How an immigrant and his son will wake up on November 4th

Four Novembers ago we were all pretty cocky.

I was in an Instagram group chat called “Him?”, a riff on a classic Arrested Development bit, where we talked about politics (with jokes) and began to celebrate the upcoming victory of the pantsuit nation. Like most Californians, we didn’t know what was coming.

But it did happen and it did matter, at least to me. The new father in me feared for my brown baby boy. As a husband to a brilliant Latina proud of her heritage I worried who’d be emboldened to push back on her identity. As someone who immigrated to a snowy suburb in the Midwest with wide eyes and a hunger to thrive I asked myself if I still belonged. Had I made the right choice? It wasn’t a new question, but one that grew in volume with the news.

My doubt was there in HD, next to an elaborate electoral map that only showed red and blue; it was on Wolf Blitzer’s face as he shuffled his papers trying to make sense of the proclamation by many. Some people were pushing back on the establishment that had forgotten them for so long that they were forced to consider a bulldozer who’s main skill was bullying obstacles out of his way. And some were going beyond rebellion to the status quo. These people were excited that something that had been brewing for decades was finally boiling enough to blow off the lid. The resentment they had nourished all this time finally had a home above ground, in the sunlight.

And this is why my wife and I nuzzled our little human between us, building a cocoon with our bodies. Our baby didn’t know anything about this mess — he was too busy figuring out how to hold his bottle so he wouldn’t spill his milk. But the moment was happening, whether he was paying attention or not. His country had spoken.

His mama and dada would not sleep much that night, thinking on and on about what came next.

****

We were on line to board an international flight when the gate attendant told me we’d have to split up. “What do you mean ‘split up?” I asked. They had made a mistake and placed the three of us, my wife, my 2 year old son, and me in different seats. “But don’t worry, he’ll have a flight attendant near him at all times,” he said, trying to comfort me but instead turning on an electric kettle inside my chest. Papa bear was reporting for duty. Any parent of an infant can fill in the gaps here, but for those who aren’t one, know that an infant will cry inconsolably, out of pure agony, whenever they are separated from their parents. To him, the people they love the most have left his line of sight, meaning they are lost from his world. After I nearly threatened a sit-in and a hunger strike the airline made the right move. I kept shaking from the adrenaline for most of the flight, but my son was smiling next to his mother.

This event was shortly after we all saw the pictures of children taken from their parents at the US-Mexico border. I saw those images and went further. One afternoon while I was holding my son who was fast asleep, I put on my headphones and clicked play. “Papi! Papi!” The children were crying after their parents were taken away, out of their line of sight and out of their world. Another video showed a little boy, about my son’s age now, pushing away his mother after they were re-united. “What happened to my little boy?!” the mother asked, but she knew. This was not her son, not anymore; the soul of that mischievous, joyful boy was bruised forever due to the trauma caused at the hands of the US Government.

These were children treated like pawns in a game of power.

A friend, who is a successful Black woman, recently told me that her son is now at the age where she has to wonder when “it” will happen. When his sweet, cute Black boy will become a young Black man who gets a different sort of look. When do you tell your children it’s time to put aside childish things and get ready to embody other people’s bigotry?

My wife and I wonder that, too. We wonder what people will say about his skin, his name, and his heritage. Will get bullied or beaten? Will have to hide the fact that his father was not raised here out of self-preservation? When do we tell him to put aside his innocence and begin to understand the context he’s in.

Maybe I didn’t make the right choice? Maybe I am to blame for the tornado of xenophobia I’ve placed him in.

My path to America is a long loop back to the beginning. I was born in Wattsonville, California, strawberry country, but couldn’t stay because my parents weren’t residents. We made our way back to Rosarito, Baja California, in northern Mexico. It’s small beach town known as a tourist hot spot during the summer and a drug cartel petri dish the rest of the year. And here is the choice I had to make: do I dodge bullets and accept a life in the bowels of the economic caste system, or do I chase the Dream?

I chose America. This began my journey away from home and towards home. I spent my teen years in Rockford, Illinois as a proud member of the working poor. I was always one missing paycheck away from a financial disaster. I scraped by, even though I was working overtime every week and allowing myself few luxuries. (I’d sometimes splurge by getting a chicken parmesan combo at Fazoli’s). Every time my radiator blew up or the phone bill spiked I went further into debt with no exit strategy. My friends and neighbors were all going through the same motions. Nobody complains, though, because what’s the point of complaining into a void. Just prayers and grit. I know at least a few neighbors who voted for Trump in 2016, and I understand.

I only had my much older sister on the other side of town and a few friends to keep me company. Speaking English was an awkward work in progress, and writing it was agony in motion. It was hard to fit in, especially once I was being confused for “Middle Eastern” (a blanket label) soon after Osama Bin Laden waged war on America. It got pretty lonely, but there’s nothing special in my travails. Everything I’ve said so far — leaving behind all you know, starting a life in an unknown land with no means of communication, being pointed out as foreign — is the journey of millions of people who have the same choice to make: stay or seek to belong. For some, there’s the added fear of suddenly being stripped of everything because they didn’t get the necessary rubber stamps.

Let me take this moment to talk about these people, my people.

My people are hustlers who squeeze everything out of every moment we have.

We believe in America with more blind faith than some of those who were born and bred here.

Our optimism is unshakeable, our commitment to building a better lot for the next generation is unwavering. And this is what most Americans, especially those on the Left, misunderstand: they make fun of the Horatio Alger storylines and the bootstrap culture, but we don’t. Because even though this narrative is overblown, it is still far more realistic than anything the country we left behind had to offer. It may be a dream here, but thriving based on merit is a fantasy elsewhere.

Our love for this country is pure…and often not mutual.

The conversation around immigration sounds like people trying to get rid of cockroaches in the kitchen. It’s stripped of its humanity and propped on callous generalizations that are not true nor kind.

Trump didn’t create this narrative.

55% of Republicans approved separating families at the border.

Pete Wilson’s successfully stripped undocumented immigrants of essential services.

The Texas Rangers used to kill any Mexican or immigrant on site in the early 20th century.

The Zoot Suit Riots that were akin to a mass lynching.

And nearly 100 years after these kids were beaten bloody we still hear people in power try to demean our character and destroy our humanity. So no, it’s not new or a Trumpism. This hate has lived so long and so well that it takes a real psychological toll on people like me who begin to wonder who is right.

Anti-immigrant sentiment will continue to thrive as long as some Americans have too many grievances and too much anger to consider people as people rather than problems.

This story of struggle was revealed only after I had made my choice and arrived. But there’s no denying in my role in the world my son will grow up in. I, alone, decided that America is where I wanted to belong, and so here we are.

****

One Sunday afternoon I was anxiously waiting for my son to wake up. He took his nap believing we would go to a pool party with one of his best friends later that day. The entire morning was a non-stop giddy elaboration on what he’d do once he got there. But now that the party was cancelled I had terrible news to deliver.

He woke up and rushed to our bed, full of anticipation. I was reading, or, to be honest, pretending to read as I tried to find the kindest words to use to break his heart. My stomach was in a knot — I hate disappointing him with things that weren’t his fault. “Come here, bud,” I said. He jumped up and saddled his little rump next to mine, hugging his Hobbes stuffed tiger he took everywhere. I squeezed him in closer, offering him some warmth. His smile quickly melted away, and he looked on, unsure of what came next.

And that’s the burden of raising a human being. The consequence of your choices ripple beyond you. You have to disappoint your kids with the truth. You have to get them ready for the world, while secretly hoping the world figures itself out and becomes ready for them, instead.

I wonder if this country will keep making turns in a direction that will one day bring it diametrically opposed to my son’s young body, a collision that no child should ever have to fear.

When does “it” happen? Maybe it already has.

The morning after the election I’ll wake him up, nestle in between his tiger and elephant, and tell him what happened. He’s too young to get it, but I know that what I’m sharing has a kernel of disappointment. And then we’ll get to work.

The Zepeda household will stand taller, straighten our chest, and believe in our active role in the American experiment, because that is why I made this choice.

I wanted to give the next generation, who at this moment happens to be building a tower with wooden bricks, the chance of making his dreams come true. Regardless of what happens on November 3rd, my family’s pride, power, and humanity will persevere, as it has with families like ours, because we are still choosing to make America our home, to belong just like everyone else.