San Antonio de Béjar, Tejas,
7 de marzo, 2025
Mtra. Jovita Idar
a cargo de La Gloria Celestial
Estimadísima Maestra,
Disculpe la molestia. I’m loath to disturb your rest, but sometimes, resistance must take precedence over rest, ¿no? Circumstances here compel me to write this letter. You are a source of strength and empowering hope and inspiration to many; it’s in the spirit of caring for lo nuestro that I reach out to you.
I write to you across the vast distance of years, a star-dusted expanse of time that, if I might be so bold, has not treated you with the respect and gratitude you richly deserve. It saddens me to report this to you. However, because you always held yourself and others to the highest standards of journalism by reporting the glorious as well as the grotesque truthfully, I believe you’ll see why I’m laying out these current-day facts for you. Maestra, le suplico sus consejos. Your wisdom, so plain and prescient, has served us well—when we bother to heed it. Today, we need your exquisite thought more than ever.
I’m aware that when you crossed into the other realms you were bestowed with omniscience. You already know everything I share with you here. Of course you know. You know the horrors: Women who work in the maquilas on the border and risk death when they do what it takes to feed their children, what it takes to care for their ailing parents en el interior del país, what it takes to gain a little independence for themselves. Why should these basic needs exact such a precious toll, Doña Jovita? But you know too well the price we’ve long been expected to pay for claiming what is inalienably ours. Every time someone tries to cheat me, beat me, defeat me, I think of you—your steely expression, your arms akimbo as you face the ‘rinches,’ those racist Texas Rangers who intended to halt all progress—to intimidate you so you’d stop printing and unfolding the truth for all to read. I am in awe of your ability to balance the steadfastness and grit you displayed so boldly that day with the overflowing cariño and tenderness with which you always treated nuestra gente. How valiant, how beautiful your resoluteness as you stood up for yourself, your newspaper, and your rights as you sent the rinches away. The next day, when you were gone, los cobardes returned.
The rinches’ barbarism left so much pain in its wake. Your printing presses destroyed, the floor of El Progreso’s composing room strewn with metal type and splattered with ink. What story could be drafted from so much devastation?
You also know about the agonizing disparities that our children still face in schools. So few of them have faith in their astounding abilities and promise. They’re beaten down, Maestra. They don’t know their history—they don’t know you!—because the government, filled with latter-day rinches, has erased these histories from textbooks with almost clinical precision, all with the approval of those whose own histories are called “foundational” (as if!) and “official.” When will our historical truths be entered into the official record? When will the truth at last prevail?
Like me, I’m sure you worry about the pain, passed from mother to child, and on and on. You know that the government made it an enforceable policy to separate migrant mothers from their children, including the youngest ones. Los inocentes were forced into fenced enclosures. Cages. ¡Imagínese, Maestra! Hatred was chain-linked around them. Our government enacted this cruelty in our names. And too often, it is raza who carry out these inhumane orders. It doesn’t take much effort to connect the dots in this official act of dehumanization. These children, terrorized and concentrated in ‘migrant camps,’ have their dreams wrung out of them; once released, they believe they deserve all the mistreatment and degradation that comes their way. They take what scraps are thrown at them, without the faintest complaint. They are transported in vans to places like Arkansas and Georgia and Tennessee, where they are vilified and denied their childhood and dignity. Their small brown bodies do the hard work of grown men. In the blazing noontime, they put roofs on grand houses in carefully planned suburbs. In the overnight hours, they clean the splatters and the offal and the stench at meatpacking plants. Under the Central Valley’s punishing sun, they harvest crops but never reap the benefits that make real change. Their dreams, nurtured by family back in Mexico, are spoiled fruit on the twisting vines. What is their future?
But even through the prejudice and evil directed at us, shards of light illuminate the path to all those things you envisioned for us. Rejoicing is as essential to our survival as resistance, me parece. There are young Chicanas and Chicanos who have important letters after their names, letters that attest to their determination and brilliance. You inspire them. There are more mujeres making their mark in Washington and in state capitals around the country. They too have you and other progresistas to thank for paving the way. There are teachers who are role models for the jóvenes in their classrooms. I know that makes your eternal heart sing. There are many others—so many!—who do you proud, Maestra. All of us listen intently as you exhort us to stand up and speak out, to lift up anyone in need of a meaningful assist. But you know this. You and Ida B. Wells, hermanas in the seemingly endless struggle, and others urge us on.
¡Tantas preguntas! Thank you for indulging me. Here’s hoping we can keep this correspondence alive. I greatly look forward to hearing from you. In the meantime, descanse, Maestra.
Q.b.s.m.,
Pablo Miguel Martínez
*Author’s note:
I am a proud native of San Antonio. My poetry and prose have been published widely. (My poetry collection, Brazos, Carry Me, was awarded the 2013 PEN Southwest Book Award for Poetry.) I have long admired Idar’s astonishing work, drive, and fierce tenacity. There is much we can learn from her life and groundbreaking work. Her selflessness was reflected in every aspect of that wide-ranging work, which included journalism, education, political organizing, and nursing. (When I worked in Academic Assessment at a nursing school in San Antonio, I recommended it pay formal tribute to Idar. My suggestion was rebuffed. The school has a large Latina student population.) Her deep, abiding empathy defined her community-grounded work. Doña Jovita never stopped giving of herself.
This letter first appeared in the in-print publication Caldwell/Hays Examiner
