Hey all,
My experience with Hispanic Link can be explained in the following anecdote. This past weekend, while the world obsessed over Health Care, public option, Dennis Kucinich and the like, everyone at the Link focused on immigration. What some outlets considered a brief, we considered A1. While my roommates were running, getting their blazers and making their way to the chamber to witness the closure of a century-long debate, I was coming home from an exhausting day where 200,000 gathered to demand Immigration Reform.
I then started thinking on the march. As a Hispanic Journalist I can’t help but feel some attachment to what I am covering. It hurt me not to clap when Illinois Rep. Luis Gutierrez spoke from the heart. It was impossible to refrain from chanting “si se puede.” These are the pleas of my people. Esta es mi gente, I later told my editor.
And the Piolín came up. Now, for you guys who don’t know who he is, he is a syndicated radio host. He motivated hundreds from Los Angeles to participate in the march and the previous one in 2006. This Sunday, he was the last speaker…
…But back home Piolín is also the one my father and I would listen to in Phoenix every morning.
When he came down from the stage, I wasn’t reporting anymore. I was a fan and though I knew I would ask him for a picture, I turned off my camera almost as a mental note to remind myself—no quotes, no bias. “Piolín, can you send a shout-out to my father he listens to you every morning from Phoenix.” He did. I ran home called my dad and played the greeting back to him. I could tell from his voice he was exited.
Am I still a journalist? Am I a protestor, a pleading voice? I will never hesitate to have others such as Tom Tancredo and the Tea Party voice their side. Hearing different opinions is what shapes tolerance and understanding. It’s why I love my job.
But I will not ignore this fact: Sunday’s struggle was my struggle. In this bubble, where health care was but a brief political chant used by Florida Rep. Lincoln Diaz-Balart to tell the thousands who gathered that “We couldn’t approach immigration the way we did health care,” I was home
Esos que unieron sus voces eran mis tias, primos, tios, amigos, hermanos, my madre y mi padre.
Those who demanded justice were my aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, my friends, my mother and father and me. This is a personal struggle that challenges the core of my very principles.
