Friday, October 29, 2010

The Immigrant Experience, 2.0

I've written earlier in this blog about how, due to sociopolitical and economic causes, many Gallegos were forced to move out of Galicia in (primarily) the second-half of the 20th century.  Many of these men (and women) moved for a few (or sometimes many) years, returning when they had earned enough money and/or the situation in Spain had improved, and many of them (like my grandparents, mom, and aunt) emigrated permanently, never to return to their native country.  (Before moving to the United States, my family lived for many years in Buenos Aires; in fact, so common was it for Gallegos to immigrate to Buenos Aires in particular that there was a time when, in Buenos Aires and Argentina, "Gallego" was a synonym for "Spaniard.")  While Spaniards saw a number of their brothers and neighbors emigrate this past century, they have only recently begun to see a large migration of immigrants into their country--another way in which Spain and the United States differ greatly.  In the classic pluralism metaphor, Spain is definitely a "salad bowl."

Because of my personal family history, I've always been very interested in the concept of, and political debates surrounding, immigration and multiculturalism.  While I have had a lot to get worked up about lately regarding American discourse on the matter, I'm afraid that the situation is not much better (and perhaps worse) in Spain.  I've been particularly interested in these issues in Spain since reading this NYTimes article from 2008, about the struggle Spain's burgeoning population of Muslims have had in building mosques in their new country.  Spain has also gained a lot of other negative publicity in recent years for the loud, boisterous demonstrations of racist soccer fans at major games and arenas across the country.  Clearly, this is a country that is struggling very disgracefully with its rapid rates of immigrations and multiculturalism (not unlike, perhaps, the United States throughout its major waves of immigrations, though this time in a modern, globalized society where such things could never be publicly condoned; this article, too, highlights how the terrible economic times have meshed with racism here to create pressure on workers who live in Spain legally [either legal immigrants and/or European Union residents], which reminded me a bit of the sentiment that likely led to American prosecution of Sacco & Vanzetti and Bruno Hauptmann in the 1920s and 30s).

Ironically enough, for the first time in her life, Emily herself (and in certain ways, despite full citizenship, I as well) is an immigrant here, and as her husband I have become intimately aware of the immigrant experience in a way I never have before.  Sitting with Emily several times in the extranjero (foreigner) section of the national police department (where immigrants register in Spain), we were sufficiently "other-ed," acutely aware of the glares and whispers of the Spaniards at the other side of the small room, where I had waited just days earlier for my DNI card.  Emily in particular, clutching her American passport and envelope of important documents, told me how strange and objectifying it felt, for a white American, to feel so outside the norm.

On a few separate occasions here, some family members have expressed opinions--generally in the form of cringe-inducing generalizations--that show a mode of thinking which, if not racist, per se, is certainly shaped by a history without exposure to, or assimilation with, people of other nations, races, or creeds.  Even when Emily and I walk around in public speaking to each other in English, I feel that we are the subjects of several stares (some of them glares), and the more emboldened strangers will often take it upon themselves to ask where we are from (or, occasionally [and more pointedly] "What are you?" followed the inevitably incorrect guess [generally, oddly enough, Italian, German, or English]).  In the interest of privacy and decorum, I won't say exactly which family member said what, but suffice it to say it was nothing terribly scandalous, merely, rather the kind of feeling you might get when you hear someone's 80-year-old grandparent refer to "negroes" or "colored" people.  My hope is that, in the immediate future, Spain's economy can rebound to the point where current immigrants can earn tolerance, acceptance, and ultimately assimilation, both for their own benefit but also for the betterment of the nation; in kind, Spain will learn what a wondrous and beautiful thing it is to live in a diverse nation.

As for the voice of actual immigrants here, we met a Bangladeshi family a few weeks ago and were able to get their opinions on the matter.  Emily and I decided we needed a change of palate one day (as rich and nutritious as the food is here, it could benefit from a bit of flavor diversity), and grabbed lunch at a falafel/halal restaurant in Pontevedra.  The owner asked us where we were from, and we began to chat for a while.  He spoke a little bit of Spanish and even less English, and though his accent could make his Spanish almost impossible to understand, we were able to carry a conversation for about a half hour, in which we spoke mainly about what it was like to move here.  He has been living in Pontevedra with his wife for 12 years, and absolutely loves it.  He had moved from Madrid, which, in spite of a social net of other Bangladeshis, he hated; Galicia, he said, was a lovely place, very peaceful, and he was happy to live and stay there (he even convinced his brother to move to O Grove, where Emily was taking language classes [though he insisted people from O Grove were ignorant and old-fashioned, as opposed to the modern people of Pontevedra]).  His daughter was born in Pontevedra, is now 10, speaks fluent Spanish and is happy and assimilated, with friends.  He told us his wife had learned Spanish almost fluently, all for free through the Spanish Red Cross and other non-profit organizations, and for the first time in her life felt safe and comfortable walking the streets alone at night.  He told us that he had invested a lot of money and energy into a failed Indian restaurant (we laughed about how Spaniards cannot handle spicy foods), but that his current, smaller restaurant was doing good, steady business.  I asked if he was Muslim, which he confirmed he was; he told me there was a mosque very nearby, about 15 minutes, which was well-attended and always respected/left in peace by Spaniards.  I asked him if ever felt the subject of racism or religious intolerance, but he insisted he did not, neither as a dark-brown-skinned man nor as a Muslim.  "The only thing I get," he said, smiling, "is 'Hey Apu,' you know, like from The Simpsons."  We laughed.  I was glad to hear that, from the horse's mouth, things maybe were not as bad as I had feared after all.

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