In October I presented on a panel that examined how race and notions of illegality intersected at the conference “Imprisoned, Forgotten, and Deported: Immigration Detention, Advocacy, and the Faith Community.” Below are my remarks.
“Race, Illegality, and Detention”
October 13, 2011
The questions that we have been asked to explore are ones that I have thought about a great deal in the last decade, as a former activist in Asian American and immigration politics and as a scholar and educator who researches, writes about, and teaches about these issues. These questions are:
- How does race and racism operate in U.S. immigration and detention policy?
- How is whiteness implicitly or explicitly operative in U.S. detention policy?
- What are the similarities and differences between the criminalization of African Americans and newly arrived immigrants? Why are some groups of immigrants welcomed and others criminalized?
- How might the criminalization of particular racial others in U.S. detention policy be changed legally, politically, and culturally?
- Given the social and political polarization of U.S. society, what are the limits and possibilities of changing the role of race in U.S. detention policy?
I want to explore how race and racism are conceptualized and the implications for how we consider criminalization, legality, and the similarities and differences between African Americans and immigrants of color. While I and many of us here can discuss how white supremacy informs immigration policy, I think our point of departure for thinking about race cannot be whiteness or white supremacy. And I say this as an Asian American who is all too well aware, from research, from observation, from shared stories, and from the lived experience that I take on my body every single day, that white supremacy is ubiquitous and banal. White supremacy is the stench of dog shit left all over gentrified neighborhoods and the smiles of white children who, as babies, already have more power than the majority of grown people of color will ever possess. But despite the mundane nature of white supremacy, I think a Black/non-Black divide framework is much more useful for analyzing racial realities as well as for pragmatically addressing the issues of criminalization, surveillance, policing, incarceration, and deportation.
The Black/non-Black divide framework posits that being Black in the world is much more significant in terms of shaping life chances and ontological realities than being non-white. Sociologists, notably George Yancey, author of the book Who is White: Who is White?: Latinos, Asians, and the New Black/Nonblack Divide, have studied the social rejection and isolation of African Americans and the implications for how we understand assimilation. As Yancey notes in his book, “A black/nonblack dichotomy produces more understanding about contemporary race relations. It suggests that the informal rejection of African Americans, rather than a tendency by the majority to oppress all minority groups in a roughly equal manner, is the linchpin to the American contemporary racial hierarchy.”
Most social scientists of assimilation don’t generally address the issue of surveillance and incarceration and have focused on indicators such as interracial marriage rates, residential segregation, educational obtainment, and income, and increasingly wealth. Instead, they tend to focus on how African Americans do not tend to empirically demonstrate the assimilation patterns of not only whites but also non-Black people of color, including the “new immigrants.” But anti-Black racism cannot be simply identified at the level of individual cases of suffering, of which, a significant number becomes a social problem, according to the celebrated sociologist C. Wright Mills. Rather, anti-Black racism is a political project, a generative force, and a logic of social organization. As Jared Sexton puts it, there is a “fundamental social truth” and it is “not simply that antiblackness is longstanding and ongoing but also that it is unlike other forms of racial oppression in qualitative ways— differences of kind, rather than degree, a structural singularity rather than an empirical anomaly.”
Considering anti-Blackness as a logic of social organization gives greater clarity to the nature of the state, of which immigrant rights activists constantly engage and confront. While scholars such as Michael Omi and Howard Winant argue that the state is a racial state, some have made it clear that the state is not only racial but racist and not only racist but specifically anti-Black. For example, Anthony Monteiro describes the U.S. state as “the principal organizer of racialized power. As an instrument of racialized power, i.e. the power of white people over non-whites, especially black people, it functions to mediate class conflict and fissures among whites and to exert primarily command-and-control functions with respect to blacks.”
This is not to suggest that African Americans are the only ones affected, targeted, or criminalized by the state. One of the common strategies for not dealing with anti-Black racism is to claim that African Americans are not the only ones who experience racism or state violence, a sentiment that some could say animates this very gathering. But the scholarship that has informed my thinking never contends as much and only a willful misreading could lead to that conclusion. Instead, an emphasis on anti-Blackness brings into clearer view what Sexton describes as “the (repressed) truth of the political and economic system”: that Blacks serve as “the prototypical targets of the panoply of police practices and the juridical infrastructure built up around them”—what Monteiro termed the “command-and-control functions” of the state.
Explained by Sexton:
Every analysis that attempts to understand the complexities of racial rule and the machinations of the racial state without accounting for black existence within its framework—which does not mean simply listing it among a chain of equivalents or returning to it as an afterthought—is doomed to miss what is essential about the situation. Black existence does not represent the total reality of the racial formation—it is not the beginning and the end of the story—but it does relate to the totality; it indicates the (repressed) truth of the political and economic system.
What relevance does the anti-Black nature of the state have for immigrant detention, deportation, illegality, and criminalization? Whereas I could give numerous examples, there is one major point I want to address here: immigrant rights advocates need to re-examine their beliefs about Black citizenship.
Under the racial state, there is no such thing as Black citizenship. The myth of Black citizenship scaffolds immigrant rights activism as well as the academic scholarship that supports it. Regarding the latter, in Asian American Studies, numerous scholars are quick to emphasize that African Americans gained citizenship before Asian Americans and their comparisons of Blacks and Asians tends to argue that the racial formation of which the latter is subject is civic ostracism and exclusion—as if the racial subjugation of African Americans is somehow unrelated to the practices and logic of civil society. In Latino Studies, there is an evident animus to African Americans, expressed as concerns about Black xenophobia and Black insensitivity to illegality. The thread that binds Asian American Studies and Latino Studies scholarship is a belief in Black American citizenship, a hostility to which actually demonstrates that the legal document, in the case of Blacks, does not actually matter. What both Asian American Studies and Latino Studies, as well as immigrant rights activism and non-Black liberals and progressives in general presume, is that Black people have citizenship but that spectacles of anti-Black racism—such as the recent Troy Davis execution, the Oscar Grant murder by a white police officer at the Bart station in the Bay, or hurricane Katrina—demonstrate the contingent and flexible nature of citizenship. Such gestures attempt to re-imagine African Americans as akin to immigrants of color, whose status is tenuous, contingent, and flexible to the demands of the nation-state, capital, and whites.
But for Blacks, there is no such thing as circumstance, pretext, or even, to use the words of immigrant rights activists, legality or illegality. To assume as much means that we can identify historical moments in which Blacks are not guilty. Of course, Blacks are not always guilty of committing the criminal acts they are accused of and in some cases, the courts have affirmed as much. But Black people are never not guilty of being Black and thus their experience of being criminalized—which is ontological and not behavioral—cannot be conflated with or subsumed under frameworks common among immigrant rights advocates. Or, as Kenyon Farrow, in his remarks at the recently held New York City Troy Davis Memorial succinctly put it: “we must come to accept that to be Black and ‘innocent’ is an oxymoron in the world we live in.”
For those interested, you can read two of my academic publications here; they are “The 1992 Los Angeles Riots and the Asian American Abandonment Narrative as Political Fiction” and “Why Black Immigrants Matter: Re-focusing the Discussion on Racism and Immigration Enforcement.”
There are always stories behind what we write. With both of these articles, I found data that was rarely ever used but relatively easy to access. In the case of the Los Angeles Riots article, I rarely saw in print any mention of how the federal government publicly responded to the riots. While the 1992 Los Angeles Riots is indeed a watershed moment in the articulation of post-civil rights discourse, state organization (police, military, and funding), and Asian American identity politics and activism, research and popular writings did not present much data about how then president George H.W. Bush responded.
One day I began searching on the internet, putting in keywords such as “Bush and the 1992 Los Angeles Riots.” What came up were Bush’s public library and several speeches he gave immediately following the events in the greater Los Angeles area. My article examines 17 of these speeches. A general weakness of the article is that in one section, I draw from military documents without being critical enough of official state accounts regarding the political in-fighting between then police chief Daryl Gates and military officials. While this in-fighting may explain some of the LAPD’s response, in-fighting does not necessarily explain why some groups are rescued and others are not—in-fighting is often suspended to assuage white suffering.
Despite this limitation, I do, however, attempt to reframe the notion of Asian Americans as sacrificed than what is typically presented in most Asian Americanist work on the riots.
In terms of the article on race and deportations, I had originally written an on-line article about the topic utilizing data found in another one of my internet searches. My interest in the topic stemmed from having once been actively involved in Asian American activism, which included working at a progressive Asian American community organization. I had attended several immigrant rights and anti-deportation gatherings on both the west and east coasts and was thinking about its implications for the Chinatown community in which I worked. What struck me about both these gatherings and the available activist literature and informational material is that I rarely heard about patterns of deportation. As a qualitative sociologist and someone who has read about the troubled history of western science and statistical models, I am familiar with the tendency to privilege numbers over detailed stories and case studies—especially that generated and documented by those “from below.” Yet I also found the emphasis on localized information to be too selective, especially because—and this was in 2001 and 2002—the activists I was around tended to act as if it was primarily Asian Americans and Middle Easterners being deported.
I remember how, following the 2002 signing of the repatriation agreement between Cambodia and the U.S., a South Asian co-worker complained that she didn’t understand why some organizations were focusing so much on Southeast Asian deportation, when, according to her, South Asians have been deported way before 9-11. Another co-worker, also a South Asian, reminded her that “all immigrants” have been deported. This, along with the fact that many activists began deportation history with the 1996 Illegal Immigrant Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act (IIRIRA), compelled me to find out who was being deported. I looked up numbers on the BCIS website and found that despite the spectacle of South Asian and Middle Eastern detentions and deportations, Black immigrants had a pattern of being deported regularly. Further research examining a range of available data from government institutions, including the Bureau of Justice Statistics and the DHS, and academic scholarship showed that Black immigrants have been adversely affected by both immigrant policies enacted after 9-11 and the growing intersection between immigration enforcement and the criminal justice system. Indeed, Black immigrants (here operationalized as those from the Caribbean) tend to be deported more for criminal reasons—which results in never being able to legally enter the U.S. after deportation—regardless of nationality. This is not the pattern for other groups.
My findings were meant to challenge the dichotomy between anti-Black racism and anti-immigration that was taken as real in the existing activist discourse. That is, I wanted to show that immigrant rights movements must deal with how anti-Black racism is foundational to the experiences of all immigrant groups, even those who are non-Black because anti-Black racism is fundamental to how the state and the general public think and organize around issues of “criminality,” “innocence,” and policing. My position was at odds with that of the immigrant rights movement, which tends to suggest that African Americans need to stop being ignorant of what is happening to immigrants due to an assumption of an existing “natural alliance.” What happened instead is that people took my article as a rallying cry for coalition. Several exchanges over email and in-person—including at panels—revealed that many thought that I was hoping for a diversification of the immigrant rights movement in terms of increased attention on Black immigrants. Such a gesture does not necessarily address my main concerns but rather encourages Black immigrants to differentiate themselves from African Americans through the existing practices and discourses of the troubled multiracial immigrant rights movement. While Black immigrants do need more attention, as I mentioned in a radio interview aired on CKUT Radio this past summer, I took my findings to validate African American claims regarding policing and racism, claims that have often been dismissed as overly-selfish by the immigrant rights movement and non-Black groups.