(continued from “A hard knock“)
“Put on some sneakers, we’ll take you to the office,” he answered, ignoring my questions.
“For how long?” Didn’t I at least have the right to know this?
“A couple of hours, maybe a couple of days.” His words as vague as all his other answers.
Finally I nod and turn to go get ready, my hands curled into fists at my side. Baldy comes in to wait for me, the other two stay outside.
I think then about a very successful meeting I’d had the day before. It was a huge contract for me and I’d planned to work on it today. The project? Consulting for a government entity. I couldn’t help but see the irony. I’m both mad and anxious that it’ll have to wait. Same goes for the sailing I’d planned to do tonight.
At the doorway of my son’s room, I stop a moment to watch him while he sleeps. Finally I go and touch his shoulder, tell him ICE is here. “Dress up and let’s go to their office,” I say. He looks confused but seems to know better than to ask a lot of questions.
My hands shake as I put on my sneakers. Baldy is impatient as he hovers too close and I want to tell him to back-off.
As I lock the front door, a fourth guy comes from around the back. Was he stationed there just in case? I want to ask, “Do I look like the type of guy who’s going to take off?”, but don’t–instead, I quietly feel the indignity to my core. After all, I work here, raised my family here, pay my fair share of taxes. It’s the only country my son knows, English the only language he speaks. I feel as American as any U.S. citizen, with the same allegiances. But they don’t care. They don’t care that I’m a Fulbright Scholar and have received many awards, including the honor of Outstanding Professor. They don’t care that the office of George H.W. Bush awarded me a certificate for my work.
Guy #4 leads us to a nondescript SUV. In an almost apologetic tone, he tells my son and me that we have to ride in the back. He says he is supposed to handcuff us, but won’t–not until we get to our destination.
Handcuffs? Are we being arrested? At no time has someone said the words, “You are under arrest”, like I’ve seen in the movies. But last time I checked, handcuffs aren’t used for those free to go about their day.
We drive from North Brunswick to Newark, NJ. It’s surreal. My son is giving the driver directions while he is texting. I warn him he should put the phone away, but he dismisses me. I feel pride at his brazenness, but at the same time it scares me it will make things worse for us.
Gradually it begins to dawn on me that this is the culmination of my 20-year U.S. immigration saga. 20 years of hopes and dreams that tomorrow will be better than today, crushed. It is darkest when hope is gone.