Vodka Yonic features a rotating cast of women, nonbinary and gender-diverse writers from around the world sharing stories that are alternately humorous, sobering, intellectual, erotic, religious or painfully personal. You never know what you’ll find in this column, but we hope this potent mix of stories encourages conversation.
On Jan. 20, 2017, the same morning Donald Trump took office as the 45th president of the United States, I was waking up in Nashville after being in detention centers for nearly 10 days.
I remember arriving at the Mexico-U.S. border the evening before.
Walking the bridge to la frontera, I didn’t want to look down. Instead, I looked at the people walking alongside me. I looked at the sunset: bright orange, soft pinks and reds painting the sky. I kept telling myself to walk confidently. There were tons of people walking or driving like they knew exactly where they were going — as if there was no fear of being stopped or questioned by the authorities. I felt terrified in a way that none of these other people seemed to be.
As I approached the entrance, I saw a sign reading “Welcome to the United States.” I looked up at an officer, who seemed like the tallest man I had ever seen. I felt so small. He asked me for legal documentation. Shortly after that, I was in a cell.
I used to think of it as a fancy cell. It had a door instead of prison bars, and big LED panels. In recent years, I’ve realized that framing the cell as a “fancy” one was probably just a way for me to cope. After all, I was just 15 then — still a child with a big imagination.
The room — el cuartito — had a big glass window where you could see all the officers at their desks, as well as the other cells. Some were big, with lots of people, and some small like mine. My room was just big enough to fit a queen-size bed, from wall to wall. But instead of a bed, I had itchy blankets and the floor.
I remember trying my first corndog at the facility. It was a microwavable kind, with a plastic wrapper. Now I hate corndogs. My favorite meal while I was there was ramen noodles and grape Kool-Aid. At the time, hearing how badly people were treated in other facilities made me think the detention center I was in was the Four Seasons of immigration centers. Now I know that wasn’t true.
I woke up on Jan. 20, just in time to see the inauguration of President Trump. I was happy to be here. All I knew about the U.S. was High School Musical, Gossip Girl, Tumblr and McDonald’s.
One of my first memories in Nashville is of getting off my school bus at a stop that wasn’t mine, which made the bus driver yell at me to get back on. But all of the houses looked the same to me — they still do. I remember walking by the blue lockers of Antioch High School as a lovely Latina girl gave me a tour of the school in Spanish. I couldn’t keep up with all the information. I had never been in a school that big, but mainly I was in the clouds, thinking, I am inside a true American school. I grew up watching movies on the Disney Channel, and everything looked just like a movie to me.
Since then I have learned English. I have eaten almost all the ethnic food you can find on Nolensville Pike. I graduated high school. I experienced my first lockdown because of a school-shooter threat. I watched all 10 seasons of Friends. I have fallen in love, done drugs, gone to college and gotten a big-girl job. I have done all the American things I once watched on TV.
I have given my best years to this country, and in many ways it has thanked me back. But it’s just not enough — not enough to make my fear go away. Not enough to make me stop wondering if this is really my place. Not enough to always feel safe.
Every day, I wake up to more people getting arrested, kidnapped and killed by federal agents.
How can I show you that I am not a criminal? That I am not stealing your job? I had to work full time to pay for college, just like you. I have dreams of owning a house just like you. I go to your church, I stand next to you at the grocery store, I sit next to you in the horrible traffic. All my dreams bring me back here, just like yours. I don’t want to leave.
In my short time in America, I have fallen in love with Tennessee skies, California streets, Nebraska snowy winters, Florida heat and everything in between.
I have built my life within your borders. I have loved your land from east to west, north to south. I’ve done my part. Can you look at me and tell me that I don’t belong here?
