Etiqueta: immigration

A COVID Inmate

Photo by Xiaoyi

She was arrested the Friday before the Monday when we were sent back home from the office. She would spend the next three months in a cell up north, waiting to be transferred to Louisiana. Louisiana had the reputation of being an overcrowded prison, where the inmates passed their days reading the same books and sweating in the humidity. But nothing was worse than up north. 

The COVID measures called for the inmates to be socially distanced, so the guards would let the white women roam freely on the high-ceiling patio while she and the other women of color waited inside their 6-foot cells. Some women had stolen vehicles and trafficked drugs, but there was no worse crime than crossing the border without the proper paperwork. She was deemed more «dangerous,» so she was also denied the books and the menstrual pads. 

There were no visitation rights or paper letters, and she would wait every day for my call. The call was her only chance to escape confinement, but at 15 dollars per 30-minute phone call, nobody could afford more than one a day. On the phone, she would cry the whole time, and I would wait for her to stop with nothing to say. 

I would google her stories all day at work, as they were hard to believe. And then, when the afternoons came, I would sit down staring out the window with my bubbly beer until night. I was alone without her, and my infinite rage made me hopeless. I wrote her 72 letters that were never sent in the solitude of the travel bans, the closed restaurants, and the shutdown of offices.  

One morning, I received the news that she had been transferred. My heart bloomed with joy, knowing she was closer to being finally deported. It’s strange what the heart ends up wishing for. 

I cry for her to this day because I know I’ll never see her again.

Ni cielo ni infierno (English – Español)

English version

Cuando estaba en la universidad, salía a protestar contra la política imperialista de los Estados Unidos. En marchas de miles, gritábamos: “Fuera Yankees de Colombia”. Estábamos cansados de una política que restaba soberanía a nuestro país y nos fumigaba con veneno. Por eso, mudarme a los Estados Unidos significó, en cierta medida, una traición a mis ideales. 

Hoy, tras diez años, puedo decir que mi perspectiva de los Estados Unidos ha cambiado poco. Ahora, estando adentro, conozco de primera mano sus inconsistencias. Hay personas y situaciones que me hacen voltear los ojos. Es un país contradictorio que tiene una perspectiva salvaje del libre mercado. 

Pero al hacer el balance de estos diez años, también puedo decir que ―a pesar de todo― los Estados Unidos me han tratado bien. He logrado cosas que pensé jamás lograría y otras de las que siempre tuve convicción. Aprendí un segundo idioma y a conducir un auto. Hice nuevas amistades con personas tan distintas como mis gustos musicales. Subí en el escalafón profesional y voy camino a graduarme de un doctorado. Compré una casa y he viajado a muchas ciudades. Mi hija crece con amor y oportunidades. 

No siempre ha sido fácil. Al partir, dejé atrás el amor de quienes me querían y rompí lazos que se habían formado con el tiempo. Llegué con tres maletas y menos de 200 dólares en el bolsillo. Tuve que empezar mi carrera de nuevo porque mi experiencia pasada ya no valía. Lloré en noches heladas en la oscuridad de Nueva Inglaterra. Enfrenté un choque cultural que me dejó claro que nunca perteneceré a este país donde tengo la piel oscura y mi idiosincrasia se menosprecia. Perdí un empleo en el país de los despidos masivos. Y he tenido que probarme a mí misma minuto a minuto. 

Hay días en que es claro que vivir en los Estados Unidos no es el infierno, pero tampoco el cielo. Y hay otros días donde no es el cielo pero tampoco el infierno. No me siento atada a este lugar ni le debo lealtad. Pero, en cierta forma, siempre agradeceré el haber vivido esta experiencia. 

Hoy escribo con amor para los amigos que me quieren y la familia que me ama. Los de aquí y los de allá. Los cheerleaders que me dieron fuerza en los momentos más difíciles. Escribo para los que extraño y para los que veo cada día. Por todo esto, doy gracias. 

Neither Heaven Nor Hell

When I was in college, I used to protest against the imperialist policies of the United States. Thousands marched and shouted: “Yankees, out of Colombia.” We were tired of its policies that took away our country’s sovereignty and fumigated us with poison. Moving to the United States meant, to a certain extent, a betrayal of my ideals. 

Today, after ten years, I can say that my perspective on the United States hasn’t changed much. Now, being here, I know its inconsistencies firsthand. Some people and situations make me roll my eyes. In many ways, it’s a contradicting country that has a savage take on the free market. 

But when I take stock of these ten years, I can also say that, despite everything, the United States has treated me well. I have achieved things I thought I would never achieve and others I always had conviction about. I learned a second language and how to drive a car. I made new friendships with people as diverse as my musical tastes. I climbed the career ladder and am on track to complete a doctorate. I bought a house and have traveled all over. My daughter is growing up with love and opportunities.

It hasn’t always been easy. When I left, I left behind those who loved me and broke ties that had been formed over many years. I arrived with three suitcases and less than 200 dollars in my pocket. I had to restart my career because my past experience was no longer valid. I cried on freezing nights in the darkness of New England. I faced a culture shock that told me that I would never belong in this country where I have dark skin and my background is belittled. I lost a job in the country of mass layoffs. And I’ve had to prove myself every minute. 

There are days when it’s clear that living in the United States isn’t hell, but it’s not heaven either. And there are other days where it isn’t heaven but not hell either. I don’t feel tied to this place nor do I owe it loyalty. But in a way, I will always be grateful for having had this experience.

Today, I write with love for the friends and family who love me. Those from here and those from there. The cheerleaders who gave me strength in the most difficult moments. I write for those I miss and for those I see every day. For all this, I’m grateful.