Enduring Violence. Cecilia Menjívar
people migrated seemed commonplace and “part of life.”
I also noticed the increasing centrality of U.S.-bound migration in the Altiplano as a way to deal with everyday challenges. At the beginning of fieldwork there I came across only two families with relatives in the United States (confirmed later by the owner of a new branch of a money transfer business), but with each ensuing visit more people pointed out to me the houses that migrants’ dollars had contributed to building, and in 2000, for the first time, I saw a “travel agency” similar to the one operating out of Nena's old store in San Alejo. Toñita explained why her husband had migrated and her views of the process: “He used to work here as a driver, but because we have so many children [ten], and they are all in school, we need money, so he left for the United States two years ago…. He's in Florida, Miami, I think. No, I don't know what he does. I think he works at a packing plant. Yes, he sends us money, but it's not enough. I have to invest it wisely, in daily expenses, the children's school, and for the corn that we have to plant.”
Like Toñita, many of the women in San Alejo spoke of men from their town migrating to the United States. Lila explained that when she and her husband married, they had nothing, not even dishes in the house, so after their twins were born he had no other way to provide for the babies’ medicines, food, and clothing than to migrate. Also in San Alejo, Mercedes, all but two of whose eight children lived in Chicago, said that most people migrate from San Alejo because there is “no employment.” Estrella explained how scarcity and the worsening economic situation had created conditions for people to migrate: “If you don't work in this place, you don't eat. And you know what I do? I save my cents, so that when I am in need, I have my own money. The rest, they have their children in the States, they send them money, and that's how they live. So anyone you see here living more or less well, it's because they have a son or a daughter working over there.” In the eyes of the women, migration was a “cure” for their afflictions. Ofelia, who worked at the health post, noted, “Why deny it? I think that [migration] has been a great help for Guatemala, here [San Alejo] and for the entire country. Before migration people didn't have houses, food, clothing. Now they do. It's the only way to improve your situation.”
Financial difficulties (and direct political violence, especially in the highlands) were not the only problems that migration helped to solve; there were other kinds of personal worries, linked to gender-specific violence, for which the women thought migration was a solution. Lucrecia, a twenty-seven-year-old single mother in San Alejo, had never been married. People in town considered her “loose,” and she intimated that she did not think she had a “good reputation.” She thought the best way to resolve this situation would be to migrate. Lost in her thoughts, Lucrecia looked out the window and reflected, “I don't know, but I want to go to the United States. Yes, one dreams and dreams. I want to go there, but alone. I want to go there to work. I don't want to think about tomorrow, I won't have a husband here. Who's going to marry me? What man will want something serious with me? So I would like to go. It's better over there for women, well, for someone like me, without a husband, just alone with my kids.”
As these brief examples demonstrate, migration from Guatemala is intertwined with the context of violence I have discussed, both in how this context creates conditions for people to seek options for a better life elsewhere but also in the consequences migration has for women. Despite the general praise for migration as a panacea for all problems, most of the women also spoke of its painful consequences. This is similar to the views of immigrants in the United States whom I interviewed (Menjívar 2006a, 2006b); many of them mentioned the pain and emotional and personal costs of living separated from their families and the lengths they went to to remain connected.
The women in San Alejo would say, “Me resigno” (I resign myself) or “¿Y uno qué puede hacer?” (And what can one do?) when asked about what they thought of their partners’ migration. Indeed, even the phone calls that have come to symbolize migrants’ efforts to remain connected with loved ones back home were painful for the women. If their partners called (and it was the men who initiated a phone call, as phone cards are cheaper and more readily available in the United States) and the women noticed just a minor change in the tone of their voices, or if the men forgot to ask about something the women considered important, the women would be left worrying about possible affairs the men could be having in the United States and thus about potential abandonment. And if the men did not call it was worse (see Menjívar and Agadjanian 2007). Vera referred to these phone calls as painful; she explained that every time she received a call from her husband in the United States she was left crying. “Of course, it's nice to get a phone call and hear his voice, but that reminds me that he's not here, that he's not seeing his daughter grow up. And who knows? He's alone over there, and men are men; they sometimes fall to temptation when they are alone.”
Mercedes spoke in general terms about how people (mostly men) initially send money and remember their families, but over time “homes disintegrate.”21 And for Gracia María, whose five brothers were in the United States, her brothers’ absence was quite difficult because she felt “alone,” even though her parents lived in town: “With them here I feel their support as men, you know? I feel protected, I don't know, like stronger, with more backing. It's different when I'm here alone. As a woman, it's different not to have your brothers by your side. But I'm happy they left because life here is too difficult and I know that they'll improve their lives there [her eyes become watery].” As Gracia María's words indicate, it is not only the absence of the men but also what it means in this context for the nonmigrant women that is worth noting and linking to structures of violence. Thus Lucía spoke of what the absence of a male member in the family means for a woman in San Alejo. Her husband had been migrating seasonally to the United States, and she missed him very much.
Yes, sometimes I get melancholic. Why lie to you? I get sad, and wonder why my life has to be this way. Why me, I wonder? And I ask God, Diosito, why me? And it's very hard when he's gone for a long time. It's not only the sex [she laughs], no, there are many other things. When he's here he can deal with a lot of things better. Having a husband around is helpful; when one has their support one feels more secure. It's how life is here.
Emilia added a historical angle:
I miss my husband. My consolation is that at least I have the children with me. But I do feel lonely. You know, it wasn't like this before. People didn't leave town like they do now. Those people who had relatives in the States were so few that everyone knew them. Now it's the contrary. Those who don't have relatives there are the rare ones.
And Elvira, a nurse whose family has been migrating and has experienced the pain of these separations, explained how it felt:
Let me give you an example. Once I read that Sergio Ramírez [the Nicaraguan writer] asked Julio Cortázar [the Argentine writer] what it feels like to have lost his wife, and Cortázar responds, “Like always having a grain of sand in one's eye; the pain, seemingly small and insignificant is huge, constant, it doesn't go away.” I feel that this is how it feels to be separated from your parents, your husband, or your children, especially when you don't know how they are over there. This uncertainty is the part that's insoportable [unbearable].
However painful for the nonmigrants, it is not only the act of migration and the physical separations that matter here. Migration also interrupts celebrations, rituals, and the rhythm of life. Often I heard of baptisms and marriages being postponed. For instance, Mirna worried that only two of her five children had been baptized because her cousin, who was in Connecticut, wanted to be the godfather of the other three and could not travel back to Guatemala easily: “Well, the problem is that he left as a mojado, you know, without a visa, so he cannot come back for just a baptism. I worry because it's not good not to have your children baptized. What if something happens to the children, God forbid, and they are not baptized? And who knows when he'll be able to come for their baptisms; people say that it has become very difficult to travel.” And Vera's daughter was supposed to have been baptized on the day she turned one year old, but both the girl's father and the chosen godparents could not make it back for the baptism. Vera searched for words to explain that she did not know when they would return. In the end, she only said, “I am not sure, really not sure. Our lives are pending, one can say.”
Migration, given