National Journal
By Julie Weise
August 7, 2015
Last
night's Republican debate showcased the GOP's predictable immigration
divide: The audience cheered when Donald Trump defended his earlier
provocative rants, seemingly
confirming the Republican base's anti-immigrant sentiments. Meanwhile,
Jeb Bush reiterated his support for legalization while throwing a bone
to the Right in the form of a commitment to border security.
Leading
up to the debate, Trump got the most attention. Multiple polls show
that Republican primary voters oppose a path to citizenship for
undocumented immigrants even
as Bush supports one.
But
telephone polls, tea-party activists, and Trump's rants obscure the
longer and more complex story of Republican voters' relationships with
Latino immigrants.
In
over 10 years of researching Mexican migration to the U.S. South, I
have learned that a slice of the Republican electorate—rural Southern
Republicans—has cautiously
and quietly embraced Latino immigration over the past four decades,
albeit on their own terms.
Last
night, Bush stood by his earlier insistence that illegal
border-crossing was not a felony but an "act of love" toward one's
children. Yet what most considered a political
gaffe actually reflects the sentiments of a significant group of
Republican base voters: White growers, working-class Whites, and
middle-class people in the rural South's traditional agricultural areas.
Latino
immigrants have been coming to the rural South in small numbers since
the 1910s and have dominated the agricultural labor force there since
the 1980s. From the
early 20th century through the 1960s, they mostly picked cotton
alongside poor African-American and White laborers. But since the
postwar economic expansion and civil rights movement created new
opportunities for White and Black workers, Latinos have become
the main source of labor for all of Southern agriculture.
Arriving
to racially divided communities in the wake of the civil rights
movement, Latinos were initially met with suspicion and exclusion. But
over time, that suspicion
gave way to acceptance as agricultural and evangelical community
leaders successfully used their local clout to frame the issue for rural
White people from across the economic spectrum.
Working-class
Whites have not competed with immigrants for agricultural jobs in
decades, and thus are receptive to growers' pronouncements that Latino
immigrants "saved"
entire local economies. During the time I spent conducting research in
Southern Georgia, I heard stories of anti-Latino incidents but observed
that, overall, locals supported their presence in town. When I tell this
to blue-state liberals, they find it surprising,
because it contradicts their stereotypes about the rural South. But
upon reflection, it makes sense, considering who the key players are in
rural Southern communities.
White
evangelicals, who have dominated civic culture in the rural South, play
an important role in the generalized acceptance of Latino immigrants.
They
heard echoes of their own immigration discussions in Bush's language of
"love." For them, Latin America was not a far-off scary haven of drugs
and disease. It was
the place they ventured to build houses as missionaries. Many returned
excited to pursue charity and evangelization with the Latin Americans
living closer to home. One such man I interviewed, Sonny B., sported a
"No to the Obama agenda" bumper sticker. But
when I asked him about his views on undocumented immigrants he told me:
"I've got no problem with them. They accept me, and I accept them."
For
rural White conservatives like Sonny, Latino immigrants were not a
threat to the future of White America. Instead, they became an
opportunity for its redemption: a
chance to cultivate cosmopolitanism and "tolerance" in a region shamed
by its resistance to equality for African-Americans. Reconciliation with
local Black communities has been fraught with pitfalls, while charity
projects in Mexican migrant camps have become
increasingly attractive. For example, an overwhelmingly White Christian
private school in Peach County, Georgia, eagerly initiated Easter Egg
hunts and other charity projects in Mexican migrant camps rather than in
the area's much-larger Black communities.
In
these deeply red communities, immigration enforcement has not been a
welcome opportunity to purge unwanted deadbeats but, rather, another
intrusion of a federal government
that would do better to mind its own business. In 2011, small-town
Republican Mayor Paul Bridges of Uvalda, Georgia, joined the American
Civil Liberties Union to challenge an enforcement-heavy state
immigration law in court. In 2012, a disgruntled neighbor
formally accused Vidalia, a southern Georgia community that voted
two-to-one for Mitt Romney, of being a "sanctuary city" for undocumented
immigrants.
As
Latino immigrants have increasingly made their homes not just in places
like south Florida but also in remote corners of the United States,
Bush's personal connection
to Latino immigrants is more common than polls and red-state
stereotypes suggest. Upper-middle-class tea-party suburbanites will
certainly decry Bush's stance while elite pundits will urge him to tout
immigration's economic benefits and "leave love out of
it."
While
the hostile national climate of the last several years has certainly
made inroads into Southern agricultural communities, Bush and his fellow
candidates can rest
assured that a more open attitude toward Latino immigration can
resonate with primary voters in some deeply conservative corners of
Republican America.
For more information, go to: www.beverlyhillsimmigrationlaw.com
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