IMMIGRANTS, ALL
Sometime in the late 1970’s, I drove
with a friend to visit her family home in Gramercy, a small Mississippi River town
not far from New Orleans. Fate takes odd turns. I knew less about my own family history
at the time, but I later learned that Gramercy is in St. James Parish, the Louisiana
county that my father’s people stopped in for a time on their way from Senegambia
to Oakland.
One evening my friend and her uncle and I went to a local bar for beer-and-crawfish,
a local favorite, and while we were waiting for our order the uncle pointed out a
row of men sitting at the bar. “You’re a stranger in town,” he said, “so they’re
talking about you.” Of course, I tried to pick out their conversation. It all seemed
like gibberish. I could pick out words and a couple of phrases but all out of order,
like a jigsaw puzzle that had been scattered over the floor. Seeing my confusion—which
was the whole point of his comment—the uncle broke out laughing. “You can’t understand
them, can you?” he said. I shook my head, no. “Ain’t your fault,” he said. “They’re
running through three languages, over there. Creole, English, and French. You don’t
speak French, do you?”
I didn’t. The uncle did, as did most people of a certain age, both black and white,
in that part of lower Louisiana, the last echo of the long years when the French
colonized that part of the country, as the English had done in the rest. The uncle
lamented that he was one of the last to grow up learning French. His brother, only
a few years younger, had been discouraged from the practice by teachers and community
leaders seeking to assimilate children into the English-speaking world. Today, that
language has virtually disappeared from Louisiana, except in colorful street names.
A shame.
Creole is still around, because unlike the classical languages, it adapts and morphs
into something else, sometimes unrecognizable from its origins. Creole is like the
blue notes in jazz, which bended tones between the African and European scales that
existed in neither, creating modern music. In acting as a bridge between French-English
and the various language spoken by African captives brought to Louisiana, Creole
developed into a separate language itself. My cousin, Betty Reid Soskin, who grew
up in Oakland but spent many summers visiting St. James Parish in her childhood,
says that all of the family elders spoke Creole, and she can still roll off a few
phrases, herself, if you give her encouragement. My mother used to say that my grandfather
spoke with a mild French accent, though he passed away so long ago that I can scarcely
remember how it sounded.
I wish, now, that I had been old enough to have learned Creole and French from my
grandfather and other family members. I wish I could have been able to pass that
language down to my own children and grandchildren. I view that sadly, with a great
sense of loss.
Multilingualism among African immigrants to America was not confined to Louisiana,
of course, though you’d never know it from present common knowledge. Along the South
Carolina coast, they give that English-African bridge language another name, Gullah,
and it is seen as something as an abberation. Actually, it wasn’t. If your exposure
to the speech of the slaverytime African peoples is limited to the dialogue in the
movie Gone With The Wind, you probably think that everyone in the Quarters
spoke English only, with a mid-Georgia accent. A better depiction of African-American
speech in the 18th and 19th centuries would be Haile Gerima’s Sankofa, which
shows a delicious musical blend of language and dialect from various parts of African,
Europe, and the Caribbean all going on at one time, mixed together like a good gumbo
stew.
The African effect on American culture was so enormous—in music and speech and style
and dress and even how we worship our various gods—that even the African descendants
tend to lose sight of its origins, and so sometimes fail to recognize when the same
process is happening with other peoples.
Such as with our Mexican brothers and sisters. And that brings us to part two of
today’s discussion, sparked by the recent Mexican pride demonstrations which were
in turn sparked by the call to turn illegal immigrants into felons.
Although it is easy to find reasons, it is difficult to locate reason
in the increasing hue and cry in the country over the growing presence of Mexican
illegals in our midst.
In trying to understand the concern over Mexican “illegals,” I find it hard to determine
whether my own ancestors were “legal” or “illegal” immigrants to this country. Those
who were brought in after the abolishment of the slave trade in the early 19th century
were “illegals”, certainly, since the slave trade itself was declared illegal, but
those of my family captured on the African continent and enslaved and then brought
to America before that time were “legal”. It seems a ghastly perversion of that term,
though, as if “legal” somehow equates with “moral”, or even just plain “right.” Enslaved
African people were never called “illegals” in this country, regardless of when they
came here. They were simply called “slaves” or, if they declined the offer to remain
in the service of their enslavers, “runaways.” During the Civil War, when folks bolted
from the plantations en masse to follow around the campaigning Union armies, they
were called “contraband.” And through it all they—we—retained the term “niggers,”
even down to today.
Referring to Mexican immigrants who come here without the proper clearance and papers
as “illegals” seems to be along that same pattern; a not-so-subtle dehumanization
of humans by referring to them by some imposed condition, rather than by their actual
names.
So, too, is concern over their speaking of Spanish rather than English as their first
language.
It is interesting that someone speaking English with a deep Spanish accent is often
considered crude and backwards, as opposed to someone speaking English with a French
accent, who used to be considered “cultured”, at least in the days before the Iraq
invasion when so many of our citizens got pissed off with the French (my great-grandmother,
Mamá Breaux Allen, who spoke mostly French and Creole in her St. James Parish
home, would have found it ironic, I am sure, how the speaking of French went from
out of favor to in favor back to out again, seemingly at whim). Whatever the case,
speaking English with a deep Spanish accent (or a Tagalog or Vietnamese or Cantonese
accent, for that matter) usually means that the speaker is able to speak in two languages
rather than one, even if they have not quite mastered the second, a sign that ought
to connote ability, rather than disability. Interesting how we seem to have turned
that around into making it a sign of ignorance.
If I were a professional educator, which I am not, I would design an elementary school
curriculum in which the kids speaking Spanish or Vietnamese or whatever as a first
language would get paired up with kids speaking English as a first language, sort
of like you pair up in a science experiment. Each student would help the other student
in the pair learn their native language so that rather than ending up with only one
language being spoken—English—each student would end up with two. It seems an awful
waste of resources, having so many neighbors in our midst speaking another language
and urging them to give up the speaking of it rather than encouraging them to teach
theirs to us while we teach ours to them.
Meanwhile, there is tremendous energy and opportunity in this new surge by our Mexican
brothers and sisters to assert themselves, an echo of the great Black civil rights
and Black Freedom movements in which many of us grew up. And just as those movements
transformed this country into a much better place, I expect that this new Mexican
movement—whatever it comes to be called—will probably eventually do the same, if
we give it help.
These are just some preliminary thoughts during the course of what should be a long
and thoughtful discussion. In the two great bodies of ethnic people that make up
so much of Oakland and the East Bay—those who came here from Africa with stops in
the Deep South plantations, and those who come from Mexico to a place that only recently
stopped being Mexico—I find myself seeing far more similarities than I do differences.
“Legal” or “illegal,” however we are called, we are immigrants, all.