ethel’s words

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There is something unsettling, to say the least, in all the noise about “immigrants”, speaking of persons whose ancestors’ bones are buried here in Yankee America (the country north of The United States of Mexico). Once it was part of Atzlan--or Aztlan--no, it is Atzlan, with an accent over the “a”--but I have no accent on my typewriter. (Time for a new one.) [correction suggested by the editor: Aztlán]

We could be amused by all this white tape bureaucratic hounding of Native--or more Native-than-not--persons who live among us or on our edges--you know, the ones whose labor makes our lives comfortable or, in some cases, luxurious.

After they do all the work, we want them to disappear. But we don’t want them to evaporate, because, after all, we’ll need them again, later on.

So we find a way--I haven’t figured out the fine details--to keep them in their place--in the barrio, that is. I would never put down the barrio–it’s where you can find humans who are really alive. That’s not easy in couch potato America.

Ethel C. Hale