The world stops. Nothing makes sense. It’s a dream. This woman has dark hair and long blond bangs that almost cover one eye. She wears stylish knocko jeans, a striped blouse with fancy buttons set diagonally across the front, and a light jacket. She rushes forward with open arms, which he evades. No touching. “You don’t seem happy to see me,” María Dolores says, stopping half a meter away. Santiago blinks. Happy? Yes, he’s pleased she’s not l a m a l v a d a or any other blood relative. But full happiness? That’ll take a while. Maybe once he can move again. “Of course I’m glad you’re here. Just surprised.” And confused, and a million other emotions he doesn’t understand. She crouches on the oor until she spots the lava stone he dropped. She ips it over, caressing its smooth edges. “I can’t believe you k ept my stone through everything.” “They only just returned it to me.” No point saying he’d forgotten about it until a moment ago. “Do you want to ke ep holding on to it for me?” she asks, her hand outstretched with it in her palm.
“Not really.” Her large eyes widen as if he slapped her. “García, do you know this woman?” The same female guard who took his name and ngerprints when he arrived st eps out from behind the desk. This is too much. Now the guards are sympathetic and cautious? “Yes,” he says, and because the guard continues to wait, he adds, “She’s María Dolores Piedra Reyes.” “What’s her relationship to you?” the guard asks. He looks into María Dolores’s wide, dark eyes. They remind him so much of Alegría’s. Consuelo was wrong, though; he doesn’t have their eyes. He turns his gaze back to the guard before answering the question. “She’s my sister.” The guard’s own eyes shift between the two of them. “Are you afraid of leaving with her?” Afraid? He’s more than a head taller than her. And after six months in a youth immigration detention center among teenage boys, he can, more than ever, take care of himself. But would his response really a ect his release? If l a m a l v a d a had come, could he have refused to leave with her? He wouldn’t have thought so. “I’m not scared, just surprised. It’s ne, we’re good. I can go?” “You’re free.” He and María Dolores remain glued to their spots a few seconds longer before their feet pry themselves from the oor, and they head out the glass front doors. He lifts his feet carefully to compensate for his curled toes and missing laces. Once outside, the spring air bites into his bare arms. Neither says anything as they head to an old blue car parked near the ominous white bus. As he passes the bus, he gives it a hard stare. I w i n . Then a blur of black pigtails and wide, bright eyes crashes into him. “Santi!” He catches Alegría in his arms and holds her tight as she locks her feet around his waist. His nose buries into her fruity-smelling hair; di erent, but nice. She’s here; she’s all right. How he missed her. His eyes begin to sting. No, he can’t. Not here, not now.
He eases his grip to let her go, but she holds on tight with her legs and ke eps her arms around his neck. She leans out to gaze at him. “You look di erent, Santi,” she says. The sound of her nickname for him gives him a twinge. After months of cringing every time someone said that name, it now makes his eyes sting again. “Your hair is long enough to make pigtails,” she continues. “Yeah, I guess.” Okay, a small smile won’t kill him. He runs the free hand through his thick wavy hair he’d allowed to grow out. The facility brought in a barber every so often, but Santiago always refused. After his t í o s shaved his head, having long hair felt like a rebellion and one of the few things he could control. “Did you get my drawing?” Her family portrait Consuelo delivered. The one he threw away when he thought they’d abandoned him, then instantly regretted. Darn eyes, he must have allergies. “It was beautiful.” “And guess what? Princesa came back. She was just looking after Mami. She’s okay now.” From the driver’s side of the car, another woman emerges. Plump with black hair pulled into a short ponytail; wide, near-black eyes; and a huge smile. If he had seen her rst, he would have mistaken her for her sister. “Hi, I’m María Eugenia, your other sister.” He acc epts her traditional kiss in greeting. “Thank you for driving out to get me.” “Of course. So great to nally meet you.” María Eugenia gestures to the car. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve got a tray of enchiladas s u i za s that needs to go in the oven.” ¡ Q u é d e l i c i a ! María Dolores mouths. Santiago says nothing. He sits in the back seat with Alegría while the women sit in the front. Alegría slips her hand into his as they drive through the open gates of the facility. Once clear, he lets out a huge breath. Last time he tried to get through, the gates slammed in his face. For better or worse, the center became his home, a place where he knew the routine, knew what to expect. If anything, he’ll miss that. The lands cape remains the same parched tan-brown he remembers from their trek, with no signs of other buildings or roads. In the far distance, a long range of
rolling foothills peak into mountains. If those are part of the same mountain range they crossed, he can’t imagine how they made it as far as they did. Signs of civilization start cropping up with other cars and wider roads, while cattle graze on either side of the highway. A half hour later they stop in a small town with nothing more than a dozen buildings, pulling into a gas station. “Maji,” María Dolores tells her sister as they all get out of the car. “Can you take Alegría to the bathroom while I ll up?” “But I don’t need to go,” Alegría protests. María Dolores shakes her head. “I want you to try anyway.” “Can Santi come with us?” “No, m a m i t a , I need him for something here,” she says. María Eugenia grabs Alegría’s hand. “After we pee, we’ll get some snacks.” María Dolores places the nozzle into the tank before turning to Santiago with her hands on her hips. “Talk to me. What is your problem?” Under the shade next to the pumps, the temperature drops. Santiago tries to shove his hands into his pockets, but they don’t t. He folds his arms across his chest and leans against the car. He doesn’t want to hear it. He scu s his too- small shoe against the pavement. “Nothing.” Pointing a nger at his face, she forces him to make eye contact. “I told you once before, I don’t appreciate people lying to me.” They stare at each other for a few seconds until Santiago’s shoulders slump and his eyes drop. “I thought you were dead,” he whispers. “When they took you away.” “I almost was.” She nods. “Another hour and I would have been. They k ept me in the intensive care unit for three days.” Now his voice hardens as he crosses his arms tighter. “But they didn’t detain you? They took Alegría away from me. I worried she’d died too. I stole food for a guy to get information about her. He said she’d left with her family. How did you manage that?” María Dolores sighs. “My brother-in-law’s friend is a pastor who runs a church refuge. He made the arrangements so I wouldn’t be detained and helped get Alegría out as well. We still have court dates, though. Who knows if they’ll grant us the asylum we requested.”
“But you didn’t come for me.” He kicks the car tire with the sole of his foot before remembering his curled-under toes. Pain inside, pain outside. “I wrote millions of letters to get into foster care. I lled out applications so I wouldn’t have to live behind a fence topped with razor wire. I helped the obnoxious guards. I saved your life, and your daughter’s, and you forgot all about me.” “Of course I didn’t forget about you.” She throws her arms up in the air. “I’m here, aren’t I?” “Six months later!” “That’s how long it took to get a copy of your birth certi cate. They wouldn’t release you to me unless I could prove we were related.” All defenses drop. His voice returns to a whisper. “You got my birth certi cate?” María Dolores reaches in through the open car window and extracts a clear plastic folder with a piece of paper inside. The Mexican seal on the left, Chihuahuan seal on the right. Below the two seals, he reads the words: ACTA DE NACIMIENTO NOMBRES: Santiago García Reyes “It says my birthday is the twenty-third of March?” No one ever bothered telling him that. María Dolores smiles a little. “Which is in a few days. Alegría wants to throw you a unicorn party.” He ke eps on reading. NOMBRE DEL PADRE: Juan García García A name so common that it could be almost anyone. NOMBRE DE LA MADRE: So nda Reyes de la Luz Here, in his hands, is proof that Mami really existed, and that she had been his m a m á . “How did you manage to get this?” His eyes refuse to leave the paper, taking in every detail. His time of birth is 14:16; his mother had been twenty years old when she had him.
“Trust me, it wasn’t easy.” María Dolores moves closer to him. “Six months of phone calls and letters, getting archives of Chihuahuan newspapers in search of birth announcements, ling paperwork, a few bribes to the right people. Every time I got close, something else would set me back. Luckily, I don’t give up easily.” The gas pump pops to indicate a full tank, but neither removes it. He can’t believe it. That she went through all of that. For him. “I wish I’d known.” She turns in surprise to look at him. “But I wrote about this in the letters. Almost every week. I thought maybe you didn’t know how to read but gured someone could read them to you.” “I can read now, but I never got any letters. None of us did.” “Oh, that explains so much.” She places a hand on his arm. This time he doesn’t inch or shake it o . “But even when you thought we’d forgotten you, you still told them we were your sisters. Me and Alegría . L a g u a r d i a had that on le. Knew who I was when I showed my identi cation.” Yes, he did say that. “I tried to exclude that information, but the word h e r m a n a s k ept coming out.” “You saved our lives. I could never stop thinking about you as my h e r m a n o . No matter what happens, we’re in this together.” Her words make him smile like never before. “Thank you, my sister.” She throws her arms around him in a tight hug, standing on her toes in order to reach. He lets her, doesn’t pull away. More comfort, more security. Now if asked, he remembers what happy feels like. “Damn you for growing so tall,” she says, nally easing herself away and fussing over the wet spot she left on his shirt. “And you’re still way too skinny. But why is your shirt inside out?” He laughs. How long since he did that? “Doesn’t matter anymore.” “Santi, guess what!” Alegría bounces out of the convenience store. “They have raspberry ice creams. Do you want one?” “Of course.” Even with the chill, how can he say no? He turns to María Dolores. “Can I buy her one? Is twenty dollars enough?” “Should be enough to buy several.”
“ ¿ C u a t r o ? ” She grins. “Probably. But can I have a chocolate one instead?” “Anything you want.” He swoops down for Alegría and swings her up to sit on his shoulders. “Again, again!” she screeches, but he holds on tight to her ankles, not wanting to let her go, and turns to the other sister instead. “María Eugenia, what kind of ice cream do you like?” “Chocolate, of course.” He reminds Alegría to duck as they enter through the doorway of the convenience store. The variety in the ice cream chest is unbelievable. Someday, when he can read the di erent English avors, he’ll try them all. Next to the ice cream chest, a rickety rack holds postcards showing the beauty and diversity beyond the dry, harsh New Mexican desert. If two raspberry ice creams cost $3.50 apiece, and the two chocolate ones are $3.99 each, he still has plenty to get some postcards at $0.99. One to send to Don José in Capaz, because he promised. Another for Consuelo from both him and Alegría. And one to write to Señor Dante. Because, thanks to him, he can. Back in the car, ice creams long gone (though Alegría still sports a handsome red mustache), a loud thundercloud rumbles in the distance. Alegría leans as close to Santiago as her seat belt allows. “I don’t like thunder, Santi,” she says. “Can I tell you a story?” he asks. Alegría nods against his shoulder. His ngers absently run through her thick pigtails. “When I was your age, I was scared of thunder too. Until my m a m i said that thunder is like a drum, announcing the arrival of rain. Rain is what makes things grow and also washes away what isn’t wanted, leaving a fresh start.” “But why do the thunder and rain have to be so loud?” Alegría asks. “Because it’s a party, a celebration. Mami and I used to sing and dance in the rain. She said it honored the rain to feel the drops on our skin instead of hiding from it. When we embrace the rain, she said, we’re free.” Alegría snuggles closer. “Can we do that too? Dance in the rain?” Santiago’s hand drops from her pigtails. As much as he tries to stop them, memories prey on his heart: His t í a criticizing him for letting her kids play in the
mud, and l a m a l v a d a insulting him and his m a m i ; the one time in the center where he got soaked to the core and almost died. No, he won’t let those thoughts ruin things. Not anymore. “I’d like that. Dancing together will be a t r e m e n d a fi e s t a .” Santiago kisses the top of Alegría’s head. “If your m a m i says it’s okay. And if there’s a way to get dry and warm afterward.” María Dolores turns around from the front seat and grabs Santiago’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Of course, to all of that. But only if I can party in the rain with u s t e d e s .” “Me too!” María Eugenia says from the driver seat. Another clap of thunder rattles the car. This time, Alegría sits up. “Do you think it’ll rain when we get home?” Santiago gazes out the window. The sun behind the thunderclouds has caused them to turn brilliant shades of purple and pink. Home, a future he’s never known. “Yes, c r e o q u e s í .”
AUTHOR’S NOTE At the time of writing this, hundreds of people are trying to enter the U. S. daily. Holding centers are well exceeding capacity, and cities near the border struggle to provide resources for the in ux of refugees. Laws continuously change, and yet little, if anything, seems to be done to improve the lives of those held in custody. Even the deaths of several children while in these holding facilities hasn’t (to my knowledge) resulted in any progressive change in the situation. Newspapers r eport that it costs over seven hundred dollars per person, per day, to house the youths in immigration centers, and the government claims there’s not enough funding to provide better living conditions. Wherever all this money goes, it’s not bene ting any immigrant or refugee. Even though Santiago’s story is a work of ction, as is the facility where he’s detained, most of his experiences are true to past and current immigration hardships. They were taken from various accounts of youths and adults held at both temporary and long-term facilities throughout the country. A lot of children who are currently entering the U. S. are k ept in far worse conditions than Santiago faced: often denied access to su cient and clean water and food, crammed together in large “cages,” and don’t provide toothbrushes and soap or medical attention. Providing education, which a few years ago had been obligatory, has almost completely vanished from centers, and yet the government expects the youths to learn English. Some children are still being taken from their parents; a lawyer friend really did deliver breast milk for a baby s eparated from her mother. Belts and shoelaces are removed from the detainees, along with anything else perceived as dangerous, leaving them worse o than they were before their arrival. A lot of youths entering the U. S. today turn themselves in at the border as they seek asylum, while others still try to enter the country illegally.
Due to the remoteness, some people attempt to cross the desert border running through New Mexico, Arizona, and California, not realizing the natural challenges they must endure. In an ideal world a person would have one to two gallons of water per day of desert crossing—a very heavy task, considering how much water weighs. There are accounts of people dying only a few hours after their vehicle left them stranded. Likewise, there are r eports of people surviving four to ve days of intense desert temperatures reaching well over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit, and having run out of water days before. Sometimes helpful citizens will leave bottles of water under a bush for immigrants to drink, while others deliberately destroy the water supply to prevent immigration. Unfortunately, hundreds of people die each year trying to cross the desert, and there are many more whose remains are never found. Despite the extreme hardships people go through to immigrate to the U. S., and then the further hardships faced once here, thousands of youths risk everything to live here. Severe gang violence in their hometowns has them running literally for their lives. For others, poverty is a factor leading to immigration. For example, the current daily wage in Mexico is about ve U. S. dollars ( https://www. hklaw. com/en/insights/publications/2018/12/mexico-to- increase-minimum-wage-for-2019 ). Several children, like Santiago, are also es caping abusive relatives. The emotional impact of this book made it a challenge to write. It’s heart-wrenching to learn what extremes refugees are forced into when they attempt to reach safety or seek asylum. But at the same time, I knew I had to write Santiago’s story. Without awareness, nothing changes. Here’s the awareness, now let’s bring forth the change. —A. D.
Resources American Academy of Pediatrics. “American Academy of Pediatrics Urges Compassion and Appropriate Care for Immigrant and Refugee Children.” March 13, 2017. https://www. aap. org/en-us/about-the-aap/aap-press- room/pages/american-academy-of-pediatrics-urges-compassion-and- appropriate-care-for-immigrant-and-refugee-children. aspx . Arnold, Amanda. “What to Know About the Detention Centers for Immigrant Children Along the U. S.–Mexico Border.” T h e C u t , June 21, 2018. https://www. thecut. com/2018/06/immigrant-children-detention-center- s eparated-parents. html . Barry, Dan, et al. “Migrant Children Tell of Life Without Parents Inside US Immigration Detention Centres.” I n d e p e n d e n t , July 16, 2018. https://www. ind ependent. co. uk/news/world/americas/migrant-children-us- immigration-centres-family-s eparation-a8449276. html . Bogado, Aura. “ICE Isn’t Following Its Own Handbook on How to D eport Kids.” PRI, April 25, 2018. https://www. pri. org/stories/2018-04-25/ice-isn- t-following-its-own-handbook-how-d eport-kids . Button, Liz. “ABA to Collect Books at Winter Institute 14 for Refugees at the Southern U. S. Border.” American Booksellers Association, November 18, 2018. https://www. bookweb. org/news/aba-collect-books-winter-institute- 14-refugees-southern-us-border-108586 . Chapin, Angelina. “Drinking Toilet Water, Widespread Abuse: R eport Details ‘Torture’ For Child Detainees.” H u ff p o s t , last modi ed July 18, 2018. https://www. hu post. com/entry/migrant-children-detail-experiences- border-patrol-stations-detention-centers_n_5 b4 d13 e4 b0 de86 f485 ade8 .
Cooper, Nicole. Lecture at the University of the Incarnate Word, San Antonio, TX, November 6, 2017. Cotter, Holland. “For Migrants Headed North, the Things They Carried to the End.” N e w Y o r k T i m e s , March 3, 2017. https://www. nytimes. com/2017/03/03/arts/design/state-of-exc eption- estado-de-exc epcion-parsons-mexican-immigration. html . Dickson, Caitlin. “ ‘I Thought I Would Never See Him’: Asylum Seeker and Son Reunite After Border S eparation.” Yahoo News, July 17, 2018. https://www. yahoo. com/news/thought-never-see-asylum-seeker-son-reunite- border-s eparation-163945092. html . Dickerson, Caitlin. “Detention of Migrant Children Has Skyrocketed to Highest Levels Ever.” N e w Y o r k T i m e s , S eptember 12, 2018. https://www. nytimes. com/2018/09/12/us/migrant-children- detention. html . Garcia Bochenek, Michael. “No Way to Treat Children Fleeing Danger.” H a r v a r d I n t e r n a t i o n a l R e v i e w , July 26, 2018. Gómez, Grace. Immigration lawyer. http://www. gomezimmigration. com/ . Hlavinka, Elizabeth. “UT Immigration Clinic Lawyers R epresent Detained Immigrant Women, Children.” T h e D a i l y T e x a n , February 11, 2016. http://www. dailytexanonline. com/2016/02/11/ut-immigration-clinic- lawyers-r epresent-detained-immigrant-women-children . Huang, Wen. “Q&A on Child Immigration Crisis with Law School’s Maria Woltjen.” U C h i c a g o N e w s , July 14, 2014. https://news. uchicago. edu/story/qa-child-immigration-crisis-law-schools- maria-woltjen . International Rescue Committee. “What’s in My Bag? What Refugees Bring When They Run for Their Lives.” M e d i u m , S eptember 4, 2015.
https://medium. com/uprooted/what-s-in-my-bag-758 d435 f6 e62 . O ce of Refugee Resettlement. https://www. acf. hhs. gov/orr . Sharp, Jay W. “Water, Water... Nowhere: Survival in the Desert.” Desert USA. https://www. desertusa. com/desert-activity/thirst. html . Stillman, Sarah. “The Five-Year-Old Who Was Detained at the Border and Persuaded to Sign Away Her Rights.” T h e N e w Y o r k e r , October 11, 2018. https://www. newyorker. com/news/news-desk/the- ve-year-old-who-was- detained-at-the-border-and-convinced-to-sign-away-her-rights . Taxin, Amy. “Immigrant Children Describe Treatment in Detention Centers.” AP News, July 18, 2018. https://www. apnews. com/1 a8 db84 a88 a940049558 b4 c450 dccc8 a . Urrea, Luis Alberto. T h e D e v i l ’ s H i g h w a y : A T r u e S t o r y . New York: Hachette, 2005.
Further Reading Picture Books Agee, Jon. T h e W a l l i n t h e M i d d l e o f t h e B o o k . New York: Dial Books for Young Readers, 2018. Buitrago, Jairo and Rafael Yockteng. T w o W h i t e R a b b i t s . Toronto: Groundwood Books, 2015. Danticat, Edwidge. M a m a ’ s N i g h t i n g a l e : A S t o r y o f I m m i g r a t i o n a n d S e p a r a t i o n . New York: Dial Books for Young Readers, 2015. Mills, Deborah. L a F r o n t e r a : E l v i a j e c o n p a p á / M y J o u r n e y w i t h P a p a . Cambridge, MA: Barefoot Books, 2018. Morales, Yuyi. D r e a m e r s . New York: Neal Porter Books, 2018. Surat, Michele Maria. A n g e l C h i l d , D r a g o n C h i l d . New York: Scholastic, 1989. Tonatiuh, Duncan. P a n c h o R a b b i t a n d t h e C o y o t e : A M i g r a n t ’ s T a l e . New York: Abrams, 2013. Middle-Grade Bausum, Ann. D e n i e d , D e t a i n e d , D e p o r t e d : S t o r i e s f r o m t h e D a r k S i d e o f A m e r i c a n I m m i g r a t i o n . Washington, DC: National Geographic Children’s Books, 2009. Colfer, Eoin and Andrew Donkin. I l l e g a l . Naperville, IL: Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, 2018. Park, Linda Sue. A L o n g W a l k t o W a t e r : B a s e d o n a T r u e S t o r y . Boston: HMH Books for Young Readers, 2011. Senzai, N. H. S h o o t i n g K a b u l . New York: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, 2010. Young Adults
Clark, Tea Rozman, ed. G r e e n C a r d Y o u t h V o i c e s series. Green Card Youth Voices, various. Marquardt, Marie. T h e R a d i u s o f U s . New York: St. Martin’s Gri n, 2017. Schafer, Steve. T h e B o r d e r . Naperville, IL: Sourcebooks Fire, 2016. Zoboi, Ibi. A m e r i c a n S t r e e t . New York: Balzer + Bray, 2017. Adults De León, Jason. T h e L a n d o f O p en G r a v e s : L i v i n g a n d D y i n g o n t h e M i g r a n t T r a i l . Oakland: University of California Press, 2015. Patel, Lisa (Leigh). Y o u t h H e l d a t t h e B o r d e r : I m m i g r a t i o n , E d u c a t i o n , a n d t h e P o l i t i c s o f I n c l u s i o n . New York: Teachers College Press, 2013. Regan, Margaret. D e t a i n e d a n d D e p o r t e d : S t o r i e s o f I m m i g r a n t F a m i l i e s Un d e r F i r e . Boston: Beacon Press, 2015.