130: Away From Home
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Traveled to Africa, people from Africa, sometimes told Eddie Harris that he looked like he might be from Senegal instead of St. Louis, where in fact he was from. And when he finally arrived at the border of Senegal, the first black nation he had ever set foot in, a man at the border found out that he was from America and incredibly told him welcome home. We're glad you're here. It was a pretty magical moment, and I was expecting it to have opened the door into everybody saying welcome home brother. And a lot of, I got a lot of welcome home brother, but I also got a lot of, how come you didn't come sooner brother, or what are you doing to help us brother, you who are the most educated and the richest black people on the planet, how come you're not doing more to help us out brother? These black Americans, as black Americans, yeah. Freddie, as for a lot of black Americans, Africa had always been this kind of lurking specter somewhere in the back of his mind. There was this idea that there was someplace out there that could be a motherland. And then there was a reality of life in Africa. For nearly a year, he traveled through the continent, staying with local people, living how they lived, eating what they ate. And he was often horrified at the conditions of their lives. Black of food, the disease, infant mortality rates, one repressive political regime after another. All often accepted with this kind of God will provide attitude. Anyway, it all came to a head at the end of his trip when he was on a boat going up a river in Zeir. Well, there was this captain on this boat who, because I was taking pictures on the deck of this boat, had me and this English person, Justin, hauled up to the bridge. And while we were there, he was vilifying this white guy, this Englishman, because his ancestors had hauled my ancestors out of Africa. And he wanted to know why I wouldn't come to Africa to live and help build a place up. And he wanted to know as well how I could, in good conscience, I suppose, live my life among these white people who had stolen my ancestors away. And after having traveled in Africa already now for many, many months, I was tired and exhausted and had lived this African experience. And it was just beat down. I turned to this white guy, Justin, and said, "Thanks!" For his ancestors having stolen my ancestors. In the eyes of Black Americans, that's probably a horrible thing to say, because what it sounds like is I'm grateful for slavery, which is not the case at all. What it says to me is that I'm grateful for being alive and for having grown up as a Black person in America, because I don't know if I'd want to trade places with anybody African living in the middle of Zaire. Do you feel like there's a certain amount of pressure on Black Americans to embrace Africa as a homeland? Yeah, and it's all around and you're supposed to, as a Black person, toe this Black person party line and embrace Africa as your homeland, even though most at most Black Americans haven't got a clue about Africa. No more clue about Africa than I had. No more clue about Africa than they've got about Antarctica, say far away place that if you dropped them off in the middle of no place and said, "You're home now, they'd be completely lost." And yet they're supposed to have this, this emotional allegiance to this place, and I just can't, I can't buy it. Well, from WBE's in Chicago, in Public Radio International, it's this American life. I'm Ira Glass. Today on our program, going home to a place you've never been. A lot of people try it. Act 1, exile. A 26-year-old from Los Angeles gets deported to the country of his parents' birth. He last set foot there when he was five. He has no memories of the place. He knows no one there. People have a hard time understanding him when he talks. This, he's told, is his new home. Act 2, brothers from another mother. Two stories of people finding strangers who they become convinced are, in some way, the home they have never known. Stay with us, won't you? [Music] Act 1, exile. In 1996, tough new immigration laws were passed, making it easier to deport legal US residents who committed crimes. The law expanded the definition of a deportable crime and made the change retroactive. Gang members from the United States were suddenly being exported in larger numbers to the countries of birth, and many of them greeted these new homes away from home by acting exactly how they had acted here in the States. There have been big, big rises in gang activity in El Salvador and other countries as a result of the new laws. Jose William Hueso Soriano, aka Wiesel, was deported just over a year ago to El Salvador. He had to make the adjustment from living in a very rich country to a rather poor one, and he had to figure out who to be in this place that he was told was his new home. Radio producer Joe Richmond gave him a tape recorder to document how he's getting along. Here's the story they put together. Uh, what's up? My name is Jose William Hueso Soriano. They call me Wiesel. I've been having that nickname ever since I was a kid, so I've had it for a long time. Let's see, here we go. Darling, out of the country right now, 0, 1, 8, 1, 8, 5, oh. I'm 27 years old. I live in El Salvador. I've been here a year, a year and a half. Hey, training? Hello. Hello. Hi. Flora. What's up? I'm doing good. My goodness. Where are you? I'm in El Salvador. Where else?
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