Not a boy anymore

Finally I nod, unable to speak, so he just reaches down and pats me. Eni, a boy just twelve hours ago, is now very adult the way he stares at me. I hate that he is here, but at the same time find comfort in it, a piece of my real life. That I couldn’t spare him weighs on me though. Protected with little responsibility in his normal life, he will now have to grow up suddenly. There have been times when I’ve wanted him to handle more, be the adult I was at his age. But this is not the way I wanted it to happen.

18 hours in, I was still in disbelief. Not that it was happening to us, as if we should be immune to these things, but that it was happening at all. Nothing made sense. Why was the U.S. doing this to me and by extension, my family? So many mental constructs I’d been building for 35 years dissolved with one knock. The system that I had been idolizing for the better part of my life was under question. That my son and I were lying in a cell was unfair and stupid. Could it be that the U.S. was using us as an example? Were they seeking to quiet the public’s frustrated rumblings of inaction against illegal immigrants by saying, “See, we are doing our job protecting America!” How else to explain what had just happened? It didn’t make any sense.

I’ve tried for years to seek US residency and citizenship for me and my family, ever since I was invited here to study under the Hubert H. Humphrey (Fulbright) fellowship. We’ve hired lawyers, spent tens of thousands of dollars for the permission to stay here, working, contributing to society, and, yes, trying to live that American dream I’d had in my head since my early years in Bulgaria. Why would they lock me up? I am an academician, business owner, taxpayer. And why would they lock up my son? He came to the U.S. at the age of two, knows no other home, and all the decisions that had been made on his behalf had been made by me. Why lock him up? This is beyond unfair. This is heartless.

The tears did not stop that first night but I would soon learn there were others in Delaney who were worse off than me. And yet, many found it in themselves to listen to my story, to help me adjust to life in detention and even gave me some of the basic necessities for the first few weeks. Their kindness and wisdom showed me humanity in an inhumane situation. This was a good realization for me.

Me, my son, and six guys in a cell

October 5-6, 2011 — Delaney Hall Detention Facility, Newark, New Jersey

Hungry, cold, and dead-tired, the trauma of the past 14 hours of processing succeeded in bringing me to my psychological edge. Most of our time was spent in different offices – waiting to answer a new set of questions. The names and faces of the interrogators became too many to remember and numbness soon spread through me. Handcuffs were on then off, on then off. Finally, I knew we weren’t going anywhere. The stiff orange jumper was placed in my lap and I realized this would be no quick visit. Somehow I knew I would be there long enough to see the material become softer over time, not so rough against my skin. This was not a consolation, just a reminder we were in big trouble.

The cell Eni and I were in holds eight. On my back in a bottom bunk, I stared at the underside of the bed above me. The sound of my roommates makes it difficult for me to shut out the day, to falter into a peaceful state of denial. I miss my wife then, the familiar sounds of her drifting off to sleep. I’m praying she is safe and not about to be ripped from our comfortable, very American life.

To my left is Pakistan. Above left – Peru. To my right is Bangladesh. Above right – Mali. In the corner – Guatemala and Brazil.

Above me – Bulgaria. My son.

I feel an overwhelming sadness then, and when I hear the muffled crying from one of the other bunks, I can’t help but cry myself.

“You okay, Dad?” Eni asks, his face upside down, peering at me from the edge of his bunk from above. The dark circles under his eyes evidence of the day we’ve had, and I don’t know when he’ll have the luxury of sleeping-in again.

Am I Under Arrest?

(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.

A hard knock

New Jersey, October 2011

A hard knock on my front door breaks the quiet ease of my morning. Maybe a deliveryman, except they usually ring the bell. Plus, I wasn’t expecting any packages, but perhaps my wife is. I’d ask her if she hadn’t already left for work. For a moment I wonder if I should answer. A voice in my head says no, but I ignore it.

Two guys in their mid-thirties are there, dressed in regular clothes. Experience tells me this can’t be good.

“Hi,” one of them says. “We are conducting an investigation. We are from Homeland Security. ICE. Who lives here?”

Damn. “I live here,” I answer, and make a mental note to start listening to my gut.

Because of our immigration status, we’d had a lot of interaction with the authorities over the years. They knew where we lived. We’d shown up for every court date, every appointment, everything. I tell myself there should be no reason to be concerned.

Pushing away the urge to ask them to go away, I invite them in. They don’t budge. Instead, one guy pulls out a yellow folder with a half-inch-thick stack of paper inside and opens it. A picture of my son stares up at me. I now know for sure this is not like my other encounters with H.S. I feel protective, almost territorial. This is my son, after all. I want to rip the picture from the folder.

“Does Enislav live here?”

“Yes, he is my son.” My heart starts beating too fast now. Anger triggers a rush of adrenaline; the violation into my private life leaves me sick inside.

“Is he here?”

I want to say no. I want to telepathically send a message to Eni to climb out his bedroom window and go to his sister’s house.

“Yes,” I answer through a clenched jaw.

“Who else lives here?”

“My wife.”

“Is she here?”

“No, she left for work.” I say silent thanks that she’d already left for the day, but at the same time need her.

“Listen, we have a warrant for you. We need to satisfy the warrant.” No emotion. They are well-trained.

“What does that mean?” I ask, trying to outwardly maintain a steadiness I’m not feeling.

“You have to come with us to the office to fill out some paperwork.”

A third guy with a shaved head suddenly comes around and wants to know if everything is okay. Everything is okay, his buddies tell him. I feel outnumbered and realize that was their intent.

“So why don’t you go get your son and get ready,” one finally says.

“Get ready for what?” My voice is shaking a bit, betraying me with its lack of confidence. “Listen, I have never been through something like this. What am I getting ready for?” I nearly yell those last words, but stop short. Growing up during the Cold War in a Communist country, I’m well aware of what yelling at authority will get you. In Bulgaria this happened. But in the U.S? Incomprehensible.