So sad and angry this morning at the human suffering and destruction based on so many lies put forth by the administration justifying policies that are clear messages to people of color in this country that they don't want our kind here. Brown people were here long before Manifest Destiny and greed led the US to invade Mexico to take its land. This is not ancient history. The region comprising eight US States went from being Mejico to the United States overnight, within days of the discovery of gold in them thar hills of Alta California. Aqui estamos y no nos vamos! Ponder this. Who is safe in a country mobilizing for mass deportations? Who is safe when we strip gay and transgender folks of basic human rights? Who is safe in a country with Muslim Registries and White Supremacists and Neo-Nazi's marching in our streets? Turn to art to recharge. My one-woman show opens at the SF Fringe Festival this Saturday with a 4 pm show. It’s hard to focus on preparation for my show, with all this hate targeting so many groups: Muslim bans, The Wall, Charlottesville, Transgender Military Ban, DACA y mas y mas y mas. And then a destructive Hurricane with the same spelling as my name wreaking havoc on the heels of the last hurricane that caused so much damage in Texas, my home state. Aargh so much to say so little time. My play is very much about the destructive nature of prejudice, and the power of redemption. And it asks that each of us check ourselves, and explore the prejudices and attitudes we carry that are hurtful to other people . . . but wait up . . . it's also hella funny. As many laughs as there are serious topics. Each of us can and must do something to make this world a better place. Yes, we fight and demand justice, AND we must have EACH others' back, cannot allow them to divide and conquer us. The material in my show is always changing, how could I not address the pardon of Joe Arpaio, the blatant racism, homophobia, misogyny, that's coming to full bloom all around us even in great liberal bastions like Berkeley and San Francisco. I'm appalled at what people are saying and doing. I could turn the material I hear and read into a full-day play . . . but it's not, just one little hour. Come see Why Would I Mispronounce My Own Name? Tickets at http://www.sffringe.org/why/ Expecting the weekend shows to sell-out so get your tickets soon. Come see it at The Exit Theater 156 Eddy St. San Francisco, CA (Powell BART Station): Saturday 9/9 4 pm Tuesday 9/12 8:30 pm Thursday 9/14 7 pm Sunday 9/17 7 pm ps: most of this on a Facebook post, but since many friends aren't on Social Media (yes, it's true) decided to share also as a blog. Adelante. #SFFringe #NoRiskNoArt

Irma Grocery Store, located in Denmark, is the world's second-oldest grocery chain store, and it turns 131 this week. Marks & Spencer is the only retail chain that has been in continuous operation longer than Irma (at least in Europe). I know about Irma's b'day as friends visiting Copenhagen sent me an email yesterday with the news of Irma's 131st b'day celebration along with the photograph below. Sometimes I tell people I'm from Denmark when asked where I'm from after I give my name its correct pronunciation. The store's name is much like my own -- not UR-ma. My visit to Copenhagen and my adventures in my namesake grocery store are part of a scene in my one woman show, Why Would I Mispronounce My Own Name? which will be at the San Francisco Fringe Festival next month (details below). If you visit Copenhagen, do check out this local treasure, it's an environmentally conscious store with lots of organic products. Recently I met a medical doctor (originally from Romania) who upon hearing my name asked where I was from. I gave her song and verse, Mexican-American ancestry, family been here for generations. Her response with a smile: "Well I didn't think you were Romanian or Hungarian." Only images that came to my mind were of the Gabor sisters Zsa Zsa and Eva. She then added that Irma is pronounced the way I say my name in her country and that her best friend from Hungary is named Irma. Someone I met from Bosnia told me the same thing about my name, so it seems that URma stands pretty much alone in English. And I was told by a German that in their country there are two similar names Erma (pronounced URma) and Irma with the softer "e" beginning. All of us meet people with names that are unfamiliar. Happens to me on a regular basis and I'm hyper vigilant around issues of names. If you aren't sure how someone pronounces their name, ask and if you aren't getting it, ask again. I had that experience recently with a new neighbor. I asked her at least three times times to tell me her name, and to spell it for me (sometimes that's helpful, sometimes not). And then Eureka, I got it. Yes, at first it feels awkward to ask again to help you with their name but isn't that better than not knowing what to call someone. Our Use of Pronouns in lieu of Names and Gender Identity Awareness A friend recently mentioned that she's become aware that name tags at conference/meetings have a space where folks can indicate their gender pronoun, sometimes called Preferred Gender Pronoun (PGP). An important side note: some people find the very notion of "preferred gender" offensive, being of the view that you are whatever gender you are regardless of what others think or perceive your gender to be. It's not a preference, it's your identity. You don't prefer to be a lesbian, or African American, or Chicana . . . you just are. So point well taken, be mindful that some may be offended by the very use of the term PGP. For more info about pronoun use and how we are good allies to folks in the LGBTQ community it's important to educate ourselves about the obstacles and issues that challenge them each and every day. Here are a couple of articles on this subject: https://www.gsafewi.org/wp-content/uploads/What-the-heck-is-a-PGP1.pdfhttps://thebodyisnotanapology.com/magazine/pronoun-round-etiquette/ The LGBTQ community is targeted in many different ways beyond the bathroom bills in state legislatures. They are on the receiving end of many forms of discrimination and violence in many communities and the most vulnerable are Transgender Women of Color, see: http://www.hrc.org/resources/violence-against-the-transgender-community-in-2017. I challenge everyone (including myself) to fess up to our own biases and prejudices and our privileges because we all have some form of privilege -- US citizenship, well-educated, healthy, insured, straight/cisgender (the list goes on) that makes our lives easier. Even with these privileges, many of us are still subjected to many forms of hate and prejudice as we have seen so clearly in the unsettling and tragic events in the past two weeks. In this overwhelming times when it seems like we can't do enough to turn the tide of anger and hate, each of us as individuals can bring civility and kindness to the world. And it starts with respect for others. We show that respect by learning peoples' names and seeing them as individuals rather than stereotypes. Come reflect more on these topics, and enjoy some good laughs too, at my solo performance at The SF Fringe Festival. There are lots of other great performers with plays addressing issues of identity around race, LGBTQ, transracial adoption. More info about these and other shows at SF Fringe at: http://www.sffringe.org/ Tickets NOW on sale for four performances of Why Would I Mispronounce My Own Name? at The San Francisco Fringe Festival: http://www.sffringe.org/why/ Look forward to seeing you at The Exit Theater 156 Eddy St. San Francisco, CA (Powell BART Station): Saturday 9/9 4 pm Tuesday 9/12 8:30 pm Thursday 9/14 7 pm Sunday 9/17 7 pm #NoRiskNoArt #SFFringe

Touched By Your Generous Reception A belated shout-out to The Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center and its staff, and the 200 folks who attended Why Would I Mispronounce My Own Name? in San Antonio last month. I loved performing for a largely bilingual and bicultural audience, and this was the most enthusiastic audience I’ve ever had. And lucky me, I’ve only had wonderful audiences since I premiered my solo show 18-months ago. So touched that folks came from throughout South Texas, a large number people I grew up with in Alice, and also Corpus Christi, San Antonio, Austin, Yoakum, Houston. It was wonderful to reconnect with cousins, and hometown folks. I greatly appreciate the moving stories you shared after the show. Please continue to share your name stories with me. Send them to me at irmadherrera@gmail.com. I’m collecting them in a book with the working title, Tell Me Your Name. Heartfelt thanks to my niece Monique Herrera whose bakery, Cake Art, cakeartsa.com prepared a beautiful cake for the post-show reception. The morning after my show a dozen plus friends gathered for desayuno and cafecito at Pico de Gallo Restaurant. Wonderful to catch up with folks I’ve known since childhood, and to make new San Antonio friends. But the excitement didn’t end there as that evening I landed in the hospital and underwent an emergency appendectomy. Lucky me I was well-treated at a spanking new hospital and I have good health insurance (many folks in our country do not ). My surgery kept me in San Antonio a few days longer than planned. Unfortunately my spouse and I couldn’t travel to Maine for the wedding of a dear friends’ son. So that’s my excuse for the delay in thanking all y’all for the fine Tejano welcome. I can’t wait to go back to San Antonio and further south, where I hope to perform at several colleges next Spring on my Tour de Aztlán. Don’t hear the term much these days. If you don’t know what Aztlán means or need a refresher, click here: http://encyclopedia.jrank.org/articles/pages/5978/Aztl-n.html Check out this nice audience-member review of my San Antonio show. “Saw Irma’s one person performance in San Antonio on July 21. IT WAS AWESOME. She kept the audience engaged throughout the show with humor and wit. She covered points of social injustice from the past that are still with us today in a manner that was interesting and appealing. I recommend this show to everyone regardless of age, gender, background. Additionally, I must say Irma was very creative coming up with this manner to address the subject." --Jose A. Benavides Full disclosure, Jose A. was my senior year prom date, whom I had not seen in 40+ years. Wonderful to reconnect with him and meet his lovely wife the evening of the show. San Francisco Fringe Festival – Four Shows in September Super excited to be performing four shows at the San Francisco Fringe Festival which runs from September 8-23. If you've never been to a Fringe Festival you are in for a treat. Most show are an hour long and you can see several shows in one evening or afternoon. The 30+ shows at the SF Fringe are under the same roof at the three stages at the Exit Theatre 156 Eddy St. SF. An eclectic mix of performances, check them out at sffringe.org. If you were at my San Antonio, Fresno, or San Francisco performances and you are up to writing a mini-review, you can post it at the SF Fringe website. Folks read these and it helps them decide which of the 30+ shows to see. http://www.theexit.org/reviews/why-r/ If you saw the earlier version of my play, you’ll find that Why Would I Mispronounce My Own Name has lots of new material. As my play tackles the subjects of prejudice and racism it is ever changing. Exit Theatre 156 Eddy St. San Francisco: Saturday 9/9 4 pm Tuesday 9/12 8:30 pm Thursday 9/14 7 pm Sunday 9/17 7 pm Tickets $10 at the door (25% of tickets are reserved for same day sale). To make sure you get a seat buy tickets online ($12.99 with service fees) at http://www.sffringe.org/why/ Look forward to seeing you there. #prejudice #racism #soloperformance #SFFingeFestival

Those were the words of an employee at the Alabama House of Representatives before she hung up the phone on me. I've had plenty of interesting interactions around my name and its correct Spanish pronunciation, but a phone slam for having a “foreign” name. That was, different. But first, the backstory. This was 2011 and Alabama had passed HB 56, a mean-spirited law intended to make the lives of undocumented immigrants so MISERABLE they would “self-deport.” That law, which targeted Latinos, prohibited undocumented immigrants from accessing any government services, and made it unlawful for anyone (businesses or individuals) to enter into contracts with undocumented persons. Count the Number of Contracts You Currently Have The right to enter into contracts is something we take for granted. As groups of people have gained equal rights, we have acquired the right to contract. For centuries, this right was denied to slaves and women. In Nazi Germany, all state contracts with Jewish-owned businesses were cancelled. We still deny minors the right to contract, and with good reason. Take a moment and make note of every contractual obligation you have. Renting an apartment to an undocumented person was now against the law in Alabama. Were landlords required to evict folks who had been their tenants for years? And how were they to determine who was undocumented and who was residing lawfully? It was now against the law for a car dealership to sell an undocumented person a truck or car. A Spanish language newspaper reported laying off several employees when advertising sales dropped. Car dealers stopped advertising for fear of prosecution for breaking the law. It became against the law to provide cell phone service to undocumented folks, since that requires a contract with any service provider, such as T-Mobile, Verizon, Sprint. Some utility companies left notices at the homes of customers with names like Garcia and Rodriguez, saying that their electricity or water would be shut off unless they could prove they were lawfully present. Never mind that millions of people with Spanish surnames have been citizens of the United States for decades and centuries. Government Services We receive all sorts of government services each and every day. In order to renew a car registration or driver’s license, DMV now had to determine that a person was lawfully present in the United States. Everyone had to go down to their local DMV with a birth certificate, passport, or green card before accessing any services from DMV. The lines around DMV offices went on for blocks. White and black folks (as well as US citizens of Latino, Asian and every other background) were greatly inconvenienced and angered at having to prove they were born here or had proper immigration status in order to renew their driver’s license, pay car registration fees, obtain a marriage or business license. Attorneys for counties and municipalities grappled with the notion that this law now required them to ask for proof of lawful residence before allowing the use of public swimming pools, as these are government services. Given Alabama's ugly segregationist history, it became a very uncomfortable reality that complying with the law would require this. Schools inquired about the immigration status of parents and children, and frightened parents kept their kids at home. Police parked themselves near Latino neighborhoods and pulled folks over demanding to see proof of lawful residence. Life did become miserable and there was an exodus of Latinos -- tens of thousands left Alabama, including many US citizens, resulting in millions of dollars in crop losses. Alabama’s agricultural industry was up in arms, because few other workers in that state were willing to do these jobs. Lawsuits challenging this law were filed as soon as HB 56 went into effect and within days the courts issued injunctions; finding that this overreaching law violated the United States Constitution. This is what was going on in Alabama back in 2011 when I called the office of a state legislator I wanted to interview. The Telephone Conversation Alabama Public Employee: Alabama House of Representatives, may I help you? Me: Hello, I thought I had dialed the number for Representative Merika Coleman. Alabama Public Employee: No one picked up at her office, so your call rolled over to the main number. May I take a message? Me: Yes, thank you. I'm an editor at New America Media in San Francisco; I’d like to leave my name and telephone number. My name is Irma Herrera (using the correct Spanish pronunciation), and I’ll spell it for you, Irma is I-R-M-A . . . Alabama Public Employee: That is a FOREIGN name and I am not talking to you. SLAM!! I must have sounded "illegal." Perhaps she thought that as a government employee any conversation with me would violate HB 56. I was in San Francisco, 2500 miles from Montgomery, Alabama, and the state's anti-immigrant sentiment was affecting me. This and other stories in my one-woman show, Why Would I Mispronounce My Own Name? Folks in South Texas can see my play on Friday, July 21 at 8 pm, at The Guadalupe Theatre in San Antonio. Tickets here: http://www.guadalupeculturalarts.org

Before WW II, discrimination against Mexican-Americans throughout the Southwest looked very much the same as it did for black folks in this country. In 1943 the Méndez family sought to enroll their children in the one of the schools in Westminster (CA). They were told their kids were too dark, had a Mexican last name, and would have to enroll in the “Mexican” school further from their home. This led to the little know lawsuit Méndez v. Westminister challenging the segregation of Mexican American children in the California schools. The Méndez’ won this lawsuit when the Court of Appeals held it violated the US Constitution. In fact, Méndez was cited as precedent in the United States Supreme Court in the landmark Brown v. Board of Education case. See https://blogs.loc.gov/law/2014/05/before-brown-v-board-of-education-there-was-mendez-v-westminster/ In preparing for the presentation of Why Would I Mispronounce My Own Name?, my one-woman show in San Antonio on July 21, 2017, I reacquainted myself with the case of Felix Longoria and its role in the Mexican-American civil rights movement. Longoria was killed in the final days of World War II in the Philippines. Three years later, the US government was finally returning his remains to his family for a proper burial. The only funeral home in Three Rivers, the pueblito where the Longorias lived, would not let the family have the wake in the chapel because “the whites wouldn’t like it.” Dr. Hector P. Garcia and the American GI Forum brought the story to the public’s attention and Lyndon Baines Johnson, a US Senator from Texas, arranged a military burial for Felix Longoria with full honors at Arlington National Cemetery. http://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/longoria.htm. Flimmaker John J. Valadez tells this painful and complicated story and the impact the incident still has on the community of Three Rivers (and for that matter throughout South Texas) in a PBS documentary, the Longoria Affair. More info at: http://www.pbs.org/independentlens/films/longoria-affair/ Fast forward . . . to 2016 (YES, that’s last year). The American GI Forum and the Mexican American Legal Defense and Educational Fund (MALDEF), sued the Normanna Cemetery Association, which oversees the San Domingo Cemetery in South Central Texas. The widow of Pedro Barrera was told he could not be buried there “because he’s a Mexican.” She was directed to “go up the road and bury him with the n----- and Mexicans.” https://www.texastribune.org/2016/05/05/texas-cemetery-sued-over-whites-only-policy/ Government-sanctioned segregation was the law of the land for centuries, and the impact of these laws is still very much with us. Civil rights laws that prohibit discrimination have been on the books for only decades, and today efforts are being made to weaken or eliminate these laws. I am grateful for all those organization and individuals who fight for fairness and equality. The Longoria Affair is featured in one of the scenes of my one woman show, Why Would I Mispronounce My Own Name? at the Guadalupe Theatre in San Antonio, Friday, July 21, 2017. Tickets at: http://www.guadalupeculturalarts.org/why-would-i-mispronounce-my-own-name/

Can you say refrigerator? If so . . . you can learn anyone's name. In a recent blog I shared my conversation with a yoga instructor who told me she can only pronounce names that are in English. After a brief friendly exchange between us, she tried . . . and voila . . . learned quite quickly to say my first name correctly. ALL of us learn long and difficult words, many of them in our native languages, including English. The word refrigerator reminds me of a story shared by Minal Hajratwala in her lovely book, Leaving India: My Family’s Journey From Five Villages to Five Continents. In a job interview her father's prospective employer said: “Your name is very long, can we call you Bob?” "When I learned English - refrigerator - was a very hard word. You have only one word to learn, not a whole language. I think you can learn to say Bhupendra.” I love that story of Bhupendra’s courage and pride. He got the job. It’s always a risk to ask someone who has power over you to say your name correctly. A young lawyer friend told me that when she uses the correct pronunciation of her Spanish name in court, some judges' body language leaves her wondering: Is the judge annoyed with her? Will this have a negative impact on her client’s case? Should she Anglicize the pronunciation of her beautiful sounding name? All she's done is stated her appearance for the record by saying her name correctly, and spelling it for the court reporter. She isn’t correcting the judge or insisting on any particular pronunciation. Can we all agree that no one should be required to mispronounce their own name? All of us find it challenging to learn new names, and every time I see Dhaya Lakshminarayanan’s name, I imagine myself saying it in a free-flowing natural and beautiful way. But I'm not sure I do have it right. Yes, Lakshminarayanan has lots of syllables, but all of them are simple and familiar sounds. Rather than think, "I can't say that!" I wonder what might help me remember how to say it. I've never met Dhaya, but I am wanting to interview her some day and will ask her what tips she offers folks who want to say her name correctly. I'll be sure to share that story with you. Thanks to all who have already seen my show, I invite you to come see it again, as it has changed significantly from the earlier version called, Tell Me Your Name. If you enjoyed it tell your friends about it. Join us for an enjoyable evening (money back guarantee from me) of live theatre this Sunday evening with four women storytellers, short and sweet, you’ll be out before 9 pm. If you already have tickets or are planning to be there, send me a reply email so I can say hello and thank you after the show. Buy your tickets ahead of time, as the show sold out last time, and we’re hoping for a repeat. Tickets at: http://june25solos.brownpapertickets.com/ Share Via: Check out my website #TellMeYourName #Latinx

It’s a long read, and Sarah Menkedick's article, The Making of a Mexican-American Dream, published in Pacific Standard, is well worth the time and effort. It covers so much in its exploration/explanation of the long and complicated relationship we Mexican-Americans have with our country, the United States of America. The only place many of us have known as home for generations, and a place where we are all too often seen as not REAL Americans.* A place that asks us to change our names, our culture, and give up our native language, in order to fit it and be accepted. And even then for many the acceptance is tentative or never comes. We remain unwelcome. Foreigners. Aliens. With one exception: something we absolutely must NOT change -- the food . . . keep preparing those tacos, chiles rellenos, and burritos. This country's love affair with Mexican food knows few bounds. I'm hiking with a Berkeley friend (not Latina, Asian-American to be exact), ping on her phone, checks the message. Her 20-something daughter (in Asia for better part of a year) reporting via text that she's homesick, "I really want a carne asada burrito from Gordo's." We share a good laugh. American comfort food. Move over hamburgers, mac 'n cheese, and pizza, it's possible that burritors have overtaken you. As I often say, can't have Mexican food, without the Mexicans. But back to Menkedick's article. I greatly appreciate the review of assimilation theory and why the experience of Americanization is so different for Mexican-Americans than for the millions of Europeans who found their way to the United States. Like me, many Mexican-Americans are completely Americanized, "wow, your English is so good," and at the same time hold steadfastly to our culture and language, even when we haven't had close family living in Mexico for generations. Menkedick's article notes, that "[a]ny conversation about Mexican immigrants in the U.S. must acknowledge that it’s absurd to talk about many of them as immigrants at all. The first sizable population of Mexicans was here when the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo was signed, requiring Mexico to cede more than half of its territory to the U.S. At the time, Mexicans living in what is now Arizona, California, New Mexico, Texas, Colorado, Nevada, and Utah automatically became American citizens. The concept of an American culture defined by middle- and upper-class white people demands and perpetuates cultural amnesia." Friends, these are the same issues I explore in my one woman show, Tell Me Your Name, now playing at the Fresno Rogue Festival last two show this Friday, March 10 at 8 pm and Saturday at 3:30 pm. Tell your friends in the Central Valley/Fresno area. I highly recommend you make the time to read The Making of a Mexican-American Dream. Thanks for this very thoughtful piece, Sarah Menkedick. *America, a misnomer referring to the United States. America, is a land mass of the western hemisphere consisting of the continents of North and South America joined by the Isthmus of Panama. Still . . . America(n) is a shortcut we all use, even as some of us feel discomfort with it. I welcome your ideas for alternative descriptor of United States Citizen. USAian??? "Despite the rhetoric and hate crimes, Mexican immigrants are poised to reframe American culture, if white people would only let them." Sarah Menkedick #roguefestival #TellMeYourName #civilrights

Super excited to be participating in my first Fringe Festival in Freno, CA called the Rogue Festival. The Rogue is one ofthe largest arts events in California. Fringe Festivals are held all over the world and celebrate the independent artist rather than established arts institutiions. Performances are held in rapid rotation with no Fresno show longer than one hour. The half hour intermission allows folks to see several shows in the course of an evening or weekend at the festival. Fifty artists present their work over two weekends. My one-woman show is a mash up of stand-up comedy, part history geography lesson/ language lab, and food for thought about the assumptions we make about each other. Although the themes of my play are universal, they especially resonate with folks who work in or care deeply about social justice issues. Kings River Life, an on-line magazine asked performers to submit write-ups and mine was recently published. #tellmeyourname #fresno #roguefestival

Postscript: I recently came across a commentary I published through New America Media on MLK, Jr. Holiday in 2011. I was struck with how much has changed in those six years. Back in 2011, Arizona was in the news because the state’s draconian anti-immigrant law, SB 1070, was wreaking havoc on immigrant communities and other states were passing copycat anti-immigrant laws. Days earlier United States Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords and 18 others had been shot during a constituent meeting in a supermarket parking lot outside of Tucson. The theatre rampage in Aurora, Colorado and the gunning down of 20 elementary school children, (six and seven year olds) at Sandy Hook, had not yet happened. Who could imagine that a young white man welcomed into a Bible study group at an African American church in Charleston would open fire and kill nine people. Six years ago, #BlackLivesMatter didn’t yet exist, and while we knew that men of color, particularly African Americans, were victims of police killings in greater numbers than other groups, we did not yet have videos to dispute the police narratives about the circumstances under which many black lives ended at the hands of the police. During my lifetime, I have had a front row seat to tectonic-scale changes that expanded our civil rights. When the doors of opportunity opened up for women, and racial and ethnic minorities, I walked through. More recently I experienced the love and joy as friends in same-sex relationships married, a birthright enjoyed by most of us, often multiple times. Change comes in fits and starts. Today we see a backlash against these gains. And the political climate has worsened. The mean-spirited tone set by the President-elect has contributed to bullying and an uptick in animosity towards so many groups: brown people, whether native-born or immigrants, particularly those with roots in Mexico and Latin America, and anyone perceived as Muslim. Racial minorities, members of the LGBT community, folks with disabilities, we hear those loud and clear messages that something about our presence is diminishing this country's greatness. We, the members of those communities and our allies are as strong as we’ve ever been and I am energized and encouraged by the commitment of our communities to show up for each other. I think of the abuse and mistreatment hurled upon people who fought for their rights. This is at the heart of the history of all nations and the liberation of all oppressed people. Today I reflect on the strength and endurance of Dr. King and thousands who were on the front lines of the battles for the respect and dignity that was legally denied for centuries to the African American community. They and their allies were subjected to murder, beatings, jailing, illegal surveillance, and every manner of undermining and betrayal. Still they endured and saw changes in the law that they dreamed possible. We are still pushing for true equality of opportunity and the respect and dignity that every human deserves – we aren’t there, but we don’t lose heart, and keep fighting for what is right. I am inspired by many of Dr. King’s words, especially these: “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” My tribute to Dr. King published Jan. 17, 2011 As a young Mexican-American girl in the mid-1960s, I watched Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. on television news leading marches in Birmingham and Atlanta. What I saw seemed a million miles away. My world began at the Texas-Mexican border and pretty much ended in San Antonio; these were the places where our relatives lived and thus the only places I ever visited. A Sunday afternoon outing might be a drive to Corpus Christi, for a dip in the Gulf of Mexico, and a chance to drive through the beautiful Anglo neighborhoods with brick houses, grassy green lawn and sidewalks. Someday, I said to myself, I’m gonna live in one of those houses. That’s when I began to see that Dr. King’s struggle was our struggle as well. After all, we too lived in completely segregated conditions. We were relegated to all-Mexican neighborhoods with substandard housing. Multi-generational families crowded into casita humildes, as our mothers would often refer to their homes upon welcoming visitors. All the nicer schools and parks were on the North Side of town, the Anglo neighborhoods. When our town finally built a public swimming pool, it went in the park in the Anglo side of town, far from the neighborhoods where we lived. Segregation was so complete that we had two parochial schools, one for the Anglos, and the other for Mexican Americans. Although Alice, Texas, had only one high school, the near-complete segregation continued through classroom assignments. Few of us went on to college and many never even finished high school. And most of the boys I had grown up with were drafted and went to Vietnam. Dr. King, and the lawyers at his side who helped give voice to the millions of people denied their basic human dignity, inspired me to a 30-year career as a lawyer, advocating for the fair and equal treatment of those who are scorned and disdained. As the national holiday approaches to celebrate the life of Dr. King, we hear his eloquent voice on the radio, which still moves deeply. And somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I recall that Arizona initially refused to recognize MLK Day as an official federal holiday. Arizona, in the news for all the wrong reasons: it launched a no-holds-barred campaign against immigrants, subjecting them to stops and searches and requiring proof of lawful presence. Let’s face it— the real targets are poor people who happen to look Mexican or Central American, no matter how many generations Arizona has been their home. In the saddest of ironies there are reported cases of Native Americans being stopped by the police mistaken for immigrants. The attention focused on Arizona and the anti-immigrant sentiment took a back seat in recent days with the horrific tragedy in Tucson. I have welcomed calls from all sides of the political spectrum beginning with President Obama’s moving remarks that we tone down the rhetoric and engage in civilized discourse. I would like to believe that if Dr. King were with us today, he would have led a march in the streets of Tucson or Phoenix. And central to his message of peace and reconciliation would have been according dignity and respect and legal protection to all immigrants. What is to be gained, he might have asked in a rousing speech, by rounding up and deporting women who are eight months' pregnant. How do we make this country stronger by denying citizenship to children born in the United States to parents that lack lawful status? And as he boldly took a stand against the Vietnam War, I can imagine that he would have spoken out against the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Why are thousands of our young men and women from low-income families fighting and dying in foreign battles? And of course he would remind us to mourn the loss of human lives in those countries. In 1968, Cesar Chavez undertook his first public fast to raise awareness of the mistreatment of farm workers in California, a population that was predominately Mexican American and viewed as a disposable work force. Dr. King took time to send a brief telegram to Cesar Chavez. "Our separate struggles are really one,” he said. “A struggle for freedom, for dignity, and for humanity.” Post-post script: take three minutes to watch Karim Sulayman’s I Trust You video where the point is poignantly made that our separate struggles are really one: https://vimeo.com/193125533?ref=em-v-share #DrMartinLutherKing #civilrights #safetyinnumbers

I was searching for an airbnb in Southern California. I read and re-read the words on the host’s page: “I am an American and speak only English.” What did this mean? The thumbnail picture: an attractive middle-aged woman with dark eyes and dark brown hair. She is of indeterminate ethnic/racial origin. Latina? Middle Eastern? Italian? South Asian? She is leaning slightly toward a similarly-aged man, their hands touching, the hint of a smile on both their faces. Lisa (not her real name) says she’s lived in the same home in a very safe neighborhood for over 30 years. I hit cmd+ several times to expand the photo, looking for clues. Google search of last name: Scottish and Irish origin. Yep, the man in the picture looks Irish. Having no other clues about Lisa, that ubiquitous question comes to mind, “Lisa, what are you? Where are you from?” Yes, I think this, even though it is a question that greatly annoys and sometimes offends those at the receiving end. It is well documented in social psychology that we have a fundamental need to put people into categories. We process information efficiently and quickly (and unconsciously) as we make sense of the enormous complexity we encounter. We reflexively distinguish members of our in-group (any group we belong to) from members of out-groups. Social categorization takes place everywhere from tribal communities in the developing world to millennials of every color and hue. While all of us are quick to stereotype, researcherers also have found we can be trained to counter our instinctive (often negative) first impressions. Still . . . I make a snap judgment and decide that Lisa may not see me as a “real American” when I give my name it’s correct Spanish pronunciation. Simply saying my name leads to a variant of “what are you.” I’m asked where I’m from, and the “I’m from here too,” answer, is sometimes met with resistance and incredulity. “No, where are you really from?” I book Cynthia’s (not real name) lovely pool cottage. I peg her as a white upper-middle class all-American sun-kissed Southern California gal. My host I learn is a Spanish and Catalonian speaking immigrant from Barcelona, who is a warm and kind-hearted special-ed teacher in a low-income community. Chat with Homeless Elder Turns Ugly A San Francisco friend recently posted on her Facebook page: “Strange times... Taking refuge from downpour at bus stop w/ a (white) homeless elder. He asked me which bus I was taking. We chatted for a bit and the inevitable question I get when folks hear my accent: He: "Where are you from?" Me: "Originally?" He: "Yeah. From, FROM.” Me: "Brazil." He: "What the fuck are you doing in my country? All you spics do is steal jobs. Go back to your country you f*ing . . ." Wow. Stepped away for my own safety, now wondering how to find compassion for our suffering peoples.” One of my favorite bumper stickers is, “Don’t believe everything you think.” Certainly applies to me and everyone else. How often have you heard people profess they are color-blind when it comes to race, and that they do not judge or discriminate on this basis? In Trevor Noah’s interview of Tomi Lahren (millennial voice for conservatism) she tells him she does not see color. His insightful questions and comments in that exchange make the interview so well worth watching: http://www.cc.com/video-clips/m9ds7s/the-daily-show-with-trevor-noah-exclusive---tomi-lahren-extended-interview. A person’s race and gender are the first categories we take note of. And it is becoming increasingly difficult to ascertain a person’s race or ethnic origin. We are falling in love and having children with people from very different backgrounds than ours. And thus the question: “what are you?” is getting asked more often. Perhaps eventually we’ll be so homogenized, the question won’t be asked. Sometimes I respond by saying: human. There really is only one true race, human. I spend a lot of my time thinking about identity and the ways in which we feel included or excluded, and for weeks these words: “I’m an American and speak only English,” have been rattling in my head. I now wish I had stayed with Lisa, to have heard her story, to find out who she is. Perhaps those words would have revealed her own vulnerability, her fears of someone too different from her, an insecurity of being judged for not being able to communicate with Americans whose English is halting or accented or with the ever growing European and Asian travelers opting for airbnb stays. Still the Same People We Were on November 7 The recent election revealed the great political divide, but we are still the same people we were the day before the votes were cast. In our heart of hearts, most people of color knew that many white people in this country have felt that expanded opportunities for us has been gotten at their expense. This is what well-funded and organized conservative leaders have been saying for decades. Working class and poor whites, particularly in the least prosperous regions of our country, see the loss of their good-enough paying jobs (mostly as a result of market forces beyond their control) and need someone to blame. They also know that many of their better-educated and more prosperous fellow citizens look down upon them. I know that feeling, I grew up with many Anglos treating us, Mexican-Americans whose roots in Texas were sometimes way longer than theirs, as inferior. Plenty of folks rallied behind Donald Trump because they felt seen and heard, and Trump told them something hopeful: they deserved better lives (which of course they do, as does the homeless elder). And so do the rest of us who were systematically denied those lives for generations. Trump promised to Make America Great Again. What does this America look like? Is he promising them a shot at the lives portrayed in advertisements and television shows where everyone has beautiful homes and uncomplicated lives in upper middle class families? This post-WW II American Dream did exist for many, but it’s been mostly limited to white people, and I’m guessing that lots of people in depressed areas of the country, never have had a shot at that, and now they can blame specific groups. That's exactly what happens when groups are pitted against each other and identifiable characteristics provide the perfect fodder for sowing hate and division. As one of those people that many in the Make America Great crowd would happily expel from this country, I know the changes the new Administration will push through are aimed at limiting opportunities for communities that that have been marginalized and scapegoated for centuries. I’ll be part of the massive resistance, but I also am committed to building a more caring and inclusive society, as we are all in the same boat. I’ll never know what Lisa’s “I’m an American and speak only English,” comment meant. But at my end, I’ll work to keep an open heart and to limit my snap judgments. #prejudice #discrimination #TellMeYourName

Words sometimes fail me. I wrote a blog 4th of July weekend, intending to post mid-week, but then the killing of Alton Sterling happened, and it seemed so meaningless to post something unrelated to the persistent police killings of black men that occur on a weekly basis. And then the news breaks of the murder of Philando Castile. I could not watch these videos because I know how much hurt my heart can hold, and that would be too much. And then the killing of the police officers. I am thousands of miles away, and although I do not know any of these folks, I know that each person whose life was taken is someone’s son, father, spouse, brother, friend, cousin, co-worker. The recent death of a friend’s son shows me close and personal the excruciating pain and sorrow visited upon families facing the sudden deaths of their loved one. As a member of the human race, I grieve for all these people. The reflections by my colleague and friend, civil rights activist, Eva Paterson, founder of the Equal Justice Society are so personal, and deep, and profoundly important -- so today I share them with you. Please ask yourselves: what can and will I do to turn this tide of hate and fear and violence? I've also shared this on Facebook and twitter, and if you've seen there, take a minute and read it again. * * * * * * Black Rage - White Fear = White Rage - Black Fear by Eva Paterson, Equal Justice Society equaljusticesociety.org/2016/07/08/black-rage-white-fear-white-rage-black-fear The horrific and unforgivable murders in Dallas almost resulted in my not writing this but on a day when both Paul Ryan and Newt Gingrich showed that they understand the racism that is behind the murders of Philando Castile and Alton Sterling-SAY THEIR NAMES, I felt it important to speak across the gulf that often exists between Black folks and White folks. I am not maliciously excluding Asian-Americans, Latinos, and Native Americans. This feels like a Black White thing right now. I could be wrong. I am not a nationalist. I have grown up in integrated America as a direct result of being an Air Force brat and going to elementary schools in France and England on Air Force bases. My family was the first Black family to live in the small town of Mascoutah Illinois when my Dad was sent to Vietnam in 1967, my senior year in high school. There was a hue and cry about that. My first day at Northwestern, I met my roommate who was from California and then was stunned when the third girl assigned to the room came in, took one look at me, and spent the night in a hotel. By that May, I took part in a building takeover by Black students at NU, one month after the assassination of Dr. King. This was the era of Black separatism so that next Fall, I decided I could not talk with my White roommates. That did not last too long. During my senior year, I fell in love with Gary Paterson a fellow Northwestern student who was and to the best of my knowledge still is White. I give you this history so what I tell you next is put in context. There is that often mocked statement, “Some of my best friends are Black, Latino, Asian-American, gay…” but some of my best friends are White. You know who you are. Okay, now you have the set up. This has been a dreadful week. In addition to the two executions of Black men, I attended the memorial for George Riley, one of my best friends who is also White. He was a son of the South and could not understand why I hate the South despite my having been born in Texas. Separate but equal was still the law of the land when I was born!!!!! Leukemia got him. He was only 59 years old. I looked at both videos of the police killings and was laid low. Everyone I talked with was shocked and devastated. The Black folks I talked with felt vulnerable, sad, shocked, and unsafe. STOP KILLING US!!!!! When I drove out of the parking garage, two White men walked in front of me. I was consumed with anger upon seeing them. That felt bad but that is how I felt. Later, I was on Grand Avenue in Oakland and a White family- two adults and two children walked into the Star restaurant. I was overcome with resentment and anger. Why do they get to walk casually down the street without a care in the world? When I left my office, I said good bye to Chris Bridges, a young Black man. I told him to be safe and that I expected to see him on the morrow. We both knew that his life could be taken in an instant. A few moments before I saw the White family, I had talked to a Black woman and urged her to be safe. She told me her son had been killed in the criminal justice system and that she had been stopped in Texas for expired tags which were not really expired at all. As I drive around Oakland, I look at Black folks particularly Black men and worry for their safety. As an OG with graying hair, I think I will be safe but the ghost of Sandra Bland SAY HER NAME haunts me and reminds me that no Black person is really safe in this country. When I saw that White family, I angrily thought,” They never have to think about whether or not a police officer is going to take their lives.” I went home determined to take a break from the news about Mr. Castile and Mr. Sterling SAY THEIR NAMES. I found a romantic comedy but had to turn it off to do something around my home. My default channel is MSNBC and I saw the breaking news about the shootings in Dallas. I stayed up watching the news and woke up spontaneously at 3 AM. I am a sound sleeper but I could not go back to sleep. I realized that I wanted to know who had done this dastardly deed. I “hoped” it was a White supremacist or ISIS. I have had this reflexive thought “Oh God. Please do not let this be a Black man” since November 22, 1963. Many Black folks have this reflex. There was still no ID so I went back to sleep. When I woke up again, I learned to my deep regret that the murderer, the assassin, the domestic terrorist was a brother. I felt so badly. The images of the Dallas PD were full of Black faces and bodies-of Black men and women. The Chief of Police is a Black man who looks like many Black men I know. The Dallas Police Department was known for working collaboratively with the community. The Dallas police were there to help the protestors. Why? Why? Why? Well, I knew why. The grief, the pain, the anger, the feeling of helplessness, the rage, the fear-all these emotions were roiling in most of us after seeing these two Black men shot in cold blood. We remembered all the other Black people treated as sub-human, unworthy of respect and life. We remembered that we were packed into ships like cattle and brought here to work for free. We remembered lynchings and insults and ill treatment. When the not guilty verdicts came down for the officers who beat Rodney King within an inch of his life, I wanted to throw my office chair through the window of my office. For the past few days , I have yelled obscenities at various clueless people talking on TV. The difference between me and the Dallas shooter is that I have impulse control and I DO NOT HAVE WEAPONS. Please do not read this as in ANY WAY CONDONING this cowardly and vicious act. My heart is broken. More death. More families whose members are not coming home. Once again, I was not sure if I should write this but I think it might shed some light on how badly most of us Black folks are feeling right now. Peace.

Bay Area Folks, I hope you’ll have the chance to see my play this weekend. Tell Me Your Name, both serious and funny, explores the harm we do when we “other” people. The worst form of “othering” promotes hate and dehumanizes the “othered.” And three groups have been in the cross-hairs of this vitriol for several months with hot and harmful political rhetoric: Yes, we, the LGBT community, Latinos, and Muslims, are all hurting by the mistreatment and violence aimed at us. Of course many of you are members of groups live in states of persistent dehumanization. Last week, a friend posted this on her Facebook page: “I went to East Bay Meditation Center (Oakland, CA), a sangha for people of color. The teacher led a sound meditation, ringing a bell for each of the victims in the Orlando shooting - including the shooter. Afterwards the gathered community read their names aloud and not the least of the tender moments for me was hearing all the Spanish surnames pronounced correctly by Asian and Black and Latinos of all shades. Thank you Oakland EBMC POC.” Whether in life or in death, all of us deserve to be seen, acknowledged, and accepted for the fullness of our lives. We are a conglomeration of identities: latino, chicano, asian, black, indigenous, white, bi-racial, multiracial, gay, trans, straight, male, female, católicos, Jewish, Protestants, Muslims, Buddhists, atheists, y mucho mas. And none of these identities should cause us to fear for our lives. My condolences to all the communities targeted by hate and violence, too many to count. We show respect for people by learning their names, by saying them right, and in that small act we say, YES, I see you, I care about you. "What’s in a name? A minefield of misplaced notions — comical, sad, damaging — that speaks volumes about where we are as a mixed nation. Drawing on personal experience, American history, observations from the front-lines, and laugh-out-loud humor, Irma Herrera’s one-woman show encapsulating the differences that plague us, could not have come at a more opportune moment.” — Andrew Ross, Distinguished Journalist in Residence, UC Berkeley, School of Journalism If you haven’t yet seen this video please watch, it isn’t our Muslim neighbors we should fear. What’s scaring me is the homegrown hate and intolerance that has been growing in our country. If you haven’t yet seen this video please watch, it isn’t our Muslim neighbors we should fear. What’s scaring me is the homegrown hate and intolerance that has been growing in our country. #lgbt #orlando #tolerance