“Youth has the most influence upon itself”

Last Thursday night, I ventured over to Tucson High School’s 24 Hour Candlelight Vigil with my friend Amanda. Students had organized the vigil to protest the proposed Arizona bill that would ban ethnic studies in the state (which was signed into law by Jan Brewer on May 11). The state superintendent states that program exhibits "ethnic chauvinism." If by this he means the examination of one culture and people alone, I would invite him to look at all other “American History” classes and textbooks, which showcase the history and story from the eyes of and for European Americans. How is that not ethnic chauvinism?

We were both excited to be a part of this event to support the youth of Tucson, who have been almost entirely responsible for the energy and rising opposition to 1070 and who have lent their creativity, their wisdom and their stories to the attacks on people of color, particularly the Latino community, in our state.

We expected to stay an hour. We expected to talk to people we didn’t know. We expected to perhaps feel out of place, to perhaps feel welcomed in. What neither of us expected was that we would have the opportunity to engage at length with wise young souls, very much engaged in the process of their own growth and dedicated to the livelihood of their community.

After lighting the saint candles we had brought with us, Amanda and I joined the group of people who were lining up on the curb to be a part of this Human Chain. We sat in between different groups of teenagers. We introduced ourselves to the ones on each side. On our right were a young woman wearing a black t-shirt and a young man wearing a white t-shirt. On either arm, he had strips of fabric from an American flag and a Mexican flag tied in course knots. His name was Tony. Hers was Tanaryi. She pronounced her name for us and then said, “Everybody calls me Tiny.”

It was midnight. Candles were lined up down the edge of the curb, and they offered a more subtle light to counter the orange glow of the streetlights. The crowd looked to mostly be teenagers, although there were some teachers, some community members, some university students from the U of A. Most people were wearing white as per the directions.

All of the candles had been lit by the same flame. And all of the flames had been lit by the flame of the Capulí in Tucson. The Capulí, as it was explained to me by a young woman at the rally, are communities of families who keep indigineous (particulary Aztec) traditions like dancing, like drumming and native language, like ceremonia alive in the community. In their households, each of them tend a flame that has a coal taken from a community fire built on “A” Mountain. When one of the fires goes out, they go to another family’s home to replenish their flame. All of our candles have been lit from this fire.

We overheard Tiny saying to Tony that she wanted some Starbucks and Amanda ran to the car after she remembered she had some iced Starbucks cans. She gave them to the two and that is when they began talking to us.

“You are a photographer?” Amanda asked.
“Yes, I love photography,” Tiny replied.
“But he was just telling to me to show him and I never show anyone until I’ve gotten a chance to look back through them myself.”
“It’s because she’s racist,” Tony joked.
“It’s because I’m namist,” Tiny retorted. “Against guys named Tony.”

Tiny talked about her teacher, who is a working photojournalist, and who encourages them to consider their photos even before they take them. It is one thing to take an image, but then, what do you plan to do with it.













I find it hard to articulate what we talked about because there is the pure data of what was discussed and there is also the very real emotional surge of the moment, which is hard to convey in words. All I can say is that I found myself listening and vary rarely contributing—not because I couldn’t think of anything to say but because they had already said it using the best words. All I can say is that I found more wisdom in the words of these two eighteen year olds than I often feel in my own or the words of people three times their age. There was a well of understanding in them and at such a young age, and I felt honored to be.

We told Tiny about a collective we were a part of involving local artists. We also told her about the concept of this blog. Talking to people we might not ordinarily talk to or interact with. “Like Me!” she said. “Exactly,” we both said. “That’s really cool,” she told us. “I’m proud of you.” And I found myself in the unique position of being told that by someone who was more than a decade younger than me. And somehow it meant so much more coming from her. We invited her to our next meeting, and then she told me to facebook friend her so that we could let her know.

We watched the tall white candles in front of us drip more and more wax onto the ground, until what had been a tall candle was a flame surrounded by a scalloped pond of wax.

Here are some things we learned about Tony and Tiny over the next three hours:

Tony studies mixed martial arts. He loves to both draw and write. He grew up on the South Side of Tucson. He will be working for the census this summer. He is a part of a group of innovative youth community organizers.

Tiny is an emerging photographer. She arrives at school early and leaves late so she can develop her pictures, so she can learn and practice new techniques. She has a passion for singing and sang before she could talk. As a child, she used to sing herself hoarse.

Some other things about Tony: He lost his best friend when he was murdered this year. They had known each other since they were five. He cried about it. And he decided instead of seeking retribution that he would transform this pain, this brokenness into something else. “I do all of this because of him,” he told us.

Some other things about Tiny: She has experienced pain in her life but she says it has made her stronger. “There’s no such thing as failure. I don’t believe it,” she said. “You have only found out how not to do something. Then you can go about doing it another way.” After we discussed that oftentimes the voices of youth are the voices needed in our own community, Tiny said, “Youth has the most influence upon itself.”

Tony spoke of the organizing he and other youth had done over the past month surrounding 1070. Over and over again, he emphasized that they were doing this because they were passionate about it, because it impacted their families and their community. They were offered an award, but they didn’t want their names or the name of any organization associated with it. “This is for the community,” they said.

The day that Governor Jan Brewer signed the bill into law, Tony and his fellow organizers were called to the capitol by Richard Elias to break the news to the students who had been waiting outside Brewer’s office asking every hour on the hour to see her and being denied each time. They didn’t know how they were going to break the news so they gathered in a circle, arms around each others shoulders, to pray. “We were standing there, and looking down and we just began to see these drops fall to the ground because we were all crying…Then we said, ‘Okay, let’s do this.’”

Tony spoke of how you can’t let your emotions overcome you, in organizing or in a fight. In a fight, you have your strategy all lined up. The second you let yourself be angry, you lose. It is the same with organizing, no matter how angry you are about an issue. “You have to begin in here,” Tony said, pointing to his temple. “And you have to be fueled in here,” he said, resting his hand on his chest.

Tony and Tiny spoke of the importance of storytelling to (as Tony put it) “Illustrate the moral dilemma.” Tiny told us about her process of photographing for Dia de los Muertos and that she was attempting to capture that fluidity between the living and the dead. The dead are still with us and still have a soul to offer. “Celebrating is to create that soul,” she said.

Towards the end of our time together, we talked about brokenness, our own and that of our communities and our families. We talked about this fracturing, this shattering of lives and connection as something that we all—no matter what class, race, political affinity—share. We pondered together how to transform that pain, how to create understanding out of suffering. “That is a place to start,” Tony said. He reached his arm forward into the empty air: “I feel your pain….” he said. Then he flipped his arm upwards with an open palm. “Now, take my hand.”

My First Conversation

Tonight I went to Walmart to pick up some lightbulbs for a sculpture in progress to donate to an upcoming benefit for Detroit Ho! . After choosing various sizes and powers of bulbs, getting some wax to melt, and electrical tape I went through the check-out.

The woman scanning my items wore a butterfly pendant around her neck. I love butterflies. Butterflies are a way I believe my beloved grandmother appears to me. (She died in 1988. Her name was Helen Theodora Becker. She wore polyester pant suits, exclusively. Her favorite foods were spaghetti and donuts. She gave birth to my mother.)

I asked the woman, "Do you believe that our ancestors can appear to us as animals? Like as butterflies and hummingbirds?" She responded, "Ma'am, I absolutely do." She explained that when she visits a family member's home there is a hummingbird always in the yard. She said, "I believe it is God's way of saying..." I finished her sentence, "I am here." She said, "Yes."

I let her know that butterflies remind me of my grandmother and that when is I see them I believe they are her way of making herself known to me. She said she was sorry that my grandmother had died. I nervously responded that it was okay and that it happened a while ago.

The woman said that she has a relationship with coyotes. She said that when she sees coyotes it is a warning to her. She said she once saw three coyotes run through her yard. Shortly afterwards, she got into a car accident. She said that she now knows to protect herself when she sees coyotes. She made a gesture with her hands drawing them down and inward toward her heart.

She shared with me that she used to work for hospice and at a nursing home. She said that she will always remember the night a woman died. She described that the woman was a very mean old lady-vicious. She described that as she was walking to the woman's room she heard the coyotes "laughing" outside. When she arrived at the woman's room, the old woman was dead.

The woman at the Walmart check out explained she felt as though the coyotes were laughing at her death-that she was so mean and that she couldn't escape her mortality. I remarked that it must have been difficult to see people die.

She remarked that, "Being present for the death of a person-in the final moments- is the greatest gift a human being can give to another. To be able to offer them some peace, especially when many of them would otherwise die alone." She said she considered being a mortician to be able to allow families the rite of grieving without worrying about the details of the death ceremonies.

I let her know that I appreciate that she was comfortable and called to the work of being present for people who are dying. I let her know that I do not believe I am called to that type of work-that it would be too difficult for me. But that I am called to other work.

I shared that I currently work with young children who have experienced childhood sexual abuse. People often comment to me that they couldn't work with children who have been hurt so badly and so early on in their lives. I shared that I am so grateful to spend time with these very special children.

The woman shared that she wishes kids could understand that the abuse was not their fault and that they are not wrong and that adults make very bad and sick choices. I agreed with her by smiling and nodding affirmatively.

I thanked her for the conversation, to which she responded, "Goodnight, ma'am."