Migration stories (part 2)

My second foray into the documentary film festival got cut short.  I only saw one film today I had plans to see at least two more (after all, these are films that I probably will never have the chance to see again) but after I saw the first one at 10:30 this morning I felt so emotionally exhausted I couldn't do anything more.  I came home to think about it.  The story was that powerful. 

The film was Mi Vida Dentro (official site), also known as My Life Inside (Silverdocs site) by Mexican filmmaker Lucia Gajá.  It is the story of Rosa.

Rosa was 17 when she crossed the border (illegally, yes, what can you do?) into this country and at first things were good.  She met her husband, another Mexican, here, started a family, got a job babysitting.  One day she's watching her kid and another little boy in her small apartment.  The kids were both sick, sitting in the living room watching tv with runny noses.  She was in the kitchen cooking lunch.  When the boy came in clutching his throat choking on something she panicked.  She didn't know what to do so she ran to a neighbor's apartment.  The neighbor called 911 and the police came.  The officer blew hard into the boy's mouth.  Nothing.  He tried again.  Nothing.  The paramedics came.  They checked the airway found nothing and did the same thing.  The boy died.

It turned out there were paper towels blocking his airway. They accused Rosa of murder.  And just like that she was caught up in the complexities of the U.S. justice system.  She was barely twenty years old, didn't speak the language, knew nothing about the legal system of her adopted country.  She didn't stand a chance.

A woman from the Mexican consulate here says Rosa's situation is not unique.  Most of the people who immigrate here know very little about the U.S. legal system.  They don't know their rights, don't know what to do when confronted by the police.

Rosa was interrogated by an officer.  She wasn't under arrest so the officer didn't have to read her her rights.  She didn't know she could request a lawyer.  She called her husband who told her that officers had come by and taken their little girl away.  She was hysterical.  The film shows all of this on police footage.  She tried explaining that she had just wiped their noses with the paper towels.  They didn't believe her.  She asks finally "if I say I did it will you give me my daughter back?"  Yes, he said.  You will see your daughter again.

She did see her daughter --for about five minutes.  The she was charged with murder. 

A medical examiner for the defense testified that children do sometimes choke on paper towels.  The child might have twisted these into something to suck on.  The saliva generated from that would have triggered a reflex to swallow. 

Now maybe if Rosa or the neighbor or the police officer had known what to do, had checked his airway for a blockage they might've seen the paper towel, but once the police officer blew into the boy's mouth he just pushed it farther down.

The jury didn't just find her guilty of murder, they sentenced her 99 years.  99 years!  A human lifetime!  Even the boy's family did not think she was responsible for the child's death.  His uncle apologized to her at her sentencing.

What hurts so much about this story --and what I think the filmmaker did so well at conveying-- is that it's not just a case of bad luck for this one particular person.  It's bad luck compounded by that person's particular class status within the society she lives in.  An accident like this would have been tragic enough but add to the tragedy of random luck the tragedy of a grossly inequitable society filled with racism and classism and the sum is just too much.  I can't help but think that if Rosa had been someone like me (white middle class) the result would have been vastly different.  You cannot leave this movie without being outraged at the overwhelming cruelty of a system that failed and continues to fail.

Rosa's might be one of the more extreme cases but as the woman from the Mexican consulate says this is all too common.  At the end of the film there is a series of still shots of the major characters standing within different settings: the judge in his chambers; the defense attorney at the apartment complex where it all happened; the woman from the consulate's office overlooking the city; Rosa's mother in her home in Mexico; her husband in front of his home in the U.S..  And then there are more people, others who were interviewed in the film about their journey to the U.S. ("Was it worth it? Do you regret it?") and then still more people we never heard from, face after face after face.  And then there's a young girl in her jail cell.  My name is Rosa.  I'm 23 years old and I have 99 years.

Mi Vida Dentro will be playing in theaters in Mexico this fall.