A windy Tuesday early morning in 2009, Los Angeles still slept from the celebration-filled Fourth of July weekend. But my family was abruptly woken.
I was in the seventh grade. I lived with my parents and two sisters in our humble home in the Pico neighborhood of Los Angeles, a pride-filling reward for the years of hard-work and dedication of my parents, both exiles from the tumultuous Central American country of Honduras. They came chasing the American Dream and yearning to be free from poverty. They both woke at four in the morning, each going to their own job: my dad a construction worker and my mother a seamstress. They came back in the afternoons, exhausted from their respective jobs, but still managed to tuck us in at night.
But that morning was different. …show more content…
I ran upstairs to wake my dad, and he comes rushing down the stairs, my mom behind him in her white nightgown, cursing at whomever was at the door. They opened the door.
INS officers, all in green uniforms, call my parents by their name. “María and Francisco Duarte? We have a warrant for your arrest.” My mother’s face flushed. My father’s eyes widened. My heart sank.
They took them away. My sisters and I sat at the table, the female officer standing next to us while our uncle came to fetch us. Why did this happen to us? They did nothing wrong. The officer just glanced at us, repeating, “It’s going to be alright”. My sisters and I knew that it was not going to be alright. We knew what deportation meant – separation, suffering, and despair.
The last time I saw my mom was through a two-inch glass window. They treated her as if she were a criminal, allowing only two people to see her; I selfishly went. How could I have possibly done that? My sisters needed her more than I
I was in the seventh grade. I lived with my parents and two sisters in our humble home in the Pico neighborhood of Los Angeles, a pride-filling reward for the years of hard-work and dedication of my parents, both exiles from the tumultuous Central American country of Honduras. They came chasing the American Dream and yearning to be free from poverty. They both woke at four in the morning, each going to their own job: my dad a construction worker and my mother a seamstress. They came back in the afternoons, exhausted from their respective jobs, but still managed to tuck us in at night.
But that morning was different. …show more content…
I ran upstairs to wake my dad, and he comes rushing down the stairs, my mom behind him in her white nightgown, cursing at whomever was at the door. They opened the door.
INS officers, all in green uniforms, call my parents by their name. “María and Francisco Duarte? We have a warrant for your arrest.” My mother’s face flushed. My father’s eyes widened. My heart sank.
They took them away. My sisters and I sat at the table, the female officer standing next to us while our uncle came to fetch us. Why did this happen to us? They did nothing wrong. The officer just glanced at us, repeating, “It’s going to be alright”. My sisters and I knew that it was not going to be alright. We knew what deportation meant – separation, suffering, and despair.
The last time I saw my mom was through a two-inch glass window. They treated her as if she were a criminal, allowing only two people to see her; I selfishly went. How could I have possibly done that? My sisters needed her more than I