Time for Solidarity

Sonia Nieto, an expert on multicultural education, created a multicultural continuum for schools. It's a helpful construct that allows school leaders and teachers to think about how their schools serve children from various cultures. The continuum looks like this:


The categories are pretty straightforward, and so is the ideal. In a day in which most of our public school students are racial and ethnic minorities, we ought to strive for school cultures that provide "affirmation, solidarity, and critique." It's clear what is meant by affirmation: a step beyond respect, it means holding another's culture in high esteem. Critique involves the difficult conversations that arise when cultures attempt to co-exist rather than dominate. Critique involves asking and answering tough questions: Which cultural values are shared and which are at odds? Which culture gets to serve as host? Which is the guest? While these questions are difficult to answer, at least they are easily understood. But solidarity? Wedged not-so-harmlessly between affirmation and critique, solidarity is a wonderful concept that is most difficult to reach, or even to comprehend. Here's how I know.



In June 2002, I was 22 years old. The month prior, I had finished my undergraduate degree and gotten married. My wife and I moved to Little Village (la villita), in Chicago, a neighborhood referred to by many as the “Mexican Capital of the Midwest.” It is not uncommon for children to grow up in Little Village without learning English, and following the Mexican soccer league more than any American sport. Many of our neighbors were undocumented immigrants, and the yearly Mexican Independence Day parade drew crowds of half a million. That’s la villita.

Of the reasons we moved to el barrio, solidarity was near the top. We wanted to know how if felt for immigrants; we wanted to walk a mile in their shoes; and we wanted to help. Beth had already gotten a job as a nurse nearby, but I hadn’t found one yet.

As I searched for a “real” job, I also wanted to get to know our new neighborhood better, and maybe even meet some community members. So I did what many of my undocumented neighbors did. The day after we got back from our honeymoon, I walked into a temp agency and asked if they had any work. They told me to come back at 4:30 the next morning with my social security card; they had a minimum wage gig that I was welcome to. My first job after college.

4:15, my alarm clock sounded accompanied by rooster crows. I dragged myself out of bed, and down four blocks to the temp. agency office. I showed my social security card and my driver’s license, but the latter wasn’t even asked for. In a place where social security cards can be bought for $50 apiece, corroborating identity isn’t too high a priority.

I was told to sit in the 18-passenger van outside, and wait for the other trabajadores to arrive. At 4:45 the van rolled out, 15 undocumented mothers and fathers, trying to scratch out a living while their kids slept at home. Some laughing and joking around. Some quiet. And me. Trying to work a little, and to learn, but uncertain what to expect.

Fifteen minutes later we pulled up to a meatpacking plant, the name and affiliation of which escapes me now. Each of us from the temp. agency was assigned a factory employee to supervise us. Even though I speak Spanish, the foreman saw me and sought out an English-speaking employee to be my boss for the day.

“What the f&$k are you doing here?” was my one-day-boss’s 5:00 am greeting. I fumbled some answer about needing to work. His eyes rolled, but he showed me the ropes. Actually, he showed me the chains where slabs of frozen ribs hung. My job was to grab slabs of ribs, one at time, and wrap them in plastic as quickly as I could, which was not very quickly at all. Did I mention the ribs were frozen? In shorts and an intramural sports t-shirt, I was cold cold cold after five minutes, and miserable the workday long.

We were done by 2, and back into the van. On the way back I focused on thawing, and my next move. In nine hours’ time, I had banked about 40 dollars, and a day of solidarity. Would I come back for another day? A week? A month? A career? Would I plant myself as an advocate for my minimum wage, undocumented, mom and dad coworkers? Would I learn their stories and publish them like Steinbeck did for the Grapes of Wrath?

Back at the office, I told the manager I would like to come back the next day. “OK” he responded in Spanish, “que venga a las tres y media.” And 3:30 a.m. was simply a price too steep for solidarity, and my self-inflicted social experiment came to an end.

Looking back, I am struck with how well I remember my own experience. I remember the awkward conversations, the looks of confusion and incredulity. I remember my thoughts to and from the stockyard plant. I remember getting up early. And I remember the cold well enough to shiver now as I type. But I don’t remember the experiences of my co-workers. I had intended to understand, them, but one day simply wasn’t enough.

Solidarity is powerful, but hard to attain. It requires looking beyond ourselves, living beyond ourselves, which requires more time than we often want to give. I say go for it. Use your position of privilege to live for days and weeks and years among those who have few options. Listen and immerse yourselves in their stories. Love thy neighbor. But walk a mile in solidarity's shoes to learn what you're getting yourself into.