The joy of welcoming asylum-seekers
In August, I was among a diverse group of volunteers who greeted two buses of Venezuelans arriving from Texas at New York’s Port Authority bus station. As proud as I was to put a “Yo hablo español” (I speak Spanish) sticker on my ID, I was mortified these asylum-seekers didn’t hear “Bienvenidos” (Welcome) when their long trek landed them in my home state of Texas.
My experience at the bus station that morning brought me as close as I have ever felt to the experiences of my four grandparents who braved unknown waters to go to an America that welcomed them. Young individuals and families, they, too, carried bags, some holding treasures from “the old country” when they landed in Texas in the teens of the 1900s.
The Venezuelans who made it to New York walked Panama’s Darién, through the dangers of Honduras, Nicaragua and Guatemala, and survived extortionists from Chiapas to Ciudad Acuña. Backpacks with glasses, telephones and precious items were swept away in currents or stolen by rateros (thieves). Some had horrendous experiences in each country in their three- to four-week journeys.
Volunteers in New York welcomed them with food, clothing and free phones. EMS teams treated swollen ankles and blisters, and took a pregnant woman to a hospital. New York City’s bilingual team filled intake forms, bought tickets to families in other cities, arranged transport to shelters and met other needs.
Like everyone, I dived into what needed to be done. But each time I stood back to watch this well-oiled operation, I was plagued by the inhumane policies of Gov. Greg Abbott. His busing policy is much deeper than a beef with President Joe Biden or a jab at the mayor of New York. It’s depressing to see hatred at the helm. A Texan always, with my oldest close friends in San Antonio, I am ashamed of my state.
Volunteering that morning felt good. We were all part of a goodness that I know to be an essence of the United States. Asylum-seekers are not opportunistic leeches. They come to escape dysfunctional dictatorships and bigots, empty market and hospital shelves, and gangs where a mango vendor must pay for protección (protection).
How is it that Abbott and his supporters have forgotten this essential American goodness?
Have they no understanding of the energy and creativity newcomers bring to society and culture?
Hardly unique to my grandparents, a version of this is almost everyone’s story. Growing up in San Antonio, I felt my immigrant heritage deeply as an intricate weave of continuity and connection to the Jewish community with this special place our grandparents chose to settle.
Back at the Port Authority, I felt myself fight back tears. As I left, proudly wearing my voluntaria (volunteer) ID, I heard “1,000 immigrants from Africa would be arriving soon.” When I go that day, I will happily add a “Je parle français ” (I speak French) sticker to my tag.
Jill Vexler is a proud San Antonian. She has a PH.D. in anthropology from UCLA. An independent museum curator based in New York since 1986, she has curated anthropology exhibitions for children’s museums and, for the past 20 years, Holocaust-related exhibitions.