Tucson -- Cactus in Tanned Clay Pots By the County Courthouse

wanted to see Downtown, Tucson, because if there was a memorial for Judge Rolls, it would be downtown, where he used to hold court at the Federal Court House. When I arrived into the heart, of Tucson, I followed the directions I had with me to the Federal Courthouse Building. There were no flowers or balloons or anything to show that a memorial had been set up for him. Across the street people were assembled and a woman in a white dress was speaking to them. I figured it was about the tragedy and I wanted to know what she was saying. I quickly turned the corner looking for a sign that would lead me to a parking garage. I got lucky. A car was just pulling away from its meter on the street. It feels good to be at the right place and just at the right time.

“Thank you,” I said, out loud, to myself as I filled the empty space. I grabbed my notebook, grabbed my camera bag, and dug through my truck’s consul under the arm rest for some change. I pinched up and out three quarters from it, got out of my truck, stuck the notebook in the camera bag, strapped the camera bags over my shoulder, shut the truck door, and then walked over to the meter. It had an hour and a half still to go until it ran out of time. I thought that would be enough for a jog around the corner, a few shots with my camera, and maybe a short interview with someone on what was going on at the gathering they were having. I put the quarters in my pocket.

The small crowd just began to dissipate as I approached them. The group of around people 25 people had lessoned into just more than a few. They were milling about and removing their handmade signs that were propped up on a short brick wall, and leaning against large tropical plants. “What’s going on here? Is this a gathering because of the shootings,” I asked a skinny man with a blond hair mustache.

“Well, it is, kind of. The battle is just beginning.”

“Who was the speaker here?”

“She’s over there,” he said pointing at a small, almost petit woman, wearing a white dress, and wide sunglasses that covered her eyes. Her hair was dark black, streaked with grey, and very frizzy.

“Who are you,” she asked as I approached her.

“My name is Peter Deane. I’m from Cincinnati, came downtown, looking to see if there was going to be a memorial for Judge Rolls. What’s your name?”

“My name is Isabel Garcia and I’m a lawyer here in Tucson.”

“Did you speak?”

“Yes.”

“What was the speech on? That you gave today?”

“Immigration and the violent rhetoric against immigrants has to end.”

“It’s that bad here,” I asked speaking of Tucson. “I worked on immigration issues when I was a firefighter in Cincinnati. We were making runs to immigrants in the morning after they were beaten and robbed in the night. The rif-raf in the neighborhood knew who they were, and they knew they couldn’t bank their money. These people became easy targets. When they yelled ayuda, ayuda, nobody knew to help them. They were being brought in and used by Corporations to keep businesses afloat. We were all to blame for keeping them impoverished and allowing their poverty to continue. It was the silent violence against them that made firefighters stand. In the end we got them out of that neighborhood and we found them aid and united their cause for living conditions. Many people were helped because of it.”

“Then you know!” Isabel said in a muffled tone. “Sorry, I’ve been speaking out and I’m losing my voice.”

“Can I ask you a few questions and tape you?”

“Sure,” she said, as I turned my camera on, and asked her name. She stated her name and occupation. I then asked her what her speech across the street from where Judge Rolls practiced law was all about.

She said, “We have already programmed a press conference here for the opening of the 2011 legislative session, a session that is even more hateful. They were promising, already, that the very first legislation they were going to introduce was to deny citizenship to children (and adults born on American soil) of undocumented immigrants, and to also remove education K-12 to undocumented children; Both are in violation of legal president. So we were here to begin our fight back against this hate. If you see our press release (released before shooting), we talk about the political rhetoric of violence and hatred that we have to stop, and then Saturday, this happens. And this is our gathering place. And the Federal Court is home to Judge Rolls. He was on his way to see Gabby Gifford to talk about all this militarization we’ve done of Arizona -- These courts? We’re spending millions and billions of dollars to criminalize undocumented migrants for the crimes of, the heinous crimes (?) of, entry and reentry. And the courts are flooded. Anyway, Judge Rolls went to talk to Gabby to try and get a congressional declaration that Arizona was in a state of emergency, and to be able to wave speedy trial requirements. That’s why he went to see her and his life was taken as well.

I then asked her, “Do you believe that the rhetoric against undocumented workers played a large part in the shooting?”

“Absolutely!” She said then continued, “Whether the issue that motivated this mentally unstable young man was about guns, or health care, or immigration. We don’t know precisely but we know what has been fueling all of the hate in this state is against immigrants. There were many people in the campaign that were criticizing her (Gabby Gifford) for not being tough enough, and for being against 1070. So even though she did support border militarization there were people in the right wing element that were very unhappy with her. Yes, I clearly think that it has been immigrant hatred that began in 94 when we shut down all of the traditional crossing areas in the United States to funnel people through the state of Arizona. That was the foundation of what we have now.”

I then said, “Where do we go forward now with not only how the rhetoric is being portrayed within the media with political bulls-eyes from one politician to another, but where do we move forward with undocumented workers in the United States?”

“O my God! This country needs a huge education on the issues of immigration. We cannot act on these issues or promote legislation when we don’t even know the facts. We don’t know the truth! And we don’t know the history. How many people in this country are for 1070, and who have no idea…”

“And what is 1070?”

“1070 is the anti-immigrant legislation but I don’t have the voice to tell you all. It’s a bill but it’s their (right wing Arizona Republicans) crown jewel. They have been at it since 94. Last year they signed their crown jewel bill. And that’s what 1070 is. This country has to wake up to its ignorance. We have fear, ignorance, and a bit of arrogance that really has led to this disaster.”

I tried asking a last question, but she said, “Thanks you, but I have to go.” I shut the camera off, and when I shut it off, a man with a pit bull that sat on the small wall nodded to me, and then motioned his hand for me to walk over to him. He was Latino and he wore a tight white t-shirt and sunglasses. Tattoos ran up and down both forearms, up and under the short sleeve of his shirt he was wearing.

“You from the press,” he asked me looking around.

“No.” I responded, “Just learning on my own.”

“Well, I have a story for you.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“There’s a FEMA camp on the other side of town. The barbed wire is slanted inward and not outward. You should check it out. What’s your name?” He said as he looked up at me and bumped the back of his hand against my chest.

“Pete. And Yours?”

“They call me, Lucky. If you ever want to check the camp out give me a call. It is by the railroad tracks. We are all about to be rounded up and slaughtered, that’s what I think.” He wiggled the chain of his dog.

“Ok what’s your phone number,” I asked. Lucky gave me his number and I wrote it down in my green notebook. I then walked across the street and behind the Pima County Courthouse. War memorials for the battle of the bulge and the Viet Nam War were on display in the Courtyard. A statue depicting Mormon soldiers from Utah trading with the Mexicans stood in the Courtyard’s center. But it was the Viet-Nam war memorial that asked me to take a closer look. It was reflective and I looked briefly at all the names on the memorial but didn’t read any of them. To me they were Americans that all died the same.

Standing there looking at the reflection, I remembered two men arguing when I was young boy. They were my brother-in-laws, both around the same age, and both served in Viet- Nam. When the argumant turned into shouting they both rose from the table and grabbed each other violently. My sisters quickly calmed them down. The argument was about who was to blame and why we lost Viet-Nam. I then was promised at that table, as I was promised other times on this same issue, that another Viet Nam War could never happen again. I remembered the ones who gave the promises saying this was because the American people learned their lesson and would never allow it.

My brother Bill never served in the military, but he did time in Iraq as a heating and ventilation worker as a contractor for Halliburton. Now he makes copper trees in his garage. To me they are memories to broken promises. The names on his trees contain those of the children that are the grandchildren and children of three generations of Americans native to this soil. And whatever land you are born over, or mother that pushes you out of the womb, you are who you are, with full responsibilities to that land and mother. When I think of baptism I always think of the first water spurting from a mother’s womb after a birth, onto her child. Thinking of these things, I must ask myself one thing as a Native American; Is the land that one is born out onto, from his/her mother, greater than the document that contains a signature on rightful ownership? The land over which you were born on is your sacred unwritten signature of responsibility. The signature penned in ink for a right of ownership always comes last if ever at all.

Peace is finding… We are all Native Americans with broken promises and the dead of our children sometimes never come back home to us at all. Sometimes the last thing they see of America is the Statue of Liberty who holds the words on a two copper tablets, one reads, July 4th 1776”, the other reads, Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe. The wretched refuse of you teaming shore. Send these the homeless, tempest tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door. They should add a third copper tablet that reads, “We are all part of broken promises. Why aren’t we able to grieve for these?”

There are thousands of names, of dead soldiers, from all over the world on my brother’s copper trees. There are a lot of names buried in oceans, buried in forests, and native deserts too, of human beings because we couldn’t resolve the issues of power and greed and dogmatic belief as human beings. And the ones, we immediately call our own, and native, are birthed here on the land you were born. And no signature on any stone or copper tablet, or book, or document, or imaginary line anywhere should ever be able to trump it.

I then walked away from the Viet-Nam memorial, up some stairs, into a corridor scattered with six green cactuses in tanned clay pots filled with dirt next to the entrance to the County Courthouse…