Uncertain Citizenship. Megan Ryburn

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MAP 1. Fieldwork sites in Chile and Bolivia. Credit: Edward Oliver, Queen Mary University of London, 2015.

      I also worked closely with the Asociación throughout this time, volunteering for about twenty hours a week in the group’s offices in Santiago, Arica, and El Alto, doing whatever I could to be useful. In Santiago I also rehearsed and performed with the Bolivian migrant dance fraternity Corazón de Tinkus (a pseudonym). Finally, I conducted interviews and had many informal conversations with representatives of various migrant organizations, local government, and the Bolivian consulate, among other institutions. In this book I have given pseudonyms to all of the people whom I interviewed and spoke with, as well as to the migrant organizations with which I had contact. I have also been deliberately vague in providing geographic identifiers of some of the places to which I refer, to further protect the identity of those who participated in this research. Quotes and observations are based on taped audiorecordings and my typed and handwritten notes. All translations are my own unless otherwise indicated.

      It is important to note that throughout this book I try to pay attention to the specific, context-dependent ways in which participants referred to their social identities (e.g., class) and to the ways in which they spoke about experiences of discrimination, when this was relevant. Overlapping hierarchies of race, class, and gender remain deeply embedded in both Chile and Bolivia. While race, class, and gender are socially constructed systems that are the product of particular histories, the consequences of their construction are real and material.⁷ By reflecting the language of identity that participants used, I hope to better capture the complexities of how people understand and present their social identities and what this means in relation to stratified systems of race, class, and gender. Therefore, for example, if someone actively self-identified as Aymara, or as being de clase media (middle class), I state this. If, however, people expressed their identity through describing themselves as speaking some Aymara and having Aymara parents, or as coming from a family de bajos recursos (with limited resources), I note that fact.

      My own social identities, of course, had an impact on my interactions with participants and therefore ultimately on the knowledge produced in the course of the research. A white woman of New Zealand and British nationality, how I identified myself, and the ways in which my identities were categorized by others, affected the relationships I could build with organizations and participants in multiple ways. The most straightforward relationships I built, and built on, were those with the Asociación. Having been a volunteer in the Santiago office, I already knew several of the people who worked there, and they were quick to introduce me to others and connect me with those in Arica and in the Bolivia office in El Alto. Moreover, the staff and volunteers shared progressive values and a commitment to research-led, reflexive, and multiscalar practice that focused on directly supporting individual migrants; advocating for migrants’ rights at the highest levels of government; and working with public officials, health-care workers, and teachers who interacted with migrants daily. The relationships we built were ones of learning and mutual respect, and the practical and intellectual support that so many members of the Asociación across all three offices offered me was invaluable.

      The relationships I could build with other organizations and individuals were more varied. It is difficult to comprehend and convey the multifaceted ways in which one is perceived by others. Nevertheless, there were certain responses from people associated with other migrant organizations, from those in government and relevant institutions, and from employers of migrant workers, as well as in other everyday encounters, that were particularly salient. First, my whiteness and foreign nationality afforded me privileged access to certain people and spaces, most notably the offices of government or municipal workers, both in Chile and Bolivia. This was apparent when, having had no success contacting the Bolivian consulate in Santiago by e-mail or telephone, I went in person to try to arrange an appointment to speak to someone. Upon entering the building, I was ushered straight to the reception desk, even though there were other people—mainly Bolivian—waiting to be seen. After I introduced myself and explained the purpose of my visit, one of the consuls cleared time to speak to me then and there. I felt very discomforted by this obvious indication of the power of white, foreign privilege; looking sheepishly at the people waiting in the queue, I asked, “But, are you sure? If you’re busy, I can come another day, no problem.” The motive behind my question was not understood by the consul or the receptionist, however, and resulted in confusion about my availability, leading me to hurriedly say, “No, no, it’s fine, let’s talk now,” and follow the consul to his spacious, wood-paneled office.

      On other occasions, when speaking to male representatives of some organizations or to some male employers of migrants—as well as in ordinary exchanges in my day-to-day life—I was assessed as naive and in need of assistance. This reflected certain attitudes toward women more generally but seemed to be made more acute by the fact that I was foreign and by my slightly accented Spanish, with the occasional misspoken word. I was commonly referred to as “gringa” or even “rubiecita” (little blonde) by such interlocutors. Being thus perceived as ingenuous and perhaps malleable meant that I was exposed in an especially overt way to the discriminatory discourses and stereotypes that shape hierarchies of race, gender, and class. I learned that when a sentence began with “Mira, yo te cuento la verdad” (“Look, I’ll tell you the truth”) in a tone that dropped below the normal conversational register, what followed would often expose ugly prejudices. In Chile I would be told, for example, that Bolivians are “sumisivos” (submissive) or “un poquito más lento” (“a little bit slower”), which is why “les cuesta integrarse” (“it is hard for them to integrate”).

      In addition to the perceptions of gendered näiveté that invited this kind of comment, it also clearly had to do with perceptions of my race and class, whereby my whiteness, and the way in which this situated me in relation to my own countries’ legacies of colonialism, racism, and oppression, was interpreted as a sign that I would be willingly complicit in such confidences.⁸ It is worth noting that there were occasions on which women as well as men expressed such sentiments to me, but this was not as common—which isn’t to say that some women did not hold these prejudices, just that they were not as forthcoming in expressing themselves to me in this way. I found these attitudes and comments deeply offensive, as they flew totally in the face of my personal antiracist and feminist beliefs, and I struggled with how to respond. This was particularly challenging in an interview situation because I was grateful for the time taken to speak to me, and it was also important for my research to comprehend the attitudes of the representatives of organizations, institutions, and employers of migrant workers, even when these were offensive to me. I would try hard not to acquiesce with nods or murmurs to views I found reprehensible, maintaining a neutral expression when I could, although I was never comfortable doing this, feeling as though I were compromising my values.

      Outside of an interview context, in an “everyday” setting, I did try to challenge the discriminatory views I encountered as far as I could, but again, this was always tinged with a sense of insufficiency. One weekday afternoon, I was putting СКАЧАТЬ