WHERE ARE YOUR KIDS?


NICOLE AND KEVIN


When the immigration officer called me up, he said:

“Do you have kids?”

“Yes,” I told him, “I have two.”

This was toward the end of February 2014, and back then Kevin was sixteen years old and Nicole was still little, only ten.

And he asked me:

“Where are they?”

“In Guatemala,” I said, because that’s where they were: I had left them with their grandmother when I came to the United States in 2007.

“Who do they live with?” he asked.

“My sister,” I told him.

They had lived with my sister ever since my mom was killed. Yeah, the gang had killed my mom. They killed her in her own home. They had been charging her a “tax” like they do in Guatemala. My mom used to pay it to them until one day she’d had enough and told them she wasn’t going to pay any more. But they got their dues in the end: My mom paid them with her life. They killed her in her house. And then they killed my brother-in-law, who my kids thought of as their dad.

“Have you spoken to your children in the last few days?” the officer asked me.

“No,” I told him, “my sister told me she’d given them permission to go on a trip.”

“A trip?”

“Yeah,” I said, “with school.”

He was silent for a while, and you could hear him shuffling papers. Then he said the names of my children and asked me if that was what they were called. I told him it was, and he was silent again for a moment.

“No,” he said at last, “your kids aren’t in Guatemala.”

“Sorry?” I said.

“Your kids are here,” he said. “We’ve got them here, on the San Ysidro border.”


NOW I’M GOING TO SLEEP FOR A BIT


KIMBERLY


You can’t really tell what time it is when you’re in the freezer. Not even if it’s day or night. The freezer is the cell they put you in after Immigration catches you. They call it the freezer because it’s a really cold room, and the only thing they give you to put over yourself is a kind of metal blanket. It’s so cold I’m getting a cramp in my leg, although the cramp is probably from standing up the whole time. When they shut me in here, there was no more space to sit, or to lie down and sleep, because all the girls were sleeping on the floor and there wasn’t any room left.

“Psst, hey: Don’t fall over,” one of the girls says.

“What?” I ask, because I didn’t understand what she meant and because I didn’t see which girl said it.

There are a lot of people in this cell, maybe sixty or eighty, all girls around my age, or even younger. There are some really little girls here, too. I was in another freezer before. There, we were all mixed in together, boys and girls, and there wasn’t any space to sit down or lie down there, either, because it was so full.

“You closed your eyes and you’re about to fall asleep standing up,” the girl lying at my feet says.

I rub my eyes to stop myself feeling so drowsy and, as the girl sits up, quickly stretch my legs to try and get rid of the cramp.

“Sit down,” she tells me.

I obey before she has second thoughts. When I sit down my back hurts, but at least I can rest my legs. I sit in front of the girl, dark-skinned like me, her hair all tangled and dirty because we can’t have showers here, or even a wash. She must be the same age as me, or fifteen at most, anyway.

“I woke up because I was hungry,” she says. “Aren’t you hungry?”

I tell her I’m not, that when I’m scared I lose my appetite. Now I realize that in all these days, since I left my grandparents’ house, I’ve hardly eaten anything. There were a few days when I don’t think I ate anything at all, when we were on the bus and we didn’t even stop to eat. Then I got sick in the house where we were waiting to cross the border. I got an upset stomach from eating all that Mexican food.

“Do you think they’ll bring the food soon?” the girl asks me.

I tell her I don’t know, that they only brought me in here a few hours ago and they haven’t brought any food since then.

“Did they only just catch you?” she says.

“No,” I say. “They caught me two days ago, but they sent me somewhere else first.”

“What did they give you to eat there?” she asks.

“A carton of milk and an apple,” I say.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” I tell her. “Once in the morning, once at lunch, and the same thing at dinner. That’s all they gave us.”

“Here they give you a sandwich,” she says. “And some juice. How old are you?”

“Fourteen,” I say.

“Me too,” she says.


Copyright © 2019 by Juan Pablo Villalobos Alva