In the Country We Love: My Family Divided

A recurring theme in Guerrero’s memoir is the vulnerability of undocumented immigrants in the US. The issue comes to the fore in Chapter 5, when Eric is deported after defending himself against three aggressive men: “The guys surrounded him, pummeling his head with their fists. Eric, who thought he was being robbed, desperately tried to defend himself by flinging his toolbox at them” (65). Eric did not start the fight (he was simply defending himself), and the men who attacked him did not receive serious injuries. Nevertheless, the incident leads to Eric’s deportation. Unlike US citizens and legal residents, who have broad protections under the law, undocumented immigrants face different standards. On the advice of his court-appointed attorney, Eric pleads guilty to stalking, a misdemeanor in criminal law. In immigration law, however, the charge is both a felony and grounds for immediate expulsion. Eric was preyed upon by three men who sought to rob him; he was too poor to hire effective counsel; and he was deported because he accepted his uninformed lawyer’s bad advice.

Nowhere is the topic of vulnerability more apparent than when Papi learns his “lawyer” conned him. For two years, he gives the fake lawyer money he scrapes together from extra janitorial and factory work, and from Mami’s babysitting and housecleaning jobs. He diligently checks on his case, and the fake lawyer tells him they are making good progress. After Eric’s deportation, Papi pursues citizenship more aggressively. It is during this period that he learns the truth: His Harvard-trained lawyer is nothing but a grifter who has disappeared with his life’s savings. US citizens and legal residents in similar circumstances can file complaints with the police and the Federal Trade Commission. They can also file civil suits to recover lost funds, and reach out to organizations that provide emotional support for victims of fraud. No such recourse exists for undocumented immigrants. The incident breaks Papi, and by extension, Guerrero: “Later, at home, in a moment I’d wish upon no child, I saw my papi, my rock, crumble before my eyes […] Seeing my father in that state broke my heart. My sweet dad had been hoodwinked by this monster” (69).

The American-born children of undocumented immigrants are also at risk in the current system. Guerrero was only 14 years old when ICE deported her parents. Although she was a child with no means of supporting herself, no government agency checked on her wellbeing in the days, weeks, and years following her parents’ deportation. Had Amelia not stepped up (and later Sabrina’s mother, Eva), Guerrero would have found herself on the street:

Not only had US Immigration and Customs Enforcement been silent, I also hadn’t received a call from Massachusetts’s Child Protective Services. At fourteen, I’d been left on my own. Literally. When the authorities made the choice to detain my parents, no one bothered to check that a young girl, a minor, a citizen of this country, would be left without a family. Without a home. Without a way to move forward. I’m fortunate that Amelia agreed to take me in temporarily, but no one in our government was aware that she’d done so. In the eyes of the ICE, it was as if I didn’t exist. I’d been invisible to them (90-91).

Guerrero alludes to death when she describes losing her parents: “No friends gathered to grieve over the departed. No flowers were sent. No memorial service was planned. And yet the two people I’d cherished most were gone. Not gone from the world itself, but gone from me” (102). This funereal imagery captures not just the pain, but also the finality of Guerrero’s loss. Guerrero draws on equally dark imagery in her descriptions of the prison environment. Barbed-wire fences, barking Dobermans, and metal detectors greet her during her final visits with her parents. The security protocols at her father’s prison shock Guerrero: “I couldn’t believe that my papi, a man who’d never jaywalked or run a red light, had found himself in a place like this” (91).

Chapter 8 marks a turning point for Guerrero. Although life before the deportation was marked by poverty, back-breaking work, and Eric’s depression, Guerrero had two well-meaning parents who cared for her, celebrated her successes, and nurtured her dreams. In short, she felt loved. The loss of her parents devastates Guerrero: “With all of my heart, I wanted to reverse time. Rewind the months. Go back to those days, warm and innocent, when I felt safe […] When everything still made sense. But I couldn’t go back” (102). Friends of the family take her in, but at the young age of 14, Guerrero is essentially on her own.

Although Guerrero suffers fear and heartache after her parents’ deportation, her life is not devoid of compassion and generosity. Indeed, acts of kindness help her through this painful period. When she breaks down during her last prison visit with Mami in Chapter 8, for instance, a Dominican guard steps in to comfort her: “‘It’s okay, sweetheart’ […] ‘We’re not going to hurt your mom’” (101). This act of kindness makes Guerrero cry even harder, prompting the guard to apologize for handcuffing Mami: “I’m sorry, but she has to have those on […] That’s the rules” (101). The greatest act of selfless compassion comes from Amelia, who takes Guerrero into her home and treats her like a daughter. Amelia makes space for Guerrero in her small house, putting her in the same room as Gabriela. She feeds and clothes Guerrero (with funds Papi provides), drives her to see her parents in prison before they are deported, and provides much needed emotional support: “Amelia held my hand while we walked. ‘This isn’t the end for you, Diane,’ she said as she tried to reassure me” (102). The concern of the Dominican guard and Amelia contrasts sharply with the utter lack of concern of government officials.