We Marched for More Than Reform

We marched on April 10, 2006 in Houston, Texas. The protest, which was one of many across the US, was organized in opposition to a House bill that would make undocumented people felons and in support of a just reform of immigration policies. Miah left from home with the baby and drove straight to the starting point, Guadalupe Plaza. I left from work with two colleagues by Metro Rail. At the last stop, we met up with two more people, one of whom had her baby with her in a stroller, and then walked towards the plaza. A contingent of the Free Radicals band joined us so we walked and danced to the accompaniment of drums and saxophone. We nearly got to I-10 when we saw the thousands weaving their way under the highway. The march had already begun.





A man on stilts dressed like Uncle Sam was at the front. Behind him was a man in a wheelchair holding a sign that read “WWII Vet.” There were a series of banners that led the way. Most of them were in Spanish. I learned Spanish informally so these translations are rough, but I think the signs said, “We are workers, not criminals” and “110% Native American.” A group of four men with feathered headgear, bare chests, and what I would call a dhoti danced in a Native American style. Miah and our baby were near the head of the march, so we all joined up and walked together. We were in the middle of a Central American contingent. We shouted out in unison, “El Pueblo Unido Jamas Sera Vencido” and “Si Se Puede.”

“Thank you for supporting us,” a man said to me smiling.

“Thank you,” I said. What I wanted to say was that immigration laws don’t just affect Latinos. I’m not supporting his people. He’s supporting my people. I have a family friend who was detained for three months without ever being formally charged with any crime after September 11. My participation was not strictly out of goodwill for unnamed others. I didn’t march out of liberal pity. I marched because I’m angry. I marched for the uncle I never knew. I was sad that the 50,000+ were almost entirely Latino, even as I was grateful that this one community stood up for all the others – Arab, South Asian, Asian, European, and African.

My spirits rose wildly once I started to realize how many people were there. Houston is too flat, I thought. It was hard to see an end to the people. Then I realized there was no end. I wanted to be in a helicopter for a moment so that I could grasp the enormity of the march. The route was a bit isolated. There weren’t very many people watching us. We couldn’t wave our signs for spectators. We passed by the city jails. I hope the prisoners heard us. Policemen watched us coldly from a balcony. I know that even though their faces were even, in their minds they knew, and we knew, that no amount of force could contain us and that the legislation the House passed was already dead. We shouted slogans for each other, to galvanize our solidarity. People started to improvise chants and make jokes to each other. I felt brotherhood and sisterhood. The march was long. It gave us time to become familiar with people who had been strangers.



“USA, USA, USA!” people shouted as they waved American flags. It was astonishing to see how this act, which I usually perceive as jingoistic war-mongering, took on a subversive meaning. The freedom of movement and universal citizenship – this is perhaps the most important struggle during our times. I was marching for Palestinian migrants in Kuwait. I was marching for Burmese migrants in Bangladesh. For the Algerians in Paris. For the Biharis in Bombay. For the Sudanese in Cairo. For the Bolivians in Buenos Aires.

One young woman stared me down as she shouted “USA, USA, USA” until I started shouting it with her. I felt good about it. The US constitution simultaneously initiated the Human Rights movement and codified chattel slavery. America contains both – liberation and domination. On April 10, when I shouted “USA, USA” it was for the liberatory force.

Miah carried our baby in a sling and even breastfed her as we marched. Then we put her in the stroller and she slept even as the chanting went on around. The march ended at Allen’s landing, where the first anglo immigrants started settling Houston. We picked a spot under a tree. Other families followed suit and pretty soon there was a calm little pocket of babies giggling, sleeping, and crawling amid the bustling mass. Our baby may not have known where she was, but I hope that the vibration of hope and people power settled somewhere deep inside her marrow.