Neco's Modern Life

So, Arizona’s governor just signed into law a bill that does a whole lot of things. Meant as “immigration reform,” the law requires immigrants to carry around documentation of their legal immigration status at all times, and that police officers question and confirm the legal immigration status of anyone that they suspect could be in the country illegally.



And what, exactly, would lead a police officer to believe that a person is in the country illegally? Let’s just put it this way; if you get pulled over for speeding and you’re white and sound like you’re a native English speaker, you’re probably not going to be hauled down to your local police station and held until you can produce evidence that you are in the country legally.


That’s right, folks, racial and linguistic profiling just became legal in Arizona.


Now, I could say a lot about this bill—excuse me, this law. I could talk about how it affects education, how the Republican sponsor of the bill publicly stated that it would be good for Arizona because it would mean “smaller classrooms” in the state—sounds good, right? Until you realize that basically, what he means is that there would be fewer little brown, Spanish-speaking kids in Arizona classrooms because they—and their parents—would have been kept or kicked out of the country. I could talk about how I can see this law becoming a precursor to Arizona’s challenging of Plyler v. Doe, the Supreme Court case that established that all children in this country, regardless of their immigration status or that of their parents, have a right to an education. I could talk about how, when this great nation was born, we smacked a poem right on the Statue of Liberty that says, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free”—but we get really pissed off when people, you know, actually take America up on her offer.


But what I really want to talk about is my grandpa. He’s the reason I take this whole thing very, very personally.


My grandpa was the only grandfather I knew; my other grandfather died before I was born. He was hilarious. He was incredibly fun. Us kids chased Grandpa around like flies, always looking for the next adventure. He was boisterous, he was loud, he was always getting into trouble with his daughters for getting their kids into mischief. In short, he was awesome.


He was also short and brown, and he spoke Spanish as a first language. He spoke English, but he had an accent so thick you’d swear he couldn’t have been born in the States. But he was. See, my grandpa’s family has been living in the western part of the country since long before those Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock. They’ve lived there since before the United States stretched all the way to the Pacific Ocean, back when California, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada, Texas, even parts of Colorado were part of Mexico. They spoke Spanish. Then one day, a president got it into his head that it was “God’s plan” for the United States to extend all the way to the Pacific Ocean. (Of course, this revelation was conveniently timed; it happened right after the first discovery of gold in California.) So we picked a war with Mexico, we took all that land, and my family became United States citizens. They didn’t move, not one inch; the border moved.


So, my grandpa was, I guess, what you would call Mexican, if you met him; however, in reality, he was more American than many white, English-speaking Americans are. He didn’t cross any oceans and steal any land. He couldn’t have told you when his ancestors came to the United States—they were just always there. He just got born in Colorado, like members of my family had been doing for centuries before him, back when everyone there spoke Spanish, and even before that when people there spoke Native American languages.


And you know what? He did so much for his country, more than any of those blowhards in Arizona have done or will ever do. The only time I ever saw my grandpa refuse to speak was when we asked him about the war. He was in the Army, and he fought in World War II; he was one of the first men ashore on D-Day. He was a radio operator, and those men had to get ashore first and radio back about the positions of the Germans on the beach. If you’ve ever seen Saving Private Ryan…well, that’s exactly what my grandfather lived through. He went on to fight in Germany; he captured German soldiers, he got shot, his feet nearly froze off because of the cold, when he didn’t have any dry boots. By the time the Army finally decided he was officially wounded, gave him an honorable discharge, and sent him home, he had earned two Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star.


But he didn’t like to talk about any of that.


When he got home from the war, he worked for years as a mechanic for Pan-American Airlines. He and my grandma, the lady he jokingly said he married because she made the best tortillas in Colorado, had six kids. He died in 2004. I was heartbroken.


However, if my grandpa were alive today, and he were pulled over in Arizona for speeding or running a red light or not signaling when switching lanes, the police officer who pulled him over would now be required to ask him if he is in this country legally. The officer would be required to ask my grandpa to produce paperwork proving that he is in the country legally. My grandpa would be hauled down to the police station and possibly held in a jail cell until he could somehow get someone to deliver his American birth certificate to the Arizona cops.


I realize that my grandfather is an exception to a rule. I know that the people who are going to be affected by this law are mostly not Spanish-speaking war heroes in their 80s. But that’s not the point. The point is, this country was built on the sacrifices of people like my grandfather, whose families didn’t choose to come to America by any means; America chose them when it discovered it had something to gain from their land. But people like my grandfather embraced their new country wholeheartedly and gave everything they could for it, even when it became clear that what that country really wants to do to all of the brown, Spanish-speaking people here is use them up and kick them out.


I know it can be easy to forget that English is not the native language of this land. But speaking Spanish is not a crime, nor is it a signal of an illegal immigrant—or any kind of immigrant, for that matter. Being brown is not a crime—in fact (and I know it sounds cliché, but it’s true), this country was built and continues to operate on the sweat and suffering of brown people, regardless of where they came from or how they got here. Here’s an example; go look at the people who rip the feathers out of dead chickens for a living at your local Tyson plant, those people who came here to do that job because it was an incredible opportunity for them. Would you want to do that? Would you want your children to aspire to that? Would you want to view having that disgusting job as a step to a better life for you and your children? Probably not. But you’d be pretty mad if the price of chicken breasts at Walmart skyrocketed, wouldn’t you? America has an incredible hypocrisy problem; it always seems to have an incredible urge to bite the hand that feeds it—and defends it.


I wish I could tell all of this to the governor of Arizona. I wish there were so much more I could do, because there’s definitely so much more I could say. But I’ll just say this: the next time you feel the urge to gripe about having to press 1 for English, remember that because of the bravery and suffering of a little brown man who grew up in Colorado playing baseball and—oh, horror of horrors!—speaking Spanish, one thing you will absolutely never have to do as long as you’re in the United States is press 1 for German.

So, my good buddy Annie asked me to write a guest post about polygamy. Actually, this post grew from a single text message I received from her a few days ago that read, “I’m writing a blog about monogamy. What can you tell me about Arabic nations in regards to this issue?”



So professional. So official. But oh, my God, where do I start?


I should make it clear at the outset that I am not from an Arabic nation. I’m an American girl (raised on promises, as Tom Petty would say), but I do have a bit of a unique perspective on this issue because I’m plotting to marry a man from a Middle Eastern country.


Wait. That makes it sound like I’ve been on a quest to snag me a wealthy sheikh since I was old enough to understand the term “gold-digger.” That’s not the case at all; I’ve never had a thing for boys in thobes. I just happened to meet an Arabic boy, and after a long time of sitting around with him being friends, being my ridiculously dorky self in an utterly unabashed way, I realized that no one else in this world would ever understand me the way he does. He’s my best friend, and who in this world doesn’t want to be married to their best friend? Nothing embarrasses me with him. I am utterly myself when I am with him. Let’s put it this way; a few days ago, he found my label-maker sitting on my desk. I should have known better than to let him loose with my label-maker; now my recliner now proudly sports a label that reads, “I Need to Fart.” Had any other male person (excepting my male relatives) done something like that, I would have been mortified. (“Oh, my God, he just wrote the word ‘fart’! Does that mean he thinks I fart? Has he heard me fart?”) Instead, I just thought it was hilarious.


Ah, yes. What every girl dreams of: an amazing, close friendship with her (hopefully monogamous) future husband, built on farts.


Luckily, he feels the same way about me. So we want to get married once we’re both ready. But, of course, this means confronting a lot of issues that would never have presented themselves had he been American, or had I been Arabic. Religion. Language. How to raise children. Which country (hell, which continent) to call home.

And of course, the dreaded P word—polygamy.


The first time I actually had a conversation with my Arab, it was within the context of a classroom debate on the issue of polygamy. All of the girls in the class were vehemently opposed, and all of the boys (well, the ones that were brave enough to admit it), several of whom were Arabic, were in favor. My Arab brashly stated, “I think I will have three wives. Three, maybe four.”

Oh, really?

About a month later, when we were first getting to know each other, for some reason we got on the topic of polygamy. “But your country has marriage contracts,” I said. “Can’t women state in the marriage contract that they will be the only wife?”


He responded, “I would never marry a woman who would do that.”


Oh, really?


Of course, when it got to a point where my Arab and I started discussing marriage, I put my foot down on the polygamy thing. “If that’s not in the contract, I ain’t marryin’ you,” I said. He agreed. Somewhere between “Three, maybe four” and the realization that I might be the woman he was meant to marry, he changed his mind about polygamy. If you ask him now how many wives he wants, he will say something like, “I would never tell other Muslims how to interpret the religion. But as for me, I am a man who believes in one.”


Now that’s more like it.


I like to tell myself that my spectacular charm and wit convinced my Arab that he had no need for a second, third, or fourth wife. But I think he just realized that with this mess of a first wife, the prospect of having more just sounded like too much work.


Arabic nations that practice polygamy do so as an Islamic tradition. The Qur’an, the holy book of Islam, states that a man may have up to four wives. This is in stark contrast to Biblical tradition; men in the Bible may have had hundreds of wives. In my humble opinion, this was God’s way of saying, “Look, this is getting ridiculous.” (Keep in mind that the Qur’anic and Biblical traditions are very closely related—Muslims believe in Jesus not as the son of God, but as a revered prophet, and Muslims also believe that the Jewish scriptures, as well as the Gospels, were holy revelation from God.) However, the Qur’an goes on to say (and this is a paraphrase, of course, but an accurate translation), “You shouldn’t marry more than one wife if you can’t love and care for them all equally. And it is impossible to love them all equally.”


So, again I must defer to my humble opinion and say that I believe that God isn’t really a big fan of polygamy. But of course, when you’ve got men running the show, particularly when the show could be interpreted as allowing them to have four wives, the concept of having one wife and loving her with everything you have isn’t going to fly. Furthermore, back in the days of the prophet Muhammad and our Biblical ancestors, what options did a woman have to take care of herself and her children other than getting married? They were few and far between. How was a widow with kids supposed to support herself should her first husband die? Find herself a second husband, of course, even if it meant that she would be the second, third, or fourth wife.


Polygamy, however, is on the decrease in most Arabic countries. As it already has in most Christian societies, it’s falling out of favor. (Side note: I find it interesting that so many Christians would readily condemn Islamic cultures for their polygamous tradition when the most important men in the Bible were certainly not poster children for monogamy. How many wives did King Solomon have?) In Arabic countries, polygamy is mostly reserved for the very rich. Arabic women who become second, third, or fourth wives are likely to have been married before, and are likely marrying out of a need for financial stability or companionship, not a deep-seated love. It’s rare that a young, never married girl becomes anything other than a first wife (except in places like Yemen, and that’s a whole other story of how polygamy is deeply connected not only to the exploitation of women, but of children). More Arabic women are insisting on having the “I will be the only wife” clause in their marriage contracts. I think it’s safe to say that Arabic women do not grow up dreaming of becoming the fourth wife to a rich prince. They want the same things we American women want: love, appreciation, romance…and monogamy. Knowing that you’re not the only girl in a man’s life is probably the best romance-killer I can think of. Let’s face it, Romeo & Juliet wouldn’t have been the cross-cultural smash it is if it had been Romeo & Juliet & Roseline. Every woman wants to be the only one her man wants. There aren’t many love songs dedicated to the love and adoration of two wives. And, of course, men, especially in Arabic countries, insist on being the only one in a woman’s life when it comes to marriage. Not to be stereotypical, but I think I can safely say that Arabic men are among the most jealous in the world.


So let’s face it—we, as humans, get jealous. It’s in our nature far more than polyamory will ever be. Yes, we as a species like sex, and some people (okay, men and Samantha Jones) like to have as much of it as they possibly can, even if that means having it with lots of different people. But if it were natural for us to shy away from monogamy, we would have seen a lot more societies in history in which it’s cool if you sleep with whomever you want. No jealousies! We’ll all raise the kids together! It takes a village to raise a child, right? Well, this village will be all about sex and communal child rearing!


I don’t know much, but I’m pretty sure no society like that has ever really flourished. Nor has any polyamorous society in which women have multiple husbands. When we talk about polyamorous societies, we’re almost always talking about polygamous societies—where men have more than one wife. Here’s what I think: polygamy is a patriarchal tradition that allows men to follow wherever their libidos may lead while hiding behind the conviction that this is “what God wants.” Polygamy requires women to fight their natural convictions, needs, and jealousies, and accept the hand that has been dealt to them. Not to knock anyone who has freely chosen a polygamous lifestyle, but I don’t want any daughters I may have to grow up thinking that God is cool with her becoming anything other than a man’s only wife.


Now, I’m not saying that everyone should be forced to have one partner in their lives and that’s it. I’m sure some people really just aren’t meant for monogamy. And that’s fine. And I’m sure that there are a plethora of domestic situations that can arise among consenting adults, and again, that’s fine. Grown-ups can make their own decisions. But let’s not allow men to stake their claim to a bunch of different women and call it marriage. That isn’t marriage. I’m pretty sure I’m quoting a cheesy Jennifer Aniston movie from the late 90s here, but I’m going to say it anyway: marriage is about choosing one person and making it work, whomever that person may be. It’s a partnership. Sharing lives, problems, and joys. Building a family. It’s hard enough when you’ve got only one partner. How could anyone do it with four wives?


I know that for lots of free-thinking, open-minded, liberal people, this is going to sound like religious, nonsensical, conservative crap. Politically, I’m actually very liberal (I guess I’d have to be, to consider marrying a man from a country whose name would prompt many a Republican voter to gasp, “Oh, no! They hate America!”). And to be honest, I bet that had I not met my Arab, I wouldn’t have given the issue of polygamy too much thought. But when you’re marrying into a culture where a man can easily marry a second wife without the first one knowing, where the richest men are constantly marrying and divorcing wives, seemingly impregnating all of them, and never having less than four at a time, you start to clarify in your brain exactly where you stand on the issue and why you think that way. It’s easy to be open-minded about polygamy within the confines of a culture that forbids it—you’ll never have to think about it disrupting your own life. But when you actually have to face it head on, suddenly the issue gets put under a microscope.


The view isn’t pretty.

Go back to Mess In A Dress.