CROOKSTON (North Dakota) TIMES

April 26, 2008

Sanchez puts down roots, spends her days helping others

By Mike Christopherson, Managing Editor

In Leticia Sanchez's line of work, more than in many careers, it's probably important that she possess credibility. That certainly doesn't have to mean that she's ever been abused or has suffered from other, related health or safety issues.

But Sanchez, the intervention coordinator/supervisor for Migrant Health Service, Inc., the Hispanic Battered Women/Children's Program and the Sexual Assault Intervention Project, all housed in an office in downtown Crookston, knows what it's like to work extremely hard, and she knows what it's like to struggle. She knows what some Hispanic people go through up here in the Great White North, what they endure, when money is particularly tight, good work is hard to find, and if drinking, drug abuse and violence are added to the potentially volatile mix.

Sanchez was part of a migrant family, making her first trip from Texas to Minnesota when she was six years old. The family made the trip annually for 28 years. "My dad started coming up before getting married. He got married and started bringing up his family," she explained while seated in her office on a blustery afternoon. "I grew up here five, six months out of the year until I got married. Then I stayed here. This was already kind of a home for me."

On a typical family trip, nine people would pile into a station wagon with a luggage carrier. They packed light, Sanchez recalled, saying that each person brought a few changes of clothes. "You brought what you were going to use for that period of time," she said.

Later, they upgraded to a pickup with a camper, and sometimes two vehicles would make the trip together. The arrangement provided a little more comfort, but didn't amount to luxury, Sanchez joked. "Dad kept saying that it was a vacation, but it was mostly for work," she said. "We all worked in the fields. He was kind of a crew leader; he'd bring two or three men with him, and the family. He was 21 years old. That was 57 years ago. I finally got him to retire in 1985."

Obviously, Sanchez became very familiar "with that kind of life. I work with programs that deal with the migrant population, something I've always kind of been in touch with."

Her dad was a watchmaker. In Texas, he was self-employed at times and also worked with some jewelry stores. Her mom worked at a Dickies plant, making work pants and other garments. "They had a job when we went back in October; my dad always wanted to be back in Texas by Nov. 2, what we called our Memorial Day. Our extended family was there and grandma had passed away on Nov. 2, and we always wanted to make sure we were home by that day."

Having Sanchez and her two sisters working in the fields with their mother provided an opportunity for family bonding, but there was also a financial benefit, she said. "Some of our closest times were when we were out in the fields. We'd be out there from 6, 7 a.m. until 9 p.m., no matter the weather, unless it was a total downpour," Sanchez recalled. "We really worked hard, probably harder than some people might think. But as a group, we made quite a bit of money."

Here now, and busy

Sanchez met her husband, Fermin, in Texas. He's the assistant manager of an elevator in Halstad. When they first got married, they lived near Borup, close to where Fermin worked until a few years ago. They recently moved to Crookston about 18 months ago, and Sanchez's 17-year, 50-mile one-way commute was suddenly reduced dramatically.

"Once gas really started going up and he was traveling 30 or so miles in addition to my driving, we figured someone had to give it up," she said. "I said I drive 50 miles, so he can keep driving."

Sanchez first started working for the American Migrant Council in Ada, which also had an office in Crookston. The central office is in St. Cloud. She was a developer for the council and also worked in human resources. It didn't take long for her familiarity with the region, its people and its resources to start paying off. "I kind of started working through that, and later started to see a lot of victims of domestic violence," she said. "They were migrants, they had nowhere to go, and the language barrier is a big challenge. It was very difficult for me to see them go through these things and there was nothing there for them."

So she started to fine-tune her work, so it targeted needs that weren't being met by the resources already in place. She eventually took a year-round position with the Minnesota Migrant Council, after starting out the job on a seasonal basis. "My parents hadn't retired yet, and I had an obligation to be out there with them working," Sanchez said. "Once they retired I didn't have that responsibility, so I could work more for the council. A lot of Latinos do that; they feel an obligation to their parents, to working hard and helping out. Once I got them to retire, I could start concentrating more on my professional work."

Migrant Health Services and the Minnesota Migrant Council have been around since 1973. The council started concentrating more on employment and training issues, so local programming turned more toward a health and safety focus. In 1989, the specific program was named the Hispanic Battered Women and Children's program, she explained, gesturing to the "family tree" logo on the office wall. "If the roots are bad, there are problems, but the hands become the supportive services, which is the program," Sanchez said, referring to the hands coming up from under the tree. "We became the services to help make the tree healthy again."

Offices opened in Crookston and Moorhead, and seven counties are served. In 1994, funding was secured to offer sexual assault support services. "We were doing the services but we didn't have the funding," she said. They receive state foundation dollars under the umbrella of federal programming, but the non-profit agency is always submitting paperwork and seeking ongoing funding to keep the services going.

"It's kind of a double-edged sword," Sanchez said. "We receive United Way funding, but to receive that or other kinds of funding you need to show need, and there is a need for what we do."

Days vary

Sanchez is busy these days, busier than usual. It's been that way for a few months, she said, and has her wondering sometimes if there's a perpetual full moon in the sky. "Some days are overwhelming and some are a little slower," she said. "That's when I try to catch up on paperwork."

A person might simply walk through the front door looking for help. Someone might call the 24-hour crisis line. Law enforcement might call, with the name of someone who needs help. That goes for several other agencies, too, that will call with a referral. "Word of mouth is big for us," Sanchez said.

The programs serve Latinos, some Native Americans, people of color and even Caucasians, she explained. "We are funded to serve the underserved population," Sanchez said. "Anyone who walks through the door, if they need services they will get them."

Sometimes the need is of the immediate, crisis nature, and doctors or law enforcement will be called, and emergency shelter and emergency financial assistance will be sought. Then, there's a great deal of "personal advocacy," but Sanchez said it's often an uphill battle simply because of the language barrier. "Even with all the resources we have available, bilingualism is critical throughout the whole process," she said. "Language has lots of limitations and can be very isolating. A lot of education is needed, and I'll put on a lot of different hats depending on the immediate crisis."

But with the personal advocacy step comes empowerment over a period of time that extends well beyond the immediate crisis, she said. That could mean getting someone into an English-as-a-second-language class, or helping kids. "With Latinos, there are the traditional people, then there are those who have integrated much better and their need for services varies," Sanchez said. "There's a lot of misinformation with the population we serve. These are the first, second and third generations in the United States. They're legal citizens, residents. There are a lot of differences we deal with."

The numbers of people served vary. She can serve 30 different clients with no duplication in a quarter, and the numbers usually rise as more people realize that there are resources and services there to help them. "Usually, a person will walk in here, and it's another victim we've served before that has told them about us," Sanchez said. "They're able to speak in their own language because it's an emotional situation, and it's easier for them to speak in their first language rather than having to think about how to say something correctly. It helps them focus and get to the root of the problem."

There are very frustrating days when, she said, it's clear that the system simply isn't working for some people, who are "revictimized." She's been working with one client since 2006, and it's two steps forward, two steps back. "It's just the obstacles that add up," Sanchez said. "There's crying, frustration...wondering when is it going to end."

Some cases work out well because the right pieces fall into place. "You're done, you move forward, you see empowerment and overcoming. You see a glow in the whole family," she explained. "It's no longer a destructive family situation. You see therapy, a driver's license, schools, getting better jobs. It's rewarding when you see that. You see someone completely isolated with absolutely nothing. Then you help build them up. You see the kids come in and you can't believe the joy because they're smiling. Doors have been opened that they didn't even know were there."

But there are bad days, too. The abuser keeps abusing and just won't let go of the negative, dangerous situation. "It just has a ripple effect that is very destructive," Sanchez said. "The system works OK, you do all the right things, with the safety plans and the orders for protection. They have shelter, but there are violations and good things don't happen. They're not paying child support, there's contempt of court and nothing seems to be getting done. Those days are tough, going to court over and over, accusing them of things they have or haven't done."

Substance abuse, human trafficking

Alcohol and drug abuse don't go as hand-in-hand with the abusive situations as some people might think, Sanchez stressed. "Some people don't do any of that and they're still being abusive," she explained. "Obviously, alcohol and drugs make a situation more dangerous for victims and kids. Sometimes you really worry and you have to relocate victims for their safety. Some have a history of felonies."

But, oh, can they be smooth. "Some of those abusers are very good charmers, and the worst part is when a woman has the language barrier and he doesn't," Sanchez said. "The only voice heard is the abuser's, and he's the one doing the translating. Oh, wow, it makes it much worse. She'll be facing a backlash, and you see who they pay attention to. You want to make sure they have a translator, but it can be too late and you have more trauma."

Sanchez also works with human trafficking, whether someone was brought here with promises of visas but there's no follow-through, or people are conned to come here, she said, maybe to get married. "They become isolated and there's exploitation, prostitution, just horrible things," she said.

Recent data show that Minnesota is the 13th worst state when it comes to human trafficking. "That's pretty alarming, and there are some in this area, yes," she said, adding that resources are somewhat limited in rural Minnesota but that Twin Cities resources come in handy.

Whether it's human trafficking or other needs that must be met, Migrant Health is tapping into technology to get more people the help they need as quickly as possible. Sanchez said they have bilingual crisis lines and a national directory helps remove geography from the list of hurdles. "We're talking about migrants a lot of the time, and they are coming and going," she said. "If the abuser is moving around with them, the need certainly isn't going to stop here. We'll get calls, with a victim saying, 'he found me.' We can't stop helping then."

Sanchez doesn't have a big sign on her office door or even on the building. It's a privacy thing, and a safety thing. She doesn't necessarily want it known to a wide audience where exactly the office is located. "Most families that have resettled here are by themselves and they become pretty isolated and that can mean the victim is under the control of the abuser because that's all they have," she said. "It's good for them to know we're here. The abuser might go by and not know, but the victim knows we're here, and that's all that matters."