“There comes a time in every person of color’s life. Do you stay and become the resident educator, surround yourself with bigots and help them achieve a basic humanitarian skill set? Or do you save your self and your family and move back to a city where diversity is the only fresh air?”–Margaret Elysia Garcia in Hip Mama
Are you an employer of a domestic worker who is being targeted post-election? Here are resources to support the women, people of color and/or immigrants who may work in your home.
Check out Electric Literature’s “Practical Ways for Writers and Teachers To Get Involved” supporting communities that Donald Trump’s presidency has put at extreme risk.
My cold hand lands on Laura’s leg while the woman behind us holds her husband’s hands tight, whispering cariñitos to him. We’re here to prove we love each other. To prove this is a true white-picket-fence-two-point-five-children-Christmas-card kind of love, even if it’s homo love. Promises of a better future after this horrid appointment fly in the air in Spanish, Arabic, Russian. Inside the Soviet-looking immigration building Laura and I are literally moscas en leche. Perro en misa. Gallina en corral ajeno, etc. All the couples here are straight. Some even brought their kids, dressed in their Sunday’s best. The children are instructed to shut the fuck up and smile. Arturito, saluda al oficial mi rey. They’re here as evidence. The mamis with their hairs done, nails done, high heels and glossy lipstick. Men with gelled black hair, black button-down shirts with a few open buttons revealing gold crosses, chest hair. Legs crossed impossibly tight, smiling at every and any immigration officer walking through. Good afternoon, Mr. Officer. Nobody speaks loudly, we all hush and whisper and hold tight to our brown folders, our photo albums.
Porque mamita, you never know.