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Passage to a strange land
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by Denisse
I remember her piercing black eyes; it was the first thing I saw that winter morning. “Get up and get dressed,” she demanded. “Oh and put on something warm because it might be cold where you’re going.” I could tell who they where, storming around our house looking for others, taking note of our family pictures and eavesdropping on our conversations as we talked about other family members.
I remember his long mouth, telling me to tell my dad on the phone if he turns himself in they’ll let us stay in the country until our house is sold. This is unreal, I thought. “I just turned in my college applications,” I cried, “I want to be a doctor.” He smiled sarcastically took a few steps towards me and in a low voice said, “Don’t worry, you can still be a doctor where you’re going.”
I remember the white plastic bag where I gathered a few belongings. Frantically rummaging through my closet and my desk, I chose a warm jacket, the bear my brother gave me for Christmas, and the brand new camera I received for my birthday. “Hurry up! We’ve got another stop before we drop you off!” one officer yelled. I sped past my unmade bed, hurdled over the laundry basket in the hallway, past the living room, and when I reached the front door I turned around and glanced at the house –the dirty dishes in the sink, the remote control neatly placed on the armrest of the couch, and our family portrait over the fireplace were the last items I saw of that house.
I remember the barred windows on the white government van that transported us to from our home to the main detention center in San Francisco. As I looked through the bars to the outside I saw a man frantically clearing off leaves from outside his driveway while the wind shook more foliage to the ground. I thought how ordinary he looked, that in the middle of this ordinary day I would be robbed of my home and be taken to a strange country.
I remember the rough hands that wrapped chains around my mother’s hands and feet, and the horror in my mother’s eyes as he approached her. My mother resisted and screamed that she had done nothing to deserve to be treated like a criminal. She helplessly pounded on the wall and then, with tears flooding down her cheeks, she fell to the floor. I did not put up a fight as they were chaining me because I also felt defeated, seeing my mother on her knees.
I remember the knot in my stomach as I saw the sunlight quickly disappear. “Mamá, está oscureciendo, ¿dónde piensas que nos van a llevar?” “No sé, tal vez en un vuelo directamente a México.” “Mamá, ya es noche, ¿dónde nos van a dejar?” “No sé, pero ojalá que no en Ciudad Juárez, va a ser la madrugada cuando lleguemos, no conocemos a nadie allí, y he oído que asaltan a los recién deportados. Somos mujeres, temo por lo que nos puedan hacer.” “Officer, we’d like to know where we’re going so that we can contact family members to pick us up.” “I cannot tell you that information for your own safety.”
I remember my sister’s steady hand in mine that reassured me I was not alone. We were sitting in an old bus that transported us from the airplane that had taken us from San Francisco to San Diego, to the main detention center in that city. The road outside was dark. I could only see as far as the headlights could reach. I could hear a woman sobbing, a man sniffling, and two men raising their voices on the verge of an argument. The officer yelled “Cállense, o les pego a todos como perros,” and with that all I could hear was the sound of the engine.
I remember the green coarse blanket they gave us to sleep in at the detention center in San Diego. I could not sleep that night. Maybe it was that the blanket felt like sand paper to my skin, or the small whimpers from the woman behind me that kept me awake, or the fact that to the right of me slept a woman who was detained for selling cocaine and beside her was a prostitute with make-up smeared across her face. I tried to clear my mind. I stared at the grey ceiling for the rest of the night, and felt numbness creep into my heart.
I remember the rusty wire fence that separated the two countries, on one side was paved road, and on the other, a dirt road. We lined up single file in front of a one-way revolving door. “You can go now,” one officer said indifferently, pointing to the other side of the fence. As I marched through the door I felt hollow inside, as if crossing the border had literally barred me from who I was.
I remember her piercing black eyes; it was the first thing I saw that winter morning. “Get up and get dressed,” she demanded. “Oh and put on something warm because it might be cold where you’re going.” I could tell who they where, storming around our house looking for others, taking note of our family pictures and eavesdropping on our conversations as we talked about other family members.
I remember his long mouth, telling me to tell my dad on the phone if he turns himself in they’ll let us stay in the country until our house is sold. This is unreal, I thought. “I just turned in my college applications,” I cried, “I want to be a doctor.” He smiled sarcastically took a few steps towards me and in a low voice said, “Don’t worry, you can still be a doctor where you’re going.”
I remember the white plastic bag where I gathered a few belongings. Frantically rummaging through my closet and my desk, I chose a warm jacket, the bear my brother gave me for Christmas, and the brand new camera I received for my birthday. “Hurry up! We’ve got another stop before we drop you off!” one officer yelled. I sped past my unmade bed, hurdled over the laundry basket in the hallway, past the living room, and when I reached the front door I turned around and glanced at the house –the dirty dishes in the sink, the remote control neatly placed on the armrest of the couch, and our family portrait over the fireplace were the last items I saw of that house.
I remember the barred windows on the white government van that transported us to from our home to the main detention center in San Francisco. As I looked through the bars to the outside I saw a man frantically clearing off leaves from outside his driveway while the wind shook more foliage to the ground. I thought how ordinary he looked, that in the middle of this ordinary day I would be robbed of my home and be taken to a strange country.
I remember the rough hands that wrapped chains around my mother’s hands and feet, and the horror in my mother’s eyes as he approached her. My mother resisted and screamed that she had done nothing to deserve to be treated like a criminal. She helplessly pounded on the wall and then, with tears flooding down her cheeks, she fell to the floor. I did not put up a fight as they were chaining me because I also felt defeated, seeing my mother on her knees.
I remember the knot in my stomach as I saw the sunlight quickly disappear. “Mamá, está oscureciendo, ¿dónde piensas que nos van a llevar?” “No sé, tal vez en un vuelo directamente a México.” “Mamá, ya es noche, ¿dónde nos van a dejar?” “No sé, pero ojalá que no en Ciudad Juárez, va a ser la madrugada cuando lleguemos, no conocemos a nadie allí, y he oído que asaltan a los recién deportados. Somos mujeres, temo por lo que nos puedan hacer.” “Officer, we’d like to know where we’re going so that we can contact family members to pick us up.” “I cannot tell you that information for your own safety.”
I remember my sister’s steady hand in mine that reassured me I was not alone. We were sitting in an old bus that transported us from the airplane that had taken us from San Francisco to San Diego, to the main detention center in that city. The road outside was dark. I could only see as far as the headlights could reach. I could hear a woman sobbing, a man sniffling, and two men raising their voices on the verge of an argument. The officer yelled “Cállense, o les pego a todos como perros,” and with that all I could hear was the sound of the engine.
I remember the green coarse blanket they gave us to sleep in at the detention center in San Diego. I could not sleep that night. Maybe it was that the blanket felt like sand paper to my skin, or the small whimpers from the woman behind me that kept me awake, or the fact that to the right of me slept a woman who was detained for selling cocaine and beside her was a prostitute with make-up smeared across her face. I tried to clear my mind. I stared at the grey ceiling for the rest of the night, and felt numbness creep into my heart.
I remember the rusty wire fence that separated the two countries, on one side was paved road, and on the other, a dirt road. We lined up single file in front of a one-way revolving door. “You can go now,” one officer said indifferently, pointing to the other side of the fence. As I marched through the door I felt hollow inside, as if crossing the border had literally barred me from who I was.
