The NAFTA Blueprint

by Rodrigo Garcia

  * * *

  About four hours later I arrived―exhausted, at the University Dr exit off the 281 interstate, where staunch anti-immigrant supporters were draped in red, white, and blue, walking along the sidewalks waving Dixie, Texan, and American flags, while motorists inside oversized vehicles with conservative propaganda bumper-stickers honked their horns in furious repetition shouting out racist nationalist slogans while belting around the city. It looked like rivers and leagues of patriots swarming the campus from highways, alleys, streets…coming from all areas of the cardinal points―from north, south, east, and west, united for a common cause―to defend the United States’ border.

  They were there in significant numbers to offer support and protection for Shawn Hunter and the Minutemen Project, the civilian neighborhood watch program to monitor the illegal flow of immigrants across the United States-Mexico border. He was scheduled to make an appearance at the University of Texas-Pan American after anonymous university students petitioned administrative campus officials to allow the controversial figure to exercise his right to free speech.

  I clutched my media badge and wrapped it around my neck. I feared I would be mistaken for a liberal protestor amongst the ocean of Minutemen supporters. The determined hatred in their gleaming eyes observed in slow motion terrified my very existence, you couldn’t trust those neo-fascists. I had to rush out of there. A rapid flash of the white motorist being dragged out of his truck during the ‘92 Riots in Los Angeles sent shivering messages throughout my body. After all, I drove a hybrid with a National Geographic sticker on the bumper and I hadn’t shaved for about a week, so in theory, perhaps I represented a left-wing liberal.

  I turned left down the first street which offered me sanctuary as an opportunity to side-track, and then I parked my car as a preference to walk towards the burning masses instead of being stuck in a traffic jam. I grabbed my Colt .45’s baseball cap, I took off my reading glasses and exchanged them for my aviator sunglasses, I only needed them to drive anyway. I reached for my camera in the glove compartment, I double-checked my bag for reporters’ tools, and then I drifted amongst crowd-goers ebbing into conflict. The damn paper didn’t have the budget for a cameraman so I had to take numerous photos myself.

  I walked over towards the overwhelming group of multi-ethnic social activists, anarchists in ski masks, university students, community leaders, and local residents holding up banners and signs chanting, “Hey Shawn Hunter, you’re a foolish clown, racist Minutemen get out of our town!”

  They outnumbered the Minutemen supporters at about a 10:1 ratio, although it didn’t seem like it from the University Dr exit, but the campus itself was hoarded with law enforcement officers providing a barricade, preventing non-students from entering the auditorium without proper identification. Although there was a mob of social activists and a police barricade across from each other, I felt more comfortable wandering amongst this liberal crowd rather than being subjected to the intimidation on the road.

  “This is a university facility, only university students are allowed to enter!” said a law enforcer. Police officers and two helicopters circled the auditorium continuously in militant form making sure the Minutemen supporters were protected outside of the auditorium, which began showing the discomfort on the faces of those who couldn’t enter, including mine. Across from the police barricade was a black block group that resembled a storm trooper platoon that antagonized the Minutemen supporters. I was able to glance into the auditorium, which was desolate with pockets of students, perhaps only the anonymous ones who had petitioned school officials in the first place. They were waiting inside for a profound speech, meanwhile everyone outside rallied in opposition, silencing the Minutemen supporters’ nationalist shrieks.

  I walked over to a young social activist who was carrying both the Mexican and American flags wearing a red handkerchief around his neck, “Hi, I’m Michael Korsakov with the Houston Chronicle, hey just a question…” I had to shout over the chants and police announcements. I walked up close to him and pulled him to the side, “If you could say one thing to Shawn Hunter and the Minutemen Project…well to all his supporters in general, what would it be?”

  “Well, I would simply let them know, like we’ve said numerous times. You’re anti-racist project’s not welcome in Edinburg. This is our community…our town, where people of different ethnicities co-exist peacefully. We’ll always meet your Minutemen Project with resistance and hostility, in any part of the Southwestern United States so long as people are willing to promote justice and democracy. The United States is our territory as well, we are Americans as well…we’re indigenous to the continent, everyone deserves the golden opportunity of progress, it’s what this country was founded on. Like all you other European immigrants who came here legally or illegally…this was our land, Aztlan, we’re the cosmic race, we’re just coming back home…to our roots, you know what I’m saying! We’re taking it back, the new conquista! Wassup aye―it’s time for a Revolution!”

  A note was made of radical Chicanismo. It reminded me of back home at the UCLA campus. I still wasn’t quite sure what this particular demographic wanted. To take back Southwestern territory by reclaiming it through illegal land grants, or to integrate themselves in the great melting pot of American culture, a social paradox of mammoth complexities. The verbiage always started off democratic with these guys, but it always ended up in radical rhetoric. Nah, that’s too cliché, I didn’t want to use that material…I needed something more insightful…of more significance. I walked over to what I speculated to be a stereo-typical American without an ethnic background, a racial-profiling technique, a true Yankee that could possibly be more intelligible and summoned her for an interview.

  “So hey, yeah, hi…can I speak with you for a minute? Michael Korsakov, Houston Chronicle, nice to meet you.”

  She stuck out her sweaty hand, “Likewise, Courtney Flanagan…oh, sure, you’re with the news, right? Do you want to interview me or something?”

  “Well perhaps, first of all…where’re you from? Are you a Texas native?”

  “No, actually, I’m from New Hampshire, I’m a student here, I came down here to study North American relations, between the United States and Mexico,” said the bulky, freckled, blue-eyed blonde. I responded with a gesture of approval, signaling her to continue.

  “Well, I’m just here supporting all immigrants of the world who’ve been displaced by neo-liberal capitalism and U.S. imperialism. You know, it’s not fair when a foreign government like the U.S. has destabilized you’re living situation and you’re forced to flee to some other land to try to survive and make a living for your family. These people just want to live, work, and survive. I mean, c’mon…give them a damn break. Thousands upon thousands of European immigrants from all over like Italy, Russia, Scotland, the Scandinavian countries, Germany, Poland, Ireland, and others came to this land and were treated disrespectfully as well…everyone’s just trying to make a living. My great grandparents came from Ireland and suffered discrimination, but we’ve survived and progressed as well. I mean, immigrants helped build this great land of opportunity, they helped build the infrastructure, railroads, skyscrapers and communities all across America. They’ve always taken the jobs that Americans haven’t wanted. I say, let them stay. Let them stay! Let them stay!”

  A surrounding crowd joined in following her chant. Soon, it spread amongst them engendering a cataclysm of slogans, a banging of the drums, and a barbaric intensity amongst the crowd. The speech was scheduled to begin so I tried elbowing my way through the crowd seeking entrance into the auditorium softly uttering, “Excuse me, Houston Chronicle. Coming through, media, Houston Chronicle, please, coming through.”

  When I reached the blockade at the front entrance of the auditorium, I was shoved to the side with the blatant disrespect for reporters that law enforcement officers sometimes harbored. It was fair
though, we were the public’s watchdog, often at odds against the police and reporting against them.

  They reiterated, “This is a student-only event, the press is not allowed!”

  It appeared as though they were trying to avoid conservative and liberal reporters alike from providing subjective viewpoints. It was supposed to be an educational event sought by students and facilitated by faculty. The news networks had been shut out, there were no alternatives.

  Shortly thereafter, a large crowd of students dressed in indigenous Mexican-themed clothing stormed into the auditorium in chronological order. They sat on the floor handcuffed to each other in sheer silence. I ran around the auditorium towards one of the back exits, there must have been another way in. The door was shut with lock and chain but I poked in through the crevice to only witness those same students placing tape and railroad handkerchiefs over their mouths. I tried taking some photographs.

  The guest speaker became flummoxed at the podium amidst the animosity, and he was irritated in uncomfortable despair, which caused him to fumble for words and appear unprofessional. Not long after, those same antagonizing students stood up in synchronization and staged a walk-out as everyone else inside the auditorium assessed their behavior with puzzled looks.

  The embarrassed guest speaker remained stoic, but he had enough fortitude to say, “This is a mocking violation of my civil liberties! The people have a right to listen to the truth about our failing democratic system!”

  One of the students removed the handkerchief from his mouth and said, “This is peaceful civil disobedience, the right to free speech as well. The great American, Henry David Thoreau…son of immigrants too, as American as immigration!”

  Shawn Hunter excused himself and dashed out through a side exit filled with annoyance. He headed towards the direction of the door where I had been observing. I moved back from the door to prevent any friction.

  A handful of police officers escorted him and unlocked the door, and as they walked out hovering over him, I said, “Hey Shawn, Shawn, hey…I’m Michael Korsakov with the Houston Chronicle. Can I get an interview? What happened in there? Were you shut out? What are some of the long-term repercussions of our liberal border patrol policies?” I figured that last question would provoke some empathy, that it would stir a vile wind in his thought process.

  Shawn handed me his business card, “Call me in about an hour.”

  It worked.