Undoing Border Imperialism. Harsha Walia
never fit nicely into an equal opportunity
I’ve failed applications, funding proposals, membership, and residency tests
The same organizations and groups won’t call me
“You’re just too mixed!” I’m told
But I don’t feel mixed, I feel whole
And I’m not the only one.
Every explanation I have to give because my story isn’t shown in the mainstream
Every but I have to put in front of what I call myself in the English language
Every discussion I have to get into because I will not allow my ancestors’ struggles for me to be here to be silenced
Takes away my self-determination of identity
If you want to stop the us vs. them
I just can’t pick one.
—Jessica Danforth
Chile Con Carne
Manuelita walks slowly toward her desk. Music resembling the sound of a heartbeat plays.(1) MANUELITA: At school nobody knows I dance cueca. Nobody knows I work at the bakery and at the hair salon. Nobody knows my house is full of my parents’ friends having meetings till really late. Nobody knows we have protests and rallies, nobody knows we have penas and cumbia dances, nobody knows my parents are going on a hunger strike. Nobody knows my dad was in jail. Nobody knows we’re on the blacklist. Nobody from school, not even Lassie, comes over to my house. Nobody knows we have posters of Fidel Castro and Che Guevara on the walls. Nobody knows about the Chilean me at school.
Manuelita arrives at her desk. The man from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police is here to talk about safety. So stupid! MANUELITA: He’s a huge gringo policeman, with a gun at his side. I bet he knows that me and Joselito broke the windows on the tractors that want to chop down Cedar, my favorite tree, and now he’s come to get me. Then I’ll be in jail. Just like my dad was. He’s standing at the front of the class with a nice warm smile on his face. “Hi, kids,” he says. I remember those nice grins, those are the same grins they wore when they raided our house and they tore my favorite doll’s head off. I sit in the first row of desks so I can see the gun real clearly. It’s real all right, but it’s smaller than the ones in Chile. The man starts talking about dangerous men in the woods and never get in cars and never take money from strangers, but I’m thinking, I know. I know what you’re really about. My mom explained to me once that the gringos helped to do the coup in Chile, that’s why we always have protests outside the US consulate, so I know what you’re up to, mister. You’re trying to get us to trust you, but “No, sir.” He takes his gun out slowly and holds it like this, flat in his hands; he’s talking about how he never uses it, when all of a sudden I hear a kid screaming real loud. A few moments go by before I realize it’s me that’s screaming.
Manuelita stands on the desk and does a silent scream, turning in a circle. Then she sits back down. MANUELITA: There’s a puddle of pee on my seat. Miss Mitten comes up to me with a frozen smile and eyes that are about to pop out. She hits me on the head with her flash cards.
Manuelita runs to Cedar. MANUELITA: I can hear the kids laughing ’cause I peed, but I run all the way home and here, to Cedar.
—Carmen Aguirre
The Bracelet
This is a dialogue between a father and his four-year-old son.(1)
“Dad, dad . . .”
“Yes, little one.”
“What are you wearing around your neck?”
“Around my neck! Nothing.”
“No, there.”
“Oh, you mean around my ankle?”
“That’s the neck of your foot, the annk . . . what?”
“Ankle, little one.”
“But you didn’t tell me what it is.”
“Ah. That, that’s a bracelet.”
“How long have you been wearing it?”
“Three years.”
“Why do you always wear it?”
“Because I’m attached to it; it was a present.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“It was tonton.”
“Who is tonton?”
“Er . . . it’s Uncle Sam.”
“Who is Uncle Sam?”
“Little one, you ask too many questions. It’s just somebody who gave it to me . . . Uncle Sam, Uncle Stephen, Uncle Security. It doesn’t matter; you don’t know him.”
“OK, but why is it black, your bracelet?”
“Because those who gave it to me have white faces but black hearts.”
“Why isn’t it gold, like mama’s necklace?”
“Because those who gave it to me don’t have a heart of gold, little one.”
“But Dad, why are you the only person who wears it in Quebec?”
“Not for long, little one, don’t worry. In not too long it’ll be a style, like tattoos; everyone will have theirs. There are already ones in cell phones, in cars, for blue-collar workers, for grandfathers, for babies, for dogs. . . . Uncle Sam doesn’t have a heart of gold but he doesn’t miss anyone.”
—Adil Charkaoui
Imposters
The world is made up of imposters. There is often a will towards authenticity, some semblance of the genuine. And yet, what might it mean to consider the figure of the imposter, not as an aberration or crime but as a standard. To play a part is to perhaps hold a role in the increasingly neoliberal global economy.
In Delhi, Bangalore, Hyderabad, Lahore, she will smile into a headset. Her voice will chirp with the intonations of Friends actresses whom she has learned to mimic. Her English intonation and slang is more precise than many Middle Americans she talks to. She will talk to Chris in Detroit. Grandchild of slaves, he wears a carving of the map of Africa around his neck and has been laid off for months. “Yes,” he stammers, voice rough from days of Parliament cigarettes and the worries of the perpetually unemployed, “I’m an American citizen.”
She will talk to Judy in Calgary who will discuss her poor credit rating. Judy once attended a seminar about “the Imposter Syndrome,” a self-help workshop teaching graduate students to self-diagnose their anxieties regarding the place of intellectuals in the neoliberal marketplace. Judy went for the free coffee and muffins. Anything she didn’t have to pay for. Judy will remember inspirational maxims she was force-fed along with crusty baked goods, proclaiming that she is a doctoral student who is confident that she will find a well-paying job. She will stare at the “balance owing” on the screen and say a silent prayer for Judy.
She will talk to John in Brooklyn. With the sound of religious processions carried through the office window, she will yawn silently. It is her night and his day. She will smile into the headset. “Good morning, sir! How are you today?” John will have just told his mother that everything is fine, before carrying empties of beer to the trash bin, kicking aside used syringes, and glancing at the homeless and the hipsters. She will see his prison and hospital records flash on the screen. He will smile into his cell phone. “Yeah, fine thanks.”
“Jen” smiling into a headset is not a trusted friend or confidant. When baptized by a Bank with her new outsourced cheerleader pseudonym, she giggled, as it reminded her of a word in another language meaning ghost. She sees your credit rating, prison and hospital records. She says a silent prayer for America.
We