*This is a work of fiction, based upon current events. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.*
Four days ago, my little family–Mamá, Papá, Abuela, Abuelo’s cigars, and I–were pushed into a white van in the middle of the night. Everyone was shouting about tents, the government, and something called deportation. I didn’t understand. My parents held onto both my hands, gripping them so hard my knuckles turned white. Mamá was panicking. Papá tried to calm her down.
“Estaremos bien. No pueden llevar a Linda.” (We will be okay. They can’t take Linda.) Papá’s voice was flat and serious, like when he tells me stories about his abuelo. But his eyes were wide and full of fear.
The van halted. Doors opened up.
“Salir del vehiculo. Niños a la izquierda. Adultos a la derecha.” (Exit the vehicle. Children on the left. Adults on the right.) I looked to my mamá. My entire body had become solid ice.
“¡No! ¡Mi bebé!” (No! My baby) Mamá’s eyes leaked tears, dropping down to the ripped up leather seats. Papá grabbed her hand, pulling us both of the car. Abuela led the way, spitting venom with each curse word like a desert rattlesnake. One guard glared at my abuela, looking down to her four foot eleven frame, before he forcibly turned her and put handcuffs on her.
“¡Abuela!” I cried out to her, feeling my own cheeks hot and wet. She looked over to me, a darkness growing in her pupils.
“Se valiente, cariño.” (Be brave, darling.) Abuela was led away, to the right with the other adults. Papá and Mamá still held on tightly to me. A monstrous man in a tan uniform approached us. The first thing I saw was the gun strapped to his waistband. I cowered behind my papá, gripping onto his waistband with one hand and my mamá’s hand with the other. Was he going to shoot us?
“El niño viene con nosotros,” (The child comes with us) he said without even looking down to me. He only looked to Papá. Suddenly, hands were taken away from me. I reached out to them, but two guards clicked the metal rings around their wrists. Mamá and Papá looked to me with rivers pouring out of their tear ducts.
“¡No! ¡Linda!” My entire body felt as stiff as El Ángel but I felt as small as a flea. The guard was too strong. I kicked and punched, squirming out of his grasp, but with no success. His two hands had a strong grip on me. Chuckles escaped him.
“You’re a fighter, aren’t you? Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re going to take good care of you.” The words went in one ear and out the other. My arms reached out to my family. I was so close to breaking free, falling to the ground to join my parents. I cried out, feeling the strength of the man’s arms hurting my waist, pressing down on my little bones. It felt like he could crack them if he added any more strength. One hand grabbed some of my pink tank top, lowering me enough to trap me. There was no escaping now.
We walked toward the chorus of crying babies and children of all ages and sizes inside the white tents. Mamá, Papá, and Abuela went into the darkness, leaving behind the lines of lights and me. I searched for them in the distance, but I couldn’t see them no matter how hard I tried. No matter how hard I squinted, I couldn’t make out their bodies. All I could hear was Mamá screaming.
“¡Devuélveme a mi hija! ¡Devuélveme a mi hija!” (Give me back my daughter! Give me back my daughter!)
***
“¡Cuadrante A7! ¡Todos los niños se ponen de pie!” (Quadrant A7! All children stand up!) Above the cries of the infants, there’s movement. Kids use their dirtied hands and push up off the concrete floors. All around us, the cages are empty. They had been for hours. Days. The uniformed men guided them out the door, not answering their questions in English or Spanish, and they were never seen again.
With one gentle swing below me, I pick up a little girl with black ringlet curls and big brown eyes surrounded by puffy red pouches. Her hands wipe across her eyes again, for the dozenth time that morning, and the hundredth time this weekend. I didn’t know her name. I didn’t know how old she was, but I guessed she was at least two years old. But I changed her diapers, I held onto her while she slept, and looked after her.
Like a herd of cattle, we struggle to file out the door. The little girl wraps her arms around my neck and holds on for dear life, burying her head into my hair and sucking on one of her thumbs. I stand taller than most of the children here, but I was tall for a seven year old. Even my classmates back home would call me Linda la jirafa (Linda the giraffe). Papá always joked I was built like a basketball player.
I look back to the rows of mattresses, the smelly bathroom, and the piles of trash overflowing from the cans. I wouldn’t miss this place: the smell of dirty diapers, sweat, and Dial bar soaps they gave us to wash up. All I missed was home: the smell of Mamá’s homemade tamales. Papá’s barbecue on warm cotton candy summer nights. I even longed for the smell of my abuelo’s cigars, the ones that Abuela always kept in her purse.
“¿Eres tu familia?” (Are you family?) One of the guards bellows down to us. My little companion squeezes her limbs around me tighter, nearly choking me. I nod, looking him dead in the eye. The guard motions us to the right, to a longer line of children. They would never know if we weren’t anyways. They didn’t even ask for our names.
The little girl takes her head out from my neck to look at me. Then she turns to look in front of us.
“¿A dónde vamos?” (Where are we going?) She speaks for the first time in the three days we had spent together. I shrug and adjust my grip on her little body, running a few fingers down my spine like my mamá used to do to calm me down.
“No lo sé.” (I don’t know.) She stares at me for a moment, then returns to her place nestled in my neck with my curls covering her. The line shuffles every so slowly forward. I should be worried. I should be very concerned, and yet I’m not. The worst had already happened.
Finally, I see it: a line of white vans. The sheer look of them makes me pull the little girl closer to me. Are they going to separate us again?
“Quizás vayamos a nuestros padres ahora,” (Maybe we go to our parents now) the little girl whispered to me. I feel a little piece of my heart break. I want to believe Mamá, Papá, and Abuela are on the other side of this car ride. But I overheard the guards. It wasn’t going to happen. We are going to Neuva York.
I follow in after a few toddlers who were carefully strapped into their seats by guards. The toddlers keep on crying, shrieking out for their parents. The guards don’t say a word. They look at me.
“My sister stays with me,” I say in the same tone they had used with my parents. The guard laughs. I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but the dimples on his face appear as he shuts the door, still cackling as he gets into the passenger seat.
“Tu no eres mi hermana,” (You aren’t my sister) the little girl says in a mouse-like whisper. The car sputters to a start. My arms grips onto her tighter.
“Estamos ahora,” (We are now) I tell her, leaning my head onto hers. She sighs, relaxing on my chest. I shut my eyes. The little girl’s fingers twist into my hair. Her breathing slows. Her limbs turns to jello. My new sister settles into a slumber. I prop her head up to make sure she won’t fall over.
“Where do they go after New York?” The driver says with a glance over to the guard in the passenger seat. He shrugs to the man twisting the steering wheel, checking his phone.
“Foster care. Maybe families,” he says. Then there’s silence. Toddlers are still crying to themselves in the backseat.
Days ago, their pain was at full volume, overpowering all other noise. I got no sleep the first two nights. I swear people could hear them miles away. And yet, no one came for us. We remained in our tents. Now, we are off to the next place.
I shut my eyes, bowing my head like my familia did every night before bed to say a prayer.
Dios, I pray that you keep me and my new sister safe. Please keep all the children safe. Please give hope to my parents and Abuela. Send love to my family and let them know I am okay. Show me a sign that Nueva York will be better. Please show me that someday I’ll see my family again. Amen.
I glance out the window to the sky laced with stars and constellations. The van is on a highway now, speeding through the desert. We pass dozens of cacti, snakes, and muddy colored rocks. Then there it is: a little flicker in the sky, the tiny star that gleams just a little bit brighter than all the rest. It was His sign.
