Miami Transformed. Manny Diaz

      WHEN I ENTERED law school in 1977, I did my best to curtail my political and community activities. My goal was to focus on law school, earn good grades, pass the bar exam, and start my profession. “I don’t want political jobs anymore,” I thought. Then 1980, the year I graduated, would become one of the most difficult years in Miami’s history. In the course of one year, Miami experienced the Mariel and Haitian boatlifts, and the Liberty City riots. We would become the riot capital of America. And then, in the midst of all this tension, a group in Miami used the referendum process to place an “Anti-Bilingual Ordinance” on the ballot. This was a first-of-its-kind “English-only” ordinance that would prohibit use of government funds to translate official documents.

      Eduardo Padrón, now president of Miami Dade College, was chair of SALAD, the Spanish American League Against Discrimination. SALAD had been formed in 1974 as a civil rights advocacy organization for the Spanish American community in Miami. Padron asked me to serve as executive director of the organization. I was hesitant to accept his offer. My plan was to graduate, pass the bar, and begin practicing law. I certainly did not want this to be my first job out of law school. But with all that was going on, and knowing I could help close the divide between our different communities, I accepted Eduardo’s plea. I became the chief spokesperson against the anti-bilingual ordinance, taking part in multiple debates and making numerous public and media appearances. Regrettably, the campaign became very bigoted. It became a legitimate way to expose the hatred people wanted to express. In the context of campaigning, people seem to find it much easier to say things they would not ordinarily dare say.

      The ordinance essentially called for making English the county’s official language. I am not sure this was necessary because (a) the county does not need an official language and (b) no one was suggesting another official language other than English. During the debates, the underlying intent of the proponents became increasingly clear.

       “We don’t think ballots should be in a language other than English.”

      But that is mandated by the Civil Rights Act, I would reply. The ordinance would not change that.

       “Well, we don’t think there should be bilingual education in schools.”

      That’s mandated by federal law as well. The ordinance would not change that either.

      “Well,” they would continue, “we don’t think that people should—when I walk into a store, the clerk shouldn’t be speaking Spanish to people next to him. People walking down streets or in elevators should speak only English. Signs in stores should only be in English.”

      Of course, none of this would be affected by the ordinance. You cannot legislate customer service or against rudeness. But when I pointed this out to people, they would respond: “I don’t care. I want to send you people a message.”

      In fact, the only government-related function affected by the ordinance was Miami-Dade’s Office of Latin Affairs, a small office with a single staffer that received nominal funding (similar offices had been established for blacks and women). The ordinance itself, however, was a strong statement: “We’ve put up with you guys for twenty years, and we’re sending you a clear public statement that we’re not happy with you.” With Mariel as a backdrop, this was a tipping point for many people.