Happy F...ing 4th of July, America

I grew up in Iowa on a small family farm near a town of 525 people in the 1950s and 60s. Do you know how many of them were white? And Norwegian or German or maybe a little bit Scotch or Irish? And not Jewish? 100%.

Then we moved to a “big town” when I was 10. Winterset, Iowa with a population of about 5,000. Do you know how many of those 5,000 people were white? And not Jewish? 100% of them.

Then I moved to Spencer Iowa in 1965, a town of about 10,000, and from where I would build enough of a sense of myself to go on to college and create a life away from Iowa. You get the pattern now. In Spencer, Iowa, there was, I think, one Jewish family. Everyone else was just white. Protestants, Catholic, and people who didn’t go to church. All white.

I am a case study for someone who might be racist. Except that my parents weren’t. For that I am grateful.

I didn’t even see a Black person until I was in college. I’m pretty sure about that. A Latina or Hispanic person? I have no recollection of when I first met one.. But certainly not until I was an adult living in Iowa City, Iowa. And even then, this was 1973, I don’t recall much diversity in Iowa City at the time. I literally didn’t know a single Black or Hispanic person. By now I am in my 20’s.

Then in 1978 I moved to Charleston, SC. At that time, the population of Charleston , the city itself and, by this, I mean the historic peninsula, was 51% African American and 49% White. Today only 17% are Black. You can imagine why. But I had the great privilege of living there during that earlier time. Of course, there were neighborhoods, Blacks lived with other Blacks, White people lived in the White neighborhoods, but there was a great deal more interaction on an everyday basis. It was beautiful in that way. I am not saying it was equitable or perfect. I am saying the daily interactions, a nod of the head, a smile, a “How y’all doin’ today?” with each other was beautiful and perhaps we enriched each other in those moments.

I think the first time I ever had a relationship with a Hispanic person was when I got to know a woman and her family who worked as our housekeeper in Minneapolis from 1995 - 2017. Twenty-two years. I understand this is a cliché. But put down the judgement because I wanted my house cleaned and she wanted a job, and she loved taking care of homes. She always said that. “I love my job!” I had coffee waiting for her every time she came, and we would talk, then we went our separate ways to work. She was very happy in our home, and I was very happy to have her in our life. We grew to adore her incredibly hard-working, kind husband who used to do things like clean our garage out after working his own 40+ hour week job, organize things, help us with moving. We got to know their daughter, their life in Minneapolis, celebrated birthdays, and, when she became a citizen of the US, I was there for her ceremony. It was a remarkable day and she was very proud.

She had come from Guatemala with 3 young children alone while her husband worked to save money for them. She was captured and put in a jail cell in Florida. Because I was so sad about that, I couldn’t even hear the rest of the story. I was afraid it was too horrible, and I would never be able to not think about it when I saw her. I couldn’t know. She knew I cared for her. They are people that any country would be lucky to have. I don’t know a thing about the legal status of her other family members and have no interest in knowing. Other than I care that they are safe.

In Charleston, I came to know two other Latinos – one from Brazil and one from Mexico. Once again, the cliché, but this is just the truth. One was our housekeeper for ten years, the other ran his own landscaping company. I saw a gorgeous garden in Charleston and wondered who took care of it. One day, his team was there working with t-shirts with the name of the landscaping company. I took a photo of the t-shirt logo, called and worked with him for about eight years. His son played baseball and what a proud dad he was with a photo of his son in his uniform as the screensaver on his phone. He would show me with a huge smile reflecting his calm spirit and a sense of confidence.

What I most noticed about the Hispanic people that I got to know because of a work relationship is how freaking hard-working they are. They ALWAYS did more than expected. I had so much trust in them, they had our keys, came and went as they needed, and lived by the maxim “UNDER-promise and OVER-deliver”. There was always some little extra thing done I couldn’t have imagined or expected. They were cheerful, good to my dogs, loved my husband and he loved them all back, sweet with my kids if they were around. Strong, loyal within their communities and to our family. I grew to care for their families.

When I left Charleston, I got this from my housekeeper and friend by text:

Alecia, I want to thank you and Lee for all these years, for the opportunity to work and for your trust. I leave you with my eternal gratitude. I will miss you. I wish you all the best.

Now, I will address this to the supporters of Donald Trump, whether you identify with MAGA or not. I know you aren’t generally the readers of my Substack, so consider this editorial, but my interest is sincere. Why are you worried about immigrants? When has an immigrant personally hurt you? I understand that some people might have been hurt by an immigrant, just like some people are hurt by frat boys and crazy fuckers with guns and penises, but I do want so desperately to understand….why are you so angry about this?

Why can’t we find a way to all live in that huge beautiful country and each play our part? Why can’t we find the way to make them legal? We need them and they need us. This is a symbiotic relationship that benefits all of us. How have you been hurt? Why are you so angry about this? So willing to tear apart families? Can you explain it? How have you personally suffered? How have you suffered at the hands of an immigrant? And how did your heart become so armored?

I am an immigrant now, too. I now live in Italy. It’s really a lot of work to get your ass to a new country. And I have means. I have an attorney. It takes a crazy amount of energy and wits and perseverance. The way I look at it….if someone has the fortitude to go through what it takes to get themselves to America, they would probably be really fucking industrious and hard-working. Maybe we could reward them for that and benefit at the same time.

I couldn’t live in the US now. Pretending this transformation isn’t happening to the America, the Land of the Free, that I grew up with, sometimes makes me feel sick. Going around with all smiles and cheerfulness talking about the Bezos wedding and her disfigured face instead of what is urgent seems a little off. Alligators eating people as a meme gets laughs and sells merchandise. Sending a 19 year old woman, a college student, to functional prisons that include torture and humiliation without proper medical care?

We are dissociating. I am doing it! I just don’t want to think about it. In psychology, this is what people do when things happen to them that are so bad, they have to block it. Dissociating. This is what causes Multiple Personality Disorder, now officially called Dissociative Identity Disorder. Think about that. I’m grateful I’m not there day in and day out. The quotidien grind of political news and cruelty would hollow me out. The grief I sometimes feel is shattering.

Happy Fucking 4^th of July, America. I think the flags should be flown at half-mast in mourning.