“In-Between” Spaces

SUBMITTED BY ISABELA LEONOR ROSALES

Last month, I had the opportunity of joining an Iliff cohort in the Peruvian Amazon for a week long immersive experience followed by a week in Cusco to see Machu Picchu. With the stress of travel paired with a sweaty stay at a forest lodge, I’d say the group fared well in terms of getting along and making the most out of physical and emotional discomfort. With the academic guidance of Dr. Miguel De La Torre, we were all encouraged to engage the Maijuna, an indigenous community, with an self-awareness of our own social locations. 

For example, my identity as a white-passing Latina shifted when I placed my body in a South American Indigenous community. I no longer represented a minoritized demographic, rather I showed up as a “colonizer”. Although I am Latina, the history and context I bring with me as a U.S. citizen and a white-passing Mexican with European heritage into a community like the Maijuna changes the way I relate and engage with them. Having this awareness is paramount when it comes to respecting the integrity of Indigenous people that are willing to share their lived experiences with non-Native people. 

During our stay, I found myself confronted not only with privilege, but with awareness of the disconnection to the natural world in my U.S. context. While I was happy to return to my dog, my bed, and a fan, I still missed the rhythms of the forest, the resilience of the Maijuna, our tour guides, and the food. Additionally, I still miss the debriefing and reflection that was allowed during our stay. Back in graduate school, there is not a lot of time to sit and reflect on one thing for very long. 

Often, after a workshop with the Maijuna, I would sit and chat with a colleague about the experience. Usually, we would both be confronted by our privileges within institutionalized academia. By the end of the trip, I was feeling pretty white. I don’t mean the color or race, I mean the social constructs of privilege surrounding whiteness. For example, I could have no money, maybe even a negative balance in my bank account and still afford trips to the Amazon, a glass of wine at a bar in downtown Denver, graduate school, almond milk creamer, and vegan shampoo.  

My life is surrounded by class privileges and access to resources, which I’ve never seriously considered sharing with anyone. I’ve only ever spent time theorizing about sharing with everyone. For example, I’ve spent hours pouring over research papers about postcolonial feminism, but have no idea how to enact these theories in an Indigenous setting nor do I even feel like I am the person who SHOULD enact these theories in an Indigenous community. Not only was this realization an awakening for my identity, but it propelled me into the direction of the doctoral research I’d like to conduct - authentic ethnographic research and immersive experiences in Latin American Indigenous communities. There is a wealth of knowledge within these communities, not only for ourselves, but for the natural world. 

By the end of two weeks, I was sad to leave, but ready to return to my studio of comforts. Our flight from Lima to Atlanta was a red-eye so we landed in the states early in the morning. Because I had been sitting on a plane all night, I had to use the bathroom by the time I exited the aircraft. Badly. Running to the nearest restroom, I was separated from the rest of the group, which meant I’d need to pass through customs alone. As I went through security, flashbacks from my past experiences with TSA officers flooded my memory such as, being separated from my dad, being searched, watching my dad being searched, not being the “right” Rosales, not being allowed through the terminal, and, ultimately, having to pay fines. However, I was just coming out of this intensive immersion experience and was feeling pretty “white” and privileged at this point. Still, I had a sinking feeling it would have been best to go through security with my Iliff cohort. 

Making it through customs and security with absolutely no problem, I entered the baggage claim area and searched for an outlet to the terminal for my connecting flight. I felt calm and eager to reunite with my friends. With no baggage to claim, I walked straight for my terminal with my carry-on when a white male airport officer approached me with his hand outstretched. “Documentation, please,” He said, not really asking. I grabbed my U.S. passport and already had tears in my eyes as I watched my name take soundless shape on his mouth. “Come this way, please,” He said, not really asking again. I was placed in a room with two windows - one looking out to the baggage claim and one connecting my room to another. The officer took my passport and told me to wait. I waited for what felt like an hour, but it was really only 25 minutes. I tried calling my friends, but their phones were all still on airplane mode. After about 10 minutes of a sore lump forming in my throat and feeling sorry for myself, I started feeling angry. Why is this happening to me? I have nothing to hide. I am a U.S. citizen. I was born here. Why did he take my passport? What the hell is he doing with it? Briefly, I was distracted by looking through the second window. Through the criss-cross wiring between the glass panes, I saw an older woman of color in a wheelchair haggling with a TSA officer over an orange she was trying to bring on her carry on. 

After 15 minutes of watching this exchange unravel, the white cop returned with an entourage of TSA officers. One, a black woman, looked at me and asked gently, “Do you know why you’re here?” I felt defiant, but felt tear stains on my cheeks so I just shook my head no. She responded, “You’ve been selected for random inspection, but hopefully we’ll have you out of here soon.” And I was out of there soon! After my bags had been thoroughly searched and I received a full-body pat-down, I left through a separate hallway wherein I had to show my passport two more times to different officers. Once I reached the terminal, I was able to get a hold of one of my friends from the trip. He told me the group was able to secure seats on an earlier flight and were already prepared for take-off. I had been lucky to get ahold of him at all. When we hung up, I started crying. It wasn’t the end of the world and I wasn’t even upset with my cohort for leaving early. I felt lonely, not abandoned. I was angry at the cop, not my friends. It was a wake-up call from that “whiteness” I was feeling and a reminder that I was “home”. What a great welcome, I thought. 

Again, I was reminded of how my body takes up space differently depending on the context. While a veil of privilege engulfed my experience in the forest, overwhelmingly, fear took over my embodied experience at the airport. This fear was due to the reality that a white man with a gun took my U.S. passport with no explanation and I was 100% powerless to stop him. Still, had I not been a U.S. citizen with a U.S. passport, had I not been a graduate student, had I not been able to speak English fluently, and had my skin been just a shade darker, I am positive my experience would have been different. Taking up space as a white-passing Latina is a balancing act. American Indian scholar and activist, Dr. Tink Tinker would tell me there is no such thing as an in-between space or the “nepantla” as Gloria Anzaldúa and Dr. De La Torre have written about. First, I agree with Dr. Tinker in terms of eliminating ivory tower academic language about “interstitial” or “liminal” spaces because it runs the risk of muddling and demeaning the relationship between the colonizer and the colonized. However, in these moments of occupying space in both the South American jungle and in a southern United States airport, I don’t know how else to describe my lived experience as both the oppressor and the oppressed.