Consider This from NPR - Black Immigrants in the South

Episode Date: June 7, 2023

Being Black and an immigrant is an increasingly common phenomenon in the South, where 1 in 10 Black people are immigrants. Still, despite growing numbers of Black immigrants in the region, their experience is fraught with worries over discrimination and assimilation. NPR's Leah Donnella reports on hurdles Black immigrants face in order to drive in Tennessee, a state with one of the fastest growing populations of Black immigrants in the South, and with few options for transportation.Learn more about sponsor message choices: podcastchoices.com/adchoicesNPR Privacy Policy

This message comes from Indiana University. Indiana University is committed to moving the world forward, working to tackle some of society's biggest challenges. Nine campuses, one purpose. Creating tomorrow, today. More at iu.edu. Many Black people in the South can trace their roots back to slavery. But for one in 10 Black people living in the region today, there's another origin story, immigration. One person one day, he was like, are you from Mexico? I was like, no, I'm from Honduras. And he was like, oh, there's Black people in Honduras?

I like to ask people what they know about Somalis. And unfortunately, what most people know about Somalis is like pirates, that's number one thing, hunger, and war. Maranjele Zapata and Leila Ahmed both live in Tennessee, which has one of the fastest growing populations of Black immigrants in the South. NPR's Leah Dinella spent months in the state talking to Black immigrants who have struggled to make sense of their racial identities here in the U.S., like Claude Gadabuke, who came to Nashville in 1995 from Rwanda. You know, Rwanda's a really beautiful country,

but at the time, the sky was covered with a big dark mushroom. And the stench of dust, smoke, burning structures, and decomposing human flesh made you want to throw up. I mean, I want to throw up now. Growing up, Gadabuke says most of his friends didn't know where he was from, and he didn't bother telling them. I was hiding from my story. Leah Dinella says immigrants now make up more than 12 percent of Nashville's population. But Black immigrants have been referred to as invisible because they're so rarely centered in national conversations around immigration policy. Still, many Black immigrants all over Tennessee are pushing for their cultures, histories, and identities to be recognized.

Consider This, being both Black and an immigrant in America, means navigating two identities fraught with worries about both discrimination and assimilation. From NPR, I'm Elsa Chang. It's Wednesday, June 7th. This message comes from WISE, the app for doing things in other currencies. Send, spend, or receive money internationally, and always get the real-time mid-market exchange rate with no hidden fees. Download the WISE app today or visit wise.com. T's and C's apply. Support for NPR comes from NPR member stations and Eric and Wendy Schmidt through the Schmidt Family Foundation, working together to create a just world where all people have access to renewable energy, clean air and water, and healthy food. The Schmidt Family Foundation is part of the philanthropic organizations and initiatives created and funded by Eric and Wendy Schmidt to work toward a healthy, resilient,

secure world for all. On the web at theschmidt.org. It's Consider This from NPR. Driving while black. That phrase conjures up all kinds of images, many of them violent encounters with police who disproportionately stop Black drivers. But for Black drivers who are also immigrants, there are other perils, including run-ins with immigration authorities. And just getting a driver's license can be a struggle, as NPR's Leah Dinella reports from Memphis, Tennessee.

From the moment Edwin Moussaferi arrived in the U.S., he said people had a lot of questions for him. Moussaferi is from Lusaka, the capital of Zambia and a city of more than 3 million people. And in June of 2022, when he moved to Memphis, he said it wasn't all that different. There was one big difference, though. he said it wasn't all that different. It's 70% like the place I came from. There was one big difference, though. In Memphis, his movement was a lot more constrained because of one simple factor, transportation. To go to work, you buy stuff around, you need to drive. Muzaffiri didn't know how.

And while that hadn't been a constraint for him before, in Memphis, it became a huge frustration. He had to call for a ride every time he wanted to do something simple like go grocery shopping or run errands. And how did Joe? Moussa Firi worked at Amazon first, then at DHL. But Joe, I really wanted any day to come. Moussa Firi is not alone. In many places, having a driver's license and access to a car determines a lot. What job you're able to hold, what time of day you can go out, and yes, when you can go grocery shopping. But for certain communities, the barriers to getting a driver's license are especially complex, even as the need is extraordinarily high. And black immigrants face specific challenges that can make driving risky, but choosing not to drive, economically and socially debilitating, especially in a city like Memphis. That's something that I have first-hand experience in.

That's Isaac James. James is the DEI officer at the non-profit Refugee Empowerment Program. That job involves a lot of different roles, but one of the most surprising? Driver's ed teacher. Quick backstory. In 2014, there was a group of new refugee families connected to Refugee Empowerment Program. They all found jobs, but they didn't drive. But they found somebody that worked with them that would be able to take them there and bring them back, as long as they paid gas. Except this person wouldn't always show up at the end of the shift. That was the night shift, by the way. So when they would get done work at 3, 4, 5 in the morning...

I would have to wake up to go get them. And that hurt me. Not the waking up part, he said. The fact that people in vulnerable situations were getting exploited. So eventually James made a decision. He was going to teach that family and people them, how to drive themselves. Because I was so infuriated by what I just saw. But James quickly realized that teaching people the driving itself, that would be the easy part. Because if you're driving a car, you don't need anybody else to tell you to turn left or to turn right. That becomes sort of second nature. The hard part? Everything else. While James' students focus on adjusting their mirrors, he's thinking about all the other stuff that goes along with getting behind the wheel,

like what to do if you get pulled over, how high stakes that interaction can be if you're Black, or someone who doesn't speak English, or both. The language issue has been particularly sticky. The written portion of the Tennessee driver's test is offered in just five languages, compared to 10 or 21 in neighboring states. And in Tennessee, if you speak a language that's not on the list, your options are limited. According to the Migration Policy Institute, there are tens of thousands of Tennesseans who speak African languages not on the test, and more than 30,000 people speak Arabic. The Arabic-speaking community has been particularly vocal about their frustrations, which has created some political momentum. In 2022, a bill was introduced in

Tennessee's state senate to provide interpreters for non-English speakers trying to get a driver's license, but that bill failed and it's unclear when there will be another. A bill isn't the only way to get a language added to the test. We reached out to the Tennessee Department of Transportation and the Tennessee Department of Safety and Homeland Security, and so far, neither has commented on which department is ultimately responsible for the decision to add new languages. So for now, the barriers remain. But for many, getting around without a car is just not feasible. Andrew Guthrie is a professor at the University of Memphis. He studies transportation and he says, The degree of sort of transit inaccessibility in Memphis really is exceptional.

For one thing, the city is incredibly spread out. For another, he says, Memphis Area Transit Authority is seriously underfunded. In 2019, their annual budget was about $59 million. And when you have that little money, it's very, very hard to get service on the street. For a lot of people, those transit issues turn into economic ones. In Memphis, as of 2012, median income for people who relied on public transportation was less than half of that for people who drove to work. So what do people do? Guthrie says many limit where they go.

Some folks walk and bike, which can be dangerous, and... There are actually fairly complex informal transportation networks that will spring up. Like what Moussa Firi was relying on in his early days, or what James was a part of. So the challenge for the communities we serve is, yes, the law says that I can't drive without a license, but the city and society that I'm in doesn't provide me reliable transportation, and so I'm between a rock and a hard place, right? Here's Isaac James from Refugee Empowerment Program again.

If I do drive, I have the possibility to retain work. I could take myself to doctor appointments. I could take my kids to school. But there is this threat of if I do get pulled over, right, what will the law do with me? That's a tough decision for anyone, but it hits certain communities differently. Driving without a license is a Class C misdemeanor in Tennessee. That means that for U.S. citizens, it can result in fines or jail time. For non-citizens, it could be used in justifications for removal. Nationally, Black Americans are 20% more likely

to be pulled over by the police for traffic stops than white Americans, and Black immigrants are disproportionately likely to be deported because of contact with police, which means that Black immigrants have a lot to keep in mind when weighing whether to get behind the wheel. It's a reality that became even more present for many in Memphis in January, with the widely publicized death of Tyree Nichols. So yes, Isaac James wants to teach his students how to drive, but he doesn't want to sugarcoat the realities they may face. In those sessions, it's being honest and vulnerable. My goal is to equip people with the knowledge and the skill set to be able to handle the road,

but I also need to prepare them for what the law might do. There are newcomers who want to contribute to making Memphis greater and better. Which brings us back to Musafiri. Over the summer, he became one of James' students, and he passed the test. So as soon as I got my high school jobs. Another big change? In September, Musafiri's parents and siblings joined him in Memphis, and he decided to give them driving lessons. He said his dad is pretty good. My older brother is good too. They're in the issues with my young sisters. Musafiri says they still need a little work making turns,

but at least he knows that they're moving in the right direction. That was NPR's Leah Dinella reporting from Memphis. It's Consider This from NPR. I'm Elsa Chang. Support for NPR and the'm Elsa Chang. Support for NPR and the following message come from Carnegie Corporation of New York, working to reduce political polarization through philanthropic support for education, democracy, and peace. More information at carnegie.org.