Even on the fourth floor I can hear the faint cheers coming from outside. Student organized rallies happen every couple of days now and I’ve always wanted to watch. I decide to take the escalator down until I can see the vague outlines of raised signs through the large glass windows of the Hunter West lobby. The cheers are more audible now, raised voices slipping through the cold air between puffy jackets and weaving between masses of legs. There’s a woman who steps up on the marble bench next to the subway entrance and she begins to speak. I can’t hear her well over the sounds of the city so I catch only pieces of her speech.
“42 percent of CUNY students are immigrants,” she intones, loud over the roar of traffic. It's true that we are and that I am one myself. She continues, draws a cheer from the circle of students holding signs. They stand shoulder to shoulder, hoisting their grievances into the air with righteous pride. Their signs speak of the warfare between classes, echo the cheers of “no ban! no wall!” There are signs that plead for the return of a fellow student who the immigration ban has touched.
If we all have a space here, then there is no reason we can deny her a place. If we are all immigrants, the word immigrant can no longer be synonymous with outcast. If we no longer equate outcast with dirty, we can define our collective at face value. We can call it what it is – a mosaic, shimmering in the light, no piece complete without the other at its side. A mosaic – just as holy as its connotation implies.
I’ve been outside for all of two minutes, watching at a distance, and I have to blink rapidly to chase away the urge to cry. At that moment, a young man gently touches my elbow. He asks me if I would like to join the speak-out but it is my first experience here and I tell him I am content to watch for now. So that’s what I do. I stand at the railing and watch, as the woman finishes her speech, as an older man steps up to continue. The transition is seamless, the entire picture is – the speaker, the onlookers, the semicircle of students and the security guards behind them that allow them a platform.
The freedom that college allows strikes me again and I realize we’re allowed to speak up. I realize that here at Hunter I’m encouraged to do so. Pride runs through me like electricity through a circuit board and creates sparks, sparks of fury, sadness, joy, desperation and dignity. I have to duck inside to avoid crying and I’m so overwhelmed that I walk towards the turnstile and stand at it for a few moments in pure shock. I will never cease to be amazed at how a small crowd at the base of a college building can cause all that. I will never cease to be amazed by the college students that organize, march and shout over the roar of injustice and oppression, even when their throats begin to hurt.
My mother asks me if I can write with a little less anger, if I can debate a little quieter, if I can waste a little less energy trying to change that which is resistant to the very idea of progress. "Why do you shout if you know no one wants to listen?" she asks. "I am angry, and I will be heard, even if I will not be listened to. The other option is silence, and silence is compliance," I respond.
