Carmen Murguia
Today, I have the privilege of being off from my day job in marketing—all thanks to the work of many black men and women leaders who created a bill and fought diligently to have a day passed to honor Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. on his birthday. It's not just today, it's every day that I think about his dream for all of us; Dr. King never wavered and never discriminated against who gets to have that dream. That's another privilege I feel I have as a woman-loving woman, as a Latina as someone part of the LGBTQ community—Dr. King fought for civil rights that were about black people in this country and yet those very justices and equalities and freedoms and dreams included me. We now have to make sure this dream includes everybody, and right now, I don't believe the dream as we know it includes everyone, especially black and brown people in the United States. I firmly believe this.
I'm at King Library now, listening to the band Cigarette Break playing live as I write, wondering as I bop to Frankie Beverly and Maze’s “Can't Get Over You” and Stevie Wonder's “Do I Do” if I’ll be able to concentrate on finishing my column in these beautiful and loud conditions? I think the point of King’s birthday is a celebration meant to honor his life. Part of his legacy is that we can gather as black, brown, white, Asian, Native, straight and gay (I'm old school, so I also use the word “gay” to describe LGBTQ people, don't get it twisted). The fact that the Milwaukee Public Library does this, year after year, to bring us together in one of the quietest, most public of places—amidst the books, magazines, CDs and DVDs, computers and, of course, those we hold near and dear, our librarians and library aides—is a wonderful thing.
I was raised with parents who were activists and a family foundation built on welcoming everyone, so we'd often go from our home on Seventh and Mitchell to Milwaukee’s North Side for equal housing rallies, and to St. Francis Church where we'd gather with Puerto Ricans and black people and white people to pray together. We would march on National Avenue with other Mexicans and Mexican Americans for civil rights and economic equality. My parents raised us to go everywhere and anywhere with our heads held high as Mexican American children, and to this day, I feel I can go into any room proudly, even when my very presence is a bold statement of “I'm here, now what are you going to do?”
And I must say, this isn't completely absent when I walk into LGBTQ spaces in Milwaukee, where I am once again the minority or the token Latina in a majority white room, unless it's a space that is run by a person or group of color. It's uncomfortable and I have to remember to breathe and to look for someone I know so that I feel safe and secure. You may not guess this from looking at me or from knowing me, yet it is true, things get uncomfortable even for Carmen Alicia Murguia.
So when I am amongst my people, and “my people” encompasses a broad spectrum of both LGBTQ and straight—I could be grinning from ear to ear at This Is It! with my ginger ale or at a Tuesday night meeting at the Galano Club; I could be dancing to live music at Mexican Fiesta, the Puerto Rican Family Festival or Garfield Avenue Blues, Jazz, Gospel and Arts festival; and it could be visiting down at the Lakefront with friends from out of town that I haven't seen in a while—I feel good all over because I feel safe, confident, welcomed and sincere in my actions. I owe this ability to move through spaces to Dr. King's message that resonates in me: “I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up, live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal,’” and quite frankly, I like it like that!
Love, Carmen.
