a child's journey to america
The humanitarian crisis at our southern border broke our hearts and captivated our attention (for a time). But, as most of us have moved on with our lives, never really being able to grasp the hardship and desperation of so many... and, then suddenly a child’s voice reminds us that we must pay attention and do better.
One of our followers recently shared a story with us, and today we share it with you. It is a story of one child's journey, a journey of hope and of fear. No talking points, political rhetoric or blame, just a child’s truth, a long journey and the promise of an American ideal that we must try to harder to live up to.
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During after-school tutoring, we were reading through Scholastic News, the President’s Day issue. A reference to Donald Trump appeared in one article. “I don’t like him at all,” Ally* told me, “but Lisa* likes him a lot.”
“Have you asked her what she likes about him?” I asked.
Ally responded quietly, “She says it’s because he’s making America great and building a wall to keep other people out.”
I imagine Lisa was simply parroting her parents’ talking points and had never thought about how this comment might affect her brown-skinned, Hispanic friend. I suspect she had given no thought to who these “other people” are or why it’s important to keep them out. But I can tell you that all my students from Mexico and Central America know exactly who Trump considers undesirable. While Ally is a US citizen, I have other students who are not -- I assume they hear similar thoughtless comments and feel unwelcome and afraid. I can reassure my students that many Americans welcome and value their families, but I wish I could do more.
I wish I could share the story Teresa* shared with me. Maybe that would help people to really understand. It began with a conversation that had started innocuously enough.
“Mrs. M., have you ever been in the desert?” she asked.
“Yes, I have. I have been to New Mexico and Arizona,” I replied. “It’s beautiful there.”
“It’s hot, it’s so hot. And you have to keep walking and walking. My feet were so sore and I got so tired.”
It dawned on me what Teresa was sharing.
Over the next few weeks, she shared little bits and pieces of the journey she had endured.
At the age of six, Teresa and her mother, who was seven months pregnant at the time, walked from their hometown, across the entirety of Guatemala, into southern Mexico. There they rested for a few days, then climbed into the back of a semi to travel toward the US border.
“A semi,” I asked. “Wasn’t it awfully dark? Did they have lights for you?”
“No, no lights. It was pitch black and very crowded but I was so glad not to be walking.”
“What did you do when you got out of the truck?”
“We stayed in a little house in the forest. We had to stay hidden from the police. If they’d found us, we’d have been sent back. And we had to hide from the kidnappers. Because they’d take you and hold you for money. If you couldn’t pay it, they’d kill you,” Teresa told me matter-of-factly.
“How long were you there?”
“A few days. We were so hungry, all we had to eat each day was a few pieces of chocolate and some water.”
“Then it was time to cross the river,” she said.
“How did you get across,” I asked, “Did you swim, or take a boat?”
“The man blew up a raft, and we climbed in and started across, but about halfway across, the raft popped. I was the only one who knew how to swim. I was trying to help my mother and then a man helped her to make it to the other side.”
“You must have been scared and exhausted,” I marveled.
“When we got out of the water, we were tired and wet and muddy, but it was okay because we were in America.”
This simple statement broke my heart, knowing how we are treating the thousands of immigrants who see the United States of America as a beacon of hope.
From there, Teresa told me they’d walked another day or two in the desert until they were picked up by Border Patrol and taken to a processing center.
“It was so cold in there, I was freezing. And they only gave us, what is it called, you know that stuff you put on food?”
“Foil, aluminum foil,” I answered.
“Yes, that’s it. That’s what they gave us for blankets.”
“How long were you there?”
“Not long, just a day or two.”
I hesitated to ask as I feared the answer, “Were you ever separated from your mom?”
“No, my mom told me that if they tried to take me away I should cry and scream as loud as I could. She said then they’d bring me back to her.”
Thankfully, Teresa and her mother were two of the lucky ones. They were not separated and were held for only a few days, after which they were allowed to get on a bus and travel to be with her dad.
As I listened to this eight-year-old child describe her arduous 2,000-mile journey, I wondered how she could tell the tale with no emotion. The trip had to be incredibly frightening, and traumatic, yet as she described it to me, she seemed divorced from any emotion. Repressed trauma, I suspect.
“you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles traveled
means something more than journey.”
Excerpt from “Home” by Warsan Shire
Shouldn’t we all be committed to creating an America where this little girl’s words seem justified?
“When we got out of the water, we were tired and wet and muddy, but it was okay because we were in America.”
At this moment in our nation’s story, love requires action. This action may very well be outside our comfort zone, but we must step up and meet the challenge. The soul and promise of our nation - the one this little girl and so many others believe in - requires that we act.