On the 16th and 17th of October, we had the absolute privilege of spending our entire days learning from the founding and contributing members of an organization called “Casa Carmelita” based in El Paso, Texas. No more than 20 yards away from a primary entry point to the U.S.-Mexico border, Casa Carmelita can be described as a home and community for trans migrants who are in the process of becoming documented United States citizens. We were initially greeted by someone named Juan Ortiz, a founding member of the house who is heavily involved in direct action and community organizing. Juan talked with us for the entire day about issues relating to immigration and the carceral archipelago that causes nothing but pain for Black and Brown communities in America. As a group we learned about the extensive discrimination against trans and LGBTQ+ immigrants, with acts of trans abuse accounting for a majority of the violence within detention centers across our country. The suffering that the over militarization and policing in El Paso has caused was made abundantly clear to us, especially when we walked within a neighborhood where the border wall was quite literally the residents’ backyards. Juan also did not stop his teachings at the U.S. side of the border. We learned about a sister organization called “Casa de Colores” that is based in the city of Juarez, Mexico, founded by a collective of trans women which houses and provides resources for vulnerable migrants. U.S. intervention in Juarez has made the city an incredibly dangerous place to live, especially for trans women, so there is a large amount of work to be done in supporting the people of the area. Another person who worked with us was named Jennifer Apodaca, who explained with Juan that their organization is not there to judge whatever reasons or justifications people may have for immigration. Casa Carmelita operates under the belief that migration should be a human right, and especially based on skin color and gender identity, this right is disproportionately stripped from certain people. With the profound input from other speakers we met named Karina Brecera, Cami, and Sochil, our discussions with the staff of Casa Carmelita taught all of us the true importance of grassroots, intersectional, community engagement where the voices of those who are directly impacted are placed above all else.
When we weren’t having discussions and asking questions about the geopolitical, cultural realities of the Borderlands, we learned the specifics of how to mix paint from a man named Francisco “Frank” Delgado. We spent almost the entirety of Sunday working on murals and different painting projects around the house. This hands-on work highlighted for all of us, once again, how pivotal art can be in the process of social justice and revolution. Our days working with Casa Carmelita were filled will laughter, incredible insight, amazing food from local restaurants, therapeutic reflection through art, and obsessing over the house’s dog named “Frijol”.
Carmelita Torres was a Mexican woman from Juarez born in 1900 who would cross the border every day in order to work as a maid in El Paso. Tired of the constant humiliation and perverse “cleaning” treatments with pesticides and gasoline from border patrol, she one day refused the abuse and incited what is now known as the El Paso Bath Wars. Casa Carmelita is named after this brave woman, who was 17 at the time, in order to recognize and share her story of civil defiance. Carmelita is a representation of the fight against injustice and oppression that is still needed to this day, and we are all so thankful to have helped continue her story.
For the past four weeks the Tufts Civic Semester cohort has been taking Mexican baile folklórico (folkloric dance) every Monday at Moving Arts in the city of Española. Moving Arts is an organization dedicated to building community and cultivating leaders through art and the preservation of culture. Our dance classes were instructed by Salvador Ruiz-Esquivel, who is the executive/school director and co-founder of the organization. Every class we switch from our trainers and crocs into our dance shoes with metal soles, which has been very exciting as they only elevate the performance with their sound. Traditionally, men do the dance with machetes while women wear long, brightly colored skirts. Fortunately, we have been able to play with the role of gender by not separating our group into two and all dancing together with machetes or in skirts.
As Moving Arts deals with much more than dance, we were also able to take a cooking class there with Laura where we made vegetarian Mexican pozole, blue cornmeal muffins, and vegan buckeyes. The meal was absolutely delicious! Dancing with Salvador has been such a wonderful experience as he has been able to share a part of his culture with us. Our last class was truly emotional for all of us, as we are grateful for the organization Moving Arts, and inspired by all the community work that they are able to achieve through the visual, graphic, and culinary arts. We are also super grateful to have worked with Salvador and truly appreciate his patience and kind words throughout our lessons. We are sad to be leaving Truchas and the surrounding communities, and hope to learn from organizations just as amazing and community-oriented as Moving Arts.
On Friday the 24th of September, the Tufts Civic Semester cohort visited the Tesuque Pueblo Farm on our quest to learn more about seed sovereignty and agriculture. Tesuque (also known as Taytsúgeh Oweengeh in Tewa) is the southernmost Tewa Pueblo. We spent a lot of our time learning from Emigdio Ballón, one of the leaders at the farm. Emigdio is originally from Cochabamba, Bolivia and has been running the farm in New Mexico for about 15 years. While talking with Emigdio we got to learn a lot about Seed Banks as well as look through the Seed Bank that the farm had. It was fascinating to see the variety of melon, quinoa, cucumber, and corn seeds that were being held at the farm. It was also nice to know that anyone in the Pueblo was allowed to use the seeds for their own personal benefit.
While discussing the importance of conserving seed, as “Seeds are the Future,” Emigdio also talked a lot about health in general and the importance of eating well because “Your Food is Your Medicine.” Sometimes we forget how sacred our bodies are and the importance of treating and feeding ourselves well in order to successfully turn outwards and engage with our community. After all, how you take care of yourself is how you take care of the environment.
After doing a lot of reflection and discussing with Emigdio, we were able to get our hands dirty and help out with the farming. We used hoes to dig holes around fruit trees in the orchards so that the holes could be filled with compost and manure to help the trees grow.
The visit to the Tesuque Farms was like that of no other. It caused us to think more critically about the way in which we take care of our bodies, as they are precious and deserve to be treated as such. Moreover, the physical labor that we did allowed us to have a greater sense of appreciation and gratitude for all the difficult work that farmers do in order to grow crops. We are definitely looking forward to returning to the farm and doing some more work to support the Tesuque farmers in any way we can.
I’m sitting here trying to figure out what I could possibly say that could express what you’ve meant to me over the past three months and I’m drawing a blank. If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be here in this situation, I would’ve called you crazy. No one expects to fall in love, whether it’s with a person or a place or a thing, and I’ve done all three in the past three months here in Urubamba. I’ve fallen for you, Perú, head over heels! I love the chaos of the mototaxis in the morning, I love the mountains that surround us in our little urban bubble, I love my Peruvian mama bear Soledad who never fails to make me smile, and I love all the people who I’ve been able to share this experience with. There is nothing short of a miracle that could stop me from loving you, Perú, and all the incredible experiences I’ve had with you. Every day is different with you, and I can never predict the way I’ll feel at the end of a day after work and Spanish class and homework, but I know I’ll go to bed endlessly grateful to be sleeping here in Urubamba with my host family in the next room and my best friends a short walk away.
I don’t know how to bring you home with me quite yet, and I’m tearing up right now just thinking about leaving you. What am I going to do without you next week? I’m going to be lost without pancitos for breakfast and besitos before work, and I don’t know how I’ll handle not hugging Soledad before bed. It’s crazy how fast the time goes by when you’re absolutely enamored with something. I feel like I’ve taken our time together for granted, but I know I’ll forever remember every day I’ve spent here. The smiles of my family are imprinted in my memory along with my afternoon walks to class and our incredible excursions exploring your astounding culture and history. It feels weird to say goodbye like this.
I know they say long distance relationships don’t work, but I believe in us. I know I’ll be able to keep you in my mind all the time, and it’ll be hard to shut me up when I start talking about you! I want everyone to experience the kind of love I have for you, Perú, and I know we’ll meet again someday. I can’t wait for you to meet my parents! They’re going to love you, I just know it. I don’t want to say goodbye because that feels too real, so I’ll just say nos vemos, Perú.
The rain was falling hard outside in messy drops while
Marilu took her cutting board off the shelf and a knife from the drawer,
setting up onions to be chopped. While she laid out her materials, I
did the same, but with a notebook and an audio recorder on my phone
instead of vegetables, both of us ready in our own ways to have a chat.
After a morning spent weeding in the chakra and discussing potential
rain-capture irrigation solutions with an American specialist, Marilu
and I had been driven inside by the rain, and it seemed like a perfect
time to learn her story, in a more holistic and inclusive manner than
our snippets of conversation in the previous weeks. When I asked if she
could tell me some stories about Canastas Verdes and her own life,
Marilu was excited to share, and, as the incredibly strong and busy
woman that I know, she had a lot to say.
Marilu began her story with the birth of organic farming
as she knows it in her own life, where years ago, it all started with a
sweet potato on the back patio. Since her childhood, Marilu and her
family had cultivated vegetables and herbs on a small scale, and as
organically as possible but not with those methods as their focus.
After she had grown into adulthood and began caring for her own family,
and her aging father in return, Marilu began to experiment with
different methods of gardening, adding new plants and researching the
importance of organic produce, but only to consume in the house. At the
time she was a teacher, and as the chakra grew, she began to look for a
way to sell the produce. At this time, more than eight years ago,
there was no market in Urubamba for organic vegetables, as most everyone
was comfortable with the status quo—produce maintained through the use
of pesticides and new-wave farming practices that began in the sixties.
Marilu, on the other hand, was looking to return to the farming
practices of her ancestors with respect to the apus to whom she speaks
in Quechua, her family’s native tongue. Organic farming, for her
originally, was a way to carry on the now-lost tradition of respect for
la tierra and for one’s own body, a departure from the chemical-driven
world. With this in mind, she set out with an iron will to bring
organic produce back to Urubamba and to the Sacred Valley, but she knew
she couldn’t do it alone. The municipality, and frankly the city, was
not open to the changes that she wanted to see, so Marilu began to speak
with other women who were farming organically and who wanted to sell
their produce, or at least who wanted to try.
In the beginning, this new association was made up of
eight women, all with their own chakras who were learning and growing
together with their organic produce. But, as Marilu says ardently,
organic farming is hard work—you get your nails dirty and you hardly
ever sleep. For many of the women in this new group, though they were
stronger together, this was too much, and little by little they began to
return to the popular methods, or at least to working solo. Marilu,
and the five women who make up the association now, pushed on, and once
their group was solidified, they began to develop into what they are
today—Canastas Verdes. Throughout this story of growth, Marilu
maintained her pride in the fact that Canastas Verdes was her creation,
her baby, so-to-speak, all the way from the first organic produce to the
name and to her title as President now. Although the work of the
association is incredible—highly involved in the community and done with
very little internal or external support—Marilu’s pride comes from her
own struggles and how she overcomes them, and, in fact, the ways in
which organic vegetables have helped her to do so.
Although I have known her for over two months now, Marilu
had never told me all that she was up against while building a program
of community health and involvement. That’s just how strong she is.
But she’s a single mother to a son with autism, who also cares for her
ninety-three-year-old father. She can’t afford a home of her own, and
often the cost of caring for her family and running Canastas Verdes is
too much, but after years of perseverance, she’s making it all work. In
fact, her son, who is now a young adult, has been her inspiration for
continuing with organic produce, because his health has benefitted from
the removal of pesticides in his system. In his younger years, when she
couldn’t produce enough for complete meals, her son struggled both
neurologically and physically, but since she was able to make an organic
diet possible, he has been able to function at a higher level and have
fewer complications. What’s more, Marilu says she has learned patience
and compassion through raising her son—as most mothers do, but with
greater intensity—and she asserts that he has been her greatest teacher,
and these lessons of humanity are ones that she takes directly into her
work. The produce that she grows comes from a love of the earth, of
the Pachamama, and a love of family, both for her own and that of
Urubamba.
Tears are beginning to stream down Marilu’s cheeks as she
discusses all this with me, and they begin to flow harder as she details
the lack of action in the world, the ways in which most people sit by
and watch it all being destroyed. Here in the Sacred Valley, fed by
glaciers and maintained by very specific climates, Marilu and the people
of Urubamba are at great risk as the environment changes rapidly, and
she knows this. The water, the land—everything is being polluted and
mistreated, she says. No one wants to change their ways because they
think it’s too hard, but this will take a toll on their lives. Marilu
sees the pollution of her ancestral land, the planet, and of the bodies
of her neighbors, consuming pesticides and processed food, diets that
can cause cancers, Parkinson’s disease, and many other detriments to
health. She sees that soon there will not be enough water, and
therefore not enough food. She says of the people in poorer countries
and regions: “We’re like rats in a lab and we will be the first ones to
die,” her eyes read with sadness and anger. This is the reality that
she’s actively working against, but she knows it’s not enough and that
Canastas Verdes is running out of time.
We’ve been talking for over a half-hour at this point, and
Marilu points out that she should probably start making lunch. The
onion she’d prepared to cut will chatting sits untouched on the cutting
board in front of her—forgotten as she answered my questions, delivered
with passion and force like the most moving of speeches. But before I
go, she thanks me for taking the time to talk to her, and reiterates all
that she struggles against and the hope that she has despite it all.
By the end, we’re both crying and embracing, because the planet is dying
and we’re forced to watch it happen. Marilu is doing all that she can,
and I tell her I wish I could do more, both for Canastas Verdes and for
the Earth, but she just shakes her head and gives me another hug. “I
really should make lunch,” she says as she wipes tears from her eyes,
and I thank her for her time and say nos vemos—see you later—as she
finally begins to cut the onion.
After leaving Marilu to cut onions in the kitchen, I
walked slowly home in a bit of a stupor. The rain that had been falling
in a torrent just minutes before but the sky was now open and bright.
My feet moved slowly and my mind felt heavy as I wiped tears out of my
eyes, trying to hold back the ones threatening to spring forth with each
though of Marilu’s words. In particular “somos como ratas en un
laboratorio” stuck out in my mind and the pain that she expressed while
saying them. As I walked along the river that rushes passed the
cemetery, such a sentiment felt that much stronger—the power and life of
the Earth running parallel with death, a concept that will become much
more prevalent if we don’t care for the planet. When I got home to and
empty house, I sat down and tried to process the conversation I’d just
had, but I couldn’t do it in my head, so I called my dad and told him
all about it. Thankfully, he let me interrupt his day to recount
Marilu’s story because I really had to say it out loud to become more
grounded. Regardless, I was still overcome with a feeling of
helplessness—what had I really done to help her and all of Canastas
Verdes? What could I even do in the next few weeks that could be
meaningful? In fact, I felt quite guilty, because I had never spoken to
someone in such depth, in this place, about the direct impact on their
lives and that of their community from climate change and loss of
resources, and I felt like I was leaving too soon. If I stayed on with
Canastas Verdes for a year, could I make more of a difference? Up until
this conversation, I didn’t know the depth of the personal stories
behind this project, or the needs of Marilu and all the women, because
they hadn’t told me, and what’s worse, I hadn’t really asked. All of
this swirled around in my head even hours and days later, that is until I
was able to speak with Marilu again.
Exactly one week later, we got that next chat. In the
time between, I had been fully immersed in nature in the Amazon with my
mindset heavily influenced by Marilu’s words. I spent my time there
walking through the jungle with the group and our guide, Robin, taking
it all in with heightened appreciation. Although I have always had a
deep love of nature and a passion for its protection, there was just
something so powerful about her story, and then Robin’s stories, that
validated what I’d always felt and challenged me to think further on my
own impact and ideas. So after all this, I got to go back and hear
Marilu’s story again, this time as she told it to Raquel and Mindy,
leaving some details out but with all her important points. It was a
great experience for me to be able to experience her telling of her life
once more, because it gave me more clarity and a deeper sense of
knowing her. Within this same time, I was also privy to Marilu’s
answers to questions relating to how helpful I’d actually been in my
role as an intern/volunteer. After coming away feeling so guilty and
useless, though inspired, from our last talk, it was affirming and
hope-building to have Marilu say directly that I had done some good,
both for her and Canastas Verdes. Although this need to be validated is
somewhat egocentric, this second conversation gave me a push forward,
because in the time in between I had felt somewhat lost. What’s more, I
was able to talk to Marilu in-depth for a third time, in the same week,
while we answered the questions together for the Dragons’ Community
Grant Fund, something I am applying to for Canastas Verdes. And yet
again, Marilu’s eyes lit up with passion, and then watered with tears,
while we talked about her work and her struggles, and I was left in awe
for a third time in that week over how strong she is and all that she
has accomplished.
Looking back on Marilu’s story and message, I realized that there is a lot that I need to change in my own lifestyle, and even more in the lifestyles of my two family’s (here in Peru and back in Maine). Actually, there needs to be a drastic societal shift, but I think while working towards that, I can also work small, by changing my own ways and looking to educate those around me. Eating organic, eating healthy, recycling, not wasting—because as Marilu says “La basura no es la basura, la persona con basura es la basura”. Change must happen, and fast because if not, we’ll have nothing left. La Amazonia, the glaciers that stand tall over the Sacred Valley, watering the people beneath and feeding into the global rainforest, and all the other life-sustaining and beautiful resources, will be gone sooner than we know. Here in Peru, the country is slated to be the third most impacted by climate change in the coming years, bringing home Marilu’s fears that much more. Living in this amazing place, making it my second home, I fear with her, and I can only hope that people begin to wake up, both here and all over the world, because the Earth is dying, crumbling right between our capable yet inactive human hands.
