Episode 8: This Beautiful Dark Brown Skin
Patrisse Cullors reads the story of Armando Peniche
Musical Guest Ron Miles responds
Poetic Response by Dominique Christina
Co-founder of Black Lives Matter Patrisse Cullors reads Armando Peniche’s story of the racial profiling he experienced as a 12-year-old boy and the danger slanderous rhetoric of mythic criminality poses to the undocumented Mexican community and his own young American son.
In this episode, Ron Miles responds musically with “Darken my Door,” and international slam poetry champion Dominique Christina offers a poetic response.
Darken My Door
Composed by Ron Miles
Performed by Ron Miles, Brian Blade, Bill Frisell, Jason Moran, Thomas Morgan
Published by Distance for Safety Music (BMI)
From the album I Am A Man, Enja/yellowbird Records
Guests
Armando Peniche
Armando Peniche is a Library Program Associate with Denver Public Libraries where he develops and leads programming for youth. He loves connecting community members with various resources. He currently runs an initiative of his own called "Leámos Juntos" which provides local businesses with books for children to read while at their establishments, nurturing a reading habit for families. Armando is also creating his own picture books featuring diverse characters with fun, empowering storylines.
Patrisse Cullors
Patrisse Cullors is an artist, organizer, educator, and popular public speaker Patrisse Cullors is a Los Angeles native, co-founder of the Black Lives Matter Global Network, and founder of the grassroots organization Dignity and Power Now. Cullors’ work for Black Lives Matter received recognition in TIME Magazine’s 2020 100 Women of the Year project. Cullors is the author of the New York Times bestselling “When They Call You a Terrorist: A Black Lives Matter Memoir” (2018). For the last 20 years, Cullors has been on the frontlines of criminal justice reform and led Reform LA Jails’ “Yes on R” campaign.
Dominique Christina
Dominique Christina is an award-winning poet, author, educator and activist. She holds five national poetry slam titles, including the 2012 & 2014 Women of the World Slam Champion and 2011 National Poetry Slam Champion. Her work is greatly influenced by her family's legacy in the Civil Rights Movement - her aunt Carlotta was one of nine students to desegregate Central High School in Little Rock Arkansas and is a Congressional Medal of Honor recipient. Dominique is the author of four books. Her third book, "This Is Woman's Work", published by SoundsTrue Publishing, is the radical exploration of 20 archetypal incarnations of womanness and the creative process. Her fourth book "Anarcha Speaks" won the National Poetry Series award in 2017.
Ron Miles
Ron Miles is a jazz musician, composer, educator, as well as a trumpet and cornet player based in Denver, Colorado. He is one of the finest improvisers and composers of his generation and has been called one of the greatest melodists by clarinetist Ben Goldberg. In addition to leading his own bands, Ron Miles has performed in the ensembles of Joshua Redman, Bill Frisell, Mercer Ellington, Don Byron, Myra Melford, Joe Henry, Madeleine Peyroux, Jason Moran, Matt Wilson, the Bad Plus, Harriet Tubman, Ginger Baker, and Goldberg.
Full Episode Transcript
Tania Chairez (00:08): From Motus Theater, welcome to the Shoebox Stories podcast, where we invite you to stand in someone else's shoes. I'm your host, Tania Chairez.
Tania Chairez (00:28): For our first podcast series, UndocuAmerica, Motus asks a prominent American to stand in the shoes of an undocumented person by reading aloud their story, saying their words and holding for a moment the weight that they carry. By reading the story handed to them in the studio, the reader is not saying they agree with everything written. They are simply agreeing to suspend judgment and feel the impact as they word by word, experience the world through another's eyes.
Tania Chairez (01:02): Our guest reader is an artist and co-founder of Black Lives Matter, Patrisse Cullors.
Patrisse Cullors (01:14): I believe that if undocumented communities, specifically black and brown, come together with black Americans, I think we can be really powerful together.
Tania Chairez (01:24): She will be reading the story of Armando Peniche, a young father with Taka, who works as a program associate at the Denver Public Library. It is a story about Armando's experience of racial profiling and the danger that inflammatory rhetoric targeting Mexican immigrants poses to an undocumented man and his American son.
Tania Chairez (01:45): After the reading and reflection, we are excited to have both a poetic and musical response to Armando's story. We will hear a musical response by American jazz saxophonist, cornetist, and composer, Ron Miles. And we will hear from national and international Slam poet champion, Dominique Christina, who crafted a poem specifically in response to Armando's story and his conversation with Patrisse Cullors.
Tania Chairez (02:14): And now, Patrisse Cullors, reading Armando Peniche's story, This Beautiful Dark Brown Skin.
Patrisse Cullors (02:25): Like many Latinos, I have a huge family. Unfortunately, I never get to see most of them because they're on the other side of the U.S. border with Mexico. My family in the U.S., I can count on my fingers. A few uncles, my dad, my brother and sisters. Thankfully, I have always been fortunate to have wonderful friends who I see as my family. That's why in the seventh grade, when my dad decided to move us to a different neighborhood, I chose to remain in the same middle school to stay with my old friends. Hanging out with my friends during lunch and sitting next to my secret crush in math class seemed like a no-brainer, but it made for my trip to school to be a long one. I had my routine down though. Wake up at 5:30 AM. Catch the first bus at 6:15, arrive at the second bus stop at 6:45 and hope I didn't have to chase after the bus.
Patrisse Cullors (03:22): If I made it to the corner of Kentucky and Federal by 7:15 AM. I was good. I could take a deep breath. This meant I had time to stop at the convenience store and grab a cup of hot cocoa. Maybe play a couple of arcade games before school. Talk about a warmup - I'm winning against hordes of zombies before even starting my school day. Yep. No pop quiz was ever bigger than that.
Patrisse Cullors (03:50): After school on nice days, I would skip the second bus and just walk. My dad would still be at work when I came home and my sister at her after school activities. So I was in no hurry to get to an empty house.
Patrisse Cullors (04:04): On my way home, I would use the concrete dividers on the sidewalk as measures and take the time to practice my music lessons for cello. Each step I made on the sidewalk was a note. I would walk and count. One, two, three, four. For longer sections, I would count one, two, three, four. For shorter sections, one, two, three, four. I had my music teacher at my head telling me, come on Armando, stay on the beat, stay on the beat.
Patrisse Cullors (04:43): So one day, I'm happily counting along, looking down at my concrete measures when I see blue and red lights flashing across the sidewalk, and I hear an angry voice yelling at me, stop. Freeze. I was totally confused. I might fight video game zombies, but I was just as a kid, barely old enough to sit in the front seat of a car. And here are two police officers coming at me, hands on their guns, yelling. I was freaking out like, what did I do wrong? My mind was going through a mess of different emotions because as an undocumented person, the last thing you want to do, the very, very, very last thing is to get in trouble.
Patrisse Cullors (05:28): Even a simple traffic violation can lead to deportation. So I'm thinking, what did I do? What could it have been? Did I forget to pay the bus driver? But no way. I remember paying David. He gave me a transfer and he would never call the cops even if I did forget. The officers were yelling at me to turn around and put my hands up. I was struggling to understand what was going on when the second officer physically spun me around, stuck his hands into my pockets and started pulling everything out. My gum, the coins left from the arcade, my bus transfer, my student ID. He yanked my arms tight behind my back and handcuffed me. I was in shock, totally confused and terrified.
Patrisse Cullors (06:16): And then with some kind of kid logic, I thought, is it my hair? My family didn't have money for regular haircuts. So, I cut my own hair, which as you can imagine, with a 12 year old, didn't work out so well. I would always end up using the number four clipper to get rid of the patches. At least it was even. No, I thought, it can't be my hair. Then they searched every pocket of my backpack, dumping out my school books. They were looking for something they couldn't find. And that's when it hit me. They stopped me because of the color of my skin. They think I'm some criminal. I can't believe they're doing this. What if they take me to jail and my dad has to come and get me? Will he need an ID? Could they deport my dad?
Patrisse Cullors (07:04): The officers pushed me down, grabbed my student ID and went back to their car, leaving me on the street handcuffed. It took about 20 minutes to run my ID through some database. And while I sat on that curb, all these cars were going by with people looking at me, pointing at me like I stole something or robbed somebody. They assumed the officers were making the city safer for them, stopping a thief.
Patrisse Cullors (07:32): I'm a kid in handcuffs, sitting on the curb and I wanted to get up and yell, stop. I'm the victim here. I didn't do anything. Let me go. I'm innocent. I didn't do anything. I didn't do anything.
Patrisse Cullors (07:47): And I can't explain to you, even now, how humiliated and ashamed I felt sitting there with everyone going by, pointing at me, looking at me, thinking I was some criminal.
Patrisse Cullors (08:07): Finally, the officers came out of their car, threw my stuff into my backpack, and un-handcuffed me. One-handed me my ID and said the most ironic thing I've ever heard. Stay out of trouble. No apology, nothing. When all along, I wasn't the trouble, they were.
Patrisse Cullors (08:33): I remember it taking me a long time to pull myself together, to even figure out which way was home. But I did make it home. And like many other days, there was no one there, no one I could talk to.
Patrisse Cullors (08:49): Instinctively, I grabbed my soccer ball and I went to an elementary school a few blocks away where I often played. There was no field, but there was a baseball cage where I could sometimes practice my shots. I stayed there until evening, kicking the soccer ball over and over and over against the metal cage, taking out my anger and shame on that ball until my foot couldn't take the pain anymore.
Patrisse Cullors (09:13): I often wonder how many other brown and black kids go through this stuff. Pulled over, harassed by the police with no way to channel their fear, anger and humiliation. How many undocumented kids go through this stuff and have no one at home to talk to, no shoulder to cry on, no soccer ball? Because we start to serve a life sentence away from our families as soon as we cross that border.
Patrisse Cullors (09:40): I'm a man now, watching another man, our president, tell the citizens of this country that if you are an undocumented Mexican, you must be in a dangerous gang, a rapist, a murderer. Can I be safe walking home for my job at the library when more and more Americans view people who look like me as a threat? Even more importantly, is my nine-year-old son going to look like a bad guy to a couple of officers? Will my neighbors see me for who I am, a young father hurrying to pick up his son from school so that he doesn't have to walk into an empty house? Or am I their worst nightmare, like some zombie that must be stopped?
Patrisse Cullors (10:25): And this beautiful dark skin you see that people are being taught is a threat to this country is the rich brown tone I inherited from my grandfather. And let me tell you, my grandfather is the best person I've ever known. No matter how poor he was, he would always house and feed people. Before he turned to religion, he was so patriotic that even when the National Anthem was played on the radio, he would stand up. And he loved his grandkids so much. He would wake up extra early and walk miles to a place in Mexico that gave out free milk at 5:00 in the morning. So despite our poverty, we had what we needed to grow strong. Across that invisible border, my grandfather is the person I've missed the most. And because I'm undocumented, I never got the chance to go back and say goodbye to him.
Patrisse Cullors (11:18): So when you see someone with this beautiful dark brown skin, walking down the street, I hope you'd think of my strong, kind hearted, Mexican grandfather. And I hope you will think of me. And I hope you will think of my beautiful son and help me to keep him safe.
Tania Chairez (11:41): Thank you.
Patrisse Cullors (11:43): You're welcome.
Tania Chairez (11:44): Thank you, Patrisse. Can you share with Armando what most impacted you when reading the story directly to him?
Patrisse Cullors (11:52): Yeah. I think, everything. There isn't a moment in the story that didn't impact me. And we have very similar stories in relation to law enforcement. You know, I did a piece in 2014 similar to this, where it was stories of black people who've been impacted by state violence, but survived the experience. And so much of the conversations we have inside of our movements around law enforcement have a lot to do with the gap, which I get. And I think it's so important, but we rarely talk about people who've survived. And I think that these stories, the survivor stories, are so necessary because it helps us paint a picture of what law enforcement actually does. They don't just kill. They humiliate, they brutalize. They create an environment of un-safety for our community. So, I feel very moved by this piece and a lot of gratitude for being asked to read it and very grateful for you, Armando, for allowing me to be the person to read your story.
Tania Chairez (13:14): Thank you. And Armando, what most impacted you hearing Patrisse read your story to you?
Armando Peniche (13:19): Hearing Patrisse read this story to me was a very emotional experience because I've shared this story with mostly a white audience. And as I'm sitting here listening to you tell my story, I was overwhelmed with emotion of this is a person who gets it, who's been there, who's fighting so that this thing that happened to me, doesn't happen to more kids out there. And when you got to the climax of my story, you know, like I had to hold my tears back. And for a moment, I thought to myself, Patrisse, this happened to you? And then I had to go back and realize, well, it's my story. So, I appreciate that you connected so well with it. And as you mentioned, how important it is to share the story of the survivors. You're right. You know, like the people who [inaudible 00:14:17] their lives, they're asked to go about their lives with those scars with them and they have to carry those.
Armando Peniche (14:24): Hearing you read it also gave me a lot of energy and a renewed passion because I'm like, you know, like we're doing the right thing. We're sharing this stories. The work that you're doing is amazing. And the work that we're doing here in the community is amazing. And for anyone who gets to listen to this, I hope it's also a reminder of, like, if this happened to you, you know, it doesn't have to define who you are. You can fight for change. We can achieve something better together. It was very empowering. Thank you, Patrisse.
Patrisse Cullors (14:53): You're welcome.
Patrisse Cullors (14:55): I believe in solidarity, I believe in deep connection with other communities that are at the margin that aren't mine. I believe that if undocumented communities, specifically black and brown, come together with black Americans, I think we can be really powerful together. And we have been really powerful together. And so it felt important to be witness to this story. A story that isn't mine, but also familiar. A story that I can't fully relate to, but I can relate to. There's something really specific. I think, about black Americans' relationship to this country and undocumented communities' relationship to this country and our consistent fight to try to be here, be seen and be powerful. So I really wanted to be here because of that. And I'm dedicating this conversation to my four-year-old, Shine, my child. I'm literally trying to pave a way for him so that he can never see the things that I've seen and that he can thrive and grow and be happy and healthy.
Armando Peniche (16:12): Thank you for sharing that. Patrisse. That was beautiful. I also ... I feel like I've been fighting the issue of immigration for 23, 24 years now. So it's something that's always been part of my life. And my monologue deals with race too. And it's something that, unfortunately in Mexico, it's a big issue and it's not often talked about. And during these times when it's hard, you know, like you can't even go for a run without being judged. You can't do anything safely. I think it's important that we use methods like this to reach other people and wake people up because we want to build a good future for our kids, for our friends, for our families. And you know, we're not going to get there alone. So, people of color, immigrants, if we work together, there's a lot of things, a lot of wonderful things we could make happen. So that's why I'm here today.
Armando Peniche (17:09): It seems like an overwhelming amount of problems that could come up to my life, but you know, it's important to keep going and to hopefully reach that group of people who race, immigration might not be an issue to them because they don't have to live with it. You know, like we have to live with it. We can't take up our skin and be like, okay, I choose not to do this today. But if we can reach that group and get to them, then it will make us more powerful.
Patrisse Cullors (17:37): Absolutely.
Tania Chairez (17:39): I know that it's about time to wrap up, but I hope that there is one or two more minutes in your time, Patrisse, and maybe you can share any last words you would like to say to Armando and any last words Armando would like to say back.
Patrisse Cullors (17:55): My final thoughts are just overwhelming gratitude for this story and this moment. I think there is so much to ground ourselves in this story and so much to remember from this story and so much action that we can put forward because of the story.
Armando Peniche (18:17): Thank you, Patrisse. And I'm so grateful that we had this space to be together. And I look forward to hearing more from you. Hopefully, someday I get to meet you in person. And I'm thankful that it brought a lot of energy for me to keep going. And for anybody that would listen to this to just remember, there's still work out there to be done. Even as we're speaking right now, there are still people being discriminated against because of the color of their skin. There are still kids in cages right now that we have to fight to set them free. And it's important that the sacrifices that people we lost to never forget those. And I thank you for bringing that as a reminder in the form of energy to this conversation.
Patrisse Cullors (18:57): Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Dominique Christina (21:47): When you are in an unprotected class, when you always fit the description, when you are suspect perpetually pulled over harassed, harangued, hated, the daily pillaging of your personhood a noose around your neck. When you are undocumented minute, when you are black and nearby or brown and nearby, they assume crime scene. Your hands are not good hands unless they are manicured. Your eyes are not good eyes unless there is blood in them. You can be 12 and snatched by the state, pummeled and disremembered, pockets emptied on a curb, made to sit, made to squat, made to wait. They have to run your name, find out if you're worth killing in the middle of the day. Minutes before the police got there, you were thinking about soccer and what to eat when you got home or if anybody would be there to greet you. You were thinking about your grandfather's hands, how he stood for the National Anthem every time it played on the radio. Fierce Patriot, lover of freedom songs and freedoms promised minutes before the police got there. You were just a boy. Nothing more complicated than that. No politics, no heavy philosophy, no war cry. Just a boy in a blood dazzled country, trying to get home.
Dominique Christina (23:28): After they left, you join the ranks of the tragically initiated. The curb-cuffed constituency, a double negative, a how stitched hard in the back of your throat. Why did they come? It's voodoo, you know. This body and the witchcraft of owning it. If you do not own it, you die. If you dare to own it, you die on camera bleeding out loud, undone and misnamed. All your mistakes played on a loop across before it is set on fire. A family in Mexico, you cannot see estranged from that, which keeps you tethered to the world. You are a brown boy, inexplicably alive.
Dominique Christina (24:13): You like books and video games. Ghosting the desert, you climb to the top of things. Dark skin shimmering, you will try again and again to be whole. You will never forget their hands. The shock of being unfastened to your body wondering if they would arrest you, deport you, kill you.
Dominique Christina (24:37): Sun goes down, the day eating away, you go to a park and stuff down your rage. There is a silence that keeps an ache and you return to it often. Years later, when you're a father, you look at your son's face and wish to keep him from that. You'd do anything to keep him from that, to rescue him from so dangerous and knowing the prayers for brown boys are complicated and specific. Let him be seen, but also, let him be invisible to whatever would seek to harm him. It is an unholy prayer. You wrap him in your arms, a sacred rope, tethering him, see, to what is wild and unkillable about you like your father did for you. Here son, let my life be your armor, keeping and keeping and keeping you safe.
Tania Chairez (25:48): We had the pleasure of hearing an excerpt of Darken My Door by Ron Miles with musicians, Brian Blade, Bill Frisell, Jason Moran, and Thomas Morgan from the album, I Am a Man, followed by Dominique Christina's poetic response to Armando Peniche's story and his conversation with Patrisse Cullors.
Tania Chairez (26:09): Next month, on The Shoebox Stories UndocuAmerica Series, hear Houston Police Chief, Art Acevedo, read the story of Laura Peniche.
Art Acevedo (26:18): You can't be a Christian on Sunday, and then go on Monday through Saturday and do things that run completely contrary to the teachings of Christ.
Tania Chairez (26:28): We hope you will share Armando's story with your friends and family, so everyone knows the people whose lives are at stake in U.S. Immigration Policy.
Tania Chairez (26:38): Thank you to Patrisse Cullors, Armando Peniche, Dominique Christina, Ron miles, and all of you listening who are willing to stand in the shoes of someone with a different experience than your own and see the world for a moment through their eyes.
Tania Chairez (26:54): Please take good care of yourselves, those you hold dear, and your neighbors, both those near and far.
Alejandro Fuentes-Mena (27:16): We are grateful for The Shoebox Stories' creative team including Carlos Heredia, theme song, Anthony Salvo, violin underscore, Alejandro Fuentes Mena, vocals, Robert Johnson, vocals, the podcast content editor and Motus' artistic director, Kirsten Wilson, technical editors, Sam Glover and Douglas Reed. The Motus Theater production team, Rita Valente-Quinn, Michelle Maughan, and Kiara Chavez. And Motus Undocu monologists, Victor Galvan, Tania Chairez, Reydesel Salvidrez-Rodriguez, Laura Peniche, Kiara Chavez, Juan Juarez, Irving Reza, Cristian Solano-Cordova, Armando Peniche, and Alejandro Fuentes Mena.
Tania Chairez (27:54): And special thanks for Enja Yellow Bird Records for permission to play Darken My Door from the album, I Am a Man, published by Distance for Safety Music, BMI.