CHAPTER EIGHT
CAPTAIN OF HIS PEOPLE
Al Labrada, forty-seven
Mexico City/Los Angeles, California
ON MARCH 22, 2017, the Los Angeles Police Department announced a slate of officer promotions. Among them was Alfred “Al” Labrada, who was promoted from lieutenant to captain. Al’s journey to that culminating moment had begun back in 1975, when he crossed the border from Mexico, undocumented, along with his mother and siblings. At that time, the thought of an undocumented Mexican boy living in East Los Angeles growing up to become a high-ranking police officer would have sounded like a wild pipe dream. Four decades later, Al was responsible for community relations at the LAPD, the third-largest police department in the country.
Now, at a time when the president of the United States hurls denigrating accusations against Mexican immigrants, hundreds of kids whose families, some undocumented, came to this country in search of better opportunities see themselves reflected in Captain Labrada’s story. They know that today, that opportunity is real.
When Al was just two years old, his father died. His mother had to raise the children on her own, and after three years she had saved up enough money to migrate to the United States. Al was only five years old when they crossed the border and doesn’t remember it clearly, but he knows they arrived first in Rosemead, California, undocumented, and later moved to El Monte.
Like many migrant women when they first arrive in the US, Al’s mother got to work cleaning houses. There is a large population of immigrants, mostly Latino, in southeast Los Angeles County today, but Al remembers there were not so many back then. His mother mainly worked for white families in the city of Arcadia. Some were nice, while others were downright rude and disrespectful. Al recalls a general atmosphere of intimidation.
“I remember being really afraid of traveling. We had family in San Diego and other parts of California, and we would take the Greyhound bus, because we didn’t have a car for a long time, and we were really scared to go through the checkpoint in San Clemente, where they sometimes check your papers. That’s what I remember from that time, when I was a kid, always being a little afraid,” Al recalls. Even though his family gained legal status when he was thirteen, that feeling of uncertainty stayed with him for some time after.
When he was sixteen, Al began working at a Taco Bell restaurant to help out his mother and three siblings. He also started thinking about joining the military. He liked the discipline he saw in members of the armed forces, the opportunity that enlisting would give him to go to college at a time when his family did not have much money, and that it would help him become a citizen. His mother did not like the idea of the military much, but she did want her son to have the chance to get a higher education, so Al enlisted in the Army Reserves, which accelerated his naturalization process. At eighteen, Al became a US citizen. He started college and then was called up to go to Iraq, where he spent a year fighting in the Gulf War.
Al’s decision to join the military is not unusual within the Latino community in the United States, especially in states with a large concentration of Latinos, such as California and Texas. In 2015, 12 percent of the active service members in the armed forces were Hispanic, three times more than in 1980.1 Many enlist because they identify with the sense of discipline Al describes, but also because it facilitates access to higher education, which they would not otherwise have. In the US, two-thirds of Hispanics who start working or enlist in the armed forces right out of high school instead of going on to college say they made that decision based on the necessity of helping out their family financially. In contrast, only a third of white young adults cite their family’s financial circumstances as a reason for not going to college.2
In 2013, I had the chance to attend the Memorial Day ceremony held at the National Cemetery in Riverside, California. It is the third-largest military cemetery in the country, and it has received the most fallen soldiers of any since 2000. No matter how many similar scenes one has seen before, in magazines or movies, or how many stories one has read about it, it’s impossible not to be deeply moved, watching families remember their loved ones who died in combat: the twenty-two-year-old man who did not come back from Iraq, his impossibly young widow cradling his photo in her arms, or the Vietnam War veteran there to pay his respects to another soldier killed in that war.
Memorial Day always evokes mixed emotions. On the one hand, some people believe the deaths are the price we pay for the freedoms we enjoy in this country; on the other hand, some believe wars are fought over economic or corporate interests or misguided national politics, and that enlisted soldiers are seen as disposable tools used to accomplish the government’s goals.
Among all the faces etched with pain I saw that day, I was struck by how many Latinos were there. Some wore the insignias of their military units, or symbols representing the veterans groups they joined after returning home, or the places they had been deployed. The words “Vietnam,” “Iraq,” and “Afghanistan” could be seen over and over again embroidered on shirts and jackets worn by young men with last names like Rodríguez and Gutiérrez.
Twelve percent of the active armed forces in the country represents more than 150,000 people. Some branches are more popular than others: the Navy is 14 percent Latino, while the Marines are 15 percent. The number of Latinos in the military is large partly because it can be a path to citizenship for some undocumented immigrants. Also, the military conducts aggressive recruitment campaigns in Latino neighborhoods under the slogan, in Spanish, “Yo soy el Army”—“I am the Army.” The recruitment officers are also usually Latino, and they go directly inside schools with large Latino student populations and even visit people’s homes, tactics not generally practiced in the case of other ethnic groups. In this campaign, recruiters emphasize access to higher education through joining the military. In a poll conducted in 2012, 12 percent of Latinos who enlisted said the chance to go to college was their primary reason for signing up.3
Looking back, it may be hard for Al and others his age to identify their strongest motivation for enlisting in the military several decades ago. One thing is certain: the experience changed their lives. In Al’s case, he returned home in 1992 determined to continue his education and to become a fireman or policeman. In the end, he opted for the latter.
On September 5, 2010, a Los Angeles police officer fired on Manuel Jamines in front of MacArthur Park. According to police reports, the officer feared for his safety after ordering Jamines, who was allegedly carrying a knife, to stop and put his hands in the air. The officer gave the order several times, in Spanish and in English. An immigrant from Guatemala, Jamines did not understand either; he only spoke Quiché, an indigenous language. He was shot in the head and torso and died at the scene.
This case sparked protests and charges of police abuse from local Latino activists, some asserting that Jamines had not been carrying a knife. But it also shined a spotlight on an issue that has worried indigenous migrant organizations for years in California: while trying to help immigrants who do not speak English integrate into US society, the authorities and public servants who are partly responsible for their integration must be informed and educated so that the end result is a success, or at least to make sure the integration effort does not end in senseless tragedy.
Although California is among the states that have made the most progress in terms of recognizing the rights of people who speak a language other than English, offering translation and interpreting services in different languages in government offices and social service agencies, a common mistake is to assume that all immigrants from Latin America speak Spanish as a first language. In courts, hospitals, and police stations, a Spanish interpreter is assigned to someone who needs to make a statement, even if that person’s knowledge of Spanish is minimal or nonexistent. The consequences of this error range from legal complications to inadequate health care, and even death.
The issue of racism occupies an important place in US history, but it is usually discussed in terms of a black/white, African American/Anglo-Saxon dichotomy. The reality is much more complicated, involving Native Americans, Asians, and, of course, Latinos. And that is rarely discussed. There does not seem to be any cohesive registry or timeline that explains, or at least defines, the violence committed by the state against Latinos.
According to data from the US Department of Justice’s Office of Justice Programs, even though Hispanics make up only 17 percent of the population, they represent 23 percent of people detained by police to be searched and 30 percent of arrests.4 Among minority groups, Latinos account for the second-highest number of killings at the hands of police, after African Americans: 16 percent and 25 percent overall, respectively.5
This is nothing new. Al Labrada remembers being stopped by police as a youth in El Monte. When he would go to visit relatives in the Highland Park neighborhood of Los Angeles, he saw how the police treated Latinos, and he did not like it at all. He noticed that sometimes police would stop people for no apparent reason, and they were very disrespectful. There were no Latino police officers and very few female officers. Al thought if there were more Latino officers who could identify with the people in the community, maybe things would get better. So one day he went to the police station and asked how he could join. In May 1993, he entered the police academy.
“Back then, Latinos were just starting to join the LAPD. Where I was, there were forty officers and only five of us were Latinos. Now, we’re 48 percent Latino, and I’ve seen academy classes with 60 percent,” he says with obvious pride, describing Hispanic representation among the ten thousand officers in the LAPD.
Hispanics are the fastest-growing ethnic group in police departments across the country.6 In 2013, they represented 12 percent of officers working full-time, a 7 percent increase over their numbers in the 1980s. In spite of this growth, they are still underrepresented, with Hispanics currently making up 17 percent of the US population.
A survey conducted in 20167 found that Hispanic police officers have conflicted feelings about their work. Two-thirds said that their jobs often or almost always made them feel proud, and half said they felt satisfied or fulfilled. Still, many expressed discontent: half said their jobs almost always made them feel frustrated, and one out of five said their work often made them feel angry.
Seven of every ten thought incidents of police violence against African Americans have made their jobs more difficult, and now officers in their departments are less likely to stop and question people when they see something suspicious. Six of every ten Hispanic and African American officers said identifying undocumented immigrations should be the federal government’s responsibility, in contrast with the 60 percent of white officers who believe the police should play a more active role.
“A lot of people don’t know where police officers come from, their personal stories, that could be interesting and could help people identify with them,” says Al. He is the perfect example of this: in 2000, he was promoted to sergeant; in 2014, he became a lieutenant; in 2017, he achieved the rank of captain. The man who as a teen dreamed of changing how the police treat immigrants has been in the ranks of the LAPD himself for almost a quarter century.
“There are officers from Oaxaca, El Salvador, or Guatemala who came to the US with a lot of hardship,” he says. “People don’t know the officers experienced the same problems as many of them: they’ve been undocumented, or their parents are undocumented; they’ve confronted racism and abuse; they have themselves experienced many of the situations that we’re talking about across the whole country right now.”
The first time I saw Al Labrada, a lieutenant with the LAPD at the time, was at a community meeting in the Koreatown neighborhood of downtown Los Angeles. Fourteen police officers dressed in full uniform, complete with guns on their belts, arrived punctually at the meeting space that is also where CBDIO, the Centro Binacional para el Desarrollo Indígena Oaxaqueño, holds its events. In cooperation with the Indigenous Front of Binational Organizations (FIOB), the LAPD was holding its eighth annual Cultural Awareness Workshop for public servants and staff of nongovernmental organizations. The workshop aimed to educate those responsible for providing services in immigrant communities and law enforcement on the ethnic diversity, culture, and customs of indigenous communities.
“Overall, we got a positive response from police officers,” observed Gaspar Rivera-Salgado, project director at UCLA’s Center for Labor Research and Education and a founder of FIOB. “The challenge sometimes can be Latino officers who get annoyed because they’re going to get another lecture on migrant communities from their countries of origin. They think they know it all already. But that changes when they find out that, no, they don’t know everything.”
At the beginning of the workshop, the apathy of some officers was clear, but that gradually changed as the presentations continued. Rivera-Salgado talked about the special challenges of learning English, or any other foreign language, for those who speak an indigenous language and do not know how to read or write. Learning another language is an educational process, and you need to have the infrastructure in place for that. If you are illiterate in your own language, it is unlikely you will be able to become proficient in another language.
Another issue is linguistic diversity among people who come from apparently similar regions. The workshop presenters patiently displayed maps of southern Mexico, pointing out the differences among linguistic families. Although Zapotec is spoken in several regions, variations of the language could mean that people from different areas would not understand each other even if they come from the same Mexican state. For example, they explained that people from Oaxaca not only may speak more than one Zapotec dialect, they may also speak Mixtec, Chatino, or Triqui. How, then, do you communicate with someone when they have been identified simply as speaking an “indigenous language”? By now the officers attending the workshop are paying close attention, waiting to hear the answer. A Mexican man in the audience helped a fellow activist who was African American to understand these differences. He used the word “tortilla” as an example, which has one meaning in Mexico, a staple food made from flour or corn, while in Spain it means a dish made of eggs, potatoes, and onions. Mexico and Spain are both Spanish-speaking countries. “So is it a different language?” the second man asked. “No, it’s the same language, but that word doesn’t mean the same thing.” A white officer listened closely and took notes. Al smiled with satisfaction.
“The police department works to ensure a lack of communication does not become a factor in cases like the Jamines case, and to build trust among the immigrant community in general, especially the indigenous community and law enforcement,” Al told me after the workshop. “We know there are people who don’t report domestic violence or call emergencies in to 911 because they have no way to communicate.”
Three years after that workshop, I talked with Al over the phone. It was early 2017. Donald Trump had just been sworn into office, and the mayor of Los Angeles, Eric Garcetti, had renewed his commitment to the city to maintain Los Angeles’s status as a sanctuary city. Local authorities, specifically the LAPD, would not perform any immigration enforcement, because that is the federal government’s responsibility. I mentioned the Cultural Awareness Workshop to Al and asked if LAPD leadership still took the same approach.
“At first, a lot of officers didn’t really understand why that was part of their job, why it was important,” he explained. “A lot of the younger officers want to go out on the streets and go after bad guys, the ones committing crimes, to get guns off the streets, but they don’t think about building trust in the community. We still believe the only way to get the ‘bad guys’ is to understand how each community works and what is causing fear and distrust. We’re still doing our job.”
It’s Friday night, and a sign outside a house in southern Los Angeles announces it’s “viernes [Friday] de tlayudas.” With the catchy slogan “Tlayúdate que yo tlayudaré,” riffing off the Spanish phrase “Ayúdate que yo te ayudaré,” or “God helps those who help themselves,” Oaxacan members of the Indigenous Front of Binational Organizations prepare their traditional dish, tlayudas, to sell in the community, and at the same time hold informational seminars to prepare for possible attacks on the immigrant community under the Trump administration.
“The first thing I want to reiterate is that the Los Angeles police are not going to detain immigrants just for being undocumented,” says Al.
Al Labrada would be promoted to captain just a few days later, but his work in community relations, especially among Latino immigrants, had already been known for years among activists and residents of neighborhoods in the city’s center, south, and southeast. Tall, good-looking, with dark hair and eyes and a friendly smile, Al gives his talks in Spanish, in a professional manner, while still speaking colloquially, coming across as approachable and down-to-earth.
“We’ve said it before: we have more than enough work dealing with local criminals,” he says. “We’re not going to start doing immigration agents’ jobs too.”
Al has a freshly made tlayuda waiting for him on the table, but before digging in, he talks to the audience of thirty or so people who have come to ask questions: What’s going to happen if I report a case of domestic violence and they ask for my documents? What should I do if an immigration agent comes to my house? If people have a prior arrest—Trump had said he would deport criminals—how can they protect themselves? If the kids are Dreamers with DACA, will they get arrested first?
Al answers every question in a reassuring tone. Keep in mind that although Trump can sign executive orders, he explains, no new budget has been approved to hire more immigration agents, so the number of arrests will not go up for now.
If someone is detained, he or she has the right to go before a judge, but there is no budget to hire enough judges either, so it can take years for the court dates to come around. Al notes that some people who have been detained recently have court dates in 2019, then a few years in the future. Since there is no new money for detention centers, either, it would be impossible to keep everyone locked up in detention until then, as people are released under their own recognizance until their court dates. And in the meantime, there will have been new elections for Congress, and the next presidential election will be right around the corner. But that doesn’t mean people should let their guard down.
When Al finishes talking and finally sits down to eat his nowcold tlayuda, Roberto Foss, an immigration lawyer, takes over. A self-described “gringo,” Foss speaks Spanish well, using a couple of swear words that gain his listeners’ trust. He explains that an executive order such as those Trump signed in his first two weeks in office do not change immigration laws currently in effect; only Congress can do that. The one thing that could change is the status of DACA recipients. And even then, Foss says he doubts there would suddenly be massive arrests of those young people. He stresses that people need to be informed, know their rights, and try not to succumb to fear.
“I’m not going to tell you not to worry, but I will tell you to be informed. I don’t think here in Los Angeles somebody’s going to show up at your front door, but you do need to know how the system works so you know what to do: ask for a lawyer, stay silent, do not sign anything, and fight your case to the end. The courts are still there to decide,” Foss says to the attendees who have come for something more than a delicious tlayuda.
That very night, as Foss was discussing legal resources, a judge in Washington State ruled against Trump’s executive order known as the Muslim ban and ordered its temporary suspension on a national level. The next day, Trump lost again when an appeals court refused to reinstate the travel ban.8
A few days later, Al told me that what the LAPD was most worried about was the growing fear of immigration raids among undocumented people. Since Trump’s election, unfounded rumors had spread widely on social media about ICE agents arresting people on the streets. People get scared, and their distrust grows along with their fear.
“Sometimes we have no control over the things causing fear,” Al said. “It’s often just wrong information; then you have to work with those communities. A lot of people don’t know what goes on in the streets with violence, the situations police have to deal with. There are 1.2 million contacts with LAPD officers and the public every year, and less than 0.5 percent result in violence. But there is distrust; that’s a fact. We have to work in the communities across the whole country to gain their trust, because these incidents cause anxiety, not just in the community but in us, too, because we don’t know how the community is going to react.”
Al has an eleven-year-old son who says he wants to be an astronaut when he grows up. It might seem far-fetched for the child of a Mexican who came to the US undocumented to dream of being an astronaut, but in the Labrada family, opportunities are well earned.