MLK50 allowed the interviewee, who is undocumented, to use an alias in order to protect their identity and not increase the chances of them being detained.
Growing up, I thought I was just like every other kid. I never knew I was undocumented until I reached middle school. One of my uncles had been deported back to Honduras. He was only a few years older than me — maybe 19 years old. I remember my mom telling me then about my immigration status. She said we were both at risk and at any moment we could also be taken away.
This summer, my older cousin, who lived in Memphis, was sent back to Honduras. But when we saw the video of her arrest, these Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents were not marked up as ICE agents. They looked like bounty hunters, and the cars were not even marked up either. It was heartbreaking to watch.
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She’s a little older than me and has two kids. Now she’s debating whether they should come back to live with her or stay here and get an education. There’s a saying in Spanish that it’s like contra la pared. She doesn’t know where to go. She wants the best for her kids, but she also wants to be with her kids.
My family is from a small mountain town several miles south of San Pedro Sula. Crime is really bad over there. People fight over land. People fight over the smallest disagreements. Another uncle, who was also deported years ago, was killed. That part of the family can’t really be in Honduras. They’re basically marked for death over some stupid situation over there — over land.
I don’t remember much about the journey to the United States. I was maybe 4 years old at the time. I know we were in California at first, and a short time later, moved to Memphis because somebody told my mom it would help our asylum case. But it didn’t.
Now I’m 24 years old. I work at a beauty salon, but I get paid in cash. It’s about 15 minutes from where I live in North Memphis. My family is scared of what could happen to me during that short period of time, traveling back and forth to work. It was really hard for me to get a job. I don’t have any papers, and I considered moving back to Honduras. At least then I wouldn’t be denied a job. Thank God the lady I work for understood my situation.
I work Monday through Saturday. My mom bartends but hasn’t been able to work in three weeks, so everything is falling on me financially. The ICE and federal enforcement activity has gotten heavy near my job. Some agents were eating at a restaurant next door. My coworker and I were nervous they might come inside. It’s not comfortable, but I have to do it or else nobody is going to help my mom out.
I used to worry for my mom and what would happen if she were taken by ICE. But my mom is fair-skinned enough that she could pass for a white lady. You wouldn’t know she’s Hispanic unless she spoke the language. My skin is darker than hers, so she always warns me to be careful and watch my surroundings.
The anxiety weighed on me more in high school. That’s when I really noticed the differences between my classmates and I. When everybody seemed to be talking about going to college, I was more fearful of deportation. I would just go home every day after school and cry my eyes out.
I really wanted to go to college. I liked history and science and imagined working in a lab one day. I wanted to help my family out. And I knew by going to college, I could get better jobs and make better money, but that never happened for me. So life just became harder.
Michael Finch II is the enterprise reporter for MLK50: Justice Through Journalism. Contact him at mike.finch@mlk50.com