LJ Idol: 3 Strikes Week 12: America
Jul. 10th, 2022 03:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
proceedcyclone“Más ensalada, por favor,” Juan asked his mother as he held up his chipped plate in her direction at the end of the table. “Gracias, Mamá,” he replied as he set his replenished plate down in front of him and lifted his fork for another bite.
“De nada, Mijo. Qué aprendiste en la escuela hoy?” While Juan struggled to translate what he’d learned during the school day in English into Spanish, there was a heavy knock on the door.
His mother’s eyes grew wide as she stared at his father, both still rooted to their chairs around the small table.
“ICE!” yelled a deep voice on the other side of the door. This seemed to rouse Mamá, who got up from the table quickly and began sifting through papers in a drawer closest to the door, where she’d kept these documents for this exact day, though she had hoped it would have proven to be unnecessary. She pulled out three different papers: Juan’s California birth certificate, her registration for the citizenship test the following month, which they’d been saving up for as long as Juan could remember, and a printout from the library titled “Know Your Rights: If ICE Visits Your Home.”
Mamá handed the last page to Juan. “Puedes leer?”
“Solamente un poco. Qué es ‘war-ant?’” Juan asked her.
“Creo que la policía no puede venir aquí sin un ‘warrant.’” She wished she had time to verify this as she wasn’t completely sure she remembered correctly what the police were allowed to do with and without a warrant.
“Warrant?” she called through the door.
“Open up,” boomed the deep voice in response, “or we break down the door.”
“No, no!” Mamá yelled, thinking of how much it would cost to replace the door and possibly the jamb as she unlocked the deadbolt. She tried to hold the door only an inch or so open, but two men dressed almost entirely in black with bulletproof vests emblazoned with “police” across the chest and handguns and clubs secured in their belts pushed past her into their tiny studio apartment.
Juan’s father, Miguel, began rising from his seat at the table when one of the men unholstered his weapon and aimed it at him.
“Sit down!” bellowed the agent. Miguel looked bewilderingly at his wife and son. “Siéntete, Papá!” Juan yelled quickly. Unlike his mother, his father was too busy working in the fields to learn much English yet. Once his mother had her citizenship, she could get a job, his father wouldn’t need to take on extra shifts and would have some time to learn English and, eventually, take the citizenship test himself. As Miguel slowly sat back down, another agent came around behind him and snapped cuffs around his wrists. Juan glanced at his mother and found another agent clasping cuffs around her wrists, too.
“Mamá! Papá! No!” Juan cried. The agent guided his mother to the closest seat at the table, which happened to be his seat, where his extra portion of salad he’d requested now laid limply on his abandoned plate. The agent intercepted Juan as he ran for his mother.
“It’s okay, son,” the agent said, eyeing the one mattress they all shared on the floor in the corner of the studio apartment. “We aren’t going to hurt them, but we do need to take everyone in.”
“Mijo!” Mamá yelled. “Mijo born here!” Her voice was urgent and her eyes were fixed on the agent who had spoken.
“Can you verify that?” the agent asked.
“There,” Mamá nodded in the direction of the papers left on the counter. The agent picked out the birth certificate and left the other papers on the counter.
“Come with me,” he glanced at the paper in his hand, “Juan.” As the boy was guided out the door and down the stairs to the waiting police cruiser at the curb, he started crying. They were tears of terror that soaked the front of his secondhand t-shirt as he recalled what the boys on the playground had told him about the men who would eventually come to take his parents away from him forever and force him to live with some white family that may or may not be treat him well.
As his mother was escorted past the cruiser to the waiting van by the other agent, he heard her pleading. “We come for better life, but life here hard. More hard than thought. I learning English and register for test to be citizen. Mijo born here and go to school. Manuel work long days in fields, but will—” Her voice was cut off as a policewoman shut the door of the cruiser before getting into the driver’s side.
“We’ll find you a nice family to live with, one that lives in a better part of the city with a yard and a bedroom of your own,” she said to him as she pulled away from the curb. Juan turned around and watched as his father was now being escorted to the waiting van until the cruiser turned the corner and he could no longer see his parents or the apartment building that was the only home he’d ever known.
“De nada, Mijo. Qué aprendiste en la escuela hoy?” While Juan struggled to translate what he’d learned during the school day in English into Spanish, there was a heavy knock on the door.
His mother’s eyes grew wide as she stared at his father, both still rooted to their chairs around the small table.
“ICE!” yelled a deep voice on the other side of the door. This seemed to rouse Mamá, who got up from the table quickly and began sifting through papers in a drawer closest to the door, where she’d kept these documents for this exact day, though she had hoped it would have proven to be unnecessary. She pulled out three different papers: Juan’s California birth certificate, her registration for the citizenship test the following month, which they’d been saving up for as long as Juan could remember, and a printout from the library titled “Know Your Rights: If ICE Visits Your Home.”
Mamá handed the last page to Juan. “Puedes leer?”
“Solamente un poco. Qué es ‘war-ant?’” Juan asked her.
“Creo que la policía no puede venir aquí sin un ‘warrant.’” She wished she had time to verify this as she wasn’t completely sure she remembered correctly what the police were allowed to do with and without a warrant.
“Warrant?” she called through the door.
“Open up,” boomed the deep voice in response, “or we break down the door.”
“No, no!” Mamá yelled, thinking of how much it would cost to replace the door and possibly the jamb as she unlocked the deadbolt. She tried to hold the door only an inch or so open, but two men dressed almost entirely in black with bulletproof vests emblazoned with “police” across the chest and handguns and clubs secured in their belts pushed past her into their tiny studio apartment.
Juan’s father, Miguel, began rising from his seat at the table when one of the men unholstered his weapon and aimed it at him.
“Sit down!” bellowed the agent. Miguel looked bewilderingly at his wife and son. “Siéntete, Papá!” Juan yelled quickly. Unlike his mother, his father was too busy working in the fields to learn much English yet. Once his mother had her citizenship, she could get a job, his father wouldn’t need to take on extra shifts and would have some time to learn English and, eventually, take the citizenship test himself. As Miguel slowly sat back down, another agent came around behind him and snapped cuffs around his wrists. Juan glanced at his mother and found another agent clasping cuffs around her wrists, too.
“Mamá! Papá! No!” Juan cried. The agent guided his mother to the closest seat at the table, which happened to be his seat, where his extra portion of salad he’d requested now laid limply on his abandoned plate. The agent intercepted Juan as he ran for his mother.
“It’s okay, son,” the agent said, eyeing the one mattress they all shared on the floor in the corner of the studio apartment. “We aren’t going to hurt them, but we do need to take everyone in.”
“Mijo!” Mamá yelled. “Mijo born here!” Her voice was urgent and her eyes were fixed on the agent who had spoken.
“Can you verify that?” the agent asked.
“There,” Mamá nodded in the direction of the papers left on the counter. The agent picked out the birth certificate and left the other papers on the counter.
“Come with me,” he glanced at the paper in his hand, “Juan.” As the boy was guided out the door and down the stairs to the waiting police cruiser at the curb, he started crying. They were tears of terror that soaked the front of his secondhand t-shirt as he recalled what the boys on the playground had told him about the men who would eventually come to take his parents away from him forever and force him to live with some white family that may or may not be treat him well.
As his mother was escorted past the cruiser to the waiting van by the other agent, he heard her pleading. “We come for better life, but life here hard. More hard than thought. I learning English and register for test to be citizen. Mijo born here and go to school. Manuel work long days in fields, but will—” Her voice was cut off as a policewoman shut the door of the cruiser before getting into the driver’s side.
“We’ll find you a nice family to live with, one that lives in a better part of the city with a yard and a bedroom of your own,” she said to him as she pulled away from the curb. Juan turned around and watched as his father was now being escorted to the waiting van until the cruiser turned the corner and he could no longer see his parents or the apartment building that was the only home he’d ever known.
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Date: 2022-07-11 02:19 pm (UTC)- Erulisse (one L)
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Date: 2022-07-11 03:34 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2022-07-12 05:16 pm (UTC)This is so sad and unfortunately too true and too frequent. Very moving and excellently written piece.
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Date: 2022-07-14 12:35 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2022-07-14 08:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2022-07-14 07:43 pm (UTC)