With Liberty and Justice, For Some
Crossing the border is only half the battle.
Created by Zoe Cronin | Anika Thomas | Tania Calva
July 2016 | Age 18
Today I, Maria Garcia Hernandez became an adult. The State of Florida now affords me the right to donate my organs, if I so wish, to sign contracts in my own name and, most importantly, to vote. I get to have a voice, on some level, in the place I now call home. Graduated high school last Friday, too. When I woke up today it hit me: I completed school, a reality that was unimaginable four years ago in Guatemala.
August 2012 | Age 14
“Freeze! Hands where we can see them! Who are you? What is your name? How old are you?”
As they approach their voices become less threatening, their speech still too fast for me to understand completely.
“Please… speak slowly.”
They tell me that I need to go with them to answer some more questions. I don’t know where they will take me and I can’t find the words to ask.
They guide me into the vehicle. We travel for hours. By time we reach our destination the sun is beating down on us. Sweat drips from my forehead. They lead me to a room in which air feels rationed.
I send a silent prayer of thanks that I remembered my birth certificate and a few photos. I tell them of my aunt in Jacksonville, that she isn’t expecting me but that I was planning on finding her. They take the photo I have of her and the address I had scribbled down before leaving. They say that I am safe now; they will help me to find her. They take me to another facility.
A strange concoction of convenience store bleach and something suspect invades my nostrils. I try to ignore it. The walls are an inoffensive blue and the space is just big enough for each of the 10 girls in the room to sit along the walls. A single toilet resides in the corner, but no sight of beds or blankets. I pray I can survive in this place.
November 2014 | Age 16
My aunt, Lydia, places her arm securely around my shoulder and urges me forward, up the steps of the U.S Consulate in Arlington, Florida. I am glad to have her with me. In her I have part of my mother back with me.
We enter the room where my interview will take place and my aunt’s presence grounds me in the moment and makes it possible for me to speak out. This is the final stage of me becoming a permanent U.S resident.
The men asking me questions are only doing their jobs but I can’t help but feel an unease in their company. It is difficult, even now, to trust.
March 2011 | Age 12
“Hey you, sweetie, come sit with Uncle Carlos!”
He is not my uncle, I don’t even like this man but I oblige because I feel my Papa’s eyes on me. His arm envelops me, crushing me, his sweat is smeared over my shoulder. Inwardly recoiling, I hope nobody sees the disgust that flashed over my face, but no such luck.
“José! What do you teach your daughter? Doesn’t she know how to treat her uncle?”, Carlos barks.
“Maria, ven”, Papa calls. He grabs my chin, leans in so that I smell hard liquor and stale tobacco.
“Where do you think behavior like that will get you?” He wags his finger at me, threatening. “I won’t tolerate it! Your Uncle Carlos does a lot for this family. Don’t you go forgetting it.”
June 2004 | Age 5
Mama is at work and Papa told me to stay in my room. But I needed the bathroom, I couldn’t wait. I open my door and hear Papa’s voice and another man downstairs. They are arguing. I hear things like, “You better tell me where it is!” and “I don’t know José”. I am scared. I creep along the hall to the bathroom. There is a crash and then a loud noise that I have only heard from a distance. It shakes my body, pierces my ears. I run back to my room.
February 2012 | Age 13
Over the past month I have been stealing money from Papa, doing so when he’s been drinking and passes out. He nearly caught me last week when he woke and saw me leaving the room. I managed to cover and say that I was checking on him.
Sofia, my sister, is deeply involved in my Papa’s world. I’ve done some drop-offs and other odd jobs, but it makes my stomach turn. I fear for my life when I’m around him and his people. I realized a long time ago that I need to leave.
I have slowly been accumulating the few things I will take with me. My birth certificate, some old photographs. Some dry foods and the money. I gather it all along with some clothes and essentials into my backpack. It is 8AM and my Papa will just assume I am going to school. I have a plan and I pray that it will work. I don’t know how long it will take but I will travel from Sololá up to Mexico via the Suchiate river, where I will travel up to the US and find my Mama’s sister, Lydia. Surely she will let me stay with her.
I leave the house and board the bus I normally take to school. Instead of getting off at my stop, I continue until the end of the route. I prepare myself for the journey ahead, my future uncertain.
January 2013 | Age 14
Time moves so slowly in the refuge. It’s as though I have been here for a year. The workers say that we are lucky we don’t have to leave to go to class or see the doctor, that everything is here for us. But really it’s because we are in alien limbo, unable to leave until someone claims us. They found Lydia, but now come the reams of paperwork. So I wait.
My feet are looking and feeling a lot better. I was given new trousers because the original ones are too short now. My hair is longer now, and I can wear it in two braids like Sofia used to do. My English is getting better and I can understand when the staff speak rapido now.
While this place isn’t the most welcoming, I’m safe. I hope that when Lydia comes, I will be safe with her. She moved here a long time ago to train and work as a nurse. I haven’t spoken to her since Mama died. Papa didn’t like her and her ‘interference’. She is not like him, and that gives me hope.
July 2013 | Age 15
As my legs swing out of my bed I have the strangest feeling that I am forgetting something. Then it hits me — it’s my birthday. “I’m 15!” I sing to myself. Pulling on my dressing gown, I half run out of my bedroom and down the stairs. Lydia is there in the kitchen, beaming at me.
“My girl, happy birthday! Sit, sit, here you go”.
She places in front of me a plate of steaming chuchitos and a glass of lemonade, along with a neatly wrapped box. Before I can utter a word, hot tears stream down my cheeks.
Perhaps Lydia understands a little of what I am feeling. This is the first birthday in a long time that has been recognized by anyone. The past year’s changes hit me all over again. The overflowing welcome and love that my aunt has shown me, in comparison to the day-to-day survival mode I was in before feels like two different worlds.
“Thank you”, I croak through the tears.
As I pull off the lid, a foil balloon floats up to the ceiling. I peer inside and there is a garment made from tiny ruby red fragments. I pull it out and discover a beautiful, knee length dress and underneath it a pair of silver pumps.
Seeing that I was speechless my aunt says,
“I wanted you to have something special. Eat up, you don’t want to be late for school. I need you back here as soon as school is finished. We will do something fun, okay?”
I grin my approval and wonder at what surprises await me.
July 2005 | Age 7
“Mari, come down. I need you to help me sweetie”.
Hearing my mama calling I go. When I reach the bottom of the stairs I hear a great shout of, “Surprise!”
There are family members, friends from school and several of my parents’ friends. They must have snuck in while I was playing.
“Happy birthday my love. Did you think we had forgotten?”
“Maybe”, I say shyly to Mama.
Papa rubs my head fondly, picks me up and places me in a chair. Someone starts to play music and the party comes alive. We play games and eat yummy food that Mama and Sofia made. We dance and dance and dance.
April 2006 | Age 7
Sofia has stopped coming to school. She hasn’t been since Mama went away. She works with Papa now. Papa’s friend Ronaldo has started taking her out. He buys her nice jewelry and takes her out dancing. She has changed. I tried to ask her about Mama but she told me to be quiet and left the room. All I want is a hug from Mama.
I don’t want to be at school. The other children look at me from the corner of their eye, turn to each other and whisper. The ones that I used to play with don’t sit with me anymore. They say I’m bad news, from a bad family. I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. Even the teachers look at me strangely. I want Mama, but she isn’t here — her photo is all I have left.
Christmas Day | Age 18
The table is laid for two of us. Reds, golds and greens festoon the room, with special attention to Mama and Lydia’s photo on the wall.
On the counter sit cards to be opened, including one from my coworkers. I was scared I wouldn’t make friends when I started my job at the temp agency. Many people assume I am stupid when they hear my accent, so they don’t even bother. After at least 20 other office interviews, I was lucky that the woman who hired me was also a Latina and looked beyond the accent. The work is good for now, experience at least, but someday I want to be a teacher. I still find myself marveling at the life I am living. It’s modest by standards of the “American Dream” but that’s okay. We are happy and healthy and safe. That’s what’s most important.
Maria’s story is a fictional one, but each of the events you just read about are based upon the stories of real people and their experiences before, during, and after migration. The timeline below is a guide to understand the facts behind the fiction.
This story was created by a team of students at the 2016 Salzburg Academy on Media and Global Change. It exists as part of a digital publication which explores how personal stories and human connections can enable us and others to be more inclusive, responsive, and understanding of migrants and the socio-political-cultural impacts of migration.
