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<a href="http://www.counterpunch.org/rodriguez11102009.html" eudora="autourl">
http://www.counterpunch.org/rodriguez11102009.html<br><br>
</a></font><font face="Verdana" size=2 color="#990000">November 10,
2009<br><br>
</font><h1><font face="Times New Roman, Times" size=4><b>“What They Did
to You is What They to do to us in Our Countries"<br><br>
<br>
</i></font><font face="Times New Roman, Times" size=5 color="#990000">
Running Past PTSD (Or My Susto Profundo)
</b></font></h1><font face="Times New Roman, Times" size=4>By ROBERTO
RODRIGUEZ <br><br>
</font><font face="Verdana" size=6 color="#990000">N</font>
<font face="Verdana" size=2>ovember 7 marks 30 years since I won my first
police brutality trial in East L.A. in 1979. After all these years, I
have now come to understand the meaning of resilience. Equally important,
I now have come to understand something that always eluded me; the
knowledge that the attempt to silence me – was an act of political
violence.<br><br>
I’m not sure why this knowledge eluded me. Perhaps it was because all
these years, people would always ask me if my skull had been cracked by
Sheriff’s deputies during the 1970 protest against the war in East L.A.
No, I would always reply, with a sense of guilt; it happened while
covering cruising on Whittier Blvd. on the opening night of the movie
<i>Boulevard Nights.<br><br>
</i>It became political when while photographing the beating of a young
Mexican man – the officers then turned on me. They then charged me with
attempting to kill 4 officers – with my camera. All told, my life was
threatened and I was subsequently arrested, detained or harassed some 60
times.<br><br>
About 5 years ago, I was invited to be a part of a group of survivors of
torture and political violence. It was the most powerful and healing
thing I’ve ever done. And yet, I felt I didn’t belong because all the
other members were from outside of the country.<br><br>
“What they did to you is what they to do to us in our countries.” That
was the consensus of the survivors, insisting that I did belong there.
That perhaps is when I began to contextualize what happens in the inner
city, barrios and reservations in this country: political violence,
corruption and lawlessness happens “out there,” in Third World countries,
never here. That’s conventional wisdom. But it doesn’t explain why this
nation operates the largest prison system in the world, filled primarily
with people of color. It doesn’t explain why the vast majority of victims
of law enforcement abuse are people of color.<br><br>
Not coincidentally, I am celebrating Nov 7, as opposed to that earlier
date in March, because that’s what I want to commemorate; my victory, not
my near-death nor trauma.<br><br>
This journey can be best appreciated by survivors of traumatic brain
injury, and Post Trauamatic Stress Disorder, or as I refer to it: susto
profundo. It can also be appreciated by those who have dedicated their
lives to treating those like me – whether they come from Asia, Africa or
East L.A. – or anywhere else where human beings are routinely
dehumanized.<br><br>
I could recount the chilling details of what happened to me 30 years ago,
but what I have finally learned is that it is both unnecessary and
harmful to the spirit; survivors of torture or political violence
generally, should give political analysis, not excruciating details.
Instead, I choose to offer a few stories. One has to do with how running
prepared me for my 1986 lawsuit. Every day I ran up and down hills in
L.A. Each day I would run further so I could be stronger than my enemies.
By the time my trial rolled around several months later, I had become
invincible: nothing or no one could defeat me. With the courageous
representation of my attorney, Antonio Rodriguez, we won. It was an
unprecedented victory primarily because I am alive (He also represented
me again six years later when we again triumphed in a lawsuit trial in
1986).<br><br>
This running came back full circle this year when around 50 young people
– including myself – ran from Tucson to Phoenix because legislators were
threatening to eliminate the teaching of ethnic studies in Arizona. We
were supported enthusiastically by our communities and joined by the
Yoeme and Otham nations. When we reached the state capitol, the
legislators were amazed that we had run through the merciless desert in
115 degree heat. The bill was dropped, though they promised to eliminate
Raza Studies next year.<br><br>
Afterwards, one of the runners commented: “We came to fight this bill,
but in the end, we came to know ourselves…” That too is what happens when
survivors fight to create a better humanity.<br><br>
In all these years, one of the most rewarding things for me was helping
to heal other survivors of political violence. It took place in
Washington D.C. several years ago. I had written a column in which I
described the healing of Sister Diana Ortiz – who had been tortured in
Guatemala – with roses. While I read this column in public, my wife, with
the assistance of children of survivors, not only placed those roses upon
her body, but also, upon all those survivors who had come to urge the
U.S. government to abolish torture. Later, we also gave the White House a
spiritual limpia (cleansing) at 3 am, though little good that
did.<br><br>
A psychologist in the field of trauma, Bessle Van der Kert, made an
observation several years ago; he noted that survivors heal when they
find a greater passion for something other than their trauma. For me,
this is my research on Centeotzintli or sacred maiz. It is a many-years
story, but it involves the search for origins and migrations. At a
certain point, I was told by elders from throughout the continent: “If
you want to know who you are, follow the maiz.” That’s what I do now. In
the process, I learned that the stories I had been looking for were right
in my own home… from my own parents who are 86 and 81… the stories they
had told me when I was growing up that became the basis for my
dissertation: Centeotzintli: Sacred maize – a 7,000-year ceremonial
discourse.<br><br>
To be beaten is dehumanizing. To be treated as a suspect population and
to be told to go back to where you came from is violating. To be denied
one’s human rights makes us less than human. To fight for one's rights is
rehumanizing. To find one’s roots – one’s connections to that which is
most sacred on this continent – to that which is many thousands of years
old and part of one’s daily life – is affirming and it is to find one’s
humanity.<br><br>
<b>Roberto Rodriguez</b>, an assistant professor at the University of
Arizona, can be reached at
<a href="mailto:XColumn@gmail.com">XColumn@gmail.com</a> <br><br>
<br><br>
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