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CHAPTER 1

To Sin Against Hope

I was born in Miami, Arizona, on Depot Hill, which rises dramatically from the rail’s edge next to the passenger depot. Miami was also the town where my father was born—and from where he was deported. One day in 1932, he boarded a train into exile in Mexico, and it was a dozen years before he returned.

The Miami, Arizona, where I grew up in the 1950s was booming. Three major mines were operating twenty-four hours a day, with hundreds of workers lined up at the gates for every shift. At the end of every shift they stormed out, covered with grime and dust, and headed into a town full of bars, churches and thriving family-owned stores that met every conceivable need. There were whorehouses: three big ones in the 1950s. The biggest of all had a gambling hall full of poker tables, the town’s longest bar, and on weekends a barroom full of drunken cowboys and miners. I was a shoeshine boy, and I soon learned that whorehouses, especially the Pioneer, were the best places to wait for someone to claim a jackpot or stroll down the stairs, smile and all, having just visited the ladies. These guys were ready for a shine and ready to tip.

My other job was delivering the newspaper each morning. My route was the one with canyons, winding dirt trails, concrete staircases built by miners at the turn of the century that went a thousand steps up sheer hillsides, and Mexican families grateful that the old man was working underground so they could afford the paper. Every morning I visited houses that sat precariously on lots carved into the canyons, and every weekend I knocked on each door to collect. It was on those Saturday mornings that I came to understand what it really cost to work those mines. There were families smiling, stomachs full and ready to head out to the company store … but perhaps two houses down the canyon your friend would whisper that it might be best if you came back later. Kids would gather at the bottom of the hill to recount the events, of fathers staggering home at daybreak, mothers in tears, a young guy threatening to kill his father if the old man hit her again.

And you knew when the work was running thin, or when it was time to pay for the daughter’s wedding or the kids’ new shoes or the new room—families were always growing in mining towns. You knew because when times were tough, who needed an anti-union, right-wing newspaper that barely noticed the world of the miners?

My father’s deportation story was not particularly unusual in Arizona’s mining towns at that time. It was just part of the landscape, one of the sacrifices Mexicans risked in order to work in the mines, join the union, get steady pay and a company doctor, raise the kids, maybe send them to college and get them out from underground. My father was deported in 1932. It was at the height of anti-immigrant hysteria that had been growing for two decades. Madison Grant’s highly influential book, The Passing of the Great Race, had been published in 1916. Grant described the United States as the highest accomplishment of the Nordic race of northern and western Europe, a place where Democracy flourished because it had been founded by this Nordic white race. The greatest danger America faced was the immigration of non-Nordic people. They would pollute the purity of America and debase the values, morals, and intelligence of the American people. Mexicans fit Grant’s definition of a “population of race bastards” as an example of a people whose inferior Indian blood would dominate whatever good white blood there may have been in a mestizo.¹ The mestizo, in his view, was a moral cripple incapable of democratic government.

Grant was perhaps the best known and most often cited scientific racist of the era, a leader of the eugenics movement in America. A powerful voice advocating for the passage of the restrictive anti-immigration Quota Law of 1924, he argued successfully in a majority of the states for coercive sterilization laws and worked with Marcus Garvey to facilitate the return of former slaves to Africa. Grant’s public persona was not defined by simple racism. He was a friend of Teddy Roosevelt, is often credited as a founder of the American conservation movement, helped create Denali and Glacier National Parks, and counted among his friends President William Taft, John D. Rockefeller, and Andrew Carnegie. Even Adolf Hitler recognized his genius, calling The Passing of the Great Race “my bible.”²

But Grant’s was not the only voice calling for extreme measures against dark-skinned immigrants. C. M. Goethe, later the august founder of Sacramento State College, estimated that “the average American Family had three children while the Mexican family had nine or ten offspring. At this rate the former couple had 27 great-grandchildren while the latter had 729. Within a few generations Mexicans would control the United States through sheer weight of numbers.” The danger of being inundated by Mexican bad blood was imminent and profoundly alarming. Roy Garis, an expert in eugenics and a professor of economics at Vanderbilt University, wrote of Mexicans:

Their minds run to nothing higher than animal functions—eat, sleep, and sexual debauchery. In every huddle of Mexican shacks one meets the same idleness, hordes of hungry dogs, and filthy children with faces plastered with flies, disease, lice, human filth, stench, promiscuous fornication, bastardy … These people sleep by day and prowl by night like coyotes, stealing anything they can get their hands on, no matter how useless to them it may be … Yet there are Americans clamoring for more of this human swine to be brought over from Mexico.³

The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 and later legislation had closed the door to Asians, and the Literacy Act of 1917 had been passed to try to exclude illiterate peasants, but waves of Jews, Poles, Italians, Irish, and Greeks continued landing on America’s shores. In 1921 and again in 1924 Congress passed Quota Laws that established a maximum number of immigrants by national origin. The quotas were based upon the demographic makeup of the United States in 1890—prior to the great waves from southern Europe. The intent was obvious: America had been founded as a white Nordic country, and Congress intended to keep it that way.

As it happens, Western Hemisphere immigration was excluded from the quotas established in 1921 and 1924. Between 1921 and 1930 there were numerous attempts to impose quotas on Mexican immigration. Representative John Box of Texas, a Methodist minister and a founder of Southern Methodist University, argued on the floor of the House in 1928 that “every reason which calls for the exclusion of the most wretched, ignorant, dirty, diseased and degraded people of Europe or Asia demands that the illiterate, unclean, peonized masses moving this way from Mexico be stopped at the border.” But in this and other instances, the quotas were blocked in the Senate by Southerners and Westerners who were protecting the agricultural lobby and its flow of cheap labor. Immigration policy in the 1920s officially welcomed only the Nordic race, but the Mexican “back door” was left open.

Then came the Depression. The repatriation campaigns of the Great Depression were initiated by the Hoover Administration as an attempt to do something, no matter how ineffective, in response to the growing wave of unemployment sweeping the country. Like Obama’s deportations in his first term, they began in response to accusations of inaction against hordes of criminal Mexicans crossing the border and stealing jobs. In both cases, it was perhaps the president’s choice of chief enforcer of immigration laws that signaled the willingness to use the blunt force of government. William Doak was appointed Secretary of Labor by Hoover in 1930. Doak was a leading figure in the Brotherhood of Railroad Trainmen union and a prominent figure in the campaign against immigrants. (Janet Napolitano, appointed Secretary of Homeland Security by Obama in 2009, had deployed the National Guard on the Mexican border as governor of Arizona from 2003 to 2009. She had signed into law the most severe employer sanctions bill in the nation and had approved measures making migrants smuggled in as much felons as traffickers.)

Shortly after taking office, Doak centered his attention on deporting aliens who were or had been in the workforce. In his annual departmental report of 1931, he wrote that the purpose of the Department of Labor, which then enforced immigration laws, was

to foster, promote, and develop the welfare of wage earners of the United States … it is a mere corollary of this duty and purpose to spare no reasonable effort to remove the menace of unfair competition which actually exists in the vast number of aliens who have in one way or another, principally by surreptitious entries, violated our immigration laws … the force and effect of these provisions would be largely defeated if they were not accompanied by provisions for the deportation of those found in the country as having entered in violation of these restrictions.

In 1930 the Border Patrol numbered 781 agents. President Hoover offered Doak unqualified support for his campaign, and pledged an additional “245 more agents to assist in the deportation of 500,000 foreigners.”³ Even 1,000 agents were insufficient for the magnitude of the task. Doak, undeterred, launched initiatives to expand the reach of the Border Patrol, measures that would continue to be refined by successive administrations, including Obama’s.

The belief that deteriorating employment was a consequence of immigration reached hysterical levels. Congressman Martin Dies of Texas introduced a thick raft of bills aimed at making the life of immigrants miserable. Dies’ racist and anti-Semitic views were well known. He proposed forcibly deporting all of the 6 million aliens he claimed resided in the United States. There were raids, roundups, and mass deportations in almost every state in the Union. Local committees, mayors, sheriffs, and governors escalated the rhetoric of hate. In Los Angeles, the chairman of a local committee, Charles Visel, proposed a campaign of extensive newspaper publicity, threatening detention and deportation to “scare-head” Mexicans to self-deport without the necessity of formal proceedings.⁴ The city saw nationally publicized raids in which streets were closed off, cars stopped and searched, and those who looked “Mexican” apprehended. Colorado’s governor, Edwin C. Johnson, threatened “to call the National Guard to round up foreigners and expel them from the state.” Latinos lived with the ever-present fear of detention and deportation. To seek help from a welfare office or a county hospital was to run great risks.

The description of raids conducted by local law enforcement fully authorized by high officials reads disturbingly like the front-page stories of today, as with the raids of Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio (the bombastic Arizona poster boy of the nativist movement). If anything, there was a bit more frankness and clarity in the rhetoric of the 1930s. There was no pretense that the expulsions were aimed solely at “illegals,” leaving little doubt that the corrupting influence of Mexican morals, values, and inferior culture threatened America’s very existence. Even Arpaio tiptoes more delicately through the racial and ethnic maze than did his more honest predecessors. While governor of Arizona, President Obama’s Homeland Security secretary was careful enough to call on the National Guard only to keep the foreigners out, and not to round them up.

Miami on the eve of the Depression was a thriving boomtown of 12,500 in a state that was barely being born. The 1930 Census recorded a population of 48,000 for Arizona’s capital city, Phoenix. Tucson was the second largest city in the state, with 32,000. Miami had been founded near the claims of major mining companies in 1909 as the real-estate play of an eastern speculator. His name was Cleve Van Dyke, and by 1929 he had made a fortune on his private town. But when the Depression came, all of the mines in the Globe-Miami Basin of Gila County closed. Then as now, there was someone to blame. Miami’s newspaper, the Arizona Silver Belt, reviled the Mexican community of Miami, often in front-page editorials. In April of 1930, the Silver Belt told its readers:

The experience of the country is that almost any form of European immigration is preferable to that from Mexico. It has been found that Mexicans are less assimilable and show a greater tendency to tear down American living and wage standards than any class of Europeans. Go to any community, such as the Globe-Miami district, where there are large European elements among the population as well as Mexicans, and ask any native citizen or business man which of these alien residents is least desirable … and the answer almost invariable [sic] will be “the Mexicans.” … Thousands of white miners in Globe-Miami district, not to mention other copper-producing sections of the state, have been displaced by these Mexicans.⁵

And raising the specter of Mexican political domination of Arizona, the Silver Belt appears to have pioneered the arguments against Mexican babies and Mexican birth rates that cause panic and dread in the hearts of nativists today:

It won’t be long until more babies of Mexican parentage will be born in Arizona each year than the white race. The state board of vital statistics for the year 1929 show there were 9,521 babies born in Arizona. Of that number 4,754 were white. Babies of Mexican parentage numbered 3,706, or 40% of the total…. During the last few years the percentage in favor of the Mexicans has steadily increased … How long will the Caucasian strain in Arizona retain political control after the majority of the citizenship is of Mexican blood? The answer is, not for long.⁶

Soon enough, the white establishment, responding to Doak’s call for local participation, began forming a mechanism to repatriate the Mexicans. In Miami it took the form of the Gila County Welfare Association. As the name implies, the association coordinated welfare efforts for unemployed miners, but its duties quickly evolved to include coordinating the dragnets that led to repatriations and deportations. The term “voluntary departure” is the Orwellian phrase adopted by the Obama Administration for using local police to apprehend undocumented persons under any pretext, jail them in massive private prisons for extended periods while they await judicial proceedings, and then offer to release them immediately if they agree to a “voluntary departure” from the country. The phrase was invented in the 1930s to support the fiction that only criminal aliens were being forcibly removed. All other Mexicans were allegedly leaving in response to the Depression, and not as a consequence of a national public policy to scapegoat them and whip up local vigilante hysteria to round them up and force them out.

My maternal grandmother, Antonia, was born in Metcalf, Arizona, on the thirteenth of June, 1895. Metcalf was a mining camp founded in the late 1800s and abandoned in 1936. It now lies buried under the ore waste from the larger Morenci mine. We can trace the family on her mother’s side to 1878, when the family lore says that her grandmother Isabel Luna and her two grown sons, Jose Maria and Estanislao, rode into Clifton, Arizona, on an oxcart from Chihuahua. We know the name of my father’s grandfather, Fidel Samudio, but little else. How the family name came to be Gutierrez remains a mystery. Antonia and my grandfather Samuel Gutierrez were married in Miami in 1914. My father was born a year after the marriage of Antonia and Samuel.

Antonia remarried a few years later and had three more children with her second husband. This man, Fortunato Vega, was living proof of how wild and wide-open the boom years had been in Miami. Fortunato was a professional gambler. Apparently a pretty good one—he supported a wife and five children playing cards in local saloons. Unfortunately, however, he had never bothered to become a citizen. He soon became the target of the Gila County Welfare Association, and the family was subjected to immense pressure from the Welfare Association to voluntarily deport. In the midst of the depression, gambling had come to an end. Food donations and the occasional day job depended on the Association, and there were to be none for an illegal family. It was only a matter of time before the family was forced from Miami.

And so it was that in March of 1932, my father, then seventeen years old, and the rest of the family—except for Fortunato, all citizens of the United States—boarded a train in the Miami town depot and began their journey to Fortunato’s rural ranchería at El Fuerte, in the Mexican state of Sinaloa. The Arizona Silver Belt celebrated the deportations:

Mexicans were scurrying for seats in the passenger coaches Saturday afternoon, happy and excited in the thought that they were returning to their native Mexico. Hundreds of friends were at the siding to bid them farewell. All Aboard! There was a final exchange of salutations. Harried handclasps were made through the window. The train began to move. “Vamos! Adios! Adios!”⁷

Even forty years later my father’s eyes would well up with tears as he recalled that day. He carried that memory of betrayal throughout his life.

In less than two years Fortunato would be dead. My grandmother Antonia decided that immediately after his burial they would return to Miami. But my father stayed in Mexico another eight years. He and his brother José, neither of them the children of Fortunato, had been unwelcome mouths to feed in the Vega ranchería, and José had quickly made his way back to Arizona. My father also left El Fuerte, but he stayed in Sinaloa. He got a job in Culiacan, Sinaloa’s capital, as a clerk for the Mexican government, became involved with local politicians, worked the railroad, and along the way met a woman he fell in love with.

This woman would endanger his relationships with his family for years. He and his mother were never close again. The problem was that Julia, my mother, was an older, “experienced” woman, divorced with two children, and, perhaps most hurtful to a devoutly Catholic family, a Protestant—and as if that weren’t enough, she was greeted when they returned to Miami with suspicious murmurings that she was secretly a Jew. The rabidly anti-Catholic policies of the Calles Administration in Mexico had resulted in the bloody rebellion known as the Cristero War (1926–29). There were rumors among devout Catholics of secret cabals of conversos and the complicity of cristianos, as Evangelical Christians are called, in the Calles Administration. The term “conversos” denoted Jews who were forced to publicly convert to Catholicism by the Holy Inquisition in fourteenth-century Spain but continued to practice their religion in secret. Historians believe that a large percentage of Spanish conversos escaped to the New World and continued their secret practices. My father’s maternal grandfather, José Carbajal—an important union organizer in the Morenci-Clifton mining area—was himself suspected by Antonia to have been a converso. My grandmother described how he would gather with other men on Friday evening and sing a kind of prayer in an unknown language, and light candles.

And in 1944, when he finally decided to come back to Miami, my father revived all those rumors by bringing, well, a harlot, a Protestant, and possibly a Jewess home from exile.