic Antilles and their popula-

tions in the United States. He has also taught courses and published extensively on the

African diaspora, cultural and political-economy analyses, and critical theories of

“race” and “gender,” covering slavery and other forms of racialized labor, social trans-

formations and inequalities brought about by Western culture and global capitalism,

and resistances to this way of conceiving and organizing the world.

ANTHONY M. STEVENS-ARROYO is professor of Puerto Rican and Latino studies at

Brooklyn College, a Distinguished Scholar of the City University of New York, and di-

rector of the Research Center for Religion in Society and Culture (RISC). Widely pub-

lished in English and Spanish, he has written more than forty scholarly articles and has

also authored nine books, including the four-volume PARAL series on religion among

Latinos. His 1980 book, Prophets Denied Honor: An Anthology on the Hispano Church

of the United States (1980) is considered a “landmark of Catholic literature.” With his

spouse, Ana María Díaz-Stevens, he authored Recognizing the Latino Religious Resur-

gence: The Emmaus Paradigm, which was named an Outstanding Academic Book for

1998 by Choice Magazine. A spokesperson for civil and human rights, he has testified

before the United States Congress and the United Nations and was named by Presi-

dent Jimmy Carter to the Advisory Board of the United States Commission of Civil

Rights, where he served for two terms.

469

CONTRIBUTORS

INDEX

Acosta, Ivan, 176 Actos, the (Teatro Campesino),

364, 366, 367 ACT-UP, 110 advertising, 21, 71, 362, 377, 424 AFDC. See Aid to Families with

Dependent Children affirmative action, 17, 20, 243,

253n5, 409–10, 420n90; of Catholic Church, 332; and expressive culture, 368, 376, 378; U. Michigan case on, xxi, 409

AFL-CIO (American Federation of Labor–Congress of Industrial Organizations), 214, 446

Africa, 10, 304, 345, 365, 378 African Americans, 16, 38n45,

43, 80n21, 130n88, 407; and affirmative action, 409, 420n90; and citizenship, 36n36; and civil rights, xx, 399; and Civil Rights Movement, 56, 317, 325; and community organization, 439, 440; criminalization of, 113; displacement of, 165, 199–200, 202, 204, 226n10; and education, 316–17; and Latino activism, 53, 55, 315, 316, 317, 319; and Latino population growth, ix, 7, 69; vs. Latinos, xx, 19, 153, 275, 293, 299, 348, 391, 409; and law, 411; leaders of, 316–17; music of, 357, 368–69, 383; Northern migration of, 312;

and pan-Latino organization, 442; and politics, 71, 426, 427, 430, 456; and Puerto Ricans, 87, 94, 96, 97, 100, 102, 104, 106, 108, 111, 118; and religion, 303, 318, 342, 344; and social polarization, 101–2, 110, 121; and Voting Rights Act, xxii, 428, 429

Afro-Caribbeans, 157, 187, 203, 275, 383; religions of, xix, 100, 346–47; and slavery, 189, 223

Afro-Latinos, 230, 231, 260, 377 Agee, Theresa, 101 agriculture: corporate, 55, 62,

89; in Cuba, 153, 156, 167; in Dominican Republic, 230, 232–35, 244; labor in, 91, 94, 233, 235, 237, 293, 441; labor organization in, 54–55; in Mexico, 62; seasonal, 90, 293, 311; in South America, 267

Agrón, Salvador (Capeman), 101–2

Aguilera, Christina, 21, 381 AIDS, 367 Aid to Families with Dependent

Children (AFDC), 155, 436. See also social services

Alabama, 68 Alaska, 68 Albita (musician), 175 Albizu Campos, Pedro, 320, 357 Algarín, Miguel, 365, 366 Alianza Federal de Pueblos

Libres, 441

Alianza Hondureña de Los Angeles, 220

Allende, Salvador, 15, 378 Almeida, Rafael, 175 Almendros, Nestor, 176 Almighty Latin King and Queen

Nation, 111 Alurista (poet), 57, 362–63, 364,

366 Alvarez, Julia, 252, 373 Alvarez v. Owen, 407 American Baptist Churches v.

Thornburgh, 209, 212 American Friends Service

Committee, 321 American G.I. Forum, 52,

60, 439 Americanization: and Catholic

Church, 307, 308, 309, 317, 330, 338; and Chicano Movement, 61; and cultural nationalism, 363; and cultural religion, 342; vs. diversity, 333–34; and expressive culture, 345, 355, 376; of Latino immigrants, 229, 232, 243–46, 250–52, 275–77; and Mexican American culture, 49, 50; and Protestantism, 306, 339. See also assimilation

Americanos (multimedia project), 378, 384–87

American Samoa, 127n49 amnesty, 199, 204, 219, 394, 434 Amnesty International, 162 Anaheim (California), 188, 198,

200 Angiano, Lupe, 337–38

Anglo-Americans, xii, 9; and Americanos project, 385; and gender, 291, 293, 295; and Latino expressive culture, 368, 371, 374, 375, 378, 380, 382, 383; and Mexican activism, 54, 55; as the other, 366; racism of, 391; and religion, 306, 310–11, 312, 342; socioeconomic status of, 47, 75, 120, 130n88; white flight of, 75, 86n67

Anglo-Caribbeans, 111 Anglo-Cubans, 146 Anthony, Marc, 381, 383 Anthony, Susan B., 300n antiwar movement, 59, 319, 321,

322, 441 Antonetti, Evelina, 99 Anzaldúa, Gloria, 344, 370,

371, 372 Aparicio, Frances R., xix–xx,

70, 123, 355–90 apartheid, 378 “Aprenda y Supérese” (Training

for Independence), 155 Arena party (El Salvador), 195 Arenas, Reinaldo, 175 Argentina, 28, 160, 267;

immigration from, 6, 259, 263, 264, 265, 266, 268

ARIS study, 339, 348 Arizona, 67, 427, 429; civil-rights

violations in, 401, 402; English-only movement in, 405–6; Latinos in, 72, 273–74, 434, 450, 454, 455; and Mexican Republic, 6, 44; Mexicans in, 46, 68; vigilantes in, 413n15

Arkansas, 67, 68 Arnaz, Desi, 175, 359 art. See culture, expressive; film;

literature; music; theater Arzube, Juan, 326 Asia, 15, 82n38, 266 Asian Americans, 130n88, 293,

375, 411, 428, 430 Asian immigrants, 3, 118, 286,

290, 299, 392, 397; Chinese, 44, 117, 129n68, 156, 157, 414n22; and immigration law, 44–45, 414n22; and naturalization, 4, 36n36, 435

Asociación de Confinados (ñetas), 111

Asociación de Vendedores Ambulantes (Street Vendors Association), 215

Asociación Salvadoreños de Los Angeles (ASOSAL), 213

Aspira (youth organization), 99 assimilation, 19–23; and Catholic

Church, 308, 317; of Chinese, 414n22; and citizenship, 22–23, 25, 398; and class, xvi, 21–22, 72–73; and cultural nationalism, 363, 364, 365; demands for, 397–98; and discrimination, 76, 397; downward, 25; and education, 20, 25, 75–76; and expressive culture, xx, 355, 369, 373, 383; and language, 25, 405–6; to Latino community, 341; as national mythology, 19–20; segmented, xvi, 24, 75–76; vs. transnational identity, 343

asylum, xx; for Central Americans, 207–10, 212, 404; for Cubans, 159–61, 168–69, 404

Atlanta (Georgia), 84n49, 104, 163

Aztecs, 304, 305, 320, 321, 346 Aztlán, 57, 320, 334, 362–63, 366

Baca Zinn, Maxine, 291 Badillo, Herman, 99, 112, 426 Báez, Buenaventura, 231 Bakke decision (Regents of

University of California v. Bakke), 409

Balaguer, Joaquin, 235–37, 248 Balmaseda, Liz, 176 balseros (rafters), 167–68 Baltimore (Maryland), 146 Balzac v. Porto Rico (1922), 13–14 Barbados, 120 barrios (neighborhoods):

Mexican, 57, 124; political activism in, 111, 128n54, 316; Puerto Rican, 97, 100, 112, 118, 124. See also community

baseball, 175, 232, 252, 393 Batista, Fulgencio, 149, 150 Bauer, Steven, 176 Bay of Pigs invasion (1961), 15,

155, 173, 177, 182n20, 451 Bean, Frank, 238 Bedía, José, 176 Belen Jesuit High School, 173 Belizans, 202, 203, 217 Belize, 29n3, 187, 189, 192, 217 Beltrán, Edgar, 329 Bernstein, Leonard, 102 Berrigan, Daniel, 321 Berrigan, Philip, 321 Bilingual-Bicultural Ordinance

(1973), 166

bilingualism, 17, 70, 121, 341; and Catholic Church, 318, 322, 331; opposition to, 370, 405–6; and Voting Rights Act, 315, 428, 429. See also English language; language; Spanish language

BIP. See Border Industrialization Program

Bishops’ Committee for the Spanish-Speaking. See Office for the Spanish-Speaking

Black Panthers, 57, 157 Black Power Movement, 55,

57, 59 Blades, Rubén, 368 Blanco, Salvador Jorge, 236, 249 “blue-jean revolution”

(Cuba), 159 Bolivia, 259–60, 263, 265, 267 Border Industrialization

Program (BIP), 64 Borderlands/La Frontera

(Anzaldúa), 372 Border Patrol, 395, 400–403,

416n41 border zone, Mexico-U.S.,

69, 70, 84n48, 288; and Americanos project, 387; and expressive culture, 372, 374; INS enforcement in, 395, 397, 403; political machines in, 427; security since 9/11 in, 67, 77, 261, 271; smugglers in, 194, 218; Tex-Mex culture of, 379–80, 382, 383; twin cities in, 66–67; vigilantes in, 395, 413n15

Boricuas (Puerto Ricans), 89 Borinquen, 363 Bosch, Juan, 234, 246 Boston (Massachusetts), 97, 104,

110, 146, 192; Dominicans in, 244–46, 248, 250

Boswell, Thomas, 238, 239 Bowie High School (El Paso,

Texas), 401 Bracero Program, 45–46, 64, 90,

290, 295–96, 394 brain drain, 120–22, 123,

151, 266 Braudel, Fernand, 125n6 Brazil, 6, 28, 29n3 Brown Berets, 441 Brownsville (Texas), 67, 68,

84n48 Brown v. Board of Education

(1954), xxi, 406, 407 Broyles-González, Yolanda,

367, 371 Bryant, Anne Peyton, 361–62

472

INDEX

Buchanan, Patrick J., 41n64 Buena Vista Social Club (music

group), 175 Bush, George W., 446, 450, 455 business: agricultural, 55, 62, 89;

Dominican, 240, 248; and immigration law, xx, 394; Latino, 130n88; minority, 170, 171, 420n89; multinational, 62, 117, 386; and offshore production, 65, 82n39, 103, 117, 120; Puerto Rican, 90, 91, 98, 118; retail, 98, 118; and U.S. policy, xv, xix, xx, 11, 26, 55, 62, 89, 90, 91, 394

Caballeros de San Juan, 99, 313 Cabrera, Lydia, 175 Cadena, Gilbert, 335 California, 32n18, 123, 311, 370;

affirmative action in, 409; annexation of, 306; bilingual education in, 406, 408, 419n85; Catholic Church in, 307, 308; Central Americans in, 188, 198, 200–201, 204, 226n9; civil rights violations in, 403; Cubans in, 157; economy of, 74, 82n40; English-only movement in, 406; gangs in, 200–201; Latino culture in, 221, 357, 384; Latino political partici- pation in, 71, 72, 426, 429, 436–37, 448, 455; Latinos in, 8, 9, 84n48, 257, 272–73, 288, 433, 434, 453; Mexican activism in, 54–55, 56, 57, 58; in Mexican Republic, 6, 44; Mexicans in, 45, 46, 67, 68, 72–73, 320; migrant labor in, 413n18; and UFW, 323–24; white flight from, 86n67. See also Anaheim; Los Angeles; Proposition 187; San Francisco; Westlake

California State University at Northridge (CSUN), 223

Calle Ocho (Miami), 172 Camarioca (Cuba), 155, 161 Campaign for Human

Development, 318 Canada, 160, 435 Cancún (Mexico), 267 CANF. See Cuban American

National Foundation Canseco, José, 175 The Capeman (musical), 101 capitalism, 98, 101, 306, 319; and

cultural nationalism, 365, 366; and expressive culture,

355, 384; global, 125n4. See also globalization

CARA Exhibit (Chicano Art: Resistance and Affirmation), 375–76

Cárdenas,Gilbert, 238 CARECEN (Central American

Resource Center), 207, 213 Caribbean, 26, 98, 146, 370;

imperialism in, 231, 349; literature of, 373, 382; offshore production in, 65, 117, 120; slavery in, 189, 223. See also Cuba; Dominican Republic; Haiti; Puerto Rico

Caribbean immigrants, 5, 6, 26, 118, 286, 288, 435; and gender, 295, 296

Caribbeans: Afro-, xix, 100, 187, 189, 203, 275, 346–47, 383; Anglo-, 111; music of, 357, 384; religions of, xix, 98, 100, 346–47; resistance by, 110

Carrasco, David, 345 Carter, Jimmy, 163–64, 459n8 CASA. See Centro de Acción

Social Autonoma Casa Nicaragua, 206, 213, 220 Castillo, Ana, 371, 373 Castro, Fidel, xiv, 152, 173, 426;

attempts to overthrow, 155, 176–77, 179; and Carter administration, 163–64; and Clinton administration, 167–68; and communism, 149, 150, 153, 159, 165, 172, 179, 233; and Cuban-American partisanship, 450–51; departure of, 179–80; and Eisenhower administration, 150, 153; emigrant policy of, 154, 155–56; and Latino militancy, 319; and Mariel boatlift, 157–67; and national- ization of American firms, 150–51; and Peruvian embassy crisis, 159–60; and Reagan administration, 166–67; revolution of (1959), 146, 148–51, 157; and U.S. invasion, 153, 155, 162, 177, 179

Castro, Max, 238, 239 Catholic Action, 313, 317 Catholic Church: activism

within, 324–28; and Americanization, 307, 308, 309, 317, 330, 338; and anticlericalism, 306, 313; and bilingualism, 318, 322, 331; and Central American refugees, 201, 217, 225n6; and

Charismatics, 336–37; and Chávez, 322–24; clergy of, 312–13, 314; clericalism in, 313, 316, 317; and Cuban refugees, 152–54, 181n12; democracy in, 331, 332, 334; and education, 326, 327, 332, 334, 348; and English language, 307–9, 318; governance of, 328–29; and Latino Catholicism, 246, 307–9; Latino clergy in, 313, 335, 342, 349n4; lay leaders in, 314, 329, 331, 332, 333, 335, 342; and Mexican Americans, 311, 327, 328, 330, 336; pastoralists vs. liberationists in, 334–35, 337–38; and political activism, 315–18, 337–38; and Puerto Ricans, 307, 311, 312, 313, 327, 336, 341; reform of, 326, 327–28, 331, 334; and religious resurgence, 335, 341; and secular militancy, 333, 334; seminary training for, 308–9, 312; and social change, 318, 322, 328, 348; and UFW strike, 325–26, 348; and women, 285–86, 314, 315, 317, 326, 328, 332

Catholic Interamerican Cooperation Program (CICOOP), 329

Catholicism, xix, 1, 10, 98, 286; and Afro-Caribbean religion, 346, 347; and ecumenism, 342; Eurocentric, 308; evangelical, 313–15; and gender, 284–85; hybrid, 304; and JFK campaign, 424; Latino, 307–9, 308, 331; and Pentecostalism, 309–10; and Protestantism, 330, 339; resurgence in, 333–35, 341, 344; Spanish, 306; syncretism in, 349n2; and UFW, 55, 322–26, 348

Catholic Relief Services, 152 Catholic Welfare Bureau, 154 Católicos Por La Raza (CPLR),

316, 324–26 CAUSA (Central American

United Student Association), 223

La Causa (United Farm Workers strike), 55, 322–26, 348

la causa cubana, 176 CELAM. See Latin American

Episcopal Conference Central America: economy of,

xv, 190–91, 192; indigenous peoples of, 18, 189–90;

473

INDEX

Central America (Continued) natural disasters in, 197, 213, 219, 220; peace agreements in, 196, 210, 219; political stability in, xv; repressive regimes in, 191, 194–95, 196; unemployment in, 196–97; U.S. investment in, 190–93; U.S. relations with, xiii, xiv–xv, 205–7; women’s role in, 191

Central American Coalition, 213 Central American immigrants,

xiv–xvi, 5, 187–228, 317, 403; asylum for, 207–10, 212, 404; in California, 188, 198, 200–201, 204, 226n9; and Catholic Church, 201, 217, 225n6; criminalization of, 113; and education, 197–98, 205, 222–23; employment of, 188, 191–95, 198–99, 200–204, 206, 224–25; ethnic diversity of, 187–88, 201–5, 211, 217–18, 222–24; expressive culture of, 202, 211–12, 216–18, 222–24, 355; female, 191, 192–93, 199, 216, 225n5; and gender, 299; and generational differences, 221–24; internal migrations of, 189–91; and language skills, 204, 205, 215–16, 217; legal status of, 193, 194, 196, 197–98, 199, 205–10, 212, 225, 269; in Los Angeles, 188, 196, 200–207, 213–15, 217, 219–24; in Mexico, 189, 191, 193; in New York, 188, 192, 193, 198, 203, 206, 224; and other Latinos, 118, 201–5; patterns of, 193, 199; political activity of, 188, 194, 198, 205, 206–10, 213–14, 222; refugee status for, xv, 188, 196, 197, 207–10, 393; remittances from, xv, 197, 211, 216, 218–21, 224; socio- economic status of, 123, 197–99, 205, 211, 226n15; temporary legal status for, 209–10, 212, 213; transnational ties of, 197, 198, 206, 218–19, 222, 224–25, 226n14, 272–73, 295; travel agencies for, 201, 218, 221; “underground railroad” for, 194; undocu- mented, xvii, 194, 196, 199, 205–6, 263, 393; and union- ization, 296; in urban areas, 188, 198, 202, 204, 206, 210, 220, 221–22; U.S. population of, 260, 262–63, 265; and U.S. citizenship, 210–12; and U.S.

immigration policy, 196–99, 207–10, 213

Central American Resource Center (CARECEN), 207, 213

Central Americans: political activism of, 204, 206–7, 210–14

Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), 15, 150–51, 153, 155, 162, 177

Centro de Acción Social Autonoma (CASA), 60

Centro Hispano Católico, 152 Centro Renacimiento, 365 Cervantes, Lorna Dee, 371 Céspedes y Castillo, Carlos

Manuel de, 147 Chandler (Arizona), 401 Charismatic movement, 336–37,

350n5 Charitable Choice, 341 Chávez, César, xix, 54–55, 58,

348, 357, 364, 365; and religion, 322–24. See also United Farm Workers Union

Chávez, Hugo, 268 Chávez, Linda, 72 Chávez-Thompson, Linda, 446 Chiapas (Mexico), 346 Chicago (Illinois), 2, 7, 8, 19, 287,

357, 386, 408; Catholic Church in, 313; Central Americans in, 188, 206; Cubans in, 151, 176; Mexicans in, 45, 46; politics in, 322, 427; Puerto Ricans in, 89, 95, 97, 99, 118, 124; riots in, 102

Chicanas, 257, 275, 286, 298; feminist, 291, 293, 369, 371, 373; as writers, 370, 371–72, 373

Chicanismo, 59 Chicano Moratorium, 441 Chicano Movement, 53, 56, 58,

61, 321, 447; and Catholic Church, 332; and community organization, 441; and cultural nationalism, 363–67; feminism in, 291; and Latino activism, 319, 443; mas- culinism of, 371; vs. pan- Latino organization, 442

Chicanos, 57, 123, 257, 275, 324; elite, 61, 124; expressive culture of, 375–76; in gangs, 102; music of, 368–69; oppositional vs. integra- tionist, 376; poetry of, 362, 369; and Puerto Ricans, 107, 118, 325; as term, 77n1, 80n21, 320. See also Mexican

Americans; Mexican immigrants

Chicano Student Movement of Aztlán. See El Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlán

Chicano Youth Liberation Conference, First National, 56–57, 58

children, 66, 108, 294, 297; Mexican-American, 50–51; paid care for, 296; poverty of, 23, 74–75; Puerto Rican, 108; and transnational motherhood, 295, 296. See also youth

Chile, 6, 259, 260, 263, 264, 265, 268

Chinchilla, Norma Stoltz, xiv–xv, 187–228, 404

Chinese immigrants, 44, 117, 129n68, 414n22; in Cuba, 156, 157

Chirino, Willie, 175 CHIRLA. See Coalition for

Humane Immigrant Rights of Los Angeles

Christian Base Communities, 201, 206, 207

Christian Coalition, 340 Christianity, 344, 346. See also

Catholic Church; Catholicism; Protestantism

CIA. See Central Intelligence Agency

CICOOP. See Catholic Interamerican Cooperation Program

Cisneros, Sandra, 21, 358, 371, 373 Cisneros v. Corpus Christi

Independent School District, 80n24

CISPES (Committee in Solidarity with the People of El Salvador), 206

citizenship: and Asians, 4, 36n36, 435; and assimilation, 22–23, 25, 243, 398; birthright, 398; and Central Americans, 210–12; and Colombians, 270; and Cuban Americans, 149, 174, 176–77, 180; demand for, 435–37; and Dominicans, xvi, xvii, 27, 230, 239, 247–49; of Dominicans, 27, 247–49; dual, xvi, xvii, xxii, 27, 42n67, 247–48, 444–45; vs. dual nationality, 42n67; and education, 406; eligibility for, 437, 438; and expressive culture, 373, 382; and gender, 284; and globalization, 28; hierarchies of, 284; and

474

INDEX

immigration law, xx, 392–99, 404–5, 410, 411; and Insular Cases, 34n24; and internal migration, 311; and legal status, 433–34; Mexican American, 12, 14, 16, 27, 36n36, 174, 399; and politics, xxi, xxii, 51, 52, 72, 111, 430, 433–37, 448; Puerto Rican, 7, 12–14, 16, 24, 32n15, 35n30, 111, 287, 382, 398; and race, 16, 36n36; and remittances, 27; second-class, 12–13, 396, 398, 405; of Selena, 380; and socioeconomic status, 24, 28, 74; and transnationalism, 343; and undocumented immigrants, 398, 433–34; and voting, 436–38. See also naturalization

Citizenship USA program, 414n29

Ciudad Juárez (Mexico), 67 civil rights: of African

Americans, xx, 399; of Central American immigrants, 208–9, 213; and citizenship, 36n36; and Cubans, 157, 162, 166, 178; of Dominicans, 230, 252; and language, 405–6; and Latino population growth, xx, 377; and law, xx, 392, 399–406, 410, 411; lawsuits on, 401, 402–3; organizations for, 265, 440; and political activism, 52, 53, 55, 102–3, 111, 399–400, 426, 440–41; and political participation, xxii, 447, 457, 458; of Puerto Ricans, 12–13; and religion, 321, 322; and stereotypes, 166, 284, 401–3; violations of, 391, 400–403; of workers, 215–16

Civil Rights Act (1964), 290 Civil Rights Movement, 290,

369; African Americans in, 56, 317, 325; and Latino activism, 315, 317, 319, 439, 440; and religion, 303, 321, 339

class, socioeconomic, xii, xvii, 2, 125n4, 285; and affirmative action, 410; and Americanos project, 387; of Anglo- Americans, 47, 75, 120, 130n88; and assimilation, xvi, 21–22, 24, 72–73; of Central Americans, 123, 197–99, 205, 211, 226n15; and citizenship, 24, 28, 74; in Cuba, 146–50, 156–57, 164, 181n4; of Cuban

Americans, 146, 150–51, 156, 164–65, 171, 370; and diversity, 17, 18, 61, 287, 377; and expressive culture, 110, 358, 368, 370, 371–73; and gender, 283–84, 298, 300; and language, 406; and Latina writers, 371–73; of Latinos, 239, 250; of Mexicans, 59, 60, 61, 73–75; and paid employment, 291–92; and permanent underclass, 77, 106; polarization by, 28, 89, 90, 101–8, 110, 114–19, 121, 123–24, 127n44; and political activism, 57, 59, 60, 440; and political participation, xxi, 430, 447, 457; and religion, 305, 307, 314, 331; of South Americans, xvii; and women’s employment, 292, 293. See also elites; middle class; mobility, socioeconomic; poverty; working class

clerical workers, 294, 298 Clinton, Hillary Rodham, 252 Clinton, William Jefferson,

167–68, 178, 252, 414n29, 451, 456

Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights of Los Angeles (CHIRLA), 213

Coalition for Racial Justice, 111 Coast Guard (Cuban), 159, 167 Coast Guard (U.S.), 155, 161, 164,

167–68, 404 Cold War, 62, 149, 165 Colombia, 27, 28, 189, 445; La

Violencia in, 268, 270 Colombian immigrants, 6, 268,

393; in New York City, 377, 411n3; and politics, 270–71; second generation of, 257–58, 276; transnational ties of, 242–43, 270, 272–73, 276; U.S. population of, 259–66, 270–73

Colón, Jesús, 323 Colón, Miriam, 99 Colón, Willie, 365, 368 colonialism, 112, 125n8, 319, 377;

and Americanos project, 385, 386; and Catholic Church, 332; in Central America, 188–91; in Cuba, 148, 149; and cultural nationalism, 363, 365; and expressive culture, xix–xx, 355, 356, 358, 367, 369, 370, 372, 378, 388; and forced labor, 189–91; and gender, 284; internal, 369, 385; and poverty, 87–88, 319; and

Puerto Rican labor, 87–145; Spanish, 6, 10, 18, 44; U.S., xi–xii, xiii, 11–14

Colorado, 67, 104, 434; Latino political participation in, 53, 56–57, 72, 450, 455; in Mexican Republic, 6, 44; Mexicans in, 46, 53, 56–57, 68

Coltrane, Scott, 294 Columbus, Christopher, 345 Comité de Amigas de Santa

Elena, 220 Commerce Department,

U.S., 170 Committees for the Defense of

the Revolution (Dominican Republic), 150

commodification, 22, 123, 367–68, 369, 379–83

communism: in Cuba, 149, 150, 153, 159, 165, 172, 179, 233; and Cubans, xiv, 403, 451; in Dominican Republic, 233–34; and U.S. foreign policy, 15

community: assimilation to Latino, 341; changing structure of Latino, 2–9; conceptualization of, 9–14; and culture, 98–99; diversification of Latino, 17–27; and education, 103, 440; and expressive culture, 358, 367–68, 376; and gender roles, 286; vs. individualism, 367–68; and Latino population growth, 1–42; political activism in, 102, 399; political participation in, 421, 422, 430, 433; Puerto Rican, 93–103; and religion, 303, 306, 310, 313, 318, 337–38, 340; and resistance, 110; vs. social conflict, 2; and transnational ties, 64; women as leaders of, 347

community organizations, 439–47; African American, 439, 440; and Chicano Movement, 441; cultural, 443; elites in, 425, 441, 446; funding for, 443; and JFK campaign, 423; and mutual aid, 443, 444; and national politics, 454; pan-Latino, 442–43; and political activism, 440–41; and political participation, 425–26, 439–47, 457; religious, 334, 439; and unionization, 296; and voting, 437, 438–39, 440, 447

475

INDEX

Community Service Organization (CSO), 52, 54–55

compadrazgo (godparent network), 70

Congress, U.S., 400, 404; and immigration law, 394–95; and Insular Cases, 35n24; Latinos elected to, 426, 458n3; and Puerto Rico, 12–14, 398; and Voting Rights Act, 428, 429

Congressional Hispanic Caucus, 17

Connecticut, 113, 118 Constitucionalistas (Dominican

Republic), 234 Constitution, U.S., 12, 408;

Fourteenth Amendment to, 36n36, 398, 409, 439; Fifteenth Amendment to, 439

consumerism, 17, 21, 22, 69, 71, 91; and expressive culture, xx, 358–59; and Mexican culture, 49, 50, 78n12; and music, 381, 382

Contras (Nicaragua), 194–96, 207–9

Cooke, Terrence Cardinal, 329 Corona, Bert, 319, 323 Corridos (musical), 367 Corrine (musician), 383 Costa Rica, 27, 187, 190, 195, 198 Cotera, Marta, 60, 371 courier services, 201, 218, 270 coyotes (smugglers), 194, 218 CPLR. See Católicos Por La Raza Cranford, Cynthia, 296, 297 Craven, Thomas, 316 CRECEN (Central American

Refugee Committee), 207 Creoles, 203 Cresce, Arthur R., 277n1 crime, 128n59, 395, 398, 408, 436 criminalization: of domestic

violence, 289; of Latinos, 113; of people of color, 113, 381; of resistance, 93; of survival practices, 100–101, 114

criollo elite (Cuba), 146, 150 Cristero Revolt, 320 CRP. See Cuban Refugee

Program Crusade for Justice, 56, 364, 441 Cruz, Celia, 377 Cruz, Nilo, 176 Crystal City (Texas), 54, 58 CSO. See Community Service

Organization CSUN. See California State

University at Northridge

Cuba: agriculture in, 153, 156, 167; “blue-jean revolution” in, 159–60; Castro’s revolution in (1959), 146, 148–51, 157, 367, 426; Chinese immigrants in, 156, 157; class in, 146–50, 156–57, 164, 181n4; communism in, 14, 149, 150, 153, 159, 165, 172, 179, 233; and Cuban-American partisanship, 450–51; cultural ties to U.S. of, 148, 158, 168, 175–76, 179, 181n6; dissent within, 149, 150, 151, 155, 159–60; economy of, 147–50, 159, 167, 179–80, 181n10; embargo on, 150, 179, 181n10; foreign investment in, 148, 150; freedom flights from, 155–57, 164, 174; gangsterismo in, 147; Guantánamo Naval Base in, xiv, 167–68; human rights in, 147, 162, 176; independence of, 147; and JFK, 154, 181n10; national- ization in, 150–51; as police state, 150, 152, 161–62; political reform in, 148–49, 179–80; post-Castro, 179–80; religion in, 163, 346, 347; remittances to, 148, 167, 179; and Soviet Union, 149, 167, 177; Ten Years’ War (1868–78) in, 146–47; tourism in, 167; and transnational politics, 459n6; unemployment in, 147, 148; U.S. relations with, xiii–xiv, 11, 14, 15, 146–56, 163–64, 167–68, 176–79. See also Castro, Fidel

Cuban Adjustment Act (1966), 167–68

Cuban American National Foundation (CANF), 178–79

Cuban Americans, 146–86; birth rates among, 170; black, 148, 157, 164, 171, 183n46; businesses of, 130n88, 240; and civil rights, 157, 162, 166, 178; class among, 123, 146, 150–51, 156, 164–65, 171; discrimination against, 148, 153, 157, 171, 178, 205; elderly among, 170, 171; as elected officials, 147, 451; employment of, 147–48, 151, 153–56, 170–71, 178; ethnic identity of, 275, 277; expressive culture of, 148, 166, 172–76, 179; female, 153, 155, 156, 170–71, 292; in

Florida, 119, 148–55, 165, 166, 170–73, 176, 177, 185n69, 194, 201, 203, 205, 209, 272–73, 311; generational differences among, 173–75; home ownership by, 130n88; incomes of, 169–70, 174, 239, 262; investment capital of, 170; and labor movement, 148, 181n6; language skills of, 152–55, 166, 171, 174, 175, 180; and Mariel boatlift, 396; music of, 148, 175, 368; and other Latinos, 8, 377; paramilitary groups among, 176–77; partisanship of, 448, 450–51; political participation of, 16, 146, 147, 172, 174–79, 426; population of, 238, 259–60, 262, 263, 265; racial profiling of, 408; success story of, 169–76, 262, 275; and transnational ties, 146–49, 151–52, 156, 158, 161, 164, 173–74; U.S.-born, 175–76, 178, 179; voting patterns of, 177–78

Cuban Committee for Democracy, 179

Cuban Democracy Act, 179 cubanidad (cultural ties), 148,

172–73 Cuban immigrants, xiii–xiv, 6,

146–86; first wave of (exile generation), 149–55, 170, 172, 173, 174; second wave of, 155–57; third wave of (los marielitos), 158–66; fourth wave of, 166–69; asylum for, 159–61, 168–69, 404; and Catholic Church, 152–54, 181n12, 311, 336; children among, 154; and cigar industry, 147, 148; and citizenship, 149, 174, 176–77, 180; and education, 146, 166, 169, 173, 174, 178, 266, 406; and English-only movement, 405; as exiles, 146–55, 158–61, 168–74, 370; and family reunification, 156, 158, 161, 164, 174; and “feet wet, feet dry” policy, 404; and immigration law, 153–58, 161–69, 403–4; indefinite voluntary departure of, 152; and INS, 161–62, 169; legal status of, 152, 167–68, 213, 394; professional, 120, 146, 154; as refugees, 152–54, 164–65, 181n12, 196, 208, 287, 393;

476

INDEX

resettlement of, 153–55, 157, 165–66, 172; social services for, xiv, 152–55, 161–62, 170, 171, 178; as temporary visitors, 148, 150, 153, 155, 172, 174, 176–77; U.S. policy on, 149, 153–58, 161–69; and U.S. banks, 152, 170–71; visas for, 151–52, 155

Cuban Missile Crisis (1962), 155, 182n21, 451

Cuban National Planning Council, 178

Cuban Refugee Emergency Center, 154

Cuban Refugee Program (CRP), 154, 157, 172

Cubans: Afro-, 148, 157, 164, 171, 183n46, 377; Anglo-, 146; in Peruvian embassy, 159–60, 163

cuisine, Latino, 49, 70, 98 cultural idiosyncrasy, 332, 333 culture, x, xv; and assimilation,

20, 21, 72; bilingual, 17, 70; in California, 221, 357, 384; Caribbean, 100; and civil rights, 400; commodified, 123; and community, 98–99, 443; consumer, xx, 49, 50, 78n12, 358–59; deficiency models of, 293; and discrimi- nation, 391; diversity in, 16, 20, 49, 61, 333–34, 339; Dominican, 244–46, 250; and education, 50, 363, 365, 377; and entertainment, 49, 50, 51, 343; and gender, 284–86; hip-hop, 110, 368–69, 383, 384; hybrid, 10, 384; and identity, xix, xx, 1–2, 355–59, 369, 372, 374; and internal migration, 311; and Latino media, 288, 364; and Latino population growth, 69–71; and liberation theology, 321; and literature, 357, 372, 373; Mexican, 49, 50, 61, 78n12; Mexican-American, 48–51; and performance art, 375; and political activism, 57, 110, 319; popular, 100, 289, 314, 330, 343, 346, 383; of poverty, 29n1, 100; Puerto Rican, 97, 98–99, 312; regional, 49, 285; and religion, 305–6, 314, 327, 330, 332, 338, 339, 344–45, 347, 348; of resistance, 386; Spanish, 285, 306, 311; and spirituality, 343–45; and stereotypes, 11, 362; syncretic,

69–70; Tejana, 54, 379–80; Tex-Mex, 379–80, 382, 383; and transnational politics, 444; U.S., 229, 232, 245–46, 250–52, 275–77, 289; and women’s employment, 292, 293. See also latinidad

culture, expressive, 1, 355–90; and affirmative action, 368, 376, 378; and American- ization, 345, 355, 376; and Anglo-Americans, 368, 371, 374, 375, 378, 380, 382, 383; and assimilation, xx, 355, 369, 373, 383; Central American, 202, 211–12, 216–18, 222–24, 355; Chicano, 375–76; and class, 110, 358, 368, 370, 371–73; Colombian, 270–71; and colonialism, xix–xx, 355, 356, 358, 367, 369, 370, 372, 378, 388; commodification of, 367–68; and community, 358, 367–68, 376; co-optation of, 358, 367, 368–69, 373, 381, 384; Cuban-American, 148, 166, 172–76, 179; diversity in, 369; Dominican, 245–46, 252; as entertainment, 355, 356, 367, 368; folklore, 356, 357; and gender, 370, 374, 375; and globalization, 355, 358–59; and immigration, 357, 358, 374; and integration, 376, 379; and language, 355, 356, 368, 370; and Latino population growth, 370, 388; mainstreaming of, 367–75, 377, 378, 381–83; murals in, 357, 365, 368; and race, 110, 358, 370, 382; as resistance, 358, 376; and stereotypes, 359–62; visual, 355, 357, 368, 376. See also film; literature; music; poetry; theater

Culture Clash, 370, 374 Cuna people, 189 CUNY student strikes

(1989–92), 110 the Cursillo, xix, 313–15, 317, 318,

323, 331, 332; and Charismatics, 336, 337

Dade County (Florida), 175; Cubans in, 154, 165, 166, 170–72, 177, 185n69; economy of, 151, 153, 155, 171

Dallas (Texas), 188, 198, 287 Dalton (Georgia), 43 Dávila, Arlene, 22

Day of the Dead (Día de los Muertos), 304, 346

death squads, 194, 196 DED (delayed enforced

departure). See TPS (temporary legal status)

de la Garza, Kika, 52 de la Garza, Rodolfo, xxi de la Hoya, Oscar, 21 Delano March, 364 de la Renta, Oscar, 252 Delgado v. Bastrop Independent

School District, 407 Demetriou, Lisa, 387 democracy, 29, 179, 306; in

Catholic Church, 331, 332, 334; in Dominican Republic, 230, 234, 236, 248

democratic centralism, 335 Democratic Party: and Cuban

Americans, 178; and Latino issues, 451, 452, 453; and Latino partisanship, 448–51; and Latinos, xxii, 316, 454, 456, 459n7; Mexicans in, 52; and naturalization, 398, 414n29

Denver (Colorado), 56–57, 104 deportation, 199, 206, 222, 403;

and 9/11, 399; and 1996 reforms, 395; and civil rights, 400, 404–5; hearings on, 209–10, 212–13; of Latinos, 395; and naturalization, 398, 436

Depression, 6, 14, 45, 307, 394, 400

DeSipio, Louis, xxi–xxii, 51, 71, 399, 421–59

Detroit (Michigan), 45 Día de los Muertos (Day of the

Dead), 304, 346 Diagnos National Study

(1974), 238 Díaz, Cameron, 176 Díaz, Junot, 252 Díaz, Nieden Susie, 401 Díaz-Stevens, Ana María,

312, 335 discrimination, 10, 17, 80n24;

and affirmative action, 409, 410; and assimilation, 76, 397; against Central Americans, 221; against Cubans, 148, 153, 157, 171, 178, 205; against Dominicans, 250; in education, 290, 391; employ- ment, 290, 292, 293, 396, 413n16; and hate crimes, 395; and immigration policy, 205, 209–10;

477

INDEX

discrimination (Continued) and law, xx, 391, 392, 411, 415n37; legislation on, 243; against Mexicans, xii, 47, 399; and political participation, 52, 111, 457; and racial profiling, 416n41; and religion, 326, 342; reverse, xxi, 337; and Voting Rights Act, 428; against women, 289–90, 292, 293. See also racism

diversity, 17–27, 31n12, 364, 370, 373, 374; and affirmative action, 410; vs. American- ization, 333–34; of Central Americans, 187–88, 201–5, 211, 217–18, 222–24; and class, 17, 18, 61, 287, 377; cultural, 16, 20, 49, 61, 333–34, 339, 369; in gender roles, 299; religious, 34n21, 347; of South Americans, 258–61, 264, 270, 274, 277

DLG (music group), 383 Dole, Robert, 178 domestic violence, 289, 306, 367 Dominica, 189, 203 Dominican immigrants, 6,

229–56, 317; Afro-, 231; in business, 240, 248; circular migration of, xvi, 97; and citizenship, xvi, xvii, 27, 230, 239, 247–49; civil rights of, 230, 252; criminalization of, 113; culture of, 244–46, 250, 252; deportation of, 395; and drug trade, 240; and education, 239, 240, 242, 250; employment of, 239, 240, 250–51; ethnic identity of, 230, 232–33, 248; in Florida, 239, 247; hometown associations of, 242–43, 246; income of, 239–40; language skills of, 239, 242, 250, 251; in literature, 373; in Massachusetts, 244–46, 248, 250; in New York, xvi, 68, 116, 234, 239, 240, 246–50, 252, 272, 276, 377, 411n3; partisanship of, 448; political participation of, 128n54, 229–30, 242–43, 246–52; and Puerto Ricans, 100, 106, 107, 108, 111, 118; as refugees, 234; and religion, 242, 246, 250, 336, 341; resistance by, 110; second generation of, 239, 247, 248, 250, 252; social classes of, 235, 238, 239, 242;

transnational ties of, 229–30, 240–51, 252, 445; undocu- mented, 263, 393; urban migration of, 238; U.S.-born, 238, 239; U.S. population of, 8, 230, 234, 236, 237–40, 259–60, 262–63; voting rights of, 248–49

Dominican National Congress, 249

Dominican Republic: agriculture in, 230, 231, 232–35, 244; Central Bank of, 244; communism in, 233–34; democracy in, 230, 234, 236, 248; as dictatorship, 232–33; economy of, xvi, 229–37, 244; elites in, xvi, 232; and expatriate vote, 248–49; and export trade, 231, 233, 236–37, 247; and gender roles, 289; human rights abuses in, 233, 246; independence of, 230, 231; industrialization in, 230–31, 236; labor force in, 233, 235, 236, 237, 239; landownership in, xvi, 230, 231, 233, 235, 244; middle class in, 233, 234, 235; military coup in, 234; military inter- ventions in, 15, 232–33, 234; off-shore production in, 120; political reform in, 236, 248; politics in, 229–30, 236, 242–43, 246–52; protec- tionism of, 235; race in, 230–31, 238; religion in, 346; remittances to, xvi, 27, 240, 242, 244, 249, 250; under Spain, 231; sugar production in, 232, 233, 236, 237, 247; tourism in, 236, 237, 244; unemployment in, 235–36, 244; urbanization in, 235–36; U.S. investment in, 231, 247; U.S. relations with, xvi, 231–35, 247; and U.S. culture, 229, 232, 245–46, 250–52

Doré, Carlos, 244 Dreaming of You (album;

Selena), 379 D’Rivera, Paquite, 175 drug trade, 3, 100, 113, 117, 240,

268, 397

economic development, xvi, 11, 14, 45, 386; disparities in, 6, 10; and globalization, xvi, 26, 28; Mexican, 62–66

economic restructuring, 85n60, 109–17, 128n65, 397; and brain

drain, 121; global, 61, 62, 65, 73, 76; and labor, 62, 76–77, 113, 288, 396; and migration patterns, 118, 290; and people of color, 114–15; and poverty, 73–75; and Puerto Rico, 104, 115, 119–20; regional, 73, 90; and social polarization, 22, 74, 114–17, 119, 123–24, 127n44; and technology, 62, 113; and unionization, 296; and youth, 109–10

economy: of border zone, 67; of Central America, xiv–xv, 190–91, 192; of Cuba, 147–50, 159, 167, 179–80, 181n10; of Dominican Republic, xvi, 229–37, 244; downturn in, 65, 82n38, 95, 111; and gender, 284; global, 65, 87–88, 95, 111, 126n12, 127n44; hierarchy in, 42n69; hourglass, 23–24; informal, 22, 39n53, 40n59, 67, 73–74, 93, 103, 114, 117, 118; of Mexico, 62–66, 267–68; moral, 101; and outsourcing, 22, 28; postindustrial, 243; segmented, 22, 24, 25; of sending countries, 397; of South America, 267; U.S. policy on, xv, xix, xx, 4–5, 6, 11, 14, 15, 26, 55, 62, 89, 90, 91, 394. See also income; poverty

economy, U.S.: blue-collar, 112, 294; in California, 74, 82n40; deregulation of, 113; in Florida, 151, 153, 155, 164–65, 171; and labor, 87–88; and language, 405; and Latinos, 69, 375; Mexicans in, xii, 73–75; migrant workers in, xii, 3, 4–5, 10, 25–26, 44–46, 287, 323, 363, 387, 393, 394, 413n18; in New York City, 111–12; and offshore production, 65, 82n39, 103, 117, 120; opportunities in, 73, 287, 391, 393, 452; Puerto Ricans in, 93–103

Ecuador, 27, 160, 270, 276; immigrants from, 6, 259, 261–65, 393

education: and African Americans, 316–17; and Americanos project, 386; and assimilation, 20, 25, 75–76; bilingual, xxi, 17, 20, 56, 103, 110, 318, 322, 370, 376, 378, 406, 408, 419n85, 452; and brain drain, 121; and Catholic Church, 313, 326, 327, 331–34,

478

INDEX

341, 348; and Central Americans, 197–98, 205, 222–23; and class, 73, 74, 124; and Colombians, 262; and community, 103, 440; and Cubans, 146, 166, 169, 173, 174, 178, 266, 406; and culture, 50, 363, 365, 377; discrimination in, 290, 391; and Dominicans, 239, 240, 242, 250; and Ecuadorians, 262; equality in, 406–10; and expressive culture, 355, 356, 368; funding for, 407–8, 452; and gender, 281, 282, 284, 289, 290, 299; and Latino diversity, 18; and law, xxi, 392, 395, 411; and Mexicans, 47, 50, 57, 59–60, 62; and naturalization rates, 435; and Peruvians, 262; and political activism, 17, 51, 54, 57, 59–60, 103, 111, 319, 426; and political participation, xxi, 72, 430–33, 447, 457; and poverty, 23, 24; and Proposition 187, 408, 436; and Protestantism, 307; public, xx, xxi, 17; and Puerto Ricans, 87, 88, 92, 96, 104, 107, 108, 109, 122; segregation in, xxi, 75, 397, 407; and social polarization, 119; and South Americans, xvii, 40n58, 261–62, 264, 266–68, 272, 275; and voting, 439

Eisenhower, Dwight D., 15, 150, 153

elected officials, Latino, 17, 429, 430, 440, 447, 457; candidacies of, 452–53; in Congress, 426, 458n3; Cuban American, 147, 451

elections: national, xxi, 421, 440, 453–56, 458n2; state and local, 455; and Viva Kennedy! clubs, 52, 421, 422–25, 426, 439, 440, 446, 453. See also politics: electoral

Electoral College, 421, 454, 458n2, 459n8

elites, xii–xiii, xv, xvi; artistic, 345; and assimilation, 21–22; Chicano, 61, 124; and citizenship, 28; as colonial intermediaries, 112; in community organizations, 425, 441, 446; Cuban criollo, 146, 150; in Dominican Republic, xvi, 232; and Latino youth, 348; and paid domestic work, 291–92;

and pan-Latino organization, 442, 443; and political participation, 457; Puerto Rican, 89, 90, 104–5, 112, 123, 124; and social movements, 322; South American, xv, 21, 267; and spirituality, 343; urban, 232, 267, 268

Elizondo, Virgilio, 304, 327, 330, 342, 344

El Paso (Texas), 67, 68, 69, 84n48, 365, 401, 403, 426

El Rescate (Los Angeles), 207, 213

El Salvador, 15, 196, 289; earthquakes in, 197, 213, 219, 220; indigenous peoples of, 189–90; matanza (1932) in, 191. See also Salvadoran immigrants

El Vez (singer), 387 employment: of Central

Americans, 188, 191–95, 198–204, 206, 216, 224–25; and class, 291–92, 295; of Cuban Americans, 147–48, 151, 153–56, 170–71, 178; discrimination in, 290, 292, 293, 396, 413n16; of Dominicans, 239, 240, 250, 251; and economic status, 23, 73, 74, 128n65; and English- only movement, 406; and family, 290–99; and gender, 282, 286, 289, 290–99, 300; in government sector, 236, 237; and housework, 294; and immigration law, xx, 393, 394, 414n24; and job skills, xvii, 23, 25, 47, 73, 74, 90, 92, 94, 96, 105, 108, 393, 414n24, 452; of Mexicans, 47; in Mexico, 63, 64, 66; opportunities for, 67, 243; and outsourcing, 22; part- time, 113; of Puerto Ricans, 92, 94, 96, 98, 104, 105, 108, 115; and rates of natural- ization, 435; of South Americans, xvii, 264, 266; and transnational mother- hood, 295; of undocumented workers, 46, 116, 396; in urban areas, 117; of women, 115, 116, 153, 155, 156, 170–71, 191, 192–93, 199, 216, 225n5, 291–92, 293, 295. See also labor; occupations; unemployment

the encuentro (Hispanic Pastoral Encounter), 328–36, 339, 348

English for Speakers of Other Languages (ESOL), 166

English language, 370, 379, 398, 429, 435, 452; and Catholic Church, 307–9, 318; and Cuban Americans, 152–55, 166, 171, 174, 175, 180; and Dominicans, 239, 242, 250, 251; and politics, xxi, 51, 52, 72; and professions, 299; skills in, 18, 152–55, 166, 171, 174, 175, 180, 239, 242, 243, 250, 251, 266. See also bilingualism; language

English-only movement, 405–6 environmental issues, 111, 344 EPZs. See export processing

zones las escuelitas cubanas (the little

Cuban schools), 173 ESOL. See English for Speakers

of Other Languages Espada, Martín, 373 Espitia, Marilyn, xvii, 257–80 Estefan, Gloria, 123, 175, 380 Esteves, Sandra María, 372 Estrada, Luis, 387 ethnic studies programs, xii,

9–14, 17, 33n19, 371; Central American, 223; Chicano, 57, 59, 330, 410; Puerto Rican, 103

Europe, 10, 146, 231 European immigrants, 4, 286,

299, 393, 428, 435; Irish, 3, 307, 397; Italian, 307, 308

Evangelicals, 201, 217, 336, 339–41, 348. See also Pentecostalism

export processing zones (EPZs), 117, 120, 236–37

exports, xv, 65, 82n40, 89, 114; Dominican, 231, 233, 236–37, 247

“Facts About Cuban Exiles” (FACE), 166

faith-based organizations, xxii, 334, 338, 339, 340, 342

Falwell, Jerry, 340 family: dual-earner, 294, 300;

and employment, 290–99; and expressive culture, 367, 371; and gender, 282, 285, 291, 300; mixed-status, 39n54; and religion, 310, 337; separation of, 295–96; stereotypes of Latino, 284; and transnational ties, xvii, 295

family reunification, 4, 264, 266, 268–69, 290, 393

479

INDEX

Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), 161

Feinstein, Diane, 450 FEMA. See Federal Emergency

Management Agency The Feminine Mystique

(Friedan), 291 feminism, xviii, 283, 289–92, 300;

Chicana, 291, 293, 369, 371, 373; and expressive culture, 371, 372, 376; first-wave, 300n; and Mexican activism, 60–61; on private vs. public sphere, 282, 291–92; and religion, 286, 344; second-wave, 282, 284, 289, 291, 300n

Fernández, Leonel, xvi, 229, 237, 244, 247–48, 249

Fernández, Roberto G., 176 Ferré, Rosario, 373 Fiesta de Santiago Apóstol, 304 Filipinos, 55, 97, 344. See also

Philippines film, 176, 297–98, 355, 379;

stereotypes in, 114, 359; West Side Story, 101, 102, 114, 360, 362

El fin del mundo (play), 367 Flores, Patricio, 326, 329, 330 Floricanto en Aztlán (Alurista),

362–63, 366 Florida: Cubans in, 119, 148–55,

165, 166, 170–73, 176, 177, 185n69, 194, 201, 203, 205, 209, 272–73, 311; Dominicans in, 239, 247; economy of, 151, 153, 155, 164–65, 171; education in, 123, 153, 154; employment in, 117; and English-only movement, 405; Latino partisanship in, 448, 450, 451; Latinos in, 7, 8, 9, 44, 119, 122, 147, 161, 247, 377, 393, 434; politics in, 72, 429, 455, 458n3; Puerto Ricans in, 96, 119, 122; Q’anjob’al Maya in, 188, 203; racial profiling in, 408; religion in, 336, 347; social polarization in, 123. See also Dade County; Miami

Florida Straits, 151, 155, 157, 167 FMLN (Farabundo Martí Front

for National Liberation), 194 Ford, Gerald, 459n8 Ford Foundation, 53, 442 Foreign Assistance Act (1961),

181n10 Fornés, María Irene, 176 Foucault, Michel, 344 Fox, Robert, 316, 317 France, 160

fraternidades. See hometown associations

“Free Cuba PAC,” 179 free processing zones, 386 free-trade zones, 117, 120. See also

North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA)

Friedan, Betty, 291 Fuerza Latina, 111 Funes Flores, Enrique, 403 Fusco, Coco, 374

Gabriel, Juan, 383 Galarza, Ernesto, 323 Gallardo, Gloria, 326 Gandhi, Mohandas, 55 gangs, 86n70, 200–201, 221–24,

381; and assimilation, 76, 397; politicized, 102, 110–11; Puerto Rican, 100, 101–2; and religion, 304, 348

gangsterismo, 147 García, Andy, 176 García, Cristina, 176, 373 García, María Cristina, xiii–xiv,

146–86 García, Mario, 328 Garifuna, 187, 189, 192, 202, 203,

217–18, 223 garment industry, 94–95, 116–17,

153, 171, 193, 199, 200, 293; and labor movement, 215, 226n10

Garvey, Glicet, 387 Gaspar de Alba, Alicia, 375, 376 Gaviria, César, 26 gays and lesbians, 110, 163, 283,

363, 374, 376, 404 gender, x, xviii, 281–302; and

affirmative action, 409; and Americanos project, 386; and Anglo-Americans, 291, 293, 295; and Catholicism, 284–85, 314; and class, 283–84, 298, 300; conceptualization of, 282–84; and culture, 284–86, 370; division of labor by, 289, 291, 298, 299–300; and education, 281, 282, 284, 289, 290, 299; and employment, 24, 282, 286, 289, 290–99, 300; and expressive culture, 358, 367, 370–76; and family, 282, 285, 291, 300; and geographic mobility, 285, 288, 294–95, 299; and immigration, 286–89; and Latino population growth, 286–89; and political activism, 57, 60–61; and poverty, 250, 298–99; social construction of, 291; and symbolic

interactionism, 283; terminology for, xxiiin2; and unionization, 296–98; and urbanization, 281, 288

gender roles, xviii; diversity in, 299; in Mexican American culture, 50–51; and patriarchy, 282, 286, 300; in religion, 342–43; transgression of, 283, 285

generational differences: of Central Americans, 221–24; of Colombians, 257–58, 276; of Cuban Americans, 173–75; of Dominicans, 239, 247, 248, 250, 252; and expressive culture, 358, 376, 384; and political participation, 422, 459n5; of South Americans, 257–58, 274–77

Georgia, 43, 67, 68, 84n49, 104, 163, 400

Geraldo Rivera Show, 361 Gerardo, 369 Germany, 3, 64, 160, 307 Getting Home Alive (Morales

and Levins Morales), 372 G.I. Bill, 48 globalization, 16, 26–29, 33n19,

232; and assimilation, 24, 397; economic, xvi, 26, 28, 82n39, 87–88, 95, 111, 120, 126n12, 127n44; and economic restructuring, 61, 62, 65, 73, 76; and expressive culture, 355, 358–59; and free trade, 26, 29, 267; and gender, xviii, 299, 300; and labor, 90, 295, 397; and migration, 5, 25–26, 43–86; and nation- state, xvii, 27, 125n4; and political stability, 29; and racialization, 114; and socio- economic polarization, 22, 29, 41n65, 124; terminology for, xxiiin2; and trans- nationalism, xvii, 343, 375–79; and U.S. policy, 15, 90, 359

Gómez, David F., 308–9 Gómez, Marga, 374 Gómez-Peña, Guillermo, 374 Gonzales, Rodolfo “Corky,” 56,

58, 320–21, 364 González, Alex, 175 González, Elián, xiv, 168–69,

393, 451 González, Henry B., 52, 426 González, Juan Manuel, 169 González, Justo, 339 Good Neighbor policy, 359

480

INDEX

Gore, Al, 455 Goris, Anneris, 336, 341 government, U.S.: and

Americanos project, 385; and community organization, 98, 446; and cultural nationalism, 364; departments of, 161, 165, 170, 208, 209, 212; domestic policy of, 452; employment in, 48, 104; labor recruitment by, 45–46; and land-grants movement, 53; and Latino activism, 59, 441; local, 338, 406, 454; and pan-Latino organization, 443; and performance art, 374; and religion, 338, 340–41; role of, 340–41, 452; support for Contras by, 194–96, 207–9; and terminology, xxiiin2. See also Congress, U.S.; Constitution, U.S.; Supreme Court, U.S.

Gramsci, Antonio, 335, 348 Grand Rapids (Michigan), 68 Granma (periodical), 160 Grapes of Wrath

(Steinbeck), 312 Grasmuck, Sherri, 233 Great Britain, 231, 359 Greensboro (North

Carolina), 69 Grever, Bob, 380 Guadalupe Hidalgo, Treaty

of, 34n24, 53, 439 Guam, 11, 12 Guantánamo Naval Base

(Cuba), xiv, 167–68 Guarani people, 189 Guarnizo, Luis, 240, 241, 242,

246, 248–49 Guatemala, 15, 150–51, 194, 196 Guatemalan immigrants, xv, 5,

187, 191, 193–201, 260–63, 265, 288; asylum for, 404; legal status of, 196, 207–10, 213; organizations for, 207, 213; socioeconomic status of, 198, 205, 211, 222; undocu- mented, 393

Guevara, Che, 357 Gutiérrez, David G., 1–42, 43–86,

266, 287 Gutiérrez, José Angél, 58 Gutiérrez, Juan, 356 Guyana, 29n3 Guzmán, Antonio, 236 Guzmán, Jacobo Arbenz,

150–51

Haiti, 15, 120, 230, 346

Haitian immigrants, 113, 118, 213, 394, 417n59

Hall, Stuart, 356, 360 Hamilton, Nora, xiv–xv,

187–228, 404 Havana (Cuba), 148, 149, 151,

152, 155, 156, 172 Hayek, Salma, 359 health, 103, 331, 367, 452; and

infant mortality, 63, 105, 106, 109; insurance for, 74, 108, 296; of Puerto Ricans, 88, 105, 108, 109

Health Education and Welfare, Department of (HEW), 154

health-related quality of life (HRQOL), 109

Helms-Burton bill, 179 Las Hermanas, 326–28, 329 “Hermanos al Rescate”

(Brothers to the Rescue), 167 Hernández, Esequiel, Jr., 403 Hernández, Livan, 175 Hernández, Orlando, 175 Hernández, Ramona, 240 Hernández v. New York, 405 Herón, Willie, 365 HEW. See Health Education and

Welfare, Department of Hijuelos, Oscar, 21, 176 hip-hop culture, 110, 368–69,

383, 384 Hispanic: decade of the, 368; and

Latino identity, 257–77; as term, 277n1, 458n1, xxiiin2

Hispanic-American Institute (Austin, Texas), 323–24

Hispanic Arts in the United States Exhibit, 376

Hispanic Liturgical Commission, 342

Hispanic Pastoral Encounter. See the encuentro

Hodgers-Durgin v. de la Vina, 402

Homeland Security, U.S. Department of, 261

hometown associations (fraternidades), 219–21, 224, 242–43, 246

Homies Unidos, 224 homosexuality. See gays and

lesbians Hondagneu-Sotelo, Pierrette,

xvii–xviii, 50, 70, 281–302 Honduran American Cultural

Association, 217 Honduran immigrants, xv, 5,

187, 192, 195, 197, 200; and Contra war, 194; legal status of, 196, 208, 213;

organizations for, 213, 217, 220; socioeconomic status of, 198, 205, 222; undocu- mented, 393

Honduras, 15, 196 housing, 93, 296, 340, 452; and

home ownership, 39n49, 130n88, 435; and political activism, 111, 112; of Puerto Ricans, 88, 97, 102, 109, 124; segregation in, 397, 407; triple-decker, 245, 253n6

Houston (Texas), 104, 336, 408; Central Americans in, 188, 198, 202, 206, 220; Guatemalans in, 193; Latinos in, 2, 8, 19, 274, 287; Mexicans in, 202

HRQOL. See health-related quality of life

Huerta, Dolores, 54 Huffington, Michael, 450 Hughes, Langston, 102 HULA (Hondureños Unidos de

Los Angeles), 213 Hunger of Memory

(Rodríguez), 369 Hurricane Mitch, 197, 213, 220 Hutchinson, Kay Bailey, 453

identity: bicultural, 355, 358, 372, 374; and class, 123–24; collective, 369, 377; Cuban- American, 275, 277, 370; and cultural nationalism, 363, 364, 365; and culture, xix, xx, 1–2, 355–59, 369, 372, 374; and diversity, 19; Dominican, 230, 232–33, 248; and expressive culture, xix, xx, 355, 356–57, 358, 359, 369, 374–75, 378; Hispanic, 257–77; hybrid, 359, 365, 372; Mexican, 61, 275; and national origin, 1–2; Nuyorican, 387; pan-Latino, 258, 261, 266, 269–74, 443; politics of, 378; Puerto Rican, 372, 387; and race, 21; and religion, 2, 304, 308, 319–21, 322, 339, 344, 347, 348; South American, 257–58, 265–66, 271–72; and stereotypes, 360, 362; Tejana, 54, 379–80; terminology for, 77n1, xxiiin2; transnational, 343, 371, 375–79

Iglesias, Enrique, 381 Illegal Immigration Reform and

Immigrant Responsibility Act (1996), 213

Illich, Ivan, 309

481

INDEX

Illinois, 8, 287, 400, 402, 433, 434, 450, 454, 455; Cubans in, 157; and JFK campaign, 421, 423, 458n2; Mexicans in, 68; Puerto Ricans in, 95. See also Chicago

IMF. See International Monetary Fund

immigrants: assimilation of, 397–98; attitudes towards, 72, 76, 378, 379, 394–95, 436–37, 445; entry dates of, 18; and immigration law, 392–93; in labor unions, 323, 445–46; naturalization rates of, 435–36; rights of, 453. See also particular countries and regions

immigration, increasing rates of, 6, 392, 398, 443; and electoral politics, 453, 457; Mexican, 43–86; and political stability, 3, 4–5, 287

Immigration and Nationality Act Amendments, Hart- Celler (1965), 4, 36n36, 156, 266–68, 290, 392–93

Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS), 261, 269; civil rights violations by, 400–403; and Cuban immigrants, 161–62, 169; and deportation, 199, 206, 209; detention centers of, 208; enforcement by, 395, 397, 400, 403; and naturalization, 398, 436; and refugee status, 196–97, 207–10; repatriation campaigns of, 78n5, 394, 395

immigration law: 1965 liberalization of, 4, 36n36, 156, 266–68, 290, 392–94; 1986 reform of, 199, 204, 219, 269, 394–95, 396, 435–36; 1996 “reforms” of, 395; and Central American immigrants, 207–10; Chinese exclusion in, 414n22; and citizenship, xx, 392–99, 404–5, 410, 411; and Civil Rights Movement, 290; and Cuban immigrants, xiv, 153–58, 161–69, 403–4; and employment, xx, 393, 394, 414n24; enforcement of, 395, 397, 399, 400, 403, 404–5, 411; and internal migration, 311; and Latino arts, 378; and Latino religion, 322; quota system in, 4, 44–45, 266–67,

290, 317, 392–93; and second- class citizenship, 404–5

immigration policy, U.S., xiii, xx, 4, 266–69; on Central America, 196–99, 207–10, 213; on Cuba, 149, 153–58, 161–69, 404; discrimination in, 205, 209–10

Immigration Reform and Control Act (IRCA; 1986), 199, 204, 219, 269, 394–95, 396, 435–36

Immigration Rights bill (1990), 209

imperialism: in Caribbean, 231, 349; and culture, 365, 368, 384; economic, xiii, 7; and Latino activism, 319; Spanish, 10; U.S., xi–xii, 10–14, 17

import substitution, 63, 232, 235, 267

incarceration, 76, 107, 111, 113, 408; of Cubans, 162–63, 404

income: of Cuban Americans, 169–70, 174, 239, 262; in Dominican Republic, 233, 236–37; of Dominicans, 239–40; and economic restructuring, 74, 113; and federal minimum wage, 118; in garment industry, 116–17; and housework, 291, 294; of Latinos, 21, 239–40, 262, 264, 266; of Mexican Americans, 169, 239, 262; of Mexicans, 47–48; and migration, 66, 73; and political participation, 430–33, 439, 447, 457; of Puerto Ricans, 88, 94, 96, 105–6, 169, 239; in Puerto Rico, 109, 117, 118, 122; and rates of naturalization, 435; in service sector, 115; and socioeconomic polarization, 28, 42n69, 75, 85n60, 91; of South Americans, 262, 264, 266; and unionization, 296, 298; and women’s employment, 292

Indiana, 45, 68, 95 indigenous peoples, xxiiin2, 1, 6,

10–11, 16, 18, 260, 285; of El Salvador, 189–90; religions of, 345–46, 350n5. See also Native Americans

industrialization, 87, 243, 267, 281, 355; in Dominican Republic, 230–31, 232, 234

Infante, Guillermo Cabrera, 175 INS. See Immigration and

Naturalization Service

Insular Cases (Supreme Court), 12, 13, 34n24

Inter-American Development Bank, 27

International Ladies Garment Workers Union, 94

International Monetary Fund (IMF), 236, 268

International Rescue Committee, 152

Internet, 385 Iowa, 68 IRCA. See Immigration Reform

and Control Act Irish, 3, 307, 344, 397 Islam, 285 Italians, 307, 308, 344 Itliong, Larry, 55 Itzigsohn, José, 241

Jacquez, Juan Carlos, 401 Jamaica, 120 Jamaicans, 113 Jamaica Plain (Massachusetts),

244–46, 250 janitorial services, 199, 214, 215,

226n10; unionization of, 296–97, 298

Japan, 64 Japanese, 44, 375 Jehovah’s Witnesses, 163, 339 Jews, 156, 372 JFK. See Kennedy, John F. Jim Crow laws, 157. See also

segregation Jiménez, Juan Isidro, 232 Jiménez-Muñoz, Gladys, xiii, 14,

24, 65, 87–145, 386, 398 John Paul II, Pope, 337, 338 Johnson, Kevin R., xx–xxi, 51,

391–420 Johnson, Lyndon B., 15, 156,

315, 424 Jones Act (1917), 382 Jones-Correa, Michael, 274 July 26th Movement (Cuba), 149 Justice Centers, 215 Justice Department, U.S., 165,

208, 209, 212 Justice for Janitors campaign

(SEIU), 215, 297

Kansas, 44 Kansas City, 68 Kelley, Robin, 110 Kennedy, Jacqueline, 424 Kennedy, John F. (JFK), 15, 234,

454; and Catholicism, 309, 424; Cuba policies of, 154, 181n10, 451; election campaign of (1960), xxi,

482

INDEX

421, 422–25, 440, 458n2; and Viva Kennedy! clubs, 52, 421, 422–25, 426, 439, 440, 446, 453

Kennedy family, 324 Kenyon, David V. (judge), 208 Kid Frost, 369 King, Martin Luther, Jr., 55,

303, 324 Kissinger, Henry, 15 Korea, 64 Korean Immigrant Workers’

Association, 204

labor: agricultural, 91, 94, 233, 235, 237; and Americanos project, 386, 387; bonded, 129n68; cheap, 116–17, 118, 119, 397, 408; circulation of, 63–64; and citizenship, 28, 65; colonized, 87–145; costs of, 62, 64–65, 82n38, 94, 113; and cultural nationalism, 363; debt peonage of, 190; demand for, 4, 6, 45, 46, 52, 62, 63–64, 76–77, 92, 299–300, 413n18; deskilled, 129n65, 298; domestic, 291–92, 297, 298; domestic division of, 50, 293–95, 298; in Dominican Republic, 233, 235, 236, 237, 239; and economic restructuring, 62, 76–77, 113, 396; female, 65–66, 104, 282, 295, 296, 386; feminized, 105, 107, 298; foreign, xii, xx, 40n54, 45–46, 126n14; in garment industry, 94; gendered division of, 289, 291, 298, 299–300; and globalization, 90, 397; and increased immigration, 4, 6, 63–64; informal, 118, 293; international division of, xiii, 22, 28, 65, 66, 91; and maquiladora industries, 64–65, 82n38; Mexican contract, 290; migrant, xii, 3, 4–5, 10, 25–26, 44–46, 287, 323, 363, 387, 393, 394, 413n18; and motherhood, 282, 295, 296; paid domestic, 291–92, 295, 296; peripheral, 91, 94, 96, 100, 102–5, 116, 117; and political activism, 52; and population growth, 45, 46; Puerto Rican, 92, 118, 120; racialized, 103, 105, 107; regional market for, 45; in service sector, 235, 237, 239; skilled, 118, 120, 128n65, 239,

250, 266; skilled vs. unskilled, 85n60, 124; transnational market for, 63–64; unskilled, 103–4, 105, 107

labor unions, xxii, 113, 116, 378, 396; AFL-CIO, 214, 446; and community organization, 440; and Cubans, 148, 181n6; in Dominican Republic, 236; in garment industry, 94–95, 117; immigrants in, 323, 445–46; and immigration law, 399, 415n35; in Los Angeles, 226nn10,13, 296–97, 298, 446; and Mexican Americans, 297–98, 323; and mining industry, 297–98; organization of, 205, 211, 214–16; and politics, 103, 334, 444, 458; and Puerto Ricans, 97, 104; women in, 296–98. See also United Farm Workers Union

La India (music group), 383 La Mafia (music group), 380 Landolt, Patricia, 241 land rights, 65, 363, 399, 441; in

Central America, 189–91; in Dominican Republic, xvi, 230, 231, 233, 235, 244; and land grants movement, 53, 57, 321

language, x, 2, 33n20; and assimilation, 25, 405–6; and civil rights, xx, 391, 411; and economic status, 73; hybridity in, 98, 362–63, 368, 377; and politics, 72, 111; and Voting Rights Act, 428, 429. See also English language; Spanish language

Larraz, Julio, 176 Las Vegas (Nevada), 69, 84n49 Latin America: gender in, xviii,

289, 370; and globalization, 26, 28–29; imperialism in, xi–xii, 231; and import- substitution, 232, 235, 267; liberation theology in, 321; as political issue, 453; popula- tion growth in, 3, 77; remit- tances to, 26–27; Spanish colonialism in, 6, 18, 44, 231; terminology for, 29n3; U.S. relations with, xi–xii, 10–14. See also particular countries and regions

Latin American Episcopal Conference (CELAM), 329

Latinas. See women Latin Empire, 369

latinidad, xvii, 2, 29n2, 269–77; and hybrid music, 383; and pan-ethnic identity, 258, 261, 266, 269–74

Latinismo, 322 Latinization, 99–100, 258, 277 Latino Link, 360 Latino National Political

Survey, 174 Latinos: and intermarriage,

275–76, 277n5; interpretation of history of, 9–14; native vs. immigrant, 19, 22–23, 46–47, 61, 396; subpopulations of, x, xiii, xviii, 2, 18; tensions between, 8, 108, 114, 119, 123, 124, 201–5, 377; terminology for, 458n1, xxiiin2. See also particular groups

Laviera, Tato, 385 Lavoe, Héctor, 365 law, x, 391–420; affirmative

action, 409–10; canon, 328–29; and civil rights, xx, 392, 399–406, 410, 411; and cultural nationalism, 363; and discrimination, xx, 391, 392, 411, 415n37; and education, xxi, 392, 395, 411; and expressive culture, 376; international human-rights, 415n37; and nationality, xx, 392–99; and political activism, 111, 319, 392, 411; and Puerto Ricans, 98, 100–101; and racial profiling, 402–3, 408. See also immi- gration law; legal status

Lawrence (Massachusetts), 118, 245

League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC), 17, 52, 60, 119, 166, 178, 407, 442

Legal Aid Foundation (Los Angeles), 208

legal status, 287, 422; of Central American immigrants, 193, 194, 196–98, 199, 205–10, 212, 213, 225, 269; and citizenship, 433–34; of Cuban immigrants, 152, 167–68, 213, 394; of Mexican Americans, 199, 269; mixed, 22–23, 39n54; “parole,” 152; “regularization” of, 394; of South American immigrants, 261, 263, 269, 272; temporary (TPS), 209–10, 212, 213. See also refugees; undocumented immigrants

483

INDEX

legislation: for affirmative action, 243, 253n5; for antidiscrimination, 243; on tax shelters (Section 936), 120

Leguízamo, John, 21, 370, 374–75 Levins Morales, Aurora, 372, 373 Levitt, Peggy, xvi–xvii, 27,

229–56 ley de peligrosidad (law of

dangerousness, Cuba), 162 liberalism, 306, 307, 323–24.

See also neoliberalism liberation theology, 321, 322,

332, 340 Linares, Omar, 175 Linebaugh, Peter, 93, 126n19 literature, 355–90;

autoethnographies in, 357, 369, 373; Caribbean, 373, 382; Chicana, 370, 371–72, 373; co- optation of, 373; Cuban- American, 148, 173, 175–76, 370; and culture, 357, 362–63, 364, 372, 373; globalized, 359; Latina, 371–73, 382; mainstreaming of, 377; Puerto Rican, 372–73; and race, 382; women in, 357–58, 371–73. See also poetry

Logan, John R., 238, 261 Longauex y Vásquez,

Enriqueta, 60 López, Alfredo, 316 López, Alma, 286 López, Israel, 175 López, Jennifer, 21, 359, 381, 383 Los Angeles (California), 2, 19,

104, 272, 287, 288, 365; Central Americans in, 188, 196, 198, 200–207, 213–15, 217, 219–24; Cubans in, 176; East, 56, 84n48, 396; elite Latinos in, 124; gangs in, 102; garment industry in, 116, 193, 200; high school walkouts in, 56, 364, 441; labor unions in, 226nn10,13, 296–97, 298, 446; Mexicans in, 68, 69, 200, 205, 226nn10; peripheralization in, 125n6; political activism in, 316, 441; Puerto Ricans in, 96, 122; Q’anjob’al Mayans in, 193, 200, 220; religion in, 304; voter-turnout rates in, 427; white flight from, 86n67

Los Lobos (musicians), 21 Los Van Van (musicians), 175 Lott, Trent, 38n45, 411 “El Louie” (Montoya), 364 Louisiana, 147, 157, 171, 188, 192

“A Lower East Side Poem” (Piñero), 365

LRUP. See La Raza Unida Party Lucey, Robert, 309, 311 Lucumí (religion), 347 LULAC. See League of United

Latin American Citizens

MACC. See Mexican American Cultural Center

McCormick, Carlos, 424 Machado, Eduardo, 176 machismo, xviii, 285, 315,

368, 372 Machito (musician), 175 McIntyre, James Francis,

324–25, 326 MacKay, John, 309 Maduro, Otto A., 305 Magavero, Francis, 318 Mahon, Leo, 309 majority-minority districts,

429–30 MALDEF. See Mexican

American Legal Defense and Education Fund

Mambo Mouth (performance piece; Leguízamo), 374–75

Manifest Destiny, 11, 34n23, 359 Mannheim, Karl, 328 Manning, Timothy, 326 manufacturing, 119, 147, 150;

male labor in, 299–300; and offshore production, 65, 82n39, 103, 117, 120; Puerto Ricans in, 103–4, 108, 118, 120; and upward mobility, 115–16. See also garment industry

MAPA. See Mexican American Political Association

maquiladora industries, 41n65, 64–66, 82n38, 117

Mara Salvatrucha (gang), 200 Marianas, 12, 127n49 marianismo, xviii Mariel boatlift (1980), xiv,

157–67, 174, 370, 396, 403–4; los marielitos of, 165, 166

Marqués, René, 372 Marsans, Armando, 175 Marshall Islands, 127n49 Martí, José, 147, 149, 181n4 Martí City (Ocala, Florida), 147 Martin, Ricky, 21, 123, 359, 379,

381–83 Martínez, Elizabeth “Betita,”

60, 371 Martínez, Pedro, 252 Marxism, 149, 338 Massachusetts, 104, 110, 113, 146,

192, 408; Dominicans in,

244–46, 248, 250; Puerto Ricans in, 118–19

Matamoros (Mexico), 67 matanza (1932; El Salvador), 191 Mayans, 187, 189, 191, 200, 203,

223, 304; music of, 217–18 MAYO. See Mexican American

Youth Organization Mazz (music group), 380 MEChA. See El Movimiento

Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlán Medellin Conference of

Bishops, 225n6 media: and Americanos project,

386; and culture, 288, 364; and expressive culture, 358–59, 374; Latinized, 123; on Latino population growth, ix, 70–71; Latino stereotypes in, 114, 284, 359–62; Latino visibility in, 378, 386; and Mexicans, 50, 70–71; and naturalization rates, 436; and politics, 456, 458n2; print, 70–71; Puerto Rican, 99; radio, 70–71; and religion, 322; and social disorder, 101–2; Spanish-language, 21, 70–71, 99, 271, 288, 362, 377, 436; and transnation- alism, 343

Medina, Pablo, 176 Meese, Edwin, 209 Mejia, Hipolito, 248 Mellow Man Ace, 369 men, Latino: and cultural

nationalism, 363; and expressive culture, 358, 368, 369, 372; and machismo, xviii, 285, 315, 368, 371, 372. See also patriarchy

Mendieta, Ana, 176 Menudo (music group), 382 mestizaje (mixed heritage), 10,

304, 342, 344 mestizos, 44, 57, 187, 189, 203,

259–60, 285 Mexican American Cultural

Center (MACC; San Antonio, Texas), 327, 329, 330, 333

Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund (MALDEF), xxii, 17, 53, 80n24, 407, 442

Mexican American Political Association (MAPA), 52, 54

Mexican Americans: Americanization of, 49, 50; and Catholic Church, 311, 314, 326, 327, 328, 330, 336;

484

INDEX

citizenship of, 12, 14, 16, 27, 36n36, 174, 399; civil rights of, 400–403, 407; and community organization, 439, 440; and cultural change, 48–51; dispersal of, 200, 202, 224, 272–74, 380; distribution of, xix, 1, 43, 45, 46, 67, 68, 69, 70; and English language, 429; expressive culture of, 356, 369; female, 293; and gender roles, 50–51; history of, 44–46; and identity, 275, 363; and labor unions, 297–98, 322–24; and land grants movement, 53, 57, 321; and Latino population growth, 43–86; legal status of, 199, 269; vs. Mexican immigrants, 7, 46–47, 61, 62, 396; and Mexican Republic, 6; and Mexico, 48, 49, 51; music of, 49, 357, 379, 380, 383; and other Latinos, 106, 107, 377; partisanship of, 448, 449; political activism of, 16, 51–61, 319; political participation of, 48, 422–25, 426, 427–28, 458n2; population of, 238, 259–63, 265; in post-war period, 46–48; racial profiling of, 408; and religion, 285–86, 322, 326; socioeconomic status of, 48, 169, 239, 262, 298; stereotypes of, 45, 413n18; terminology for, 77n1, 80nn21,24

Mexican-American War (1848), xii, 6, 12, 44, 399

Mexican American Youth Organization (MAYO), 54

mexicanidad (Mexican identity), 61

Mexican immigrants, xiii, 3, 6, 317; attitudes towards, 72, 76; circular migration of, xvi, 49, 97; and citizenship, 16, 71, 79n15; civil rights of, 399, 400–403; criminalization of, 113; deportation of, 395; discrimination against, xii, 47, 399; distribution of, xix, 1, 45, 46, 53, 56–57, 67–73, 200, 202, 205, 224, 226n10, 288, 320, 384; and education, 47, 50, 57, 59–60, 62; and expressive culture, 355; and family reunification, 290; female, 48; and gender, 294, 299; history of, 18, 46–48; and

immigration law, 395; increased population of, 2, 5, 43–86; and labor unions,

296; median age of, 66, 67; vs. Mexican Americans, 7, 46–47, 61, 62, 396; music of, 383; political activism of, 51–61; as proportion of Latino population, 67–68; and Puerto Ricans, 118; and religion, xix, 307, 310; repatriation of, 45, 78n5; and social polarization, 123, 124; socioeconomic status of, 23, 40n54, 47–48, 59, 60, 61, 73–75, 130n88; stereotypes of, 413n18; terminology for, 77n1; and transnational motherhood, 295; undocu- mented, xvii, 46, 47, 66, 199, 226n10, 263, 267, 269, 287, 393; and U.S. economy, xii, 73–75

Mexican Independence Day, 43 Mexican Republic (1821–48),

6, 44 Mexican Revolution (1909–10),

6, 15, 45, 320, 326 Mexico: anticlerical liberalism

in, 306; Central American immigrants in, 189, 191, 193; Cuban immigrants in, 155; and dual citizenship, 27; economy of, 62–66, 267–68; gender in, 289, 370; and globalization, 28; and immigration law, 395; indigenous peoples of, 18; and Insular Cases, 34n24; maquiladora industries in, 41n65, 64–66, 82n38, 117; and Mexican Americans, 48, 49, 51; music in, 382, 384; northern, 65, 66; off- shore production in, 120; peripheral labor in, 117; population growth in, 66, 83n42; remittances to, 27, 81n36; sending regions in, 83n45; southern (Chiapas), 189, 191, 193; suffragist movement in, 300n; and transnational politics, 444–45; unemployment in, 267–68; U.S. relations with, xiii, 11, 15, 40n54, 44–46, 82n38. See also border zone, Mexico-U.S.

Miami (Florida), 8, 104, 274, 287, 377, 408; Catholic Diocese of, 152, 181n12; Central

Americans in, 195, 221, 224; Cubans in, 148–55, 165, 170–73, 176, 194, 201, 203, 205, 209, 240; Dominicans in, 239; garment industry in, 153, 171; Latinization of, 393; Little Havana in, 169, 172–73, 203; Nicaraguans in, 188, 194, 198, 201–3, 205, 209, 222–23; Puerto Ricans in, 96

Miami Herald (periodical), 166, 176

Michigan, 45, 68, 82n40, 402; affirmative action case in, xxi, 409

Micronesia, 127n49 middle class, 21, 52, 91, 113;

African-American, 121; Cuban, 311; in Dominican Republic, 233, 234, 235; and expressive culture, 358, 371, 373; feminism of, 291; and gender, 295; Latino, 123–24, 130n82; Mexican, 72–73; Mexican-American, 48, 298; Puerto Rican, 112, 122, 130n82; and religion, 307, 312; South American, 259–60, 267, 272, 277

Midwest, U.S., 7, 72, 92, 288, 313, 400, 428; and JFK campaign, 423; Mexicans in, 68, 70; Puerto Ricans in, 95, 118; seasonal migration in, 311. See also particular states

migration: circular, xvi, 14, 35n31, 49, 64, 97, 117; and class, 26; economic, xv, 44–46, 51, 73; and gender, xviii, 66, 285, 288, 294–95, 299; and globalization, 5, 25–26, 43–86; internal U.S., 309–12; labor, xii, 3, 4–5, 10, 25–26, 44–46, 287, 323, 363, 387, 393, 394, 397, 413n18; and Latino clergy, 313; and networks, 193–94, 197, 198, 206; of Okies, 311–12; patterns of, 117–24, 288, 290; and resistance, 93; right of, 14; rural-urban, xv, 26, 90, 238, 309–12; seasonal, 90, 293, 311; terminology for, 30n7, xxiiin2; transnational, xv, xviii, 3; and transnational ties, 26

Milwaukee (Wisconsin), 408 Minneapolis-St. Paul

(Minnesota), 68 Minoso, Minnie, 175 Mirabal, Manuel, 360, 361

485

INDEX

Miraflores (Dominican Republic), 244–46, 250–52

Miranda, Carmen, 359 Miskitu people, 189 Mission District (San Francisco),

201–2 Mississippi, 68 mobility, geographic, xi, 14, 19;

and gender, 285, 288, 294–95, 299; of Mexicans, 46, 67–68, 224; of Puerto Ricans, 95, 118; of Salvadorans, 192, 193, 195, 198, 200–202, 205, 222, 288, 377

mobility, socioeconomic, xvi, 121, 288, 292; and assimi- lation, 21–22, 25; and Catholicism, 308, 309; and economic restructuring, 73, 76; of Puerto Ricans, 87, 115–16; upward, 115–16, 1 29n65

Moctezuma, 365 Mohr, Nicholasa, 358 “Mongo Affair” (Algarín), 366 Monroe Doctrine, 14–15 Monterrey, Manuel, 384 Montoya, José, 364 Montoya, Joseph, 52 Montoya, Malaquías, 378 Mora, Magdalena, 371 Moraga, Cherrie, 370, 371 Morales, Rosario, 372 Moral Majority, 340 More, Beny, 175 Moreno, Rita, 114 El Movimiento Estudiantil

Chicano de Aztlán (MEChA; Chicano Student Movement of Aztlán), 57, 334

MUEVETE: The Boricua Youth Movement, 111

multiculturalism, 358, 376, 377–78, 381, 392, 405

Multiethnic Youth Leadership Collaborative, 204

Muñoz, Elias Miguel, 176 Murillo, Benjamin, 401 Murrieta, Joaquín, 320 el museo del pueblo cambatiente

(Cuba), 162 music, 232, 355; African-

American, 357, 368–69, 383; Afro-Puerto Rican, 381; and Americanos project, 387; boleros (romantic ballads), 384; Caribbean, 357, 384; Chicano, 368–69; Colombian, 270; commodification of, 369, 379–83; co-optation of, 368–69, 381, 384; crossover,

378, 379–83; Cuban- American, 148, 175, 368; and cultural nationalism, 123, 363, 364, 365; globalized, 358; hip-hop, 110, 368–69, 383, 384; hybrid, 383–84, 387; mainstreaming of, 377, 378, 381–83; Mayan, 217–18; Mexican, 70, 382, 383, 384; Mexican American, 49, 357; Puerto Rican, 97, 114, 356, 357, 368–69, 384; rap, 357, 368–69, 384; and religion, 304, 314; and resistance, 110, 381; rock en español, 384; salsa, 365, 383, 384; salsa romántica, 368; Tex-Mex, 382, 383; working-class, 357

Mutual Security Act, 153

NAFTA. See North American Free Trade Agreement

National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), 53, 166, 442

National Association of Latino Elected and Appointed Officials (NALEO), 17

National Catholic Reporter, 163 National Center for Immigrants’

Rights, 208 National Coalition of Cuban

Americans, 178 National Congress for Puerto

Rican Rights, 111, 362 National Council of Catholic

Bishops (NCCB), 318, 324, 326, 329, 330

National Council of La Raza (NCLR), xxii, 17, 361, 442

nationalism: Cuban, 147, 149, 150, 173; cultural, 105, 123, 362–67, 369, 370; Puerto Rican, 103, 105

nationality: dual, 42n67, 244, 247–49, 270–71, 343, 398, 444–45; and law, 392–99. See also citizenship

national origin: and assimilation, 20, 22; diversity of, 1–2, 16, 17, 18; immigration quotas by, 4, 44–45, 266–67, 290, 317, 392–93; and naturalization rates, 435; and pan-Latino organization, 442; and political participation, 422, 440, 447, 453, 457; and transnational politics, 444–45, 459n6

nation-state, xi, xvi–xvii, 27, 125nn4,8

Native Americans, 16, 36n36, 345–46, 347, 411, 428. See also indigenous peoples

naturalization: of Asian immigrants, 4, 36n36, 435; and Democratic Party, 398, 414n29; and deportation, 398, 436; factors in, 434–35; of Mexicans, 71, 79n15; opposition to, 398; rates of, 79n15, 435–37; and residency status, 434–35, 436, 437–38. See also citizenship

NCCB. See National Council of Catholic Bishops

NCLR. See National Council of La Raza

Nebraska, 68, 400 neoliberalism, xii, xiii, 15, 25–28,

41n64, 119 Nevada, 6, 44, 67, 68, 69,

84n49, 288 New Jersey, 8, 72, 102, 113,

272–73, 434, 455; Central Americans in, 192; Cubans in, 157, 311; Dominicans in, 239, 247; Puerto Ricans in, 99, 118

New Mexico, xxii, 46, 69, 434; Catholic Church in, 286, 308, 336; land grants movement in, 321; majority-minority districts in, 429; in Mexican Republic, 6, 44; migration from, 309, 311; political machines in, 427; politics in, 53, 72, 450, 455; and unions, 297–98

New Orleans (Louisiana), 147, 171, 188, 192

New York: Catholic Church in, 311, 312, 328, 335, 336; Central Americans in, 188, 192, 193, 198, 203, 206, 224; Cubans in, 146, 147, 151, 157, 176; cultural nationalism in, 365–66; and Dominican Republic, 229–30, 246; Dominicans in, xvi, 234, 239, 240, 246–50, 252, 276, 393; economy of, 104, 105, 111–12; garment industry in, 116–17; incarcerated Latinos in, 113; labor unions in, 446; Latino diversity in, 18, 377; Latino expressive culture in, 357, 367, 382; Latinos in, 2, 7, 8, 9, 272–73, 275–76, 287, 411n3, 434; majority-minority districts in, 429; Mexicans in, 68, 288, 384; peripheralization

486

INDEX

in, 125n6; police campaigns in, 113; political machines in, 427; politics in, 72, 103, 111–12, 274, 316, 423, 426, 450, 454, 455; Puerto Ricans in, 92, 94–95, 98–99, 106, 118, 203, 257, 272–73, 276, 361; racial profiling in, 408; religion in, 304, 310, 346; resistance in, 110; social disorder in, 101–2; unemployment in, 82n40

Nicaragua, 15, 192, 197; Contras in, 194–96, 207–9; remittances to, 27; revolution in, 194, 207

Nicaraguan immigrants, xv, 5, 187, 197, 201, 377; asylum for, 404; as political refugees, 196, 207–9, 212; socioeconomic status of, 198, 205, 222; undocumented, 393; waves of, 194–96, 202–3

Nixon, Richard M., 15, 324, 423, 424, 454; and 1960 campaign, xxi, 421, 458n2

North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), 41n65, 65, 82nn38,40, 267

North Carolina, 67, 68, 69, 84n49

Northeast, U.S., 1, 8, 92, 117, 400; Catholic Church in, 311, 313; Dominicans in, xvi, 247; police brutality in, 113; political machines in, 428; Puerto Ricans in, xix, 1, 89, 100, 105, 118, 119, 124, 272. See also particular cities and states

Northwest, U.S., 68, 72, 288 Nuyorican Poet’s Cafe, 365

OAS. See Organization of American States

Oaxaca (Mexico), 377 Obejas, Achy, 176 occupations: gendered, 24,

298, 299; and geographic dispersal, 288; and housework, 294; as immigration criteria, 4; of Latinos, 400; of Mexicans, 47–48; and poverty, 23–24; of Puerto Ricans, 94–95, 129n69; and social polarization, 104–5; traditional, 65; white- collar, 105; of women, 48, 289, 292. See also professionals

O’Connor, Sandra Day, 429

Office for the Spanish-Speaking, 311, 317, 327, 328, 334, 335, 337–38

Ohio, 68, 82n40, 95, 402 oil embargo (1970s), 5, 62 oil industry, 236, 268 Oklahoma, 67 Olmos, Edward James, 378,

384, 385 Operation Bootstrap, 14 Operation Mongoose, 177 Operation Peter Pan, 154, 182n18 Operation Restoration

(Operation Round-Up), 401 Operation Wetback, 78n5, 394 Orantes-Hernández v. Smith, 208 Ordoñez, Rey, 175 Oregon, 68 Organization of American States

(OAS), 26, 176 Ortega, Gregoria, 326 Ortiz Cofer, Judith, 372, 373 Oscar Romero Clinic (Los

Angeles), 207 Our Lady of Guadalupe (La

Virgen de Guadalupe), 285–86, 312, 323, 345, 365

pachuco period, 364–65 Pact for Democracy (Dominican

Republic), 248 Padilla, Felix, 313, 322 Padilla, Gilbert, 54–55 Padilla, Heberto, 175 Padilla de Armas,

Encarnación, 329 Padres Asociados para Derechos

Religiosos, Educacionales y Sociales (PADRES), 326–28, 329

Pagán, Antonio, 112 Palacios, Mónica, 374 Palau, 127n49 Palmieri, Charlie, 365 Palmieri, Eddie, 365 Panama, 27 Panama Canal, xv, 15, 189,

191–92 Panamanians, 187, 193, 195, 198 Pantoja, Antonia, 99, 108 Paraguay, 259 PARAL Study (Stevens-Arroyo et

al.), 338, 339, 341 Parham, Charles F., 350n5 Parrilla Bonilla, Antulio, 325 Partido de la Liberacíon

Dominicana (PLD), 249 El Partido de la Raza Unida. See

La Raza Unida Party (LRUP) Partido Reformista (Dominican

Republic), 247

Partido Revolucionario Cubano, 181n4

Partido Revolucionario Dominicano (PRD), 236, 246–47, 249, 251

Pascual, Camilo, 175 PASSO. See Political Association

of Spanish-Speaking Organizations

pastorelas (shepherd plays), 356, 366

patriarchy, 50, 291, 370, 371, 372; and gender roles, 282, 286, 300; and Mexican activism, 60–61

Paul VI, Pope, 331 Peace Corps volunteers, 206 Peña, Elizabeth, 176 Peña Gómez, José Francisco, 249 peñas literarias (literary

circles), 173 Pentecostalism, 317, 342, 350n5;

and Catholicism, 309–10, 337; and political activism, 339–41, 348; and Protestantism, 307, 309–10, 336; and urban migration, 310–11

Pérez, Tony, 175 Pérez-Firmat, Gustavo, 176 performance artists, 370, 374–75 periphery, defined, 125n6. See

also labor: peripheral Peru, 27, 262, 270, 276; Cubans

in embassy of, 159–60, 163 Peruvian immigrants, 6, 259,

260–63, 265, 393 Pessar, Patricia, 233, 250 Philadelphia (Pennsylvania), 97,

99, 110, 118, 146, 316 Philippines, 11, 12. See also

Filipinos Phoenix (Arizona), 287, 396 Pico Union. See Westlake

(California) Pietri, Pedro, 365, 366 Piñero, Miguel, 365, 372 Pinochet Ugarte, Augusto, 268 Pipil people, 189 The Piss Christ (painting;

Serrano), 350n8 El Plan Espiritual de Aztlán (The

spiritual plan of Aztlán), 57 The Plan of Santa Barbara, 57 PLD. See Partido de la

Liberación Dominicana Plyler v. Doe, 408 poetry, 57, 366, 374; Chicano,

362, 369; Nuyorican, 362–65, 369, 370, 372, 373

police brutality, 54, 102, 111, 113, 346, 357, 365

487

INDEX

political activism: and Americanos project, 385; in California, 54–58; and Catholic Church, 315–18, 337–38; of Central Americans, 204, 206–7, 210–14; and Chicano Movement, 319, 443; and civil rights, 52, 53, 55, 102–3, 111, 399–400, 426, 440–41; and Civil Rights Movement, 315, 317, 319, 439, 440; and class, 57, 59, 60, 440; and community organiza- tions, 102, 399, 440–41; and culture, 57, 110, 319, 364–67; ecumenical, 339; and education, 17, 51, 54, 57, 59–60, 103, 111, 319, 426; and gender, 57, 60–61; and gener- ational ties, 328; in high schools, 56, 364, 401, 441; and housing, 111, 112; and immigration law, 394; intellectual roots of, 333–35; of Latino immigrants, 443–46; Latino leadership in, 322, 333; Latino vs. African American, 53, 55, 315, 316, 317, 319; and law, 111, 319, 392, 411; Mexican, 59; Mexican- American, 16, 51–61, 319; mobilization for, 456, 457–58; and music, 381, 384; neigh- borhood, 111, 128n54, 316; and Pentecostalism, 339–41, 348; and political parties, 441; Puerto Rican, 16, 109–12, 319, 443, 447; radical vs. moderate, 59–60; and religion, 349; religious vs. secular, 333, 334; retreat of, 337–38; secular, 323, 327, 333, 334; and urban renewal, 103, 112

Political Association of Spanish- Speaking Organizations (PASSO), 424

political machines, 426–28, 429, 458n2

political participation, x, xvii, xix; and assimilation, 25; barriers to, xxi, 425–39; and citizenship, 433–37; and civil rights, xxii, 447, 457, 458; and class, xxi, 291, 430, 447, 457; of Colombians, 270–71; community, 421, 422, 425–26, 430, 433, 439–47, 457; of Cuban Americans, 16, 146, 147, 172, 174–79, 426; current Latino, 422; of Dominicans, 128n54, 229–30, 242–43,

246–52; and dual citizenship, 27; and education, xxi, 72, 430–33, 447, 457; in electoral politics, 447–56; and electorate-in-reserve, 437–39, 442, 443, 445, 456, 457, 458; exclusion from, 426–28; factors in, 430–33; and gender, 282, 288, 289, 291; generational differences in, 422, 459n5; and income, 430–33, 439, 447, 457; Mexican-American, 48, 422–25, 426, 427–28, 458n2; moderation in, 113; and national origin, 422, 440, 447, 453, 457; and naturalization rates, 436–37; and political machines, 425, 426–28; and poll taxes, 426, 427; and population growth, 71–72, 399; and poverty, 430–33, 457; of Puerto Ricans, 97, 99, 104–5, 112, 426; transnational, 443–45; of youth, 72, 430–33, 457. See also voter registration; voting

politics, 421–59; community, 430, 433; cultural, 364, 376; domestic, 445–46; electoral, 57, 421, 422–39, 440, 446, 447–56, 457; and expectations, 422, 426, 434; and expressive culture, 368, 369, 376; and gender, xviii, 284, 290; identity, 378; interest-based, 422, 442, 448; international, xviii, 27; issue- based, 451–53; and Latino diversity, 17, 18; and Latino immigrants, 393, 399; Latino influence in, 422–25, 447–48, 450, 453–55, 457–58; Latino oppositionality in, 378; and lobbies, xxii; mainstream, 111–12, 123, 124; national, 448, 453–56, 457; organizational, 422, 424–25; and pan-Latino organization, 442; partisan- ship in, 448–51; and religion, xviii–xix, xxii, 305–6, 309; of representation, 360; of resistance, 386; transnational, 343, 443–45, 453, 458, 459n6

population, Latino: median age of, 8–9, 66, 67; Mexicans as proportion of, 67–68; Puerto Ricans as proportion of, 8; U.S. distribution of, 272–73; youth of, xxi, 8–9, 25, 33n18

population, U.S., xii, 2–9, 7–8, 78n4; diversity of, 31n12, 370; foreign-born, 5, 7, 25, 30n4, 62

population growth, Latino, 1–42; and African Americans, ix, 7, 69; and birth rates, 3, 8–9, 18, 33n18, 46, 67, 170; and Catholic Church, xix, 311–12; and civil rights, xx, 377; and culture, 69–71; and diversifi- cation, 377; and electoral politics, 457; and expressive culture, 370, 388; and gender, 282, 286–89; history of, 44–51, 61–69; and immigration law, 392; and labor recruitment, 45–46; media on, ix, 70–71; Mexican, 2, 43–86; in Mexico, 83n42; and pan-Latino organ- ization, 442; and political activism, 51–61, 399; and political participation, 71–72, 399, 430, 437, 447; and politi- cal power, xxi–xxii, 421; and poverty, 83n42; Puerto Rican, 2, 119; in Puerto Rico, 89, 109, 287; and social change, 69–77

Portes, Alejandro, 24, 75–76, 240, 241, 242

Portuguese language, 6 poverty: and Americanos project,

387; of children, 23, 74–75; and colonialism, 87–88, 319; culture of, 29n1, 100; definitions of, 127n49; of Dominicans, 250; and economic restructuring, 73–75; and gender, 250, 298–99; and globalization, 22, 29; and Latino stereo- types, 11, 284; Mexican, 47, 66; and political activism, 315–16; and political partic- ipation, 430–33, 439, 457; and population growth, 3, 6, 83n42; of Puerto Ricans, 23, 24, 87–88, 96, 103–9, 114, 119, 298, 398; in Puerto Rico, 109, 127n49; racialized, 100; and religion, 332, 334, 340, 342; of South Americans, 262; War on, 315, 317, 318, 322

Powell, Colin, 26 PRACA. See Puerto Rican

Association for Community Affairs

PRD. See Partido Revolucionario Dominicano

Pregones (theater group), 110, 367

488

INDEX

Presley, Elvis, 387 prisons. See incarceration professionals, 48, 104, 110, 115,

287; bilingual, 121; Cuban, 120, 146, 154; and gender roles, 299; and housework, 294; lower-level, 122–23; Puerto Rican, 112, 119, 120, 124; racialized, 122; and rates of naturalization, 435; South American, 264, 266; women, 123, 289

Prophets Denied Honor (Stevens- Arroyo), 334

Proposition 187 (California; 1994), xxii, 71, 210, 212–13, 370, 395, 453; and education, 408, 436

Proposition 209 (California), 370 Protestantism, xix, 10, 348; and

African Americans, 318; and Americanization, 306, 339; and Catholicism, 330, 339; and ecumenism, 342; Latino clergy in, 313, 342; leaders in, 317, 339, 342; liberal, 323–24; and Pentecostalism, 307, 309–10, 336; and political activism, 337; and quinceañera, 342; and religious resurgence, 341; and social activism, 338–39; and Spanish language, 339; and UFW, 323–24

Pro-Vote Movement for Dominicans Living Abroad, 249

Proyecto Uno (music group), 383

Puente, Tito, 114, 383 Puerto Rican Association for

Community Affairs (PRACA), 99

Puerto Rican Community Development Project, 99

Puerto Rican Day Parade, 99, 110; on Seinfeld, 360–62

Puerto Rican Family Institute, 99

Puerto Rican Forum, 99 Puerto Rican Merchants

Association, 98 “Puerto Rican Obituary”

(Pietri), 365, 366 Puerto Ricans, xvi, 87–145; and

Americanos project, 386; and Catholic Church, 307, 311–14, 325, 327, 328, 336, 341; citizenship of, 12–14, 16, 32n15, 35n30, 36n36, 287, 382, 398; and community

organization, 441; and crime, 113, 128n59; and cultural nationalism, 363–67; dispersal of, 95, 118; and economic restructuring, 109–17; expressive culture of, 355, 372–73; feminization of, xiii, 88; and labor unions, 323; migration patterns of, 5, 6, 7, 91, 117–24, 309; music of, 97, 114, 356, 357, 368–69, 384; new wave of, 112; in New York, 68, 203, 257, 276; in Northeast, xix, 1, 89, 100, 105, 118, 119, 124, 272; and other Latinos, 8, 124, 377; and pan-Latino organization, 442; and Pentecostalism, 310, 340; political activism of, 16, 109–12, 319, 443, 447; political participation of, 97, 99, 128n54, 423, 426, 448; population of, 2, 119, 238, 259–63; poverty of, 23, 24, 87–88, 96, 103–9, 114, 119, 298, 398; racial profiling of, 408; and religion, xix, 322; resistance of, 109–11; and right of migration, 14; social polarization of, 89, 90, 103, 107–8, 119, 127n44; socioeconomic status of, 130n88, 169, 239; stereotypes of, 114, 360–62; terms for, 89; as underclass, 106

Puerto Rican Traveling Theater, 99, 110

Puerto Rico: annexation of, 306, 332; brain drain from, 120–22; class in, 124; commonwealth status of, 13; Cubans in, 157; Dominicans in, 247; and economic restructuring, 104, 115, 119–20; and gender roles, 289; and Insular Cases, 34n24; Office of the Commonwealth of, 97; peripheral labor in, 117; political activism in, 110; population growth in, 89, 109, 287; poverty in, 109, 127n49; religion in, 307, 346; social services in, 14, 89, 90; suffragist movement in, 300n; and transnational politics, 459n6; unemploy- ment in, 89, 92, 109; U.S. relations with, xiii, xiv, 11–14, 15, 349, 398; wages in, 109, 117, 118, 122. See also Vieques Island

Puerto Rico Defense and Education Fund, 17

Puerto Rico Herald, 123

Q’anjob’al Mayans, 188, 193, 200, 203, 220

Queens (New York), 245–46 quinceañera (fifteenth-birthday

celebration), 70, 342 Quintanilla, Abraham, 379, 380 Quintanilla Pérez, Selena. See

Selena

race, 38n45, 39n50, 125n4, 420n89; and Americanos project, 386; and assimilation, 20, 21, 397; and citizenship, 16, 36n36; and community organization, 441; and Cubans, 146–48, 370; in Dominican Republic, 230–31, 238; and expressive culture, 110, 358, 370, 373, 374, 382; and family, 291; and gender, 283, 284; and language, 406; and Latino diversity, 18, 19; and music, 382–83; and politics, 111, 429; and population growth, 45; and poverty, 299; and South Americans, 259, 276; terminology for, 80n24. See also affirmative action

racialization, xiii, 2, 16, 19, 80n24, 102, 122; and globalization, 114; of labor, 88, 100, 103, 105, 107

racial profiling, xx, 113, 400, 401–3, 408, 415n41; and economic restructuring, 114–15

racism: and Americanos project, 386, 387; and Catholic Church, 313; and class, 298; and cultural nationalism, 363, 365, 366; and Dominicans, 250; in employment, 291; environmental, 111; and expressive culture, 357, 372, 373, 374, 378, 381; in garment industry, 94; and immi- gration law, 392–94; internal, 374; and Latino stereotypes, 11, 362; and law, 391; and opposition to naturalization, 398; and political activism, 17, 51; and Puerto Ricans, 108, 372; U.S., xii, 10–11, 391. See also discrimination

Radio Martí, 167, 179 Ramírez, Roberto R., 277n1

489

INDEX

La Raza Unida Party (LRUP), 54, 58, 334, 441

Reagan, Ronald, 15, 324, 337, 340, 341, 404; and Contras, 194–95; and Cubans, 166–67, 178

Refugee Act (1980), 165, 207, 393 refugees, 373; Afro-Cuban, 377;

Central American, xv, 188, 196, 197, 201, 207–10, 212, 217, 225n6, 287, 393; Cuban, xiv, 152–54, 160, 164–65, 181n12, 196, 208, 287, 393; Dominican, 234; and INS, 196–97, 207–10; Vietnamese, 196

Regents of University of California v. Bakke, 409

religion, x, 303–54; African, 304, 345; Afro-Caribbean, xix, 100, 346–47; cultural, 310, 321, 342, 344–45, 348; as cultural tie, 10; and discrimination, 391; and Dominicans, 242, 246, 250, 336, 341; and gender, 284; and identity, 2, 319–21, 344; immanent vs. transcendent divine in, 350n6; indigenous, 345–46, 350n5; and Latino diversity, 34n21, 246, 347; and Latino population growth, 69; and local theologies, 342; Native American, 345–46, 347; New Age, 344; and politics, xxii, 452; popular, 346, 347; popular vs. institutional, 305–6, 308, 312, 314, 335, 344; and Puerto Ricans, 98, 310, 340; resistance to, 344–45; resurgence of, xviii–xix, 321–22; vs. secularism, 344; and secular militancy, 316, 319, 320–21, 333, 334; and sexuality, 286, 304, 344, 346, 347; spiritism, 304; spiritualism, xix, 98, 346; and spirituality, 343–45, 349; support of, 201, 216–17, 222, 225n6; symbolism of, 303, 304, 305, 321, 344; syncretism in, 345, 346, 349n2. See also Catholicism; Evangelicals; Pentecostalism; Protestantism

remittances: to Central America, xv, 197, 211, 216, 218–21, 224; and circular migration, 64; to Cuba, 148, 167, 179; to Dominican Republic, xvi, 27, 240, 242, 244, 249, 250; importance of, 26–27; to

Mexico, 27, 81n36; and politics, xxii; social, 245, 252, 253n7; to South America, 270, 276; and transnational ties, xvii

Rendón, Armando, 315 Rentería, David, 401 Republican Party, 209, 316, 341,

455, 459n7; and Cuban Americans, 178; and Latino candidates, 452–53; and Latino partisanship, 448–51

residence, U.S., 394; length of, 25, 52, 435; permanent, 434–35, 436, 437–38

Restoration War (Dominican Republic; 1863), 231

Rivera, Chita, 114 Rivera, Raymond, 340 Rivkind, Perry, 209 Robertson, Pat, 340 Rockefeller Foundation, 53, 442 Rodríguez, Alex, 21 Rodríguez, Gregory, 72 Rodríguez, Jeanette, 285 Rodríguez, Luis, 358 Rodríguez, Richard, 21, 369–70 Rodríguez, Silvio, 175 Rodríguez, Tito, 114 Rolón, Rosalba, 367 Roosevelt, Theodore, 14–15, 231 Roque, Rock, 112 Ros-Lehtinen, Illeana, 458n3 Roxbury (Massachusetts), 110 Roybal, Edward R., 52, 426 Ruíz, Darío, 119 Ruíz, Ralph, 326 Rumbaut, Rubén, 75–76 rural areas, 2, 47, 48, 54, 281, 427;

migration from, xv, 26, 90, 309–12

Sabana Iglesias (Dominican Republic), 245–46

St. Louis (Missouri), 151 St. Vincent, 189, 203, 217 SALAD. See Spanish American

League Against Discrimination

SALEF (Salvadoran American Leadership and Education Fund), 214

Salinas, Raúl, 364 SALPAC (Salvadoran Political

Action Committee), 214 Salt Lake City (Utah), 68 Salt of the Earth (film), 297–98 Salvadoran immigrants, xv, 5,

187, 197, 217; asylum for, 404; dispersal of, 192, 193, 195, 198, 200–201, 202, 205, 222, 288,

377; and dual citizenship, 27; legal status of, 213; partisanship of, 448; political programs of, 213–14; as refugees, 196, 207–10, 212, 287; remittances from, 27; socioeconomic status of, 198, 205, 222; transnational ties of, 242–43; undocumented, 393; U.S. population of, 259–60, 262–63, 265

Samaná Bay (Dominican Republic), 231

SANA (Salvadoran America National Association), 217

San Antonio (Texas), 68, 69, 287, 427. See also Mexican American Cultural Center

San Antonio Independent School District v. Rodríguez, 408

Sánchez, Yolanda, 99 Sanctuary movement, 194,

207, 210 San Diego (California), 67,

287, 403 Sandinistas (Nicaragua), 194,

195, 196, 209, 404 Sandoval, Chela, 370 Sandoval, Moises, 330 Sandoval-Sánchez, Alberto, 367 San Francisco (California), 2, 8,

19, 274, 419n85; Central Americans in, 188, 198, 201–2, 206; Puerto Ricans in, 96; Salvadorans in, 192, 202, 205

San José (Costa Rica), 160 San Juan (Puerto Rico), 176 SANN (Salvadoran American

National Network), 213–14 Santana, Carlos, 21, 363, 381, 383 Santana, Pedro, 231 Santeiro, Luis, 176 Santería (religion), 98, 347 Santiago (Cuba), 152 Santiago (Dominican

Republic), 246 Santiago, Esmeralda, 373, 381 Santiago, William, 360, 361 Santiago Chirino Amaya

Committee, 207 Santiago-Valles, Kelvin, xiii, 14,

24, 65, 87–145, 386, 398 Santo Domingo (Dominican

Republic), 235, 245 Saralegui, Cristina, 176 Sassen-Koob, Saskia, 125n6,

128n65 SBA. See Small Business

Administration SDS. See Students for a

Democratic Society

490

INDEX

Seattle (Washington), 68 Second Vatican Council

(1962–64), 315, 317–18, 322, 325, 328, 332

Sedillo, Pablo, 327, 329 segregation, 80n24, 97, 108; in

Catholic Church, 308; in education, xxi, 75, 397, 407; in housing, 397, 407; and political activism, 52, 54, 59

Seinfeld (TV show), 360–62, 385 Seinfeld, Jerry, 387 SEIU. See Service Employees

International Union Selena, 21, 378, 379–81, 382, 383 Selena (film), 379 Selena Forever (musical), 380 September 11, 2001 attacks (9/11),

20, 27–28, 40n54, 65, 72, 76, 399; border security since, 67, 77, 261, 271

Serrano, David, 350n8 Serrano v. Priest, 408 Service Employees International

Union (SEIU), 214–15, 226n10; Justice for Janitors campaign of, 215, 297

service sector, 67, 117, 243, 288, 299; domestic, 291–92, 293, 295, 296; in Dominican Republic, 235, 237, 239; and economic restructuring, 114–15; and labor unions, 446; Puerto Ricans in, 94, 104, 118; and upward mobility, 116, 129n65; workers in, 199, 214–15, 226n10. See also janitorial services

Seventh Day Adventists, 163 sexism, 283, 292, 298, 361–62 sexual harassment, 290 sexuality: and cultural change,

51; and expressive culture, 358, 372, 373, 374, 376, 379; and gender roles, 285–86; and “honor,” 284, 285; and mainstreaming, 378; and music, 381, 382–83; and religion, 286, 304, 344, 346, 347

Seymour, William J., 350n5 Shakira (musician), 21, 381 Sifuentes, Roberto, 374 Sikh immigrants, 44 Simon, Paul, 101 Skerry, Peter, 72 slavery, 11, 16, 20, 189, 223 Small Business Administration

(SBA), 171 SNCC. See Student Nonviolent

Coordinating Commitee

socialism, 14, 319, 372 Socialist Workers Party, 60 social justice, 386, 432, 452; and

Catholic Church, 331, 332, 334, 335; and expressive culture, 345, 372; and faith- based organizations, 342

social movements, 325, 328, 347; defined, 321–22

social services: of Catholic Church, 152, 318, 334; for Cuban immigrants, xiv, 152–55, 161–62, 170, 171, 178; decline in, 105, 111–12, 115; faith-based, xxii, 334, 338, 339, 340, 341–42; federal, 331; funding for, 340–41, 348; and immigration law, 93, 395, 414n24, 436; as Latino issue, 452, 453; and naturalization, 398; and political activism, 102, 103, 337; and political participation, 432; and Proposition 187, 436; and Protestantism, 338–39; for Puerto Ricans, 96, 108; in Puerto Rico, 14, 89, 90; reform of, 71

sojourners, temporary, 5 Solís, Marco Antonio, 383 Somoza regime (Nicaragua), 194,

195, 202 SOS (Save Our State). See

Proposition 187 Sosa, Sammy, 21, 252 Sotero Vásquez, Alicia, 403 South, U.S., 7, 8, 72, 91, 117, 312,

400; Mexicans in, 43, 68, 69, 70; Puerto Ricans in, 118; and Voting Rights Act, 428. See also particular states

South Africa, 378 South America, 18, 21, 264,

267–68 South American immigrants, 5,

6, 8, 257–80; diversity of, 258–61, 264, 270, 274, 277; education of, 40n58, 261–62, 264, 266–68, 272, 275; and employment opportunties, 264, 266; and ethnic identity, 257–58, 265–66, 271–72; and family reunification, 264, 266, 268–69; generations of, 257–58, 270, 274–77; immi- gration networks for, 264, 270–71; legal status of, 261, 263, 269, 272; middle-class, 259–60, 267, 272, 277; in New York City, 377; racial compo- sition of, 259, 276; settlement

patterns of, 259, 261, 264, 269–74, 277; social capital of, 266–67, 275; and social polarization, 123; socioeco- nomic status of, xvii, 259, 261–62, 264, 266–67, 270–72, 276–77; transnational ties of, 261, 269–77; undocumented, 261, 263, 269, 270; working- class, 264, 267, 272, 276

South Carolina, 67, 68, 84n49 Southeast, U.S., 288 Southeast Asia, 117. See also

Vietnam War Southeast Asians, 113, 196, 344 South Korea, 120 Southwest, U.S., 6, 293, 366, 377,

379, 393, 429; annexation of, 13, 306; Catholic Church in, 307, 308; labor unions in, 440; land rights in, 441; Latino murals in, 357; Mexicans in, xix, 1, 67, 68, 70, 320, 396; pan-Latino organization in, 442; politics in, 53–54, 56, 57, 72, 423, 427, 428, 441; racial profiling in, 408. See also particular states

Southwest Voter Registration and Education Project (SVREP), xxii, 53

Soviet Union, 149, 167, 177, 343 Spain, 155, 160, 285, 359; Civil

War in, 313; colonialism of, 6, 18, 44, 231; and religion, 304, 306, 313, 314

Spanglish, 98, 368, 377 Spanish Action Committee

(Chicago), 102 Spanish American League

Against Discrimination (SALAD), 178

Spanish-American War (1898), xiv, 7, 11–12, 89

Spanish language, 1, 29n3, 96, 424; and Americanos project, 385; on bilingual ballot, 315, 428, 429; and Catholic Church, 307–9, 312, 315, 318, 327, 332; and civil rights, 400, 401, 405–6; and CPLR, 324–25; and cultural identity, 257, 266, 274, 341, 362–63; and expressive culture, 355, 356, 367, 368, 370, 374; and indigenous peoples, 18; and internal migration, 311; and Latino diversity, 10, 33n20, 61; and Latino stereotypes, 362; in media, 21, 70–71, 99, 271, 288, 362, 377, 436;

491

INDEX

Spanish language (Continued) in music, 380, 382, 384; and Pentecostalism, 310–11; and Protestantism, 339. See also bilingualism; language

special economic zones (China), 117

sports, 216, 220, 222, 229; baseball, 175, 232, 252, 393

Springfield (Massachusetts), 118 Stanton, Elizabeth Cady, 300n Starr, Brenda, 383 Steinbeck, John, 312 stereotypes, 10, 16, 408; and

Americanos project, 384, 387; of Catholicism, 349n2; and civil rights, 166, 284, 401–3; and expressive culture, 11, 359–62, 374; of foreignness, 400; and gender, 284, 370; media, 114, 284, 359–62; of Mexicans, 45, 413n18; of Puerto Ricans, 88, 108, 114, 360–62; and racism, 11, 362

Stern, Robert L., 328–29, 332 Stevens-Arroyo, Anthony M.,

xviii–xix, 217, 225n6, 303–54 Stonewall rebellion, 110 Street Vendors Association

(Asociación de Vendedores Ambulantes), 215

Street Vendors’ Task Force, 215 Student Nonviolent

Coordinating Commitee (SNCC), 61

Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), 61

Suárez, Virgil, 176 sugar production: in Cuba, 147,

150; in Dominican Republic, 232, 233, 236, 237, 247

Supernatural (album; Santana), 381

Supreme Court, U.S.: on affirmative action, xxi, 409; on civil rights violations, 400–401; on deportation, 403; on education, 406, 407, 408; on Elián González case, 169; and Insular Cases, 12, 13, 34n24; on language, 405, 408; and Puerto Rican citizenship, 12, 13; and racial profiling, 415n41; and redistricting, 429; and Santería, 347

Suriname, 29n3 Survey of Minority-Owned

Business Enterprises, 170 SVREP. See Southwest Voter

Registration and Education Project

Sweeney, John, 214 Swiss embassy (Havana), 152, 156

Taco Bell, 359 Taco Shop Poets, 374 Taínos people, 304, 346 Tanón, Olga, 383 Teatro Campesino, 364, 366, 367,

368, 371 technology, 129n65, 356, 384; and

economic restructuring, 62, 113; and globalization, 90; and high-tech jobs, 118, 119, 239; transportation, 243

Tejana culture, 379–80 tejanos (Texas Mexicans), 54 telenovelas (soap operas), 271 television, 70–71, 436 Televisión Martí, 179 Telles, Raymond, 426 Tenares (Dominican

Republic), 245 Ten Years’ War (Cuba; 1868–78),

146–47 Texas, xii, 9, 257, 272–73, 288,

372; annexation of, 306, 332; Brownsville, 67, 68, 84n48; Catholic Church in, 285–86, 307, 308, 313, 336; Chicanos in, 320; civil rights violations in, 401, 403; Crystal City, 54, 58; Dallas, 188, 198, 287; education in, 408, 409, 419n80; Hispanic-American Institute in, 323–24; and JFK campaign, 421, 422–25, 458n2; job loss in, 82n40; majority- minority districts in, 429; Mexican activism in, 53–54; Mexican Americans in, 58, 380; in Mexican Republic, 6, 44; Mexicans in, 45, 46, 67, 68, 72–73; migration from, 309, 311; politics in, 71, 72, 426, 427, 450, 454, 455; Puerto Ricans in, 122; and Selena, 379; social polarization in, 123; Tejana culture in, 54, 379–80; University of, 409. See also El Paso; Houston; San Antonio

Texas Revolution (1836), xii, 44, 54

Tex-Mex culture, 379–80, 382, 383

theater, 99, 110; and cultural nationalism, 364, 366–67; and gender, 371; mainstreaming of, 367–68; and performance artists, 370, 374–75

theosophy, 346

Third Worldism, 319–20, 322 Thomas, Piri, 310, 312, 358 Thompson, E. P., 101 Thurmond, Strom, 38n45, 411 Tiant, Luis, 175 Tienda, Marta, 106 Tijerina, Reies López, 53, 321, 364 Tijuana (Mexico), 67 Tocqueville, Alexis de, 19 Tomasi, Silvio, 308 Torres-Saillant, Silvio, 240 TPS (temporary legal status),

209–10, 212, 213 transcendentalism, 55 transnationalism, xxiiin2; and

communications, 243; defi- nitions of, 240–41; and dual citizenship, xvi, xvii, xxii, 27, 42n67, 247–48, 444–45; and globalization, xvii, 343, 375–79; and identity, 343, 371, 375–79; and networks, 218–19, 264, 270–71; political, 343, 443–45, 453, 458, 459n6; and religion, 347; and social fields, xvi

transnational ties, x, xi, 22, 26; of Central Americans, xv, 197, 198, 206, 218–19, 222, 224–25, 226n14, 272–73, 295; and circular migration, xvi, 14, 35n31, 49, 64, 97, 117; of Colombians, 242–43, 270, 272–73, 276; of Cuban Americans, 146–49, 151–52, 156, 158, 161, 164, 173–74; of Dominicans, xvi, 229–30, 240–51, 252, 445; and family, xvii, 295; of Mexicans, 47, 48; and motherhood, 295, 296; of Puerto Ricans, 97; of Salvadorans, 242–43; of South Americans, 261, 269–77

Tropicana, Carmelita, 374 Trujillo, Rafael Leonidas, 232–33,

234, 235, 246 Tucson (Arizona), 68, 69 twin cities (U.S.-Mexico border

zone), 66–67 Twin-Plant Concept (fábricas

de producción comple- mentaria), 120

UFW. See United Farm Workers Union

Ugalde, Antonio, 238 Umpierre, Luz María, 372 Under the feet of Jesus

(Viramontes), 373 undocumented immigrants, 5,

22–23, 375, 379; and affirmative action, 410;

492

INDEX

amnesty for, 199, 204, 219, 394, 434; Central American, xvii, 194, 196, 199, 205–6, 263, 393; as cheap labor, 408; and citizenship, 398, 433–34; and civil rights violations, 401–3; Cuban, 263; Dominican, 263, 393; employment of, 46, 116, 396; and gender, 294; and globalization, 397; and immigration law, 393–94; and labor unions, 446; and Latino diversity, 377; Mexican, xvii, 46, 47, 66, 199, 226n10, 263, 267, 269, 287, 393; South American, 261, 263, 269, 270; terminology for, 30n7

unemployment: among African- Americans, 153; among Latinos, 262; among Puerto Ricans, 105; in Cuba, 147, 148; in Dominican Republic, 235–36, 244; and Latino theater, 367; in Mexico, 267–68; and migration, 73; of Puerto Ricans, 88, 96, 107, 114, 117; in Puerto Rico, 89, 92, 109; in South America, 266–68; of youth, 100

UNITE (United Needletrades, Industrial and Textile Employees), 215

United Bronx Parents, 99 United Farm Workers Union

(UFW), 55, 59, 322–26, 348, 364

United Fruit Company, 192 United HIAS Service, 152 United Nations, 176 United States (U.S.): and Castro,

153, 155, 162, 177, 179; and Central America, xiii, xiv–xv, 190–93, 205–7; and Cuba, xiii–xiv, 11, 14, 15, 146–56, 158, 163–64, 167–68, 175–79, 181n6; culture of, 229, 232, 245–46, 250–52, 275–77, 289; and Dominican Republic, xvi, 231–35, 247; economic policy of, xv, xix, xx, 11, 26, 55, 62, 89, 90, 91, 394; embassies of, 151, 155; foreign investments of, 190–93, 231, 247; foreign policy of, xiv, 5, 14–17, 29, 442, 445, 453; gender in, xviii, 285; and globalization, 90; imperialism of, xi–xii, xiii, 10–14, 17; internal migration in, 309–12; job loss in, 82n40; and Latin America, xi–xii, 10–14; Latinization of, ix; and

Mexico, xiii, 11, 15, 40n54, 44–46, 82n38; military inter- ventions by, xiv, 11, 15, 232–33, 234; minority populations of, 258–77; population of, xii, 2–9, 25, 30n4, 31n12, 62, 78n4, 370; and Puerto Rico, xiii, xiv, 11–14, 15, 349, 398; westward expansion of, 11, 34n23, 44, 359. See also border zone, Mexico-U.S.; Congress, U.S.; government, U.S.; Supreme Court, U.S.; particular regions and states

United States Catholic Conference (USCC; Washington, D.C.), 327, 334

urban areas, 84nn48,49, 287; Central Americans in, 188, 198, 202, 204, 206, 210, 220, 221–22; economies of, 92, 104, 117; elites in, 232, 267, 268; ghettos in, 76; Latinos in, 2, 18–19, 188, 198, 206, 210, 221–22, 274, 365; Mexicans in, 45, 48; migration to, xv, 26, 90, 238, 309–12; music in, 368–69, 383, 384; police brutality in, 113; political activism in, 52, 54, 57, 103, 112, 441; political machines in, 427; political participation in, 426, 428; Puerto Ricans in, 92, 93–94, 95, 118, 119; racialization in, 100; religion in, 309, 310, 312, 313, 339; white flight from, 75, 86n67

urbanization, 52, 89, 95, 235–36, 281, 288, 289

URNG (Guatemalan National Revolutionary Unity), 194

Uruguay, 27, 259, 261, 263, 265 USAID programs, 26 USCC. See United States

Catholic Conference Utah, 6, 44, 68, 288

Valdez, Elsa, 294 Valdez, Luis, 366, 367, 371 Varela, María, 60 Vega, Bernardo, 323 Velvet Revolution

(Czechoslovakia), 180 Venezuela, 6, 28, 259, 267–68 Vieques Island (Puerto Rico),

349, 381, 459n6 Vietnamese, 196, 344 Vietnam War, 4, 59, 319, 321, 322,

325, 441 Villafañe, Eldin, 340 Villaronga, Raúl, 112

Villaseñor, Victor, 21 Viramontes, Helena María,

371, 373 La Virgen de Guadalupe. See Our

Lady of Guadalupe la Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre

(shrine), 173 Virginia, 68 Virgin Islands (U.S.), 127n49, 157 Virgin Mary, xviii, 284–85, 336.