Welcome Back. After 17 years since my last visit to the United States, I attended the 117th The American Sociological Association Conference, “Bureaucracies of Displacement”, Los Angeles, Augusts 5-9 2022
Preamble: setting the stage.
Day 1/8. Tuesday, 2 august 2022
I attended my first American Sociological Association conference this past august, in Los Angeles. This was my first time back to the United States since 2005, year in which my work visa expired as a recent graduate in sociology in San Francisco. My world-vision of the United States, then, was conditioned to a framework almost 20 years old, one where cellphones and wireless internet were still novel elements of the social milieux. How times have changed. Even though my doctoral fieldwork with deported Mexican men has led me to border regions between Tijuana and San Diego, I had yet to cross into the United States. Arriving in Los Angeles, then, was not only a reminder of my former years, but also a juxtaposing of new ways framed through an antiquated lens that framed my experiences past. Los Angeles appeared bright, sunny under a hot swirl of controlled chaos. Scooters were flying past me on the streets among the high rises and the ever-so-expansive blue sky that would follow me through my brief 8 days in Los Angeles. I arrived on a Tuesday afternoon from Mexico City, two days prior to my first engagement with the American Sociological Association (ASA) -the mini conference organized by the International Migration section of the ASA- and began the journey toward my accommodation, a hostel bed in a 8-bed room in a hostel in Koreatown. But first, my status and reason for entering the United States needs to assessed, confirmed and validated.
LAX seemed a little confusing. There was no clear indication of where tourist visa holders should line up and I chose based on eliminating the only other option which was the citizen line. Maybe 10 rows deep, the line would move at a snail’s pace, in a dead silence that added to the atmosphere of scrutiny, of test. Being tested is a good way of describing the sensation of being in the line. While we shuffled forward, I reviewed all my documentation, periodically checking to make sure I had my passport and my visa. I would rummage through my documents to assert my legitimacy, to lay validity to my claims: “Here’s my letter from my university, here’s my acceptance to the conference, here’s the conference paper!”. I would imagine the exchange between the migration officer and myself, reaching the point where I would be explaining my paper as a way of validating my position -my Being and my raison d’etre, as a researcher, as a migration scholar, as someone who “merits” being allowed in. I can’t help but think back to the last scene of Naked Lunch, where William S. Burroughs is crossing into “somewhere”, and is stopped and question by a military style border inspection. When asked of about his profession, Burroughs answer’s he is a writer. The guard then asks him to prove it, so Burroughs takes out a pen and shows it to him. He is allowed to pass.
I pass through the checkpoint without any complications, and leave with the unresolved conversations in mind lingering. 15 minutes more and I exit the airport to catch the LAX Fly Away service, toward Koreatown. I remind myself to adjust to the costs and prices here and forget the 20:1 difference from my pesos to dollar. The bus finally pulls up and I enter happily falling into a comfortable slouch in a seat near the window. I’m exhausted and excited at the same time. Los Angeles has figured prominently in my imagination, mostly fueled by it being the space where Hollywood -the “world’s entertainment”- is. “Here I am”, I think to myself. It’s a one hour ride toward Union Station, where I will take the metro’s purple D-line toward Wilshire/Western, getting off at Wilshire/Normandie.
Figure 1. Los Angeles Metro rail map and LAX-Hostel public transportation path as suggested by Google Maps, 2 August, 2022
While waiting for the train to arrive, I am thankful that I packed light (a choice spurred by the price of documenting luggage versus carry-on policies), and am able to move easily carrying a larger backpack on my back and dangling a smaller one from my shoulder faced frontwards. I would not, on this occasion, be met with the underbelly of mental health expressions of LA’s transient population. This would happen daily and almost on every occasion of riding the metro starting tomorrow, Wednesday. For now, I sit in an empty train cart, a distant reality from the jam-packed metros of Mexico City. I get off at Wilshire/Normandie, in Koreatown, and walk toward to my hostel. I pass a Mexican food truck, “Tacos Toluca”, and chuckle at how close our cultural realities are, despite the physical and political distance. Throughout this whole process, I’ve spoken more Spanish than English, and wonder if and when I will re-engage, fully, with English.
I arrive at my hostel, and find my space – a bunk bed – in a room shared with 8 other individuals. We share a bathroom and shower. The air conditioning is on and the shade and coolness of the artificial breeze is a welcomed feeling. I lay my things in my “space” and draw a plan to scout the area, identify public transportation points, possible food options and grocery stores. I have planned on taking tomorrow and Thursday to see some sights prior to the first event of ASA’s conference, Friday’s International Migration Section conference, “Emerging Voices in Migration Scholarship”. Having been accepted to participate in Friday’s section is a particularly proud moment in my PhD path, as I believe I was the only member of a Mexican university attending, and part of a very small group of researchers from Mexico and Latin America present at the ASA this year. I wonder if “our” presence -the global south scholars- are always this small. I think to Cindi Katz analysis of “minor theory” here and wonder how to squeeze its potential and intertwine it in these epistemic considerations, especially linked to migration analysis and research.
Figure 2 "Tacos Toluca", Ardmore & 8th S. Avenue, Los Angeles
After a walk about through some of the surrounding streets, finding some locations and, more importantly, identifying social markers to allow me to navigate the surroundings, I return with a burrito in hand -thanks, Tacos Toluca-, and set to eating my first and last full meal of the day. One shower later and I’m in bed, ready for tomorrow.
Day 2/8. Wednesday, 3 august 2022
I wake up a little before 7. Not only is it the 2 hour time difference that wakes me up, but even through my deep-seeded cansancio yesterday, I was woken up multiple times by shuffling of people entering and leaving the hostel room throughout the night. Altogether, I can say I had a pretty decent sleep. I quickly realize I must preplan my outfits each night as I now find myself searching for clothes in a darkened room with the help of my cellphone. I attempt to move slowly but efficiently so as not wake any of the fellow bunkmates here. I have an underlying feeling I am the only one here doing something “serious”, but I will later find out that many of those I share this hostel room are, in fact, searching for more permanent housing options. Los Angeles is expensive. The reality of hostels as semi-permanent spaces for people to work and have shelter reminds me, sharply, of the “temporary” (better described as semi-permanent) migrant shelters in Tijuana. Most of Mexican deportees I interviewed in temporary migrant shelters in Tijuana were seasoned lodgers, many having spent time in numerous shelters with little -if any- real possibility to “move out”, despite expressing the yearning desire to “have a place to call one’s own”. Housing, home-ness and a sense of place find ample company in these transient spaces such as hostels. “How close, yet so far, we are from these realities”, I think.
After a quick shower and comfortable clothing to walk, I decide to explore some landmarks in the Los Angeles scenescape, deciding for a trip to Long Beach before heading up to the Hollywood hub. Leaving the hostel, I quickly enter the metro station and buy a 7 day metro pass which should suffice for the duration of my trip to LA. All the while in Los Angeles, I moved exclusively either by foot or metro and found it to be feasible, easy and convenient to do so. I’m still unsure if I could use my metro pass on buses. Given that I had never heard of LA’s metro system and had routinely heard that moving in and through Los Angeles requires a car of sorts, I decided to document the trip as evidence of the subaltern railways:
Video 1. A hyperspeed of taking the Metro from Wilshire/Normandie to Long Beach (approx. 1 hour journey condensed to less than 10 minutes) set to the tune of “Remember” by Faithless Feat. LSK & Suli Breaks.
The metro journey to Long Beach was uneventful but also telling to the state of wellbeing of many individuals who entered the train in a state wanting, some engaging in drug use while others in a state of dire straits. It would be on the way back that the intersection of this underbelly know as Los Angeles would make itself felt and present.
A day was spent walking Long Beach marina, beach and finding my way to the skinniest house in America. While taking a few snapshots of the “skinniest house in America”, a woman across the street shouts at me, seeking my attention. Focusing on my cellphone and checking the pictures I had taken, I hear the woman shout, behind me, “I’m going to come and talk to you”, in a jovial manner. She crosses the street and engages with me. She’s wearing sweatpants, a small top, and holding a drink in her hand. She is very agitated, but in a friendly way. She asks me what I’m doing here and how she always sees people taking pictures of the house. I am polite, calm, and kind in how I respond to her. I answer her questions and she quickly shifts into telling me her troubles, her difficulties and her hardships. She says its hard “out here” and there a “lot of crazies everywhere”. She tells me how she works with mentally ill patients and the difficulties in dealing with that. She tears up while speaking. I listen, attentively, and share some words of comfort, encouraging her work, acknowledging her role in doing positive work and how important that is. She asks about me, about Mexico, and after a few short minutes, while wiping tears from her cheeks, thanks me for listening. She goes on to say “sometimes we just want to talk to someone, you know?”, and yes, I know. I wish her well and all the best. She thanks me and walks away. I wonder if some -if not most- of the people I have seen on streets -talking to themselves, some screaming, some agitated, others lost in themselves- just need acknowledgement; need a human social touch that registers their presence. I recall my time in Tijuana, and how some Mexican deportees shared their frustration and anger on being shunned from attention and help; on their difficulty in seeking aid; in expressing their malaise, their out-of-place-ness in Tijuana. I recall, clearly, how one Mexican deportee complained to me: “Who cares about us? Who cares about Mexicans?”.
I recently wrote a short piece for the feminist-led Spanish magazine “Con La A” about this, which you can read here: https://conlaa.com/la-masculinidad-en-las-entranas-de-tijuana-las-vidas-desoladas-de-los-deportados/
Figure 3. The "skinniest house in America", Long Beach, 3 August 2022
After a few hours of walking the pleasant streets of Long Beach, a stop at a great Mexican eatery for a fantastic burrito al pastor, I decide to return to downtown Los Angeles, pass through my hostel and take a shower, change and gather my thoughts and energy for the next steps. I didn’t expect to be faced with the such expressive performed statements of mental health and drug addiction and quickly jotted down a few key moments of the events as the develop and the characters that appear.
I realize how important and necessary it is to bring and have a small notebook with me.
There is an older man clipping his bear with scissors, guiding his word through a broken piece of mirror. Enters a shirtless young man who begins telling everyone and anyone that he is selling chocolates and potatoes chips as a way to avoid stealing. He makes a striking point of “if you were to invest in anything, please invest in me”. I recall reaching into my pocket for some change and while I fumble with my wallet, his discourse becomes angrier and more erratic. He quickly goes on to yell how he is a product of violence, how violence pervades his entire life; he says his name is Joseph Campbell, and he is from Compton, Egypt. He talks about the souls of others, about having to save the souls of other, about being good for goodness’s sake, about how he has no soul so he has to save your soul. He never met his dad, and if he did, he would try to sit there with him, in silence. He is angry, and for next 40 minutes, yells and shouts and cries out his world-vision distorted and articulated through the struggle of his life. It is a heartbreaking and erratic scene. You can feel the potential for violence in the air. I attempt to read but find I return to the same sentence in the book, over and over again. I listen. Somewhere further back, someone has turned on a boom box and a sexy -almost silky, R&B song plays. It is a strange contrast to the scene, and would pass for a provocative critique if performed consciously and in concert with each other. In other words, it would be interesting and entertaining if it weren’t for the sheer despair and sadness that reads the subtext of this whole situation. I am surprised by such expressions of anomie, of alienation and of social decomposition and neglect. I had little expectations of Los Angeles as I had little frameworks of reference to work with but was not expectation such large, evident, and rampant expressions of mental distress to be so readily and constantly available. I think back to Mexico City, Brazil, and other places I have lived in “the Global South” and don’t recall seeing such pervasive cries for help.
I wonder if it isn’t the social ties forged in need and maintained in Latin communities as modes of survival and solidarity that keep these expressions at bay.
The shirtless man talks about his relationships, about domestic violence, about killing -killing the world. This is an odd moment of poetic performance; a performance called life.
Two young men enter the train selling headphones, chargers, but also pepper spray and tasers. Another man walks up and down the train offering to sell marijuana. The shirtless man stops yelling and recognizes the hustle of the young men selling the electronics and personal protection gadgets and negotiates the sale of a power bank. Another man walks to the young man selling marijuana and buys a small quantity. We are close to arriving at my final stop.
Leaving the metro, I find myself in a daze from the observations, from these broken realities, that take me back to Tijuana, to the streets and its struggles. I find that I have little energy left for another round of observation and decide to have an early night, and take advantage of the relatively empty hostel to get solid hours of sleep. Around 1 in the morning I would be woken up by people walking into the room. This time, though, I laid out my outfit so as to facilitate the morning up and go.
Day 3/8. Thursday, 4 august 2022
Having showered and dressed, I leave the hostel to get some coffee finding it a few blocks up toward the metro station. I decide to head out toward Hollywood hub with the walk of fame, to “see what all the fuss is about”. Entering the metro station, I find my way to the corresponding red line towards North Hollywood. As I sit and wait for the next train, a woman walks the platform yelling, angrily, at the “world”. She walks to the end of the platform, and lights a cigarette. A metro police agent yells at her “What the fuck?! Hey, you can’t smoke here”. She yells back in defiance, puffing on her cigarette (or maybe joint?). On the opposite side of the platform, two police officers casually make their way toward the woman. Reaching a half way point in their casual stroll toward the woman, the women puts out her cigarette and walk the other direction toward the stairs leading to the outside. Besides the woman yelling and her agitated manner, the metro station is eerily quiet; almost too quiet. There seems to be a general strategy to devoid yourself from being “present” here; to place yourself as far away from any visible interaction as possible. With their heads bowed down toward their cellphones, everyone -including me- wait for the next train. Waiting -here- feels like a sort of penance. The train comes and we enter. The ride is peopled with characters that express a wanting of sorts. A man in a wheelchair pack what looks like crack into a pipe and smokes it. Other sits sipping on beer. Few, including myself, are wearing masks. We ride the train in silence.
I get off a little before what google suggests is the Hollywood walk of fame and the epicenter of this tourist -dare I say it? – trap. I am curious to see the surrounding sights leading toward the Hollywood neighbor. The streets are all very similar to each other. Large and wide streets circumvented by pavement occasionally peopled by tents, and other home-less individuals; listening to music, smoking, waiting… The sun is strong and I realize I’m already getting a tan. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and keep straight. It’s a straight line, crossing several blocks, until I reach the Hollywood area. I see Americana in all its splendor here. The wide avenues, and imposing buildings with a people in dire straits sitting at the mouth of these avenues. Being here, in Los Angeles, puts Tijuana in perspective; explains much of Tijuana’s constitution as a vehicle driven city; as a city framed through the culture of capital, of free and wild economics.
Needless to say, when I reach the Hollywood walk of fame, I am completely and utterly unimpressed. I find myself almost angry at the scene, at its emptiness and its absolute edification on the fetishism of personality. I walk in search of some meaning, something interesting and find nothing of interest. I decide to return to downtown LA and find the Convention Center, so as to know where I would need to go to get my badge for the ASA. I can retrieve my badge from 4 p.m. onwards, so I decide to get some lunch in the vicinity and take a break from the sun and the walking.
It takes me an hour to arrive in downtown Los Angeles. I get off at 7th and Metro Center Station and fiddle with Google Maps until I can see the direction I need to head toward to the Convention Center. I arrive 15 minutes later and, having arrived early for the badge registration and retrieval, I decide to see food options in the vicinity. I remind myself of the exchange rate (20:1) and set a maximum of 15 dollars total for anything I would consume in the entire day. I find a fast food establishment close by and order a burger with side fries and a soda as beverage. I remind myself, again, to avoid playing the exchange rate with the purchase and to enjoy the meal. It’s good, but too greasy, but I’m hungry so I eat it with gusto. After my meal, I walk the surrounding neighborhoods to “kill time” and finally approach the Convention Center for my ASA badge. I’m excite to attend;
[The following is part of my official statement of accomplishments as a first-time attendee of an American Sociological Association Conference and part of my agreement for being the recipient of a Student Travel Award]
I am the only student from Universidad Iberoamericana to attend this year’s American Sociological Association, and part of a very small group of scholars from Mexican and Latin American universities in attendance. Somehow I feel a sort of responsibility toward my geographical (dis)location. I feel the mild responsibility of voicing the perspectives from “the other side”, from the South. The feeling is exciting but also overwhelming. I make sure to document the moment to share with my mother who is, “very proud of you”. Well, mom, here I am. I am also “very proud” of myself and all the hard work I’ve invested in finding ways to engage in and with the discussions that “matter” on a global platform. With badge in hand, I set off to locate the public transportation route to the University of Southern California, the setting got for the Mini Conference on “Emerging Voices in Migration Scholarship”, organized by the International Migration section American Sociological Association. I am eager, excited, apprehensive, and nervous for tomorrow.
Figure 4. Badge in hand and ready for the Conference, August 4 2022
I return to my hostel to measure how much time it would take from “my point of departure” to the University Club at the University of Southern California. It is only a few metro stations away, although I do need to switch lines at one point, so I don’t expect it to take me more than 40 minutes.
I find the University of Southern California with ease but am slightly distraught that the journey took over an hour. Considering the Mini-Conference’s program begins with registration between 730 and 815, I calculate that I should leave no later than 630 tomorrow, which means I should set my alarm for 545 or a little earlier so I can grab some coffee on the way. This will have to be an early night for me, and despite the comfortable bed and relative quiet, the hostel environment instills a sense of instability and my sleep is often interrupted by a general sense of awareness of being “somewhere else” with “other people”. It’s an interesting intersection between private and public, but it is the best I could find with the budget I had (arrived up from saving for several months prior to traveling to LA).
With no financial avenues from my university for academic mobility, it is no wonder I am the only individual from my university here, let alone my department. We, from the “Global South”, are constantly needing to do double the work to get maybe half-way there.
Day 4/8. Friday, 5 august 2022
I wake up anxious to “get things going”. Afterall, my whole reason for being in LA is to attend the ASA, and although I did want to take advantage of the opportunity to see some sights, in all honesty, they are secondary to the conference and its activities. I was yet to know how tiring the conference of such size can be and how necessary it is to take breaks and “break-away” into less academic activities. But for now, I was determined to partake, fully, in everything I could related with the Conference. After three long years since I started my PhD, I had only attended on-line conferences, and was excited -as well as nervous, anxious, fearful, apprehensive, energized, determined- to attend my first in-person conference since I began this PhD journey. I had set aside a guayabera I had bought just for the occasion, and a little after 6 in the morning, I swiftly left my room, dressed and ready for a full day of engaging with migration scholars and migration topics. After a quick glance in the mirror, I set out into a tepid terrain as dusk basked the landscape I set foot in. I saw only a few people scattered along the way to metro, and found I was only second in line to grab a coffee. “Oh, coffee! I salute you!”. Coffee in hand, the daze of such an early morning was shunned by energy I felt of finally attending something in planning since the beginning of this year. 45 minutes later I was standing in front of the University of Southern California’s entrance, with minutes to spare. I sit and pull out a cigarette. Social anxiety sets in and I begin the mental process of calming and centering myself. I am unsure what to expect, and do the necessary self-talk to center my thoughts on overcoming whatever I may find and stepping in, freely and confident into the unknown. I settle my thoughts and my anxiety and walk into the University Club. I am greeted at a reception area where I check my name of a list, write “Renato” on a name tag and am directed to the outside patio. Its barely 745 but the patio is filled with people, mingling, huddled and clustered in small groups, grabbing coffee, eating pastries. I pass some people and head for more coffee. I am also enthusiastic to eat something
(I’ve been making the mistake to skip breakfast and instead compensate with a big lunch. Note to future me: Eat breakfast).
With coffee in hand, I look around and decide to join a partially occupied table. I introduce myself and ask permission to sit among them. They are warm and welcoming and I set my coffee down to grab some pastries and orange juice. I sit and listen to the ongoing conversation. During a pause, the other members turn their attention to me, where I am from, what I am studying. We exchange our introductions while a fourth member sits among us. Finding ourselves among everyone is an interesting exercise in social interaction. With the common base line of being sociologists focusing on migration, the first exchanges are about our work, our research our take on migration. I am relived to find such a warm and welcoming environment. Of course, this is exactly what you expect, but social anxiety has a way of distorting expectations. While getting to know each other, Dr. Hellen B. Marrow, the International Migration section chair, gives a warm and thoughtful introduction as well as sharing logistic issues regarding the morning session. We are invited to enter the building to attend simultaneous sessions either on the ground floor or the second floor depending on interests and affinity. After first going to the second floor, I quickly realized I was more interested in the session downstairs and returned to the ground floor to assess where I could sit. I see empty chairs in the back and make my way to them. Barely settling down, while taking out my notebook and pens, I am greeted enthusiastically in Spanish by someone sitting down next to me. I am surprised to hear Spanish and look over and find myself next to Dr. Ernesto Castañeda. “Oralé Ernesto, que gustazo conocerte en persona!” I mention. We exchange a few pleasantries in Spanish and sit down to listen to the panel and their research findings. The session has begun, and I begin to feel more at ease as the day moves forwards and the sessions move along.
Figure 5. The start of the Mini Conference "Emerging voices in Migration Scholarship" at the University of Southern California, 5 August 2022
[The following is part of my official statement of accomplishments as a first-time attendee of an American Sociological Association Conference and part of my agreement for being the recipient of a Student Travel Award]
The first leg of my experience at the American Sociological Association was attending the International Migration section one-day conference, “Emerging Voices in Migration Scholarship”, held in the beautiful installations of the University of Southern California. Not only was this my opportunity to interact, exchange and present myself toward a global audience with some of the best global scholars in migration analysis, but also a place and moment to place myself within the possibility of being among “the best and brightest” in migration research. I was in awe to see so many authors I had dutifully read, cited and discussed in the cumulative years of the doctorate, now “out of text” and “in-body” as in situ. It feels like walking into books. It feels like the coming together of worlds. It feels like possibility and hope. I embrace the feeling. The event is wonderfully put together, allowing for a great exchange of perspectives, from recent research results and discussions, to practical application from the learned and lived experiences of consolidated and global respected researchers in the field. To hear and be privy to some of their insights on their journey through academia, was enlightening as well as stimulating. To be cautioned to find a creative balance between the academic career and personal life was also refreshing. Before I knew it, the conference was wrapping up and setting off to see the inaugural plenary session of the Conference “Beyond Control: Immigration Policy in an Era of Enforcement” with Cecilia Menjívar, Douglas Massey, Karen Musalo, Roger Waldinger, , Kelly Lytle Hernandez, and Muzaffar Chishti. A fascinating discussion about the state of affairs of migration regimes and policies. Upon closing, I attended the Welcome Reception, held outside in a small contained area of the JW Marriott hotel. Walking into the hot breeze of Los Angeles, the welcome reception was set to the tune a Mexican band that had some attendees dancing, while others glanced onward. I was so humbled and honored to be able to interact with amazing scholars during the reception. A special and kind thank you to Ernesto Castañeda for his generous invitation to interact and socialize. I was humbled to get to know Amin Pérez and David Martin Cook, and had a great time filled with laughter, mixed in with interesting and provocative conversations. It was surprising to be among such important scholars and feel their human warmth and kind demeanor. What a first day of the Conference. I left anxious and excited for the upcoming sessions.
Figure 6. Inaugural plenary session of the Conference “Beyond Control: Immigration Policy in an Era of Enforcement” with Cecilia Menjívar, Douglas Massey, Karen Musalo, Roger Waldinger, , Kelly Lytle Hernandez, and Muzaffar Chishti, August 5, 2022
Day 5/8. Saturday, 6 august 2022
Attending the Mini Conference organized by the International Migration section of the American Sociological Association allowed for a structured entrance into the conference itself. I now see how beneficial it was to begin with a contained group as we had done so yesterday. Today, as I reach the Conference venue at the Convention Center with coffee in hand, I realize how big and disperse the conference is. I have a busy schedule that has multiple conflicting sessions I am interested in. Multiple sessions start at 9 and so forth throughout the day. I realize I need to take the necessary time to truly preplan my schedule, making decisions in order to create a non-conflicted timeline of activities I want to attend. As I enter the Convention center, I see an ocean of people moving in opposite tide systems, bobbing in and out of spaces, crisscrossing the arena. “Where am I to go?”, I think. I chose a session and make my way toward it. I am surprised at how far I have to walk to reach the room. I am curious as to what a “regular” session looks like and find it to be quite cozy; quite intimate. A table sits in front of 6 to 10 rows of chairs and a panel of speakers present their research in the span of 15 minutes while a moderate and discussant moves the session along, concluding in opening up the session for questions in the audience. I watch, learn, and take notes. The discussion is fascinating. I want to be in multiple sessions at once. I jot down some notes, some key words. The discussant opens up the conversation to questions from the audience. An audience member has “more of a comment than a question” and tackles some aspect of what was said and proposes a different approach. I register this as something no to do. I understand the need for debate, but then do so in form of a question, more than “a suggestion”. The session moves along, and another one and another one and by early afternoon I am feeling the weight and effect of not-the-best-sleep and making the ongoing mistake to skip breakfast. I feel lightheaded, a little dizzy, low on energy and overwhelmed. I leave the convention center and go buy a sugary drink. I then decide to add a sandwich to the drink in order to truly bring my energy levels up and not just give me a spike in energy only to drop a few moments later. I immediately realize I have made the right decision. I feel, almost, like a different person. I am less overwhelmed, more focused, more confident, and thinking clearly. I make a few strategic decisions on how and what to do in the afternoon, and return to the convention center, away from the Los Angeles burning sun and heat. I realize my skin is already peeling in some areas.
Figure 7. The Convention Center (left) and Jw Marriot (right) as the two venues for many events/sessions of the ASA
Despite the fascinating discussions and sessions, I have a feeling of loneliness fueled by the sight of so many groups and clusters bobbing along and throughout the whole Conference scenescape. People chatting in corners, drinking coffee together, taking selfies, going to lunch, dinner, shows and events, while I realize I have none of these networks (yet). It reminds me of the first couple of months in Tijuana, where I arrived with no networks, no relations, no “knowledge” really and began the work of building friendships, networks and relationships; but it reminds of those primal moments in life -especially present in the life of a migrant- where I distinctively recall -as was repeatedly told this story- that when my mother and I moved to England, I spoke no English. I continued to know and speak very little, if any English, when I was enrolled in primary school. Be it a planted memory or an actual memory, I “recall” the following:
It might have been the first few days of a new year in primary school. Boys and girls, between the ages of 4 and 6, were playing in the school yard. Not surprisingly, the girls were playing on one side of the yard and the boys on the other. Now, this is what I remember. I remember a group of boys surrounding me. Maybe one is holding a football (soccer ball in case there is any misunderstanding), maybe not. The feeling is that they have surrounded me and made a tight and closed circle around me. They are saying something to me which I don’t understand. For all I know, they might have been asking my name, or if I wanted to play football with them. I couldn’t understand them and the sensation I recall having is one of feeling trapped, feeling suffocated and feeling threatened. Suddenly, I push and swing my fists seeking a way out. We begin to fight. This, unfortunately, would become somewhat of a routine, where I would react to not understanding by “forcing” my way out of the conversation, most of the time, needing to punch or shove a boy out of the way. This may or may not be true, for I have little way of corroborating this story, but this is a memory that I have since I was young boy, a recurrent memory. In any case, my actions -naturally- did not win me any favor or -most importantly- friends, and so “lost in translation” I remember having a lonely time. A sensation I see myself feeling during this second day of the Conference.
I become acutely aware that many see this conference as a means for professional mobility. I hear people talking about “networking” and getting advice on applications, and funding, and scholarships… I realize I have little knowledge of this, but that I wasn’t expecting to engage with this at all. I, naively, came to be part of one of the greatest and most important gathering of sociologist in the English speaking world to hear ideas, thought and discussions with little care for professional mechanisms. Again, I feel somewhat out of place.
Throughout the conference, I met some kind and generous colleagues. Meeting like-minded individuals from all walks of life is, to me, the greatest aspect of this conference. Thank you to everyone I interacted with for your kind demeanor, your interesting ideas, and -if you happen to be reading this- I wish you the best in your future endeavors and hope to meet again next time around. Thank you, to the American Sociological Association Student Forum Travel for their generous award to make possible my attendance at the American Sociological Association’s 117th conference in Los Angeles. Without your generous support, I would not have been able to attend the conference. Thank you, sincerely, for your support.
I lingered more than I wanted to in the Convention Center feeling the weight of attending so many sessions and engaging, constantly, with dense and provocative thought. I need a break, a mental break, to re-gather and go on but I also needed to attend the Student Reception as I was one of a select few to receive the American Sociological Association’s Student Forum Travel Award which consisted of a check that was instrumental, if not fundamental, in my participation at the Conference.
At around 530pm, I make my way to the Student Reception, and attempt to identify where and who is giving out the checks. While I am searching, I meet a colleague I had recently met at another conference, and she introduces me to her friend. We exchange some kind words, the social interaction slowly revealing how and where to place ourselves vis-à-vis ourselves. The encounter is fun and we quickly strategize to find the place and way of receiving the award. Whilst this, I am invited to attend other receptions these colleagues will soon be going to. They mention sharing a ride-sharing vehicle, that first drinks there are free, and I get this sense of how detached I am from these events, from these possibilities. I am ashamed to tell them I do not have the financial means to invest in this, so I play into my responsibility toward my presentation tomorrow. Instead of opening up to the economic disparities of my reality, I tell them I should better get some rest and “take it easy”. It’s interesting how the feeling and theme of shame comes up here. Shame is one of my structural findings that determine why Mexican deportees stay on in Tijuana, in dire straits. They feel “ashamed” to go home; they feel ashamed of their battered situation and, in a most interesting and unexpected way, I also feel shame in not being able to “freely reveal myself”; to not be able to engage, guilt-free, in entertainment that is not directed toward a rational element of sustenance. I remember my time in San Francisco, and how, as a first year undergraduate student in Sociology, I had spent my first month in “the City” living in a hostel. I remember how I shared a room with two war veterans now addicted to crack and an English man addicted to heroin. I remember having no more than 5 dollars to spend throughout the day, and 3 of those dollars were spent on public transportation. I remember this and these memories seep into these interactions. The shame of “not having” and therefore “not being able” and how it distorts itself into “not being worthy” and moves into “not being able”. How important it is to exercise our inner voice and tackle these issues of misalignment and general social malaise. I think of Homi Bhabha’s discussion on “Anxiety in the Midst of Difference” :
“The productive minority move beyond the 'category of the two subjects' - hero and victim – is brought about by affects that articulate the emergence of the minority as a form of identification; and identification - be it translative or transferential - emerges through the affective process of 'anxiety.' "Writing like a dog digging a hole...a mouse digging its burrow...finding its own point of underdevelopment... his own third world... his own desert..." these phrases from Deleuze and Guattari's (1990:64) definition of minority writing echo the central introjective movement of anxious 'identification,' what Laplanche describes as "the casting within oneself (1981:87).” (Bhabha, 1998: 126).
I return to my living arrangements and seek to distract myself with a movie while I wait for sleep to settle in.
Day 6/8. Sunday, 7 august 2022
I have trouble sleeping, not only due to the excitement and anxiety that today I will be presenting my paper but also due to new roommates in the hostel who have insisted in having the lights on, still at 2 in the morning when I last checked. Regardless of the sleep-deprivation, the day’s activities are enough to make me overcome the tiredness. I take out the guayabera I brought just for this occasion, and dress for the moment. I walk, contently, toward the metro, making sure I have my paper and my presentation ready. I check my backpack a couple more times, not sure why I feel I need to re-check what I have ascertained is there, but I feel that today is not the day for mistakes, and while in the metro I still have time to go back to the hostel and get the papers I could have been missing. I have everything with me, and even so, I routinely check my backpack throughout the day. I decide on breakfast and coffee and to “take it easy”, so as not to arrive at the session “cansado”, or “estresado”. It works. At quarter to 2, I make way toward the International Migration Section room and find the table I will be presenting at. I see one of my colleagues there already, Carol Lynn Cleaveland, y la saludo. Intercambiamos unas palabras sobre la conferencia mientras esperamos a los demás. No tarda en llegar los demás, Giovanni Román-Torres, Mónica Salmón Gómez and Patrick Clemens atended virtual.
Figure 8. Selected International Migration Section Program, Sunday 7 August 2022. 12. Latinx roundatable
We waited on Francisco Lara-Garcia to begin the session and I was the first one to present. I take out my “speech” and read from the 3-page document I had prepared for the session, that summarizes the main points of my research paper. I discussed the politics of emotions of Mexican deported man through a discussion on the importance of bringing the affective turn into migration analysis and the role of narratives in framing migrate discussions and phenomena. The one hour session passed by quickly, almost too quicky, and before we really could engage with each other’s presentation and research, time was up.
We exited the session and went to sit in the lobby area of the JW Marriott for a few more brief moments before everyone began to go on to their next commitment and responsibilities. It was a relief to have done “what I came to do” and be free from this responsibility. I look at my calendar and see some sessions I would like to attend, but also remind myself to “take a break” and decide, instead, to go get some coffee. The International Migration section has a reception today, at 830, and I am wondering how I will occupy the next 4 and half hours before the event. Eventually, I find that waiting 4 and half hours is too much. By 7, the caffeine has worn down, and I feel thin with energy and decide, sadly, to grab some dinner and sleep. I am in bed by 830 and my feet ache.
Figure 9. International Migration section of the ASA (left); Latinx roundtable participants (right)
Day 7/8. Monday, 8 august 2022
I wake up early, gather my pre-selected clothes, shower and exit the hostel. The night was the worst night yet, but fortunately I have no serious commitments today beside meeting a few colleagues for coffee. It is a few moments past 7 and the sun is climbing into its full potential. It is a nice and pleasant morning. I make my way -the usual way- toward the Convention Center, more to fulfill my commitment to meet a few dear colleagues that have made themselves available for a brief moment this morning. It turn out to be one of my few true and intimate interactions at the Conference. We exchanged some ideas, I unable to shake the idea of “unchecked privilege” present throughout the conference and emotional drained and sensitive as spurs of trauma encountered in and during my fieldwork have submerged and make me realize I need to truly tackle the trauma that I seem to be carrying ever since Tijuana, which mixes into childhood trauma and abuse which is exacerbated by the feeling of dislocating and displacement while here in Los Angeles. How unfortunate, I think, that I could not come with a sunnier disposition, but I also recognize the sincerity of the vulnerability that finds its way into the conversation. It becomes a struggle to find modes of relation as our positions in the “real world” seem so different. I have the looming feeling that the conversation, which set out to be a pleasant tete-a-tete to get to know each other, has transformed into a therapy and self-help session on my behalf. I point this out not as a critique but as an honest observation in which I am nothing but grateful for their kind suggestions on how I can connect and “move” across these academic barriers that are -in many cases- entrenched in geopolitical positions. Nevertheless, I still wish the conversation could have been less “heavy”; maybe next time.
Finishing our coffee, we say our goodbyes and move to our respective commitments. I have decided to take the morning to find a place to cash my check, an ordeal that would take me to two banks without success and eventually toward the innards of downtown Los Angeles to a cash-checking facility. With funds renewed, I splurge on breakfast and attend a few more sessions of the Conference before heading back to my hostel. I find I am exhausted by 5 and take a nap. At 8, I step outside the hostel briefly to purchase a burrito and enjoy my first day of lunch and dinner. I am delighted to sleep on a full belly.
Figure 10. Downtown LA, August 9 2022
Tomorrow -Tuesday, august 9- I have planned on seeing a high school friend I have not seen in the past 22 years. It would prove to be a great and emotional connection, whereby we share and reminisce our lives, our troubles, our expectations and our ideations. Seeing an old friend, here in LA, is the nicest touch to the end of my attendance at the Conference. It was great to see you Daniel. Let’s not wait 22 more years before seeing each other again.
I look forward to next American Sociological Association, this time in Philadelphia. I now know what to expect, how to act, how to inter-act. I look forward to putting this newly acquired knowledge to use. And let me not forget to take a notebook with me. Everywhere I go.
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