May Day

Today is May Day. And the people will be pouring into the streets again in support of undocumented immigrants.

Last year I joined the crowds in the streets. I didn't know that even up here in the cold midwest there would be enough people to fill up a few blocks. Flags waved. Mexican and American. So many families. Children being pushed in strollers. Downtown felt alive, less sanitized, for once.

I mainly joined because I needed to make a public statement. The public mood was tense. There had been raids in the factories a city right over. May Day May Day. An emergency of sorts.

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When the topic of the undocumented comes up, I always wish I had gone to my highschool prom. Eduardo and I used to spend 7th period in the library, instead of in the PE gym where we were supposed to be. His family were migrant farmworkers. He was quiet in most of our classes, deferential to all the loud-speaking jocks. But during 7th period with me, he was a motormouth. We'd spend 7th period talking about novels and calculus. Even though I was getting an A in calculus, I was constantly terrified by the subject. Eduardo felt at ease with differentials and limits. He'd explain calculus to me in his accented English and things would make sense. In May when he asked me if I was going to the prom, I floundered, not because of him, but because good little Indian girls don't go to the prom. And that was that.

I wish I had gone. A May Day gone.

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I might join the protests again this evening. I'm not sure. It may involve cancelling a dinner date with a good friend.


What does it mean to be a brown girl, from an immigrant family, whose community does not, for the most part, have to deal with the stain of being known as an immigration mennace? Or as a dirty people who are sucking the system dry? How does one go beyond oneself, ones one place in the world, to find a real connection to others? Without being paternalistic? Without being in it for the glory of righteousness?

These are questions which I wonder.