A poem for immigrant mothers fearing deportation
One of the reasons I was moved to start a blog was the push to rid our country of immigrants. I mean, honestly, we’re all immigrants from some point in time. Somewhere along the way someone way up the family tree made their way to America from somewhere else. There are few that are completely native, but it is not the majority by any means.
So what’s the deal? Why are people so offended that people are coming here from other countries? If you lived in another country and you were surrounded by war or famine or drug crimes wouldn’t you want to move away from that if you could? Of course you would. It’s a no brainer. So why is it so hard to understand that others would want to do the same?
And the stories that have been truly disturbing of late are the ones regarding Hispanic parents being taken away from their children – sometimes unexpectedly. Immigrant families are being told to develop a plan for their children in case they are deported without warning.
Isn’t that kind of like hearing from your doctor, “Yeah, you’re dying of cancer and it may happen tomorrow. Get your things in order so you’re kids aren’t left out in the cold?” Yeah, it’s exactly like that. I mean, technically, you’re still alive and perhaps you can help somewhat from your home country … perhaps. But It’s hard to raise a family when you’re hundreds or thousands of miles away.
Why are we splitting families apart? Why are families having to pray each time they are together they won’t be split apart? That’s not way to live, but unfortunately, that is how a large portion of our friends and neighbors are living right now.
A Death of Sorts
She isn’t dying, but it is a death of sorts –
for which she must prepare.
The documents authorized and clearly marked;
directions penned with greatest care.
Listing names and matching numbers;
she details a life without her.
But you cannot nurture nor protect
from the confines of a binder.
Plan they said, and plan she did;
but a poor substitute in her mind.
A stack of papers on a shelf
is the mother redefined.
It gives no hugs or goodnight kisses,
no tissues when they cry.
But if tomorrow comes and she is gone,
it serves as her goodbye.
No, she isn’t dying, but it is a death of sorts –
for it tears at her very heart.
What if she is taken without warning –
from her family she must depart?
Poem Inspired by this NPR story: Fearing Deportation, Families Plan For The Worst