This piece originally appeared in Timbrel magazine. For more conversations around race and racism, order your copy today.
by Alyssa Rodriguez
It is just another Tuesday in the health clinic I coordinate. A young mother, a three-year-old boy and an older lady I presume to be the boy’s grandmother walk in for his appointment. Assuming the older woman is the child’s grandmother is the furthest I go in deciding before being told what these individuals’ story is. I have learned better than to assume. In this case I am correct but in the exam room where I play the role of interpreter; we find out much more about their story.
I envision a world atlas being laid out across the table like an accordion, outlining their journey. Just two days before, they arrived to Iowa from Honduras by way of Texas. The boy’s father is still awaiting release from the family detention center where they were held. His mother recalls being placed in an ice-cold holding cell for an undetermined reason and undefined amount of time while there.
“What brought them here?” is a question stamped in my mind upon meeting newly-arrived refugees at my job as I often do, yet one I am not always prepared to have answered. It is a question I feel guilty for asking since I know the defense that boils up in me when I am asked the same thing, as though my family hasn’t been here for multiple generations and is supposed to be somewhere else.
For this boy and his parents, the “last straw” that led to a one-way trip north was when he and his mother were walking down the street hand-in-hand and suddenly, a mara of young adult men stopped and shot a man in the face right in front of them. Like the poem, Home* says, “you only leave home when home won’t let you stay.” Continue reading