Our political leadership is waging an ever more vicious war against immigrants from what seems to be all points around the globe. But especially hateful attention is being leveled at those who have come from Mexico and South America.
In the last few weeks Latino-Americans who were born in the United States have had the validity of their citizenship questioned, their passports taken away and have been refused banking services by the Bank of America.
Why? Because that which is different is feared, and fear leads to hate. Hate leads to ignorance. Ignorance leads to dehumanization. Dehumanization leads to places we have visited before: concentration camps, internment camps, abuse, stripping people of their rights, erasing their status as free and equal humans.
Yet in spite of this fear and hate and horror, acceptance still finds a way to fill everyday life, in everyday communities, between everyday people.
I believe acceptance is more powerful than hate and fear.
The kindness, empathy and generosity from which acceptance is created slips through the small spaces, takes root and grows from the ground up.
I've seen it.
In fact, I see it now.
I see the family from Mexico who lives in the mobile home next door to my Mom.
The mother and father work in the fields surrounding Salinas, California. They work hard to support their two sons, to keep their cars running, to pay the mobile home park rent.
The mother speaks no English. The father speaks conversational English and the sons, both born and raised in California, speak both languages, although the younger son's Spanish speaking skills are waning as more and more of his life is spent speaking English.
For over five years now the mother of the family has come home from work and walked up to Mom's door to bring her fresh produce. Sometimes it has been lettuce, sometimes freshly picked broccoli or cauliflower. Many times it was a box of perfectly ripe strawberries. Whenever I called mom on the phone from whatever far-flung place we've lived she would tell me about the beautiful produce the neighbor lady brought over, and how much mom wished she spoke even a little Spanish so she could thank her and talk to her. And Mom would tell me about how the two boys of the family would have friends over, but were always careful to quiet down when Mom turned her porch light off at night, and how the father often invited Mom over to join them for barbecued chicken and elotes (Mexican grilled corn on the cob).
Sometimes over the years when I've been able to come visit Mom, I've stopped to talk with their sons in English, or to use my clumsy Spanish skills to talk with the mother and father, both of whom are about my age.
But it was this, my final visit with mom, that cemented in my mind and heart just how beautiful these neighbors were.
On mom's final night at home--August 13th--the medical transport finally arrived at around 10:00pm.
As the medical transport team approached the house I saw the mother from next door peeking out her kitchen window, a worried frown on her face. I waved briefly at her, but my attention was mostly focused on the concerned transport team members who could not fit the gurney into mom's front door and had to send for a mobile stairlift to be delivered.
45 minutes later the team was easing mom out the door and down her stairs. Mom was strapped into the chair at the shoulders, waist, knees and ankles, since she lacked the strength to hold herself upright.
I stood aside, numb and worried.
Then the neighbor came out and asked me in Spanish if my mother was okay. It took me a few seconds of shifting aside the gut reaction to speak Japanese in order to access my Spanish skills, but then I was able to explain to her in halting words what was going to happen.
Her face fell.
She stepped over to stand next to Mom, who was draped in blankets, eyes closed.
The neighbor reached out and began smoothing mom's hair back from her forehead, speaking soft, soothing words in Spanish.
Mom opened her eyes and smiled at the neighbor for just a moment before closing her eyes once again.
Then the neighbor came to me and pulled me into a tight hug, her hands smoothing across my shoulders and over my hair.
She finally let me go when one of the medical transporters called out that they were ready.
Tears stood in the neighbor's eyes as I said goodbye to her and climbed into the ambulance next to where mom had been transferred to a gurney.
Three days later, on August 16th, Mom passed away. She left just as she always said she wanted--surrounded by family and friends, kept comfortable and pain-free thanks to the medicines and gentle care of the nurses at Westland House.
After Mom's passing, after the family members had been hugged and had departed, after the papers had been signed and the mortuary contacted, it was late.
And I, accompanied by one of Mom's oldest friends, returned to Mom's house, where the hospital bed still filled the quiet living room.
I didn't see mom's neighbor for over a week, all of my energy tightly focused on starting the monumental process of being the executor of Mom's affairs.
But then, early one evening, the neighbor knocked on the door, a large box of strawberries in her hands.
She reached out to hug me and handed me the strawberries. When she looked over my shoulder and saw my then-visiting Mother-in-Law behind me she frowned and told me to wait for a moment. She ran into her house and came out with a bag of pre-cut salad.
A few days after that she gave us a bag of freshly harvested broccoli.
Now...
the neighbor is continuing to bring over fruits and vegetables several times a week, always asking me how I am doing and me always trying to say more than I have the words for.
This lack of words is a familiar sensation, for after living for 8 years in Japan, I am more than used to sounding foolish, using drawings and gestures and just about anything I have at my disposal in order to bridge the language gap.
No matter how clumsy my efforts, I knew that real communication always transcends mere words when people really want to understand and accept each other.
Yesterday
my Mother-in-Law left to go home.
And I realized that it was just me now, in the quiet of my Mom's house.
Last night the neighbor lady knocked on the door, her eyes searching behind me.
She asked me if I were alone now.
I said yes.
Then she took my hand and led me over to her house and around to their tiny yard where her husband was barbecuing chicken and beef and ears of corn.
She bustled around me with styrofoam plates, loading them up with way too much food. I protested in Spanish and then in English, and then in Spanish again that I had eaten some soup and was okay and that, WOW, that was too much food.
Both of them ignored me.
It was only when both plates were nearly snapping under the weight of the food that she walked me back to Mom's house and put the plates on the table.
Then she gave me another hard hug, her hand once again smoothing down the back of my hair.
And she was gone.
Now
all I am is thankful for these neighbors who spent so long watching over Mom, sharing what they had with her, letting her know in ways stronger than words that she wasn't alone.
And thanks to their beautiful accepting hearts, neither am I.
Muchas gracias, mis amigos.
Stay safe.
