After arrest of undocumented immigrant in Mollie Tibbetts case, Iowa town tries to escape the inescapable: politics
By
Katie Mettler
September 1
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Then, police found Tibbetts’s body discarded in a cornfield. They charged Cristhian Bahena Rivera, a local farmhand, with her murder. And they announced that Rivera, who had no prior criminal history, was an undocumented Mexican immigrant.
What Brooklyn wanted was to mourn, to avoid the politics.
“It was a crime that was committed because of something on the inside,” said Tibbetts’s close friend, Paris Flack, 17, “not because of his skin on the outside.”
But within hours of Rivera’s arrest, the tragedy within this small community became about partisan political division everywhere else.
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For most people in Brooklyn, though, Rivera’s legal status is a distraction. This time should be about Mollie, they say, not the man accused of killing her. They remain in disbelief that someone they know, who worked on a dairy farm operated by someone else they know, could have killed a young woman whom everyone seemed to know, too.
Soon, residents were retreating from their usual routines, avoiding the park, the grocery store, their own front yards, because the hatred being spewed out there had begun seeping in here, too. The wave of racist rhetoric prompted organizers to cancel two nearby Latino heritage festivals. At the high school, the principal used his annual welcome-back assembly to tell his students that prejudice had no place in their halls, even as one Latina student listening in the crowd would soon hear classmates whispering that people like her should go back to the border.
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Immigrant families have been drawn here by the work opportunities in the meatpacking industry, on construction crews and as farmhands. The Latino population in town has grown steadily since 2000, yet it still makes up just 2.3 percent of the population.
Brooklyn’s Latino residents say they have felt welcome in this town, which sits halfway between Iowa City and Des Moines along Interstate 80, but there have been subtle tensions. Language barriers create some separation, and there are cultural disconnects: In Mexico, quinceañeras are a community affair. Here, they are not.
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The hatred forced Dane Lang, 33, who lives on the farm alongside his grandfather and employees, to send his dog to stay with a friend and to arrange for the family’s 90-year-old patriarch to stay with relatives. Then he reluctantly called a news conference to explain that the business had run Rivera’s documents through a Social Security database before they had hired him, not knowing the paperwork was false.
The Langs know the Tibbetts family well, and soon after the news conference, a Tibbetts family member reached out to apologize to Lang for all the farm was facing. “Don’t you be sorry,” Lang said, adding that the worst was yet to come. Next would be the trial.
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Rivera’s uncle, Eustaquio “Capi” Bahena Radilla, said he fears less for himself than for his three school-age children. Most days, Bahena Radilla socializes only with co-workers at Yarrabee Farms. Even if he spent more time in town, he wouldn’t know if neighbors were whispering about him — he doesn’t speak English.
But his children go to school with their children.
“My concern is that people will treat them badly or look at them differently,” Bahena Radilla said, through an interpreter.
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Trying to move on
By the end of the week, Brooklyn finally found refuge in something routine: Friday night lights.
At the high school football season opener on Aug. 24, an away game two counties over, Brooklyn’s high school asked the host team to keep the evening focused on football. Brooklyn Bears teammates — including Mollie’s brother Scott,
who plays quarterback — would wear Mollie’s initials on their uniforms, and the cheerleaders would tie teal ribbons in their hair. They wanted nothing more.
On the sidelines and in the stands, Latino and white children cheered together, though outside politics had influenced them, too. The 10th-grade girl who heard classmates saying people like her should go back to Mexico had since received 10 text messages, mostly from strangers, filled with hate. She didn’t know how they had gotten her number.
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She had done what she had been advised to do, she said: delete the message, block the number and, like everyone else in town, try to move on.
After arrest of undocumented immigrant in Mollie Tibbetts case, Iowa town tries to escape the inescapable: politics