Today, my thoughts are with the children.
ICE raids are said to be today. And I can’t help but think of all the trauma families are feeling and anticipating. I am driving to go visit my baby niece and I can’t even imagine seeing her being ripped from my sister’s arms. I can’t imagine my sister at the mercy of the government. I think about the concentration camps at our borders and the inhuman practices happening there. They are happening here, too.
I can’t imagine my brother in law being detained on his way home from work or trying to explain to baby Isla that her dad is gone and we don’t know when she will see him. I live a very privileged life. And maybe you do, too.
I think about the trauma that’s being created on American soil and that will live in the DNA of the children who will grow up if they don’t die from infection in concentration camps— of suicide, of drug use, of heart disease, of all the things we know stem from trauma and adverse childhood experiences.
Art will be created. Suffering always bares art. I think about the poems, the paintings, the novels that will come out of this period in American history 20-30-40 years from now. I imagine myself old and using a walker. I think about walking down a museum hallway, looking at the despair in a watercolor and reading that the artist used painting to cope with the horrific things he saw in his life. His dedication always being to his father who was deported and died.
And I will wonder what I could have done more. How did we allow this to happen in the United States?
I don’t want to go to those museums later in life. I would trade all the art for justice, for families to stay together, for suffering to be abolished along with all these dehumanizing raids. Close the camps. Abolish ICE.
Don’t talk to me about coming here legally.
If you aren’t Native American, you are an immigrant.
Know that people are leaving war torn countries and violent places, seeking asylum, which IS legal. “No one leaves home, unless Home is the mouth of a shark” -Warsan Shire, British-Somali poet.
God help us. Something has to give. If not for the sake of our generation, for the next. I keep thinking about the children. We can’t be silent.