In the Country We Love Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Authors

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  Henry Holt and Company ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  To my Papi and Mami—

  Whether we be near or far,

  hand in hand or divided by continents,

  may our love remain forever whole.

  To Toni Ferrera—

  Your memory lives on in the

  hearts of all those you touched.

  To me, your light shines the brightest.

  To the left is my father’s little apple (manzanita). My parents said I looked like a little apple when I was born. To the right is the nurse, Diana, who helped deliver me.

  Introduction

  There are chapters in every life which are seldom read and certainly not aloud.

  —CAROL SHIELDS, Pulitzer Prize–winning novelist

  One moment—that’s all it takes for your entire world to split apart. For me, that moment came when I was fourteen. I returned home from school to discover that my hardworking immigrant parents had been taken away. In one irreversible instant—in the space of a single breath—life as I’d known it was forever altered. That’s the part of my story I’ve shared. This book is the rest of it.

  Deported. Long before I fully understood what that word meant, I’d learned to dread it. With every ring of my family’s doorbell, with every police car passing on the street, a horrifying possibility hung in the air: My parents might one day be sent back to Colombia. That fear permeated every part of my childhood. Day after day, year after year, my mom and dad tried desperately to become American citizens and keep our family together. They pleaded. They planned. They prayed. They turned to others for help. And in the end, none of their efforts were enough to keep them here in the country we love.

  My story is heartbreakingly common. There are more than eleven million undocumented immigrants in America, and every day an average of seventeen children are placed in state care after their parents are detained and deported, according to US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). Those numbers don’t take into account the scores of others who, like me, simply fell through the bureaucratic cracks. After my parents were snatched away, no government official checked up on me. No one seemed to care or even notice that I was on my own.

  It’s not easy for me to be so open about what happened in my family, especially after spending so many years hiding in the shadows. I’ve really struggled with putting my business out there. So why am I choosing to reveal so much now? Because on that afternoon when I came home to an empty house, I felt like the only child who’d ever dealt with something so overwhelming. And in the agonizing years that followed, it would’ve meant everything for me to know that someone, somewhere had survived what I was going through. For the thousands of nameless children who feel as forgotten as I did—this memoir is my gift to you. It’s as much for your healing as it is for my own.

  Just as one moment can bring despair, it can also lead to a powerful new beginning. A different life. A dream for moving onward and upward rather than backward. What you’ll read in these pages is ultimately about that hope—the same desire that once led my family to this nation. That hope is the only thing that has sustained me through this frightening ordeal.

  These days, we’re surrounded by a lot of talk about immigration reform. Border security. A path to citizenship for the millions of undocumented workers who live among us. Behind every one of the headlines, there is a family. A mother and father. An innocent child. A real-life story that’s both deeply painful and rarely told. At last, I’ve found the courage to tell you mine.

  Real fresh as a freshman in high school.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Silver Key

  Every doorway, every intersection has a story.

  —KATHERINE DUNN, novelist

  Spring 2001—in the Roxbury section of Boston

  My mom was making me late—and I hated to be late. Especially for a school I loved. And most especially when I was preparing for my first solo. It was a big deal for a freshman to land a solo. Huge, actually. In fact, even getting into Boston Arts Academy had been a miracle. It was my ticket out of the hood.

  “Diane, come eat your breakfast,” my mother called from the kitchen.

  “I gotta go!” I yelled, because—let’s face it—like many fourteen-year-olds, I had ’tude.

  “You’ve got another second,” my mother said, following me down the hall. “You need to eat something.”

  “No, I don’t have another second,” I snapped. “Why do you always do this to me?” Then, before she could say another word or even hug me good-bye—slam!—I stormed out the door and off to the train.

  It was nice out, around seventy degrees. After a freezing winter, the weather was finally improving—and so, it seemed, was my family’s luck. The day before, my dad had won the lotto. Not a crazy amount of money, mind you—a few thousand bucks—but for us, it was the jackpot. And on top of that, the love was flowing again in our house. My four-year-old niece, who’d been away from our family since my older brother, Eric, and his wife had separated, was back to spending time at our place. I saw it as a sign that things were looking up. That better times were coming.

  As I dashed onto campus, I looked at my watch. Three minutes until the bell. Even before eight a.m., the place was buzzing. Do you remember Fame, that eighties TV series about a performing arts high school in New York City? Well, going to BAA felt like stepping onto the set of that show. In one room, there’d be all these kids dancing around and going berserk. Next door, another group would be belting out songs or creating art on the walls. The energy was insane, particularly right before Springfest—the one night our parents got to see us perform. It was one of the most special nights of the year. And my number—a love song duet called “The Last Night of the World” from Miss Saigon—was part of the finale.

  Right on time but a bit out of breath, I rounded the corner into humanities class. That’s how our day was set up: First, we had our academic subjects like math and science, and then came the afternoon courses I lived for—theater, art, music. And because Springfest was only three weeks away, I’d also started staying late to squeeze in some extra practice time. I didn’t want my solo just to be good. I wanted it to be absolutely perfect.

  The morning dragged by. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Noon. And with each hour that passed, I felt more and more weird. Not Twilight Zone weird, but more like that pit in the stomach you get when something is unsettled. I figured it was because of how I’d treated my mom; I knew I needed to apologize. Then again, I wouldn’t actually say I was sorry. To avoid that awkwardness, I’d cry a little to show her how much I loved her and hadn’t meant to be such a dick.

  At last, the school day was over—which meant rehearsal time. When I got to the music room, a big studio, my teacher, Mr. Stewart, was already there. So was Damien—the sweet black kid with a ’fro and glasses who was the other half of my duet.

  “You need to warm up?” Mr. Stewart asked me. As usual, he was wearing a tie, a dress shirt, and that big
grin we all knew him for. He was seated at the piano.

  “I’m cool,” I said. I stashed my backpack in a chair and quickly took my place near Damien. Mr. Stewart spread out his music sheets, rested his fingers on the keys, and played the ballad’s opening notes. Damien’s part was first.

  “‘In a place that won’t let us feel,’” he sang softly, “‘in a life where nothing seems real, I have found you … I have found you.’”

  Next was my verse. “‘In a world that’s moving too fast,’” I chimed in a little off-key, “‘in a world where nothing can last, I will hold you…’”

  Mr. Stewart stopped playing. “You sure you’re okay, Diane?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “I’m fine, I guess,” I told him. “Just rusty.”

  Crap. I’d been practicing this song in my bedroom mirror for days; I knew it up and down. But for some reason, it wasn’t coming out right. Probably nerves.

  “Let’s try it again,” Mr. Stewart said.

  I stood up tall and cleared my throat. The music began. As my part approached, I closed my eyes so I could concentrate.

  “‘In a world that’s moving too fast,’” I sang, “‘in a world where nothing can last, I will hold you … I will hold you.’”

  I opened my eyelids long enough to see the teacher nod. Exhale. All year, I’d been trying to figure out whether this music thing was for me. Whether I could really make it as a singer. And thanks to Mr. Stewart, I was starting to believe I had a shot. He’d taken me under his wing and was helping me find my sound. My voice. My place. I couldn’t wait for my family to come and hear me.

  On the way home, I stopped at Foot Locker. After my papi’s Powerball win, he’d proudly given me a crisp fifty-dollar bill. “Buy yourself something nice, sweetheart,” he told me. “Anything you want.” I’d decided to splurge on sneakers, this cute pair of classic Adidas shell-toes. I’d had my eye on them for weeks; I thought I was Run–D.M.C.

  They were fresh as hell (yeah, I was living in a ’90s dream). “Aren’t these hot?” I said to my friend Martha, this shy girl from my neighborhood who happened to be in the store that day. She smiled, showing off a mouthful of braces. “You can wear them out of the store if you want,” the clerk said. “I’ll wrap up your other pair.” Moments later, I handed over my cash, stuffed my old tennis shoes in my bag, and headed off to the T—the Orange Line. That was at five thirty.

  At six fifteen, the train pulled into the Stony Brook station. I strolled across the platform, the whole time staring down at my Adidas. So dope. Outside, the sun was setting a bit. I knew my parents would be wondering what time I’d get home. I decided to stop and call.

  I spotted a pay phone—yes, pay phones were still a thing—and walked toward it. I removed a quarter from the back pocket of my jeans, pushed in the coin, and dialed. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. “You’ve reached Maria, Hector, and Diane,” said my mother’s voice on the machine. “We’re not here right now. Please leave us a message.” Beep.

  One of my parents was always home by this time. Always. And neither of them had mentioned having plans. Where could they be? With my hands trembling, I searched my pockets for a second quarter. Empty. I threw off my pack, unzipped the back compartment, and swept my forefinger along the bottom edge. Bingo. I forced the coin into the slot and pressed hard on each digit. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Again—no answer.

  All at once, I swung on my pack and jetted. I’d run these three blocks to our house dozens of times; I knew the route in my sleep. Let them be home, I prayed with every step. God, please—let them be there. The faster I sprinted, the slower I seemed to be moving. One block. One and a half. Two blocks. A girl on her scooter called out, “Hey, Diane!” but I was way too out of breath to even answer her. My right shoelace came undone. I didn’t stop to retie it.

  When I made it onto our street, I saw my dad’s Toyota station wagon in the driveway. Relief. They didn’t hear the phone, I reassured myself. They’ve gotta be here. I rushed up to our porch and pulled out my set of keys, riffling through them until I got to the silver one. I slid it into the dead bolt, held my breath, and tried to brace myself for what I’d find beyond that door. I still can’t believe what I found.

  Mami and Papi looking real ’70s. Two-year-old me in Boston Commons. The British are coming! The British are coming!

  CHAPTER 2

  Mi Familia

  The family is one of nature’s masterpieces.

  —GEORGE SANTAYANA, philosopher

  As a kid, I watched a lot of television. One of my favorite things to do was to find a spot on our sofa, curl up with the remote, and flip through all my beloved shows on PBS, WB, Fox, and Nickelodeon. I also had this huge collection of Disney movies on VHS. I knew every Disney character by heart, from Princess Jasmine, Belle, Cinderella, Mowgli, Simba, Pete and his dragon, the whole bedknobs and broomsticks crew, Cruella, and Pocahontas—yeah, they were the homies. By kindergarten, I’d become convinced I was Ariel from The Little Mermaid. I dressed like her. I sang like her. I let my hair cascade down my back like hers. And of course, I knew all the details of her dream to escape from her life to another. Ariel was my kind of girl. I got her.

  My brother went along with my fantasy. “How does your song go?” Eric teased me one Friday. “Is it ‘Under the ocean’?”

  “Shut up,” I said, rolling my eyes. He’d apparently overheard my rendition of the mermaid’s musical plea. I’d hollered into the mic, otherwise known as my mother’s hairbrush, singing “Under the Sea.” As frequently as I’d watched the movie, each time might as well have been the first. And—spoiler alert—when Ariel fell into Prince Eric’s arms, I cried. Yes, I feel things.

  Eric, who is ten years my senior, kept an eye on me when our parents were out. Can you imagine growing up with a sibling who’s a full decade older? It’s like being an only child. Think about it: When I was six, Eric was sixteen. Which means that, for the most part, he did his thing and I did mine.

  Not that he didn’t try to include me; he was actually pretty cool. “Come on, baby girl,” he’d say on afternoons when we’d scrounged up loose change from beneath our couch cushions. “Let’s go down to Chuck E. Cheese.” Once there, he’d play video games while I jumped myself silly in the inflatable bouncer. After we’d used up our short stack of coins, we’d head back and park ourselves in front of the tube again. When it came to TV hang time, Sundays were the best. Eric would mix up one of his chocolate shakes or fruit smoothies and settle in next to me so we could watch The Simpsons and Married with Children. It was our weekly tradition. Our other fave was The Wonder Years on Wednesday nights.

  My mother and father—or Mami and Papi, as I affectionately call them—worked. And I mean super-hard. That’s what it takes to make it in America as you’re struggling for citizenship. From the time they arrived from Colombia, they accepted the sort of low-wage, under-the-table jobs that make some people turn up their noses. Scrubbing toilets. Painting houses. Mowing lawns. Mopping floors. My dad, Hector, left for his shift as a restaurant dishwasher well before sunrise; at noon, he traded his kitchen apron for a factory uniform. Monday through Friday and sometimes on weekends, my father clocked in. It’s how he made ends meet.

  My mother, Maria, was home more with Eric and me, but she also did everything from babysitting to cleaning hotels and office buildings. When I was small, she took me along for her shifts. As she wheeled her supply cart through the aisles, stopping to vacuum and wipe, she let me roam. “Put that back, Diane,” she’d scold if she caught me swiping candy from an executive’s desk. Almost immediately, I was on to other mischief—swiveling in a chair and pretending I was a secretary. I could entertain myself that way for the longest time. She’d look at me and smile. “That’s why you have to do well in school and work hard, so you don’t end up like me.” I’d look up at her slyly like, “Moms, I got this.”

  My parents usually finished work by dinnertime. At five, the smell of Mami’s rice and beans, fried plantains, and sancocho, a Colomb
ian soup, wafted through our halls, rising to mix with the sound of our beloved salsa music faves from El Gran Combo, Grupo Niche, Frankie Ruiz. My mother and father are both fantastic cooks; in fact, neighbors would flock to our house to eat their specialties. Mami had her signature dishes and Papi was always conjuring up something interesting, sometimes adding an American, Chinese, Italian, or Dominican twist.

  One thing is for sure—our fridge was never empty. Papi would always say we didn’t have much but at least we had food. I didn’t ask for a lot, as long as he’d make me my favorite weekend snack of pulpos and papitas (octopus and fries). Papi would cut a hot dog in half and slice it in the middle two ways so the hotdog looked like it had tentacles, and when fried, the tentacles would come out looking like an octopus. My dad was always doing fun little things like that for me. When he made yucca, he’d peel the yucca skin and make vampire teeth for me and him, and we would chase each other all over the house. Papi was so cute and silly.

  I was easy to please: I’d eat pretty much anything, as long as it had ketchup on it … and the foods didn’t touch each other. “Ooh, that’s delicious!” my mother would declare upon sampling her creation. Then as she prepared my plate, she’d pour the beans directly over the rice. “Mami!” I’d protest. “Can you please keep them separate?” I hated it when my food touched. I still do.

  Dinner was my chance to take center stage. Once the family had gathered around the table, I’d belt out whatever Selena or Whitney Houston hit I’d just learned, lifting an arm to add drama. My parents applauded as if I’d brought down the house at Carnegie. “That’s wonderful, honey!” Mami exclaimed. At her insistence, I did a second number. Followed by a third. Until finally, Papi cut my concert short. “Okay,” he’d say through laughs. “That’s enough, chibola!” He’d given me that endearing nickname after he’d heard it on a Peruvian TV show; it’s slang for “my little girl.” Whenever he said it, I cracked up.