In the Country We Love

by Diane Guerrero

  “Your parents have been taken,” she said glibly, as if she was reporting the weather forecast.

  “Um, what?” I blustered. My head felt like it was about to fall off my shoulders, tumble to the ground, and burst open right there in front of her. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the immigration officers came here and arrested them,” she shot back. “They’re gone.”

  I glared at her, all of a sudden feeling dizzy. The foyer began to spin, faster and faster, as if I was stuck in a washing machine. “No!” I wailed with my palms over my temples. I swayed forward, then back, and caught myself before falling onto the linoleum. “They’re not gone!” I squealed. The woman didn’t blink.

  “Anyone you want me to call?” she asked. I was too distraught to answer. My moans turned to howls.

  “Well,” she said, realizing I wasn’t going to respond, “let me know if you need anything, okay?” I didn’t answer. I staggered into the house and slammed the door.

  What am I going to do? My thoughts raced faster than my heartbeat. I need to call someone. I hurried to the living room and grabbed our cordless from its base. I dialed the number of my niece’s mother, Gloria. Ring. Ring. Ring. She picked up.

  “Hello, Gloria?” I whimpered.

  She paused. “What’s wrong, Diane?”

  “My parents have been taken!” I shouted into the receiver. Hot tears escaped from my lids and splashed onto my T-shirt.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “The police came here and arrested them!” I hollered.

  Dead silence.

  Even in my hysteria, I was already trying to find a way to fix things—to line up a new life for myself. “Can I stay with you?” I asked between gasps. “Maybe you can move in here. I can watch Erica for you. I’ll go to school and get a job.”

  She sighed. “Diane, that’s not a good idea,” she said. “I don’t think it would work.”

  I heard what she said, but I couldn’t quite comprehend what it meant for me. “So what am I supposed to do?” I sniveled.

  “For now,” she said, “don’t open your door for anyone. We don’t really know what’s happening yet. The police might return there. Stay out of sight until we can figure something out.”

  Beyond terrified, I scurried back to the front door to be positive it was chained and bolted. I turned off every light, closed all the blinds, went into my room, and locked the door. With the cordless in hand, I got on the floor and scooted all the way under my bed. Our house had never felt more quiet or scary.

  I cried as softly as I could, my dad’s words reverberating in my head. “If anything ever happens to us,” he’d often told me, “you’ve gotta be strong.” But I didn’t feel strong; I felt weak and abandoned. I put the phone’s dial pad right up to my eyes so I could see the digits in the dark. I called another lifeline—Amelia, the mother of my friend Gabriela.

  “Amelia?” I whispered.

  She picked up on my distress. “What’s going on, sweetie?” she asked.

  In hushed tones, I told Amelia all that had happened, from my discovery that Mami and Papi were gone. “Where are you?” she asked. “Under my bed.” “Stay where you are,” she told me. “Don’t move. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Minutes later, the phone rang; I saw Amelia’s name on the caller ID and picked up on the first ring. “It’s me, Diane,” she said on her cell. “I’m here. You can let me in.” At the door, I looked through the peephole to confirm it was Amelia and not the police. After opening the door, I fell right into her arms. Gaby was there too. “It’s okay, Diane,” she repeated as she stroked my hair. “Everything’s going to be fine now. Gaby, go make some tea.”

  The phone rang again. It was my father.

  “Hector?” she said. “Yes, I’m here with Diane.” I listened intently to Amelia’s side of the conversation and pieced together how the day had unfolded. My parents had been taken separately. Mami, who’d been making dinner, was arrested in the late afternoon while Papi was on his way home from work. My father pulled into the driveway to discover that the immigration officers had surrounded the house; they were waiting to put him in handcuffs. Papi was driven to a facility for men, Mami to one for women. My father was allowed to make one short call. This was it.

  Amelia, shaking her head in sorrow at what she’d heard, handed the phone to me. “Your father wants to speak to you,” she said. I pressed the receiver to my ear.

  “Papi,” I said with a scratchy voice, “where are you?”

  “Listen to me, Diane,” he said sternly. “Don’t be afraid. You’re a smart girl.” My eyes filled with a fresh round of tears. “Don’t cry, Diane. Do not cry. Now I need you to pay attention,” he continued, “because I don’t have much longer on the phone. Go in our room and pack our suitcases, one for me and one for your mother. We’ll need some of our things in Colombia.”

  “What?” I shrieked. Mami and Papi had been in prison for less than twenty-four hours, yet my father was convinced they’d be deported. “But can’t we do something to stop this?” I pushed.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” he said matter-of-factly. The only way he and Mami might have a chance at staying, he explained, was if a top-level attorney took their case; even with Papi’s stroke of fortune, he didn’t have the money for a pricey lawyer. “I’ve asked Amelia if you can stay with her,” he told me. I heard a guard ordering Papi to finish his call. “So you’ll be with her, okay? I love you. I’ve gotta go now.” Click. I put down the phone and sat there helpless.

  A while later, I pulled myself together so I could complete the task Papi had given me; Amelia made some calls to her family while I slipped into my parents’ room to pack. I scooted a ladder to their closet, climbed atop, and steadied myself. I carefully slid their bags from a shelf above; I threw the bags onto the nearby bed and stepped down. I had no clue where to begin. What the heck do you pack for two people who’ll never return? I searched through their drawers and closet, pulling out random items. A lot of shirts and pants. Several pairs of shoes. And a couple of coats and sweaters. Done.

  As I zipped the bags, I heard something. I peeked out the door and into the hall. The commotion was coming from the kitchen. I made my way there. When I reached the doorway, two men and three women, all neighbors from our street, peered at me. Word about my parents’ capture had apparently gotten out. Amelia had let the neighbors in, thinking they’d come by to offer me their sympathies. What happened instead still pains me.

  “What are you doing?” I asked one of the women. She was standing in front of our open fridge with a large plastic bag in her hand. It appeared she was packing up our fruits and vegetables.

  “Your parents won’t need this food anymore,” she snapped. “We might as well take it.” Before I could respond, Amelia walked in.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the woman. “Can you please put that back and leave?” The lady glared at her and slammed the fridge closed without returning the food she’d stolen. I was dumbfounded. I was already feeling so vulnerable, and the people my parents had called friends were looting their home. It was the ultimate insult. And ironically, it was in that moment, one with others surrounding me, that I felt most alone. In an effort to guard our remaining possessions, I marched from the kitchen and locked every door in the house.

  With my parents’ suitcases stuffed, I needed to prepare a bag for myself. I didn’t know when I’d return to the house, or if I would; when everything you’ve known has just crumbled, nothing seems certain. I packed plenty of school clothes, my books, and a Norma Jean mini Cabbage Patch doll that Papi had given me for Christmas. When I went into the bathroom to gather my toiletries, more tears flowed. It was like I had crying Tourette’s. All around me were signs of what my parents thought would be an ordinary evening. Mami’s rosary hanging on the towel rack. Papi’s cotton balls that he’d stuff into his ears before he showered. I opened the medicine cabinet, took out my toothbrush, and shut the glass again.
There, in the mirror, I gazed at a face I didn’t know. Puffy eyes. Numb lips. Raw.

  Amelia tapped on the bathroom door. “You all right, hon?” she asked.

  “I’ll be out in a sec,” I told her.

  Once we’d dragged the suitcases to her Camry, we did a final walk-through of the house to secure it. In the living room, I looked to be sure I wasn’t leaving behind anything I’d need. On the way out the door, I retrieved the spare key we had hidden under our mat. “I should probably take this,” I said. Amelia nodded.

  Just before we got in the car, Gloria drove up. She got out, ran over to me, and we hugged. Amelia told her she’d heard from Papi. “She’ll stay with me for now,” Amelia told her. “I’ll look after her.” Gloria thanked her, and we parted.

  Amelia’s home in Roslindale was only ten minutes from us. She shared a small house with her son and two daughters; Gabriela was the youngest. My best friend helped me lug the bags into the bedroom we’d share. Because I’d spent so much time at Gabriela’s, it thankfully felt familiar. Comfortable. Safe. Amelia also did all she could to welcome me. “Here you are,” she said, giving me fresh linens and towels. “Make yourself at home.”

  After showering and putting on my PJs, I called my aunt and uncle in New Jersey. In utter disbelief, they listened as I recounted the day’s horrors. “What are you going to do?” my aunt Milly asked. “Well,” I said, “I’m going to stay here for now. Papi asked Amelia if I could.” Only hours had passed since my parents had been detained, yet I’d already resolved something in my heart. I would not leave Boston. I would not throw away the miracle I’d been given to attend Boston Arts Academy. Getting into that school had been the greatest thing that had happened to me—and I was not willing to give it up. Whatever I needed to do to stay, I was ready to do that and more.

  That evening in the dark, with Norma Jean at my side, I stared up at the ceiling from my twin bed. I thought of how the week had begun, with Mami’s bizarre dream. I thought of my father’s exuberance, the delight that spread across his face upon winning the money. I thought of the thousands of moments, large and small, that had led me to this house. This bed. This life. I tried not to cry, because I didn’t want to wake Gabriela. But I couldn’t help it. She heard me sniffling and sat up.

  “You scared?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “I know,” she said. “What you’re going through is scary.”

  A wave of comfort washed over me. My friend hadn’t urged me to be strong. She hadn’t told me to stand tall or soldier on. She hadn’t uttered the shallow reassurance that I’d get through this. Rather, she’d given me permission, right before sleep, to be the frightened little girl that I was.

  * * *

  The morning after the nightmare, I opened my eyes and looked around slowly. Where am I? And then all at once, the horrible memory of the day before came flooding back. Yes, I thought. It really happened.

  I went to school that day. Amelia, a nurse’s assistant, dropped me and Gaby off on her way to work. I was physically present, but my head was on another planet. I basically sleep-walked through my classes and tried to forget the devastation, to tuck it away behind some secret door of my heart. As out of it as I was, I was glad I’d come to campus. Being there was a distraction from the trauma. And with Springfest on the way, I didn’t want to miss rehearsal.

  That afternoon during chorus, Mr. Stewart sensed something was off with me. “You okay?” he asked. I nodded and mustered a fake smile. He likely knew I was hiding something, but he didn’t pry. I was as humiliated as I was heartbroken. Now, years later, some of my former high school classmates have said to me, “I had no idea you were going through that. You didn’t talk about it.” Exactly. The last thing in the world I’d ever do was talk about it. What child wants the world to know that her parents have been forced into custody and thrown into a detention center? It is mortifying.

  Over the next week, I had short conversations with Mami and Papi. The calls were all the same—tears, a string of apologies from both, instructions on what to do, who to call. I was exhausted and just wanted to be a kid. They’d each been appointed lawyers, but as they’d suspected, their chances of remaining here were minuscule. Because my parents couldn’t speak to each other from their facilities, I became their go-between.

  “How’s your mother holding up?” Papi asked.

  “Okay, I guess,” I told him, not sure how to answer that question. I wasn’t exactly taking notes on Mami’s emotional state, with my own in such shambles.

  “Has anyone from immigration tried to contact you?” my father asked.

  “No,” I told him. Not only had US Immigration and Customs Enforcement been silent, I also hadn’t received a call from Massachusetts’s Child Protective Services. At fourteen, I’d been left on my own. Literally. When the authorities made the choice to detain my parents, no one bothered to check that a young girl, a minor, a citizen of this country, would be left without a family. Without a home. Without a way to move forward. I’m fortunate that Amelia agreed to take me in temporarily, but no one in our government was aware that she’d done so. In the eyes of the ICE, it was as if I didn’t exist. I’d been invisible to them.

  Two weeks after my parents were sent to prison, I received word that I could visit Papi. By then, both he and Mami had been transferred from jails in Boston to detention centers in New Hampshire. One part of me longed to see my father, but another part, the part that needed some distance from the ordeal, dreaded the visit.

  Amelia drove us there. “How about a little music?” she offered, trying to lighten the mood during the two-hour trip. “No thanks,” I muttered. Along the highway, I brightened up upon spotting a Wendy’s billboard.

  “Can we get some lunch there?” I asked Amelia.

  “Of course,” she said. I had fond memories of going to that restaurant with my dad when I was a kid. I loved the Frosty shake, the chicken nuggets with all those sauces, the red and yellow walls and tables. Our stop brought me a little consolation ahead of what I was about to face.

  We at last reached the prison, a set of brown-brick buildings in the middle of nowhere. Barbed-wire fence surrounded the facility. We drove through a few security checkpoints, including one with barking Dobermans. I couldn’t believe that my papi, a man who’d never jaywalked or run a red light, had found himself in a place like this.

  Inside, our purses were thoroughly searched. A guard instructed us on a list of visitation rules; no articles or gifts, for instance, were to be directly given to the inmates. Once we’d made it through the metal detector, we dropped off the suitcase I’d packed for Papi. We were then led to a large, windowless area where about fifty others were waiting. I scanned the room. A few people were alone. Others were in groups. Some had small children with them. All were there for the same reason I was—to spend a few minutes with someone whose status was up in the air. A thin, blond guy, another guard, addressed those assembled. “The inmates will be escorted here shortly,” he announced. “Please remember to observe all facility regulations. Any violation may result in the future suspension of visitation privileges.” Amelia and I locked eyes.

  A door opened at the room’s side. In single file behind two guards, the male prisoners entered. All wore orange jumpsuits. Amelia and I rose in anticipation of finding Papi. One prisoner. Two. Seven. Ten. Inmate after inmate emerged, but we didn’t see my father. Others were hugging their loved ones and settling in to talk as we continued to wait. At last, after about thirty men had come in, I spotted Papi. He noticed us, and with his face down, he shuffled in our direction.

  I hardly recognized my father. His chin and neck were covered in stubble. His hair was unkempt, his teeth yellow. He’d lost at least fifteen pounds. Months before, in that lawyer’s empty office, I’d seen my father at his most powerless. This was worse. In his eyes, I saw the look of defeat. Despair. Resignation.

  We hugged. “Forgive me,” he told me once he’d let me go. “I don’t ha
ve any toothpaste in here.” My father, so meticulous about hygiene, was self-conscious about his breath and appearance. He cupped his hand over his mouth in shame.

  I glanced around nervously, unsure of what to say. “How are you, hija?” Papi asked to break the ice. I started to cry. “Don’t cry,” he told me. I could tell he wanted to hug me, but he couldn’t. One of the rules was limited contact. “We talked about this,” he told me. “You knew this could happen.”

  A shot of anger surged through me, which caught me by surprise. My father was right: I’d been aware I could lose him and Mami. Maybe. One day. Some other time. But as the seasons rolled on and my fear hadn’t yet come true, I’d been lulled into thinking it wouldn’t happen. Life does that to us. Deep down, we know what may come to pass, but we hope that what we dread can be permanently put off. We convince ourselves it may never occur, because if it were going to, it would’ve already. Then without warning, reality socks us in the face and we realize how foolish it was to believe we’d been spared. And however many years we spent agonizing about what tragedy may come, the sting is no less severe when it does. I knew all along that my folks could be taken—and it still hurt like hell when they actually were.

  Amelia opened her purse, handed me a tissue, and we all sat down. “So have you been keeping up with your schoolwork?” my father asked.

  “Yes,” I said, gripping the edges of the hard plastic chair so tightly that my knuckles turned white. Small talk—that’s all we could manage in a situation like this. Anything more would involve addressing the gigantic white elephant in the room, the inevitability that we’d soon be forced apart. Since my father didn’t have the heart to go there, he initially kept the conversation light.

  “Have you been eating?” my father asked.

  I looked over at Amelia. “Yes, everything’s good, Papi,” I told him. “I’m sharing a room with Gabriela. It’s nice.”

  My dad turned to Amelia, who hadn’t spoken a word. “Thank you so much for taking her in,” he told her. Amelia nodded. “Maria and I appreciate it. We really do. We can never repay you.” My father would, however, try. The two agreed that, from Colombia, he’d send some money each month to cover my basic expenses.