Abstract
A yearlong collective auto-ethnographic stories of three colleagues at a Hispanic Serving Institution at the U.S.–Mexican frontera culminated in the realization that our disparate experiences, the multiple voices used in articulating these, and the diverse ways these manifested in classroom practices and interactions had crafted the only academic space where we-three felt to belong.
Keywords
A yearlong collective auto-ethnographic stories (Denzin, 2014; Reed-Danahay, 1997; Spry, 2009) of three colleagues at a Hispanic Serving Institution (HSI) at the U.S.–Mexican frontera culminated in the realization that our disparate experiences, the multiple voices used in articulating these, and the diverse ways these manifested in classroom practices and interactions had crafted the only academic space where we-three felt to belong.
The Rio Grande Valley, the unalienable line that ends/starts two nation-states, is our geographical border/la frontera. However, the borderlands is a lot more. For us, being a part of the borderlands also demands an assessment of the performative acts of our continuous crossings, geographical and otherwise. Thus, during this yearlong collaboration, we-three scrutinized and delved into our understandings of borders/frontera and border-crossings. As transnationals and borderlands dwellers, we embraced plurality and our complex, polymorphic, and dis/integrated identities (Bhattacharya, 2009; Flores Carmona, 2018; Moraga & Anzaldua, 1983). Embracing the borderlands is to embrace its multiplicity and engage with each part of the self with/out fragmentation. It is also to welcome the understanding that having a perspective does not mean rejecting or betraying any others (Anzaldua, 1990). As a group, we engaged in intense dialectical discussions; it is never easy to name one’s self, nor to accept our contradictions as part of the struggle, nor to consent for our intimacy to become public . . . While crossing and messing with our private/public spheres as we live, write, research, and teach at the frontera. Our being at the borderlands has allowed us to re/create spaces in which the multiple worlds I/we inhabit and the various identities I/we have developed, mesh and blend with/out conforming to no one in particular (Anzaldua, 1990; Moraga & Anzaldua, 1983). However, as much as we embrace living in the borderlands, we are walking contradictions as there are moments in which we wish to deny, reject, and avoid crossing borders. Regardless of these ephemeral desires, we know that crossings are inevitable as we learn and we grow, provoking change both in the self and in the spaces we inhabit.
What follows is our offering, a diverse, intercultural, transnational auto-ethnographic collaboration between three reflective scholars where we have shared, named, and theorized some deeply personal and lived experiences. We hope for the reader to be prepared to navigate and enjoy our contradictory, confusing, sometimes abrupt, and unfinished stories of our search for a non-home in an HSI at the frontera.
Voice 1 (Vejoya): A Transnational “Rightlessness”
When I walked into my first classroom as a new professor, the newspapers were bemoaning the closing of the local Levi and Hagar factories and the loss of livelihood for hundreds of women. Some of these women, all older than me, all trying to cope with the knowledge that their jobs had moved to Mexico, leaving them on the wrong side of the same frontera they had once crossed in search of employment, suddenly found themselves in my classroom. I added to their uncertainty of being back in school, with my Indian accent, my distinctly Asian features, my youth, and the rawness of my professional position. We got entangled in the complexity of straddling our worlds . . . from that point on, our stories became inextricably linked at the borderlands.
In class . . . A sea of brown faces await me Much like the brown Indian face that I carry within. However, the face I wear . . . is where the questions begin. Chinese? Japanese? Vietnamese? Indian?!! Nooooo, really? Introductions done, I scan the room Some lean forward in eager curiosity My presence has shaken a tiny core that told them That Indian is a certain face, a particular accent, and perhaps a spicy taste. . . . Each walk to and from class Has a string of curious questions following me What do you like to eat? What music? What movie? I address them all and find my voice I decide that there is a compelling need To expose myself . . . I realize that perhaps the crowds, the size, the teeming mass of “others” that India is, Makes me less aware that I could possibly stand out. So we tell stories to each other of our lives Find affinity in tales of family, struggles, and strife. We celebrate weddings, birthdays, and some births We talk about the things that matter to us most. And every night, in the quiet of my home, I diligently practice pronouncing their names.
Since that day, 14 years ago, much has changed in the demographics of my students and the organization and expectations of the institution. The undergraduates I teach now are mostly young and fresh out of high school. The graduates range in age but seldom reflect my first group of reluctant students. The institution has seen a few transformations and is currently the second largest HSI in the nation. What has remained constant are the geographical and conceptual borders that my students and I cross each day. In each of my crossing of these professional, personal, and physical borders, I uncover bits of myself and HOME.
HOME, for me, is transient. A sense of not belonging has followed me throughout my life. Questioning my presence and position in an institution on the frontera, unravels the multiple fronteras I have previously traversed as a person of mixed ethnicity, the long years in a boarding school, and a childhood that entailed moving to a new place every 3 years. I don’t remember it being difficult to maneuver the different worlds of language, culture, food, physical presence, expectations, and relationships; I don’t remember it being easy either. My early years at an Indian university were spent warding off misinformed discriminatory jibes for visually belonging to the “other backward classes” (OBC) of North Eastern India, while not benefiting from the perceived preferential treatment reserved by the Indian government for the OBC minority.
“Our stories are different because our bodies and voices are treated differently; therefore, we tell different stories” (Atay, 2018). My move to this border town was one of convenience. The decision, for my husband, was more personal, “Everyone is brown. I feel less conspicuous.” During our first shopping at the frontera, the salesperson spoke to my husband in Spanish and pulled me aside to ask in English, “where did you marry a local?” and so When my students See me dressed In the comforts of my Indian clothes They realize that borders can be crossed That space and cultures are not confined By high walls, or wide oceans. My difference does not dilute Their identity or mine That academia could make it possible For us to exist in our pluralities.
“When we cross borders, we often remain on the margins; hence, we continue to speak from periphery/s” (Atay, 2018, p. 21). The move to the United States of America was not merely another frontera crossing, it added to the complications of all the other borders previously crossed and I found myself once again on the periphery having to explain my existence, debunk assumptions, and preclude myself as a cultural exhibit or cultural broker. These experiences, both intra-national and transnational, the complexity of my national identity and the constant negotiating of terms of interaction between the plurality I embodied and the perceived singularity of my Indian identity resulted (for many years) in a self-imposed invisibility, a rightlessness, a sense of not belonging socially or politically and not desiring to either.
The sincerity in referring to myself as a borderland Indian Texican, and the pride with which I wear my traditional Mexican blouses for the border fiesta are genuine. As is my appetite for tacos, gorditas, tamales, enchiladas, pan dulces, and more. When I travel to be HOME with my parents in India, I worry about my HOME in Texas. The sense of belonging in both places, while not complete, is certainly comforting.
We tell stories about border crossings—physical, emotional, intellectual, and academic borders. When we cross these borders, we simultaneously empower and disempower ourselves. (Atay, 2018, p. 21)
My “powerlessness” derives from my multilingual abilities being considered inadequate to the bilingual needs of the frontera; from my transnational experiences being perceived as irrelevant to the contexts of the frontera; from the “dominant group which un/knowingly is letting me know that my body has entered a space where the primary discourse available to me to be defined . . . is one of being an exotic minority” (Bhattacharya & Varbelow, 2014, p. 1166).
Another mandatory meeting and the room is full. This time too, like the times before and before and before The invisible microphones Are held tight in a few hands. The rest of us have ears And note pads and a sinking belief that these will fill With more tasks assigned Adjusting Accommodating To the dreams the institution dreams. There is talk of student success of a unique kind A collective dream for an HSI, Of filling gaps Of building bridges. While all around us the evidence shows Bricks and mortar, concrete and steel Will be used for building walls Not tearing them down. In that vile brew of us and them Here and there I struggle to feel that sense of “we” That sense of security and trust That must exist if we must teach and learn. So I listen That microphone never passes through my hand What would I say? What could I say? The powerlessness in having to explain Once again my relevance that is implicitly contained Within my plurality.
We three started out looking for similarities in our experience, in the hopes of gaining insight into our presence at the frontera, but realize now the richness of singular experiences and disparate views. For me, having found my HOME in transiency and my SELF in plurality, I am beginning to perceive my relevance in an HSI at the frontera.
Voice 2 (Karin): I Am White, but You Are “Anglo.” Reflections of a White, Non-Latina Seeking HOME in Borderlands
Here on the border my misplaced appearance induces heightened consciousness, cautiousness, fear:
That is the message I got when I moved to the borderlands.
Among the predominantly Hispanic student population and borderland community—practically neon in how White I look—I am acutely aware of how visually different I may appear. I saw a photo; me, the only visibly White person in the group of 50 people. I felt uncomfortable. I feel inadequate. I struggle. I know I do not fit in here. It is not comfortable. Askew, aware I have the option to leave—go back to where I blend in and feel comfortable—but then who would I be? Awake, I strive to grow. The quandary, painful as it feels, I listen, open, exposed, really feel. Feel through the shame and discomfort of offending even when I do not intend to. Take it in, listen, try to be present, and take part. As a group, we-three engage in the tensions and difficult conversations. My colleague pushes me, “What you are feeling right now, the discomfort and angst, is what people of color feel every day. But you can choose to walk away. We cannot.” However, I disagree. At this point in life, if I walked away, retreated, I cannot roll over and go back to sleep. What I have experienced has awakened me and whatever I choose, action or inaction, the awareness will be with me. “No marcha atrás.” There is no way back!
How It All Started?
For my job interview, when I boarded the plane to the Brownsville International Airport, drawing on my frame of reference for international airport up in the Northeast United States, I emailed the person who was going to meet me at the airport. I described what I was wearing, so that she would be able to pick me out of the crowd. When I landed, I turned on my phone to look at my email. Her response was, “seeing that the airport is the size of a gas station, I don’t think I’ll have any trouble finding you. But, I will be the little white lady in yellow pants standing next to a bald white guy.” I laughed thinking, I like her already. Sure enough, as I climbed out of the plane and walked across the tarmac into the tiny airport that really is the size of a gas station, I looked up and I saw a petite woman in canary yellow pants, and she was laughing—I laughed. I realized then, all conversations in Spanish flowing around me, clearly, I stood out . . . that had never occurred to me until that moment.
That is the gap . . . being an outsider who doesn’t understand the language, culture, history, and deep scars of colonization. Yet, I am here. Every day, I explore my ignorance, agonizing discomfort, the certainty of neither belonging nor contributing. Am I an imposter or merely a sojourner—a work in progress vacillating between self-efficacy, vulnerability, experienced, novice? For certain, out of place in my non-HOME. Yet, I am here.
My lip bends, tears sting.
Defensive. Defenseless.
I am White. I am privileged.
Growing up I internalized
No mistakes allowed.
I question myself,
What is the lesson?
“I don’t know if I can tell you this . . .” my colleague tentatively offered, “. . . but you didn’t even bother to research the area before you moved? You didn’t do your homework about the history, the culture?”
I didn’t.
She is right.
I just went. Uninformed. Unprepared.
I came to teach with naïve overconfidence. Prepared for what I had in my mind, but totally unprepared for what I encountered. I knew there was a beach; it was tropical—delightfully warm—lovely palm trees . . . I just moved. Unprepared.
I was raised to be a quiet problem-solver, an observer rather than actor. I internalized an expectation that mistakes are not allowed, which compels me to avoid taking risks. I strive to keep the peace. I do not intend to offend. But inevitably I do offend, even with all my cautiousness. I make mistakes. It is an agonizing internal struggle. What do I do? Dare to make mistakes. Exposed. Mistakes make me feel. Mistakes make understanding possible.
As a White, non-Latina transplanted “Anglo,” do I have a role to play in the teaching–learning–researching relationships within the context of an HSI located in the U.S.–Mexico borderlands?
Yaneli lowered her voice and said, “Because you are Anglo . . . When I saw you were Anglo, I wanted to drop the class.” I was stunned. She quickly added, “But you are not like any other Anglo teacher I have ever had!” I was at a loss for words. I wanted to apologize.
Being referred to as Anglo has an unsettling effect on me. Like ill-fitting clothes, the label feels awkward, unfamiliar, uncomfortable—not part of my self-identity. “Anglo” carries the weight of histories I had not anticipated. I had not done my homework. My otherness may evoke an unpleasant, offensive stereotype of White middle-class woman. I silently reject the label. I don’t want to be that.
Students working in collaborative discussion groups during my class covertly whispered in Spanish, and quickly switched to English when I walked by their table, as if they had done something wrong. Puzzled, I asked, “what was that about?” After a long pause, Marcos courageously said, “well, professor, we don’t want to offend you.” Again, I was confused. For most, Spanish is their native language. Why would I be offended?
In a meeting, I assert, “But, bilingualism is a cognitive, social, and economic advantage.” A Latina colleague pointing to her arm rebuked, “for white people bilingualism is an advantage, but not for us, people with brown skin.” I was stunned and confused.
I am an outsider
on the periphery-
provoked to learn a lot about myself and history I never learned
do my homework
own my ignorance
So, estranged in this space and time within the context of the borderlands, in my non-HOME, which of “the multiplicity of possible accounts of experience” (Frosh, 2007, p. 635) do I own? Indeed, the familiar has become strange, in that being White has come to the forefront of my identity awareness in my daily lived experience, and the strange has become more familiar in that I am trying to learn the language, culture, histories surrounding me here in the borderlands. Being raised in White suburbia and educated at predominantly White institutions where I never critically examined my identity and implications of my being White, I recognize now I have much to learn.
I own my ignorance. I own my learning. I want to discover where I belong as I seek my own definition of home, including my academic home, here. “Home remains a subject of much discussion in postcolonial work, especially as it is approached as a space of unfamiliarity . . .” (Chawla & Atay, 2017, p. 7). I am introduced to scholarship in Decoloniality and Intersectionality. The deep scars and residual nuanced detrimental issues of settler colonialism and the bitter, vile, and deplorable political tensions and assaults related to refugees and immigration along the border loom beyond what I ever anticipated.
decolonization positions the colonized and the colonizer as inherently entwined. With its focus on everyday practices, decolonization can be empowering for individuals and, in our case, academics who might enact this process in their research, in reflecting on the education system that reproduces colonial practices . . . (Chawla & Atay, 2017, p. 6)
Consciously, I do not want to contribute to reproducing colonial practices. I am beginning to understand that I may have to cross another border to move away from my usual behavior—that I may have to evolve from quiet observer to actor, and perhaps in time activist. Show up. Speak up.
Focusing on experiences of in-betweenness, homelessness, lack of belonging—considering the idea of HOME, where I belong, and the pervasive destructive aftershocks of colonization, perpetually shaking crumbling foundations—I embrace my uncomfortable responsibility for my ignorance and my learning process.
. . . never a whole, [I am] always riven with partial drives, social discourses that frame available modes of experience, ways of being that are contradictory and reflect the shifting allegiances of power as they play across the body and the mind. (Frosh, 2007, p. 638)
Through working across and through our differences, I continue to reflect deeply on my students’ and colleagues’ “ways of knowing how we show up in spaces with various narratives imposed on us and with narratives that we impose on ourselves” (Bhattacharya & Varbelow, 2014, p. 1157).
In being on the periphery, apart, not belonging, within my transplanted self-imposed otherness, perhaps my contrast serves as a juxtaposition that prompts thinking about differing perspectives, thoughts, beliefs, values, and cultures? Is that my role? To share my stories about my family, my life, my teaching in predominantly White communities, is that why I am here?
“I hold myself responsible for my experiences because I chose the paths that I took” (Bhattacharya & Varbelow, 2014, p. 1158). I chose to come here, naive and unprepared or not, I chose. I am responsible for my experiences and the opportunity for growth rather than retreating to the comfort of blending in, invisibility. I choose to stay.
I haven’t been to the beach in nearly a year. That’s not why I’m here anymore. I’ve changed and been changed by being here. Walking away is no longer a choice for me. Feel. Learn. Take it in. And for the time being, choose to be here at home in my discomfort.
Voice 3 (Miryam): A Mestiza, May Be a Latina, Definitely-Not-Hispanic, Always a Foreigner
As soon as I desire I am asking to be considered [. . .] I should constantly remind myself that the real leap consists in introducing invention into existence [. . .] In the world in which I travel I am endlessly creating myself. And, it is by going beyond the historical, instrumental hypothesis that I will initiate my cycle of freedom. (Fanon, 1986, pp. 216, 229, 231)
Trusting Fanon’s reminder, I propose to go beyond the instrumental and elaborate on adding layers into the decoloniality project in which fiction and poetic narrative are alternative tools to better illustrate changes and border-crossings to celebrate difference, social agency, and multiplicity. In this celebration, contradictions and confusion are not problems but requirements for survival.
listen,
a silent scream
is coming up from unknown deepest regions with no-sounds, no vibrations, no air-waves
the silent scream,
is to be felt, sensed cherished
silent screams
mute sounds of Other’s words
held in our hearts,
in the desert heat, in the ocean tides
silent screams,
grew louder
yesterday impotent tongues today working with tyrants’ academic languages telling the stories they won’t be able to erase.
Who I enact/portray/render when living at the border, or when I’m working at my higher education HOME, or when I’m teaching in an HSI, and/or when I’m researching for a Special Interest Research Group (SIRG) within an HSI?
The first thing that comes to my mind when describing myself is the fact that I’m a foreigner and more specifically, an immigrant who is always at a frontera, crossing borders. Thus, the foreigner/outsider/immigrant label holds tight everywhere. Yes—I was born and raised in Peru, South America [soy una mestiza latinomericana] yet after so many years away—the place where I was born and raised is no longer HOME. Today, as a naturalized U.S. citizen—with a naturalization process that took more than 27 years—I may yearn for HOME only to confirm that is a paradox. I am not from here, I’m not from there, could be from anywhere but HOME is no longer a place. It is a paradoxical absence. HOME will be found in our lifelong transient lives—in the endless caminar, in the rootless dwellings we are lodged, in missing life-events, in the lives we left behind and in the new families we have created, in the invented-traditions, in the new beings we daily built . . . the new full and broken hearts . . . is one and is another . . . is the past and is the future . . . HOME is the frontera, the crossing borders, the convergence as well as the divergence, the conflicts and the agreements, the memories/recuerdos and the new daily routines . . . that is what this story is about, the yearn, the non-belonging but also the building of a life and the freedom to re-create our own stories (Espinosa-Dulanto, 2018).
a tiny piece of herstory
a girl growing up
in the global south
growing up near the earth equator
growing up in a beautiful place
always hand-in-hand
surrounded by ugliness and discomfort
peace wealth joy
embedded her life
while firmly denying
poverty war pain
engulfing her country
growing up in a time paradox in a beautiful pink bubble
lovingly built for her
to maintain it
only one instruction was received
the girl must follow the rules
I was a full-grown woman, a proud adult whom, regardless to have arrived with no English, with only US$200 in the pocket, with no plan, holding a visitor’s visa—I was already a professional, had worked for more than a decade as a productive academic, and had a life commitment to equity, solidarity, and respect for human rights.
I remember so clearly my first week in the United States. It was at the end of October, in a Midwestern city, up North, Madison, Wisconsin. The cold was the first thing my body registered but something else was going to be the real shock. It took me some days and a couple of nights of sound sleep to realize what it was. The Northern town where everything seemed so organized, clean, and quiet in contrast to my country—at that point, in extreme political unrest, with daily sudden blasts and dangerous situations. In Madison, there were no car-bombs, no army patrols, no street explosions, no blackouts because the electric towers were blown-up, not even the traffic was noisy, Wisconsin drivers didn’t like to use their car-horns as much as we did back HOME. My first week, full of confusion, contradictory feelings, and another surprise, awaited. It was 2:00 in the morning, when I saw snow coming down, so I went out . . . it was my first snow, mi primera nevada . . . loose myself, playing like a child, laughing loud, feet snow-stomping . . . Suddenly, it hit me, it was past midnight, and I was outside—no curfew!!!— I stopped as I realized, there was no one else yet I felt safe. At that point, all made sense, SILENCE was the “sound” I couldn’t understand and the weird-almost forgotten feeling, was safety. Many lessons to learn.
However, what happens to one immigrant may/not happen to others. There are so many similar and different stories. Here, I’m remembering mine but I want to remember the many voices of the immigrants who have worked with me, who have shared their stories with me, and the ones whose stories got at some point entangled with mine. My walking through the many stages of the USCIS/ICE’s (U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services/Immigration and Customs Enforcement) requirements and demands informs me both, about my privileged position but also about the realities faced by millions of un/documented people in the United States.
Language/Culture and the Alike
A Mestiza story for today
My heritage, my accent, my politics, and my formal status never leave me, so I have to deal with people’s assumptions every moment of my days. I identified myself as a Mestiza, as someone who has inside more than one culture, more than one race, more than one ethnicity, more than one love, more than one language, more and more. My tale is full of contradictions, guilt and pride. Definitely not unique; it repeats over and over again—each time a Mestiza is born.
As an outsider, a non-Western woman, a Mestiza (Anzaldúa, 1987), and an academic in the United States, some issues are important to address, such as language and cultural/social norms. Personally, I always need time, not to understand but to prepare myself on how to deal with the rules, the norms . . . the codes of a Western, capitalist, chauvinistic, Christian—sometimes intolerant—society. It does not matter how long I have been in the United States, every time I go somewhere new because I start a new project, or I dare to take couple days off, or something drastic as a move due to a job offer or . . . whatever! It never fails, the surprise of the encounter goes both ways. Communication for/with me doesn’t happen easy. And no! It is not the formal language—English, Spanish, Portuguese, Quechua—in which the exchange happens—it is the meaning, the semantics, the message that it takes its time to transpire. It has happened in big, medium, and small cities; in universities as well as in rural towns; in an open market or a fancy store.
In the United States, I have been an outsider in Wisconsin, in Pennsylvania, in Georgia, in Florida . . . and today in Texas, as a legally-Hispanic-in-the-U.S.A.—working in an HSI. I’m writing now because the time has arrived not because I found a resolution, just a necessary pause. Writing is synonym of vulnerability (Behar, 1997; Richardson, 1997). Every time I write, every time I read, I expose not only myself but the voices, the stories, the testimonios that were shared with me (Aleman, 2012; Latina Feminist Group, 2001). For now, HOME is my opportunity to retell those stories. Next step, keep going, keep crafting the poems, the fiction and share and deeply care for every one of them. Hopefully, the reader will be seduced and join us in our HOME, in our lifelong transient lives—in our endless caminar.
I learned today that in the Western world
time and truth are linear
straightforward and unique
time is ONE and there is ONE truth
NO option for living “the Other” time
NO option for the “subaltern” to speak her truth
poetry is my understanding of time and truth
poetry and fiction let me/us play in a circular,
wholeness time in which
past and future converged
and present is gone before we realize it
no waiting for the conqueror to tell my/our stories
the on-process
kind of truths that will adjust to mother’s nature, moon’ cycles and movements
today—as it was yesterday and tomorrow—is gone
adding to the cycle of emptiness and wholeness regardless the useless standing clock ticking and marking no change at all
it becomes a stop in running times
expectations for change
fears of disruption
hitting a line on the sand
the mechanics of technology
fears and excitement
looking, expecting, panic, fear of change
the realization that chaos is part of nature
that learning only happens when growing
many times, many truths
Footnotes
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
