It seemed to be a simple question, at first. The flight to the States was in two days, and the task of sending a few letters for friends was already agreed to since mailing anything from Mexico is extremely costly. So it made sense to ask him. He’d become a friend over the last two months, and was kind and generous, offering to care of our mutual friend in his humble home so he could fully recover from surgery.
“I’m going to be in the U.S. in two days. Did you want me to mail anything to your kids?”
His tears were immediate, followed by raw, full-bodied crying. “If you can find my kids…,” his words held sincerity and hope which set the gravity of the situation, like being unexpectedly covered by a weighted blanket. It was somber and real.
Take a moment, and imagine your loved ones. Children, family, friends, anyone you hold dear. Feel your love for them. Really think about your life and how much you take for granted. Then picture, one day, it’s gone. You’re uprooted and moved somewhere where you have no home, no connections, and eventually, you lose contact with the life you were stripped from. One you cannot return to. That is his story.
He had been deported from the United States six years ago, and because all four of his children were born in the U.S., as he’d lived there for thirty years, they stayed, while he was carted away in handcuffs and transported from holding cell to holding cell for months, eventually being dumped in Mexico. He had a business, house, and a family in the States, and suddenly found himself struggling to survive in a country he had no community in–Mexico. Within a couple of years, he lost contact with his children.
After an hour of conversation, he handed me a folded, lined yellow piece of paper that had every piece of information he could recall about them, which was gingerly placed into my side pocket and securely zipped.
When in Austin, scouring the internet became exhausting, and the task was put aside to reset the tired gray matter. Then his phone calls and text came, and the inner voice kept repeating, “you promised him; you need to finish this.” Eventually, a family member’s social media page was discovered, and after several days of pondering what to say to this person, contact was sent.
Several hours passed, and obsessive fingers kept looking to see if the little checkmark to indicate the message was received had gone dark.
Nothing.
Then, near the end of the night, his son replied with when and how to reach him, and this information is immediately passed along.
Three days later, he says he’s spoken to his son, how happy it’s made him, and that he’s now in contact with all four children. There are no words for this; one can only feel it.
It’s unclear what the lesson is. Perhaps, it’s as simple as, talk to people; find out their stories. Help if you can. The work itself may seem minimal to you, and the outcome could be beyond measure. Maybe it’s that borders and the immigration system is more tragic than any news outlet can convey, as this is only one account.
It feels more that we are all human, and living in the United States can make someone complacent. It’s easy to ignore that it comes with a price, one some may never fully grasp, but if you step outside yourself and look around, the reality comes crashing in one harrowing story after another.
So be kind.
To yourself. To others.
Always.
My Year In Motion 
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