I was eight years old, sitting in my third grade class when my teacher got a phone call

from the main office-I was getting dismissed early. I didn’t know why then but I later learned

that I was going to my dad’s deportation hearing. I don’t remember the car ride to where we

went but I remember so much about the inside of the prison.

It was so bleak. Dullness was the color scheme there. Everything looked grayer, like it

had lost its vibrancy. My mother, sister, and I met up with our other family members in the

waiting room. There were gray, plastic chairs everywhere in that room. I recall my mom and

step-mom hugging each other. All of my older siblings looked upset, like a piece of their heart

had been torn out. After a while, all of us walked into the room where the deportation hearing

was being held. At the front of the room there was a small box with a stout man wearing a black

cape sitting in it, this was the immigration judge. Near the back, there were benches with this

fake wood print on them, filled by other prisoners who were also wearing a dull khaki outfit. My

dad was at the front wearing the same khaki outfit as the other prisoners. My father was one of

the greatest people I have ever known. He was constantly helping out others and doing what he

thought was best for his family. The only illegal thing he had done was go to another country in

search of a better life. He was handcuffed. He turned around and smiled. A small moment of

happiness in this terrible situation appeared.

“Excuse me, sir, what is funny?” the judge questioned my father.

“Nothing it’s just my kids are here.” my dad responded.

Cruelly, the judge retorted, that that was nothing to be smiling at.

The lack of compassion that the judge had towards my father in that moment seemed extremely

dehumanizing to me.
 I’m not sure if I don’t remember much of what else happened at the hearing because of

my young age and my lack of understanding everything that was happening or if it’s my mind

repressing memories. At the end of the hearing, the judge gave my father a 10-year bar. This

happened when I was eight. It has been nine years since I have seen my father. He was taken

away from me when I was a child and the possibility of him seeing me again isn’t possible until

next year when I’m an adult. My father has missed out on more than half of my life. He left a

young child and if he can come back will return to see a young adult.

I did not cope with this at eight years old because I did not fully understand the gravity of

the situation. I always understood the superficial details of what happened but I never fully

processed how it impacted me, until last year. It took me years to actually feel something

towards this event in my life.

This small moment in my life has shaped my beliefs. I don’t believe in tearing families

apart because of imaginary lines. This event also made me become more interested in politics at

an early age. I had to become more aware of immigration policies to learn about why my father

was taken away from me. This led to me leaning towards a more progressive side of politics

because I don’t want other people to face the same pain I did.