Juan’s
right hand bears the tattoos of his former gang, a holy cross between his thumb and index finger,
and the gang’s name across the top. Big brown pants hang from his narrow waist
and his black hair crops a face that shows traces of baby fat. He’s an average
Latino 16-year-old boy growing up in Austin, except that he’s been kicked out
of school and has hit the job market.
Wednesday morning, Juan climbs into one of the nine buses that had pulled onto
St. Edward’s University and Huston-Tillotson College campuses the previous
night. This vato (dude) joins almost 20 other Austinites headed for the
first-ever Latino march on Washington. “I don’t know what this trip is all
about, man. It sounds cool though, marching,” he says, with a street-savvy
tone. Juan, still sleepy from rising at 2am, settles into his seat as the
caravan, filled with mostly Latino passengers, leaves Austin. In two days, he
and the other 400 passengers will join Cubans, Puerto Ricans, Central and South
Americans, and Mexican-Americans to deliver the seven demands of Proposition 1
and display a unified Latino power. Proposition 1 calls for human and civil
rights for all, $7.00 minimum wage, free education from elementary school
through college, national health care, preservation of affirmative action, the
extension of naturalization and amnesty, and the creation of a citizens’ police
review board.
The march or marcha‘s logo pictures a red, white, and blue backdrop,
with a tag of the Statue of Liberty tied to the capital and black footsteps
scrambling into the open roof. The logo, says the march’s organizers,
represents Latinos’ goal to gain greater access to the U.S. government’s
policymaking. “We are going to open their [the government’s] eyes that we are
here, we will remain here and we have a power,” says Robert Donolly, president
of the East Town Lake Citizens Neighborhood Association in Austin.
Raza S�, Migra No
By afternoon the buses decorated with Marcha and Proposition 1 flyers rollonto the Teamsters parking lot in Little Rock, Arkansas. The Teamsters were
just one of the hundreds of unions and Latino activists supporting the
demonstration. The Brown Berets, a Latino civil rights group which started in
the Sixties and then evolved from a militant political organization to one
emphasizing community service, takes its post at each of the exits in the
Teamsters’ auditorium. They stand at attention during the rally, wearing beige
military casual uniforms and dark brown berets. Word had spread among the
passengers about a possible confrontation with locals in Little Rock, including
the presence of the Ku Klux Klan. They fear some people in Little Rock won’t
take too kindly to Spanish-speaking people conducting a rally in their Southern
town. No one is taking any chances.
Austin’s own poet and artist, Paul Hernandez, is among the speakers, plus
Lupe Pacheco, both members of El Concilio and hosts of the KOOP radio show
Barrio News and Issues. “For more than two years we have been working
for the same objective: human rights, because we are all human,” Pacheco says
softly into the microphone. “Even though they treat us less than human, our
children, our parents, are part of our heart. We are all united, like one
person and that’s what we are going to take to Washington — that we are all
united and human. And s�, se puede (yes, we can).” The crowd
responds with chants of “Raza s�, migra no!” (The people yes, the
Immigration Naturalization Service no!)
Hernandez, an ex-Brown Beret, limps to the microphone clutching a colorful
wooden cane. His black braid falls downs his back, laugh lines have etched into
his dark brown skin. “Que viva la raza!,” he yells. “Long live the
people!” The crowd responds with “Que viva la causa!” (Long live the
cause!) and “Que viva la mujer!” (Long live women!)
“We know for a fact that we have carried this nation on our backs.” Hernandez
yells into the microphone. “We have been the workers, we have fed the millions
of people in this country, whether they appreciated it or not. We were the farm
workers, the construction workers, the laborers, the ones that have scrubbed
the floors, and the ones that planted the gardens. Now we have a greater
destiny, our destiny is to be the leaders.” The crowd roars in approval,
clapping their hands madly. The Tijuana military band closed the ceremonies
with a march they generated from their bugles and drums.
A Spicy Mix
That night, some of the Austinites settle to sleep on a church’s basementfloor in Washington D.C. Many had left behind their spouses, boyfriends and
girlfriends and taken time off from work, even losing some wages to participate
in the historic events. During the weekend, the city swelled with two million
visitors for the Latino march, the AIDS march and vigil, and an international
culinary festival. In the mostly Latino D.C. neighborhood of Adams Morgan,
salsa and cumbia music spill out of apartment windows and boutiques. Ethiopian
restaurants stand next to Mexican and Indian cuisine, a blending of the
colorful cultures in Washington.
On Saturday morning, the tired but exhilarated bus riders gather in Adams
Morgan’s Meridian Park to begin the mile-and-a-half march to the Ellipse, the
area between the White House and the Washington Monument. Demonstrators filter
into the park for over two hours carrying posters and the flags of the various
Latino countries. “La Marcha” for dignity and justice attracted supporters of
immigrant rights, socialists, and gay and lesbian activists, both non-Latino
and Latino. “Everything on this agenda is very progressive. Working people need
to come together whether we are Black, White, or Latino,” yells an
African-American woman with Washington’s International Socialists Organization.
After the march, the program kicks off with two renditions of the Star
Spangled Banner, in Spanish, then in English. Organizers and guest speakers
take the stage demanding a new political agenda concerning Latinos and the end
of scapegoating Latinos for America’s economic and social ills. But it is after
Geraldo Rivera’s introduction of Anthony Baez’s parents that the crowd breaks
into a frenzy of frustration and anger. Baez died in 1994 when he was 29 years
old from asphyxiation after being placed in a choke-hold by a New York police
officer. Just the week before, on October 7, the officer was found “not guilty”
of criminally negligent homicide. Baez’s mother stands by the podium holding a
cardboard poster that pictured the children and adults who lost their lives at
the hands of police officers.
Other speakers include U.S. Congress members Nydia Velasquez (D-NY), Jose
Serrano (D-NY), Ed Pastor (D-AZ), and Luis Gutierrez (D-IL). Notably, the lone
Texan-elected official appears to be Dallas State Senator Roberto Alonzo. Not
one of Texas’ congressional representatives, nor Texas State Attorney General
Dan Morales, attends the march.
Behind the stage, on the White House grounds, classical music floats
through the flower beds and bushes. It looks like an afternoon party, only on a
grand scale. Crowd estimates range between 75,000 to 100,000. At 5pm people
continue to stroll down the sidewalks heading toward the march that was
scheduled to end at 3pm. Saturday night, Austinites spend hours waiting for a
bus to transport them to the 4-H Club where they will spend their last night in
Washington. Then Sunday afternoon the San Antonio/Austin crowd waits for a bus
running three hours late. Due to bus breakdowns and misplanning, they depart
Washington 12 hours later than planned.
Knowledge Is Power
At noon on Sunday, two buses arrive and the teen from Austin stuffs his lankybody back into the tiny bus seats. “I don’t plan to go back to school,” he says
to the girl sitting in the next seat. “I’ll get my GED.” Juan explains that for
the past two years his school attendance has been erratic at best. In Austin,
one out of two Latinos fail to graduate from high school and a smaller percent
of Latinos finish college. The odds are not good for the teen, nor for many of
the children in Austin’s 35 percent Latino population. A local activist begins
listening to the youth speak and offers to help him get back in school. “They
won’t let me back in,” he says. “Not anywhere in AISD (Austin Independent
School District).” For the next few hours he explains how he got the scars on
his wrist from one of his fights. The holes from the stitches are still
visible. The youth can’t do pushups because of the damage to his arm. On the
bus drive back to Texas, young Chicanos from San Antonio College’s Movimento
Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlan (MEChA) chapter begin talking politics. They
argue the importance of formal and self-education, integrating their ideas into
the march’s platform, then about the “evils committed by people sent to
represent us.” Juan complains that he doesn’t understand the terms or concepts,
but remains interested. Hours later the heated debates subside into whispers
and a few lights click off as people doze off. The youth looks over to the
activist and asks quietly, “Will you go with me to the school, see if I can get
back in?”
“Yeah, man,” the activists whisper. The next morning, the bus stops in
Arkansas, and Juan steps into the convenience store with the same know-it-all
smirk as the days before. “I have two goals now,” he says. “To finish school
and learn Spanish. I want to understand what people are saying, man!” Michelle Garc�a is a recent graduate of the University of Texas
journalism school.
This article appears in October 25 • 1996 and October 25 • 1996 (Cover).