RI immigrant leader is go-to man for new arrivals
By Hilary Russ

February 22, 2009


PROVIDENCE, R.I.—Juan Garcia's cell phone is rarely idle.

While in meetings, at rallies or even in bed, Rhode Island's immigrants are calling Garcia, asking for help with everything from paying rent to handling immigration agents at their doorstep.

Garcia -- who came to the United States in 1977 in the trunk of a car to escape a bloody civil war in his home country of Guatemala -- has been especially busy in the year since Gov. Don Carcieri signed an executive order that targets illegal immigration.

He has emerged as the go-to person for immigrants unwilling to work with police or state agencies for fear they or someone they love could be deported.

"It's not a job. It's a mission," Garcia said. "I'm working seven days a week because I feel it in my heart."

Garcia -- a community organizer for the Immigrants in Action Committee, a nonprofit group he says has about 550 members -- has become one of the most public faces of opposition to Carcieri's March 2008 order. The order requires state police and prison officials to identify illegal immigrants for deportation and mandates state agencies and contractors use a federal database to validate employees' legal status.

Garcia says the order is confusing and has led to racial profiling. He believes illegal immigration should be treated as a civil -- not criminal -- violation, a view that rankles people like Terry Gorman, founder of Rhode Islanders for Immigration Law Enforcement, who wants immigration laws tightened and strictly enforced.

"I respect that he fights for what he believes in, even though I totally disagree with it," Gorman said.

Garcia, 56, is a regular Saturday-morning guest on a Spanish radio language station, using the microphone to broadcast the address of a home targeted by immigration agents so listeners can show up to lend support. He has led a demonstration at the Statehouse and invited police departments to meet with immigrant groups to explain their jobs and allay concerns.

And he educates recent immigrants on everyday concerns. He tells them, for instance, that they must have a license to drive a car off a sales lot, that they can't walk around with open beer containers or play loud music into the night.

"Many people who come here from villages don't follow the system because they live without rules," he said.

Garcia has a "total commitment to the invididuals who call," said Rachel Miller, director of Rhode Island Jobs With Justice, an advocacy group.

Take Jose Genao. When he and a friend were speaking in Spanish as they waited at a plumbing supply store last March, owner David Richardson asked them to produce social security numbers to show they were legal residents.

Genao, a U.S. citizen who speaks fluent English, wanted to fight but didn't know how, Garcia said. Garcia drew publicity to the case, and Genao filed a complaint with state and local civil rights agencies, which found probable cause Richardson broke city and state discrimination laws.

Richardson apologized and gave $500 to Genao, who gave five $100 payments to the organizations that helped him, including Garcia's.

Garcia's activism dates to his childhood, when as a 10-year-old he and other kids threw rocks at Guatemalan troops storming into their village to kill students during the country's long civil war.

Garcia snuck into the U.S. in 1977 -- "without documents, without anything," he said -- and settled in San Antonio, where he married a Mexican-American woman and raised two children.

He began thinking about American immigration policy after his father died in Guatemala in 1988. He was concerned he'd be unable to return to the United States a second time if he went to his father's bedside, an experience that inspired him to make it easier for workers to emigrate to America.

He's now a permanent, legal resident.

Garcia later divorced and moved to Rhode Island, where he had two brothers he barely knew. He found work welding in Pawtucket.

But his face bears the scars of a brutal assault that led him, inadverently, back to his religious faith and a renewed sense of activism. In 1992, attackers stabbed him a dozen times, nearly killing him, during a robbery.

"I felt I hated the people who did this," he said. "I didn't want to feel hatred against anyone."

Searching for peace, he wandered into St. Teresa of Avila, a Catholic church near his Providence home. He began going regularly, and started working in 1998 with Immigrants in Action, which is housed in the church.

He maintains a sparse office with a broken wall clock, chairs with ripped vinyl cushions and a picture of Mother Teresa.

He relishes his role as an activist and adviser for new immigrants, but says he knows the limits of what one person can do.

"Every day it's the same," he said. "People think I have a magic wand, that I can resolve everything. But no."


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