The Realities of Deportation: My Father’s Journey
I knew something was wrong when I saw the men across the street from my home. Dark-rimmed sunglasses and faces that were stern and cold. They were serious business and from the worried look in my mother’s eyes, I knew this wasn’t a normal occurrence. Once my mother took my sister and I to school, the day went by normally, until I was picked up from school later that day.
My mother told me that my father had been taken by U.S Immigration and Customs Enforcement. I was confused, frustrated, and filled with hate toward the men who took him. At 16, I didn’t understand why someone would want to separate a family that was as close-knit as mine.
My father was born in Oaxaca, Mexico and my mother, in Santa Ana, El Salvador. My mother arrived to the U.S when she was shy of 16 with my older brother from a different relationship, who was less than 6 months old at the time. When it came to my father, he was 19 and wanted to become independent. He was raised in a very Christian home and as the eldest son of eight other siblings, he wanted to do more than just stay in his hometown.
He eventually took the long voyage to the United States border, where he crossed and began his new life in the new and foreign country. It wasn’t easy but he worked countless nights to save money to get an apartment. Eventually, he met my mother at a gathering, dated for a year or two and eventually tied-the-knot. I was born a year and a half later and my sister was born four years after me.
My father is the type of person who always puts his family first. Growing up, if there was anything we needed for school or the latest film we wanted to watch, he always made the time to go the store or clear out a Saturday where we would all go out and spend time together as a family.
My parents eventually opened their janitorial cleaning business and as time went on, their job became a growing success. Even when he was gone the majority of the week working, it didn’t really feel like he was gone because even when he would come home after a hard and stressful day, he would always come home with a smile on his face and ask my siblings and I if we wanted to go to the store or just walk around the neighborhood.
Life was easy and simple for my family and me. We never complained about anything since we were always grateful for everything we had. There was never a time in my childhood where I felt unhappy or stressed until that morning in March 2011 when he was taken.
By April of that same year, after a short court hearing that was a held a few weeks prior, he was in Tijuana, Mexico, staying at a hotel with just a few dollars in his pocket. From that day onward, everything changed.
Normally a diligent student, my grades began to slowly falter and I became distant from my friends and family. As a sophomore in high school, my stress level was immensely affecting the way I was living. My mother had to take over my father’s role as a business owner and even though she would put on a brave face for my sister and me, the stress was definitely taking a toll on her.
As a family, we made the decision to take the long drive to Tijuana to visit my father. We would leave on Fridays and by Sunday nights, we waited hours in line to cross the border back into the U.S. It wasn’t easy and there were Monday mornings where I was sleep deprived, since most weekends we would get back home to Lancaster, Calif. around 3 or 4 in the morning.
The first few months were the most difficult moments to endure. Saying hello and quickly saying goodbye was what made the situation both physically and mentally tiring. I had school, friends and the rest of my family living in the Los Angeles area while my father was in Tijuana.
Holidays weren’t easy since we had to choose where we wanted to spend it. And life milestones, such as graduations, were bittersweet because although the accomplishments were amazing, not having a loved one seeing you walk across the stage was tough. Many would say that at least they can see a photograph or a video of it, but it isn’t the same.
According to the U.S Immigration and Customs Enforcement website, during the same year my father was removed and sent back to his home country of Mexico (2011), the agency removed 396,906 people from the country. Many of those people had families and the possibility of seeing a loved one again is slim. My family and I are lucky that we have the opportunity to visit my father and come back to the states without a problem, but there are cases where those who are deported are sent back to countries where they aren’t safe and families aren’t able to travel very far.
As time continued forward, the frustration and anger I felt within me began to subside. I took the situation and made peace with it. The challenges were only the beginning and I knew that I had to keep on going and accomplish the goals that I have set for myself.
Visiting my father ended up being less tiring and more enjoyable. We all began to do our normal routine of activities like how it was before his deportation. Rather than watching grand premieres of films in California, we began to schedule time to watch all the films we loved in Mexico. The dark days were slowly turning to more hopeful and positive moments.
In 2021, it will be 10 years since my father was deported to Mexico. Life has indeed changed but it has made my family and me stronger. We cherish every moment with each other and even though as time goes on and slowly our lives are changing with work and school, we stay as close-knit as we were before his deportation.
