Hosted by Annunciation House, the immigrant safe house in El Paso, the imigration forum began with an ecumenical flavor when Fr. Bill Morton and the Rev. Margaret Sawyer introduced Rev. Daniel G. Groody, C.S.C., Professor of Theology and director of the Center for Culture and Latin Spirituality at the University of Notre Dame, visiting lecturer at Oxford University, England, and producer of the Documentary Dying to Live — A Migrant’s Journey.
Bishop Don Raul Vera of the Diocese of Saltillo, Mexico, began his talk by reading the Eduardo Galeano poem “Los Nadies” in its entirety, and by frequently quoting lines from the poem thereafter, as he emphasized time and again the “nobody”, cypher status of the immigrant vis-à-vis the authorities and society generally.
The Nobodies
Sueñan las pulgas con comprarse un perro y sueñan los nadies con salir de pobres, que algún mágico día llueva de pronto la buena suerte, que llueva a cántaros la buena suerte; pero la buena suerte no llueve ayer, ni hoy, ni mañana, ni nunca, ni en lloviznita cae del cielo la buena suerte, por mucho que los nadies la llamen y aunque les pique la mano izquierda, o se levanten con el pié derecho, o empiecen el año cambiando de escoba.
Los nadies: los hijos de los nadies, los dueños de nada.
Los nadies: los ningunos, los ninguneados, corriendo la liebre, muriendo la vida, jodidos, rejodidos:
Que no son, aunque sean.
Que no hablan idiomas, sino dialectos.
Que no profesan religiones, sino supersticiones.
Que no hacen arte, sino artesanía.
Que no practican cultura, sino folklore.
Que no son seres humanos, sino recursos humanos.
Que no tienen cara, sino brazos.
Que no tienen nombre, sino número.
Que no figuran en la historia universal, sino en la crónica roja de la prensa local.
Los nadies, que cuestan menos que la bala que los mata.
Fleas dream of buying a dog, and the nobodies dream of coming out of poverty, that one magic day good luck will suddenly come raining down, that good luck will rain down by the buckets, but good luck doesn’t rain yesterday, nor today, nor tomorrow, nor never, not even in sprinklings does good luck fall from heaven, no matter how much the nobodies scratch their left hand, or stand up with the right foot, or begin the year by changing brooms.
The nobodies, the sons of nobodies, the owners of nothing.
The nobodies, the no ones, the nobodied, chasing the hare, dying of life, screwed, rescrewed:
That are not, even though they are.
That speak not language, but dialects.
That profess not religions, but superstitions.
That make not art, but crafts.
That practice not culture, but folklore.
That are not human beings, but human resources.
That have no face, but arms.
That have no name, but a number.
That figure not in universal history, but in the red pages of the local press.
The nobodies, that are worth less than the bullet which slays them.
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