We Are All Immigrants Here

Yesterday, April 9th, was a spectacular spring day
in Boston, perfect for baseball, bird watching (in the British
sense) or a protest march. Mired between semesters, at the tattered tail
end of a medical leave and looking for a little action, in our wimpy,
middle-aged way, we decided to attend the Boston iteration of the nation
march for immigration rights.

For the record, your correspondents position on the
question is that we are ALL immigrants and guest workers on Planet Earth,
that in a perfect world everybody would be able to live wherever they
want, and that anything we can do to get closer to that ideal is a good
thing. We’ve always been a nation of grubby immigrants clawing our way
towards the American Dream, and if you don’t like it, move to Canada
or Switzerland. This is America, and its open to all. Love it or leave
it, baby.

But as a Movement, we weren’t expecting much from the
Boston illegal immigrant march. Half a million strong they came out in
Los Angeles, a sea of people, a generational echo of the march to Yazgur’s Farm. Even
more in Texas. However, we expected that the lower level of ethnic homogeneity
and organization in the immigrant population of Boston and the higher level of paranoia
among that population, most of whom are trying very hard to
keep a low profile and not draw attention to their precarious presence
here, would severely limit turnout.

We were not disappointed. We snagged a primo meter just
off Copley Square, and made sure the damn thing was full (having gotten
hit while at a doctor’s appointment in Cambridge a few hours earlier).
The plan was to set out backwards down the march route towards the Boston
Common, where the rally was supposed to form up. Still, we were a bit
early, so we had a smoke and sat in the White Whale for half an hour or so,
reading the New York Times.

When
we reached the staging area after a delightful stroll across the Public
Garden and the Common, Boston’s brief spring
manifest in every gleaming bud and alabaster white body part exposed
to the sun anew after six months of swathing in wool, goose down and assorted
miracle fabrics, we were not surprised to find it almost empty. There
were 60 or 70 expectant individuals milling around before a makeshift
stage and PA system, most wearing the distinctive white T-shirts and orange
armbands of the march organizers foot soldiers. We could see a few signs, a tiny band
of black-clad Anarchists looking lost, and a shaky table holding the
latest gripping literature from the Socialist Revolutionary Workers Party.

Not much to shoot or report on, we thought. But it was
a beautiful day to spend in the part, march or no march, and we had just
pumped 8 quarters into our meter, so we decided to stick around and
see what developed. In the meantime, completely ignoring the repeated
advice of Norma Yvonne, our primary care doctor and our nutritionist, not to mention
dear old Mom, we scurried into the Boston Common McDonalds for a quick #1 Value meal.  Since it
was our first solid sustenance of the day, we scorfed it
down like a hungry hound and hurried back to the scene.

What a difference a few minutes can make! There was
now a colorful, motley crew of hundreds, skipping and jumping around,
wrapped
in flags, hoisting signs, waving banners and shouting stuff in Spanish
and English.

And the crowd was steadily growing. For
half an hour we watched the grassy mall in front of the Common Rotunda
fill up as subway after subway disgorged marchers
a hundred meters upslope at the Park Street T station. Down the path
they came, Latins from dozens of countries, each group with their flags,
T-shirts, signs and speech identifying their proud point of origin – Irish in boisterous
voice with big Irish flags and oozing attitude; quiet, smiling Asians,
looking happy but slightly anxious, like people invited to a party who
were uncertain of what to wear, and had no one to ask; a mixed bag of
lefty Anglo street people, progressives and pathologic marchers; and
a smattering of Russians, French, Germans and Nordic types, who may have
been illegal
immigrants but were more probably Eurotrash tourists just watching the
show.

Once the music stopped and the speeches started we got
bored and decided to head back to the White Whale, to feed our meter
and our head, and wait for the main rally at the end of the march, which was scheduled to terminate right
in Copley Square. By the time we left the Common, the crowd had swollen
to several thousand and was becoming, if not feisty, at least raucous.

Meanwhile, despite our best efforts, our head was 300 years in the past and an ocean away. We
have been completely sucked into our latest novel, the middle volume
in Neal Stephenson’s Baroque Cycle, a bizarre but engrossing historical
fantasy involving actual characters like Isaac Newton, Benjamin Franklin,
Louis Quatorze as well as an astounding assortment of invented scoundrels,
vagabonds, alchemists, soldiers and whores and dealing with themes like
the origins of calculus, cryptography, international banking, and the
European manias which led to two world wars in the last century. It
is called, appropriately enough, "The Confusion" and we decided to sit in the car and read
a chapter while we waited for the march to catch up to us.

It was almost six, but Coply Square was still strongly illuminated thanks to
DST, with long shadows of roofs and church spires slanting across the lawns and walkways, when we shook ourself back to the 21st century and got out of the car to see what was going on. The
organizers had set up another temporary stage on one side of the Square,
and a lively pop-reggae beat blasted from a powerful PA. As we crossed
Boyleston St., right in front of the main Boston Public Library, we fell
in with a chattering gaggle of female 30-something  suburban shoppers,
simultaneously weighed down by designer store shopping bags and buoyed
up by the intoxicating scent of spring in the air.

"Look," said one, "There’s a concert in the Square!
Must be the Noontime Concert Series. What day is it?"

"No," answered another, "The free concerts in the Square
are on Wednesday.  Today is Monday.  Must be some special celebration."

Discussion ensued. Some of the ladies wanted to check it out, others
said, why bother? We felt obliged to lend a hand.

"Ladies," we interjected, "Less than a half mile from
here there are 30 thousand enraged, criminal, illegal immigrants. That
godless jungle music is for them, and they are headed for RIGHT WHERE
YOU ARE STANDING!"

They looked at each other, trying to reach a consensus
as to whether we were dangerous or ridiculous, but, seemingly unable
to reach a verdict, hurried off. We crossed the street, alone. In front
of the library, an overweight, high-milage hold-out from the 60’s in a
tie-dyed peasant blouse and strand upon strand of worry beads draped over her ample breast looked us in the eye and asked, "Have you found
Jesus?"

"Didn’t know he was lost," we sneered as we hurried
by.

10 meters further down the sidewalk, there was another
one! This one was a guy, in a long brown sackcloth robe with a rope belt
(he had
that Boston Cardinal thing going) but looking more like Friar Tuck.  He
held up a sign with a single word emblazoned on it in red paint, a word
he also intoned every 15 or 20 seconds or so- "Repent."

"We haven’t even "pented" the first time yet," we informed
him, as we cut across the street, which was clear, as traffic had already
been cut off by the motorcycle cops standing on all the corners.

What is it about a warm spring day and a protest march, we wondered, that brings our every Jesus Freak, acid queen, religious extremist and political whacko in the state?

On the
inner perimeter of the streets around the Square, the satellite trucks
of the major networks and more ambitious local stations had set up. So
far, reporters and tourists clearly outnumbered immigrants.

Suddenly,
there was a rush of people and cameras to one side of the Square.  The
march was coming down St. James Avenue, filling the street from curb
to curb, waving flags, flying banners, and
stretching back the entire four blocks to the Public Garden, at least.They
were making a lot of noise.

We got some good shots and movies as the immigrant wave
flooded into the Square, until we noticed that our camera was beeping
because its memory chip was full. We had no idea how long that had been
the case. There was some semi-organized activity taking shape on the
small stage in the Square.

All things considered, we decided to disappear before
more politicians and wannabes started speechifying again.  The White
Whale was poised for the get-away. Five minutes later we were back over
the river, heading to Watertown.

In retrospect, a pleasant protest, if somewhat lacking
in weight of numbers or seriousness. As much as it pains us to admit
it, the French may have us beat in the current season of springtime social
protest.

article from the Boston Globe