The Reality of UACs Hits Home

When I sat down at my favorite restaurant to wait for a friend on a beautiful, spring evening, the last thing I expected to receive was an urgent plea from one of the waitstaff.

Antonio appeared, out of uniform, and asked if he could have a word with me, in Spanish.

I gestured for him to join me. He shook his head, “No.”

I asked “Are you on duty?”

He said, “No, I asked them to let me know if you came in — to call me — because I need to speak with you urgently.”

I replied, “Please, sit. I insist,” knowing that when I phrased it that way he would have little choice; not if he was going to act according to the norms to which we are both accustomed.

Nervously, he took the seat across from me.

“What’s going on,” I asked.

“I need help finding my children,” he said, and then in a desperate rush, “They have been taken into custody, to detention, but no one will tell me where! They tell me you work with immigration and may be able to assist me. I don’t care where I have to go or what I have to do. They can deport me. Jail me! It doesn’t matter what they do to me, I just want my children, safe, with us.”

I explained that I did not work in immigration, but was an activist against the border wall and the inhumane policies that needlessly imperil people at our southern border. However, I did know people, lawyers and other activists, who work with refugees and asylum-seekers; and I know a lot of Border Patrol agents.

Visibly distressed, Antonio, sat wringing his hands and looking side-to-side. I could tell he was self-conscious and concerned that others might hear our conversation.

“It’s ok,” I assured him, “Tell me about your children. Does Border Patrol have them?”

“They crossed the river in Roma, last week,” he explained. “They have been living in Veracruz with my mother, but she passed away. They had no choice but to leave. My wife and I, neither of us could return if we went back to get them, so we made the arrangements.”

By this I understood he had sent money to the ‘coyotes,’ or human traffickers, to get his children to the U.S.-Mexico border and ferry them across the river.

“How do you know Border Patrol has them?” I asked, because sometimes families receive calls from coyotes demanding more money. Sometimes the calls and claims are fake.

He showed me his phone and said he received a phone call from a 1–888 number, from someone who claimed to be a case manager for the detention center where his children were being detained. He said the person asked a couple of questions about the children, then said he should always answer when they call, and they would call, again.

I wrote down the phone number. Later I called it. It was the Immigration & Customs Enforcement (I.C.E.) Enforcement & Removal Operations (E.R.O.) Detention line.

“Did they give you a case number?” I asked, “Or intake numbers for each of the children?”

“No,” he replied, “They would not tell me anything! I cannot get to San Antonio, if they are there.”

I could feel the weight of Antonio’s world, his fear, his uncertainty. His voice had started to tremble, and I could feel my throat beginning to tighten.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, I repeated in my head as I inhaled deeply and bit the inside of my cheek.

“Tell me everything you can about the children,” I said, “I need their full names, ages, birthdates, physical descriptions, birthmarks. Everything you can share with me that might help us locate them.”

As he recited all of this, I took notes furiously. We exchanged phone numbers and I told him I would begin reaching out to friends and colleagues that night, as soon as I got home. I also told him to cooperate with the case workers, if they called, and to keep track of their communications.

When my friend arrived, Antonio rose and excused himself. I assured him I would do everything I could, although, honestly, I wasn’t sure there was anything I could do.

That night, I couldn’t sleep for thoughts of his son and two daughters, ages 13, 11 and 10, in one of the hieleras, or “coolers,” as the detention centers are called. Were the children together, or had they been separated by sex? Were they in separate facilities, separate cities? Might they be deported, at night, to another border town, far from Texas, to be preyed upon, kidnapped, raped or worse? News of this cruel “lateral deportation” practice by Border Patrol’s had broken, recently; so, I was acutely aware of what might happen — what may have already happened — to one or all of the children, who could be scattered like chaff in the wind. Even if they were “safe,” in the same facility, they might be abused or assaulted by staff of the for-profit prison corporations that count the U.S. taxpayers as their very best clients.

I went to my son’s room and stood in the doorway. I listened to him snore, softly, as tears streamed down my face. At 3: 13 A.M. I literally started counting my blessings, instead of sheep; as many of them as I could, until I passed out on the couch.

The sound of riotous chachalacas and the smell of coffee brewing woke me at the crack of dawn. Antonio, his wife and his children were foremost on my mind. Did any of them sleep a wink last night?

I had to resist the urge to begin texting and calling people at 6 A.M., but decided it was perfectly acceptable to send email…so I did that.

Over the course of the next month, I connected Antonio with lawyers and advocates at ProBar and the Texas Civil Rights Project, and checked-in with him, periodically. Sometimes all we did was pray.

About once a week he would receive a random call from a case manager with more questions about his children. He told me how hard it was not to beg and plead, cry and scream, in frustration, anger and despair, for the release of his children. Remaining strong and calm for his wife, so that she did not lose hope; that was his job now. Still, they had no idea where their children were, or if they would be returned.

Then, late one Friday afternoon, I received an email from one of my contacts in the federal government. The children were being held in San Diego, California. They had been transported there, from Texas, for some reason, and held for about 30 days (at a cost to taxpayers of over $700/day/child).

Now, the government was satisfied that Antonio and his wife were, in fact, the children’s parents; so, all that was left to do was arrange for their flights back to Texas, where Antonio could claim them at the airport.

The following Thursday, Antonio’s family was reunited, in the United States. I have not seen him or spoken with him since. While I would love to meet the children, to embrace and welcome them, to amplify Antonio’s joy and relief at their arrival, I am not their family.

Friday, I received my last message: “Mil gracias doña güera;” and that will have to suffice. After all, I must also abide by the traditional and cultural norms that frame relations and bridge worlds, on the borderlands.

Photo credit: ACLU