Daughter of a Deported Immigrant: Part I

Collateral Damage

Trigger Warning: In film school, I was taught some stories were too hard to be told. That’s BS. Here’s a story, told in 3 parts, I’ve never told about my experience with a deported parent.

I’m telling it because, for one, I know there are others like me. For those of you who have never heard their story be told, I’ll be the first one to say it: it’s not ugly. It’s yours. You lived through a horror, and that’s a treasure.

A note to the outsiders: it’s okay to look in. You have the chance to give a voice to the voiceless. Don’t stay quiet about what’s going on in our country, especially in LA.

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I don’t remember how old I was when my father was deported. What I do remember is crying myself to sleep that night—because I asked when my mom could see him again.

In all honesty and with vulnerability, my parents didn’t have a great relationship. How could they? They ended up in a country where they hardly knew the language, had a limited education, and even more limited means. Their needs weren’t met. How could they figure a relationship out if the basics weren’t there for them?

Still, I cried. At any young age, all a child wants is to know that their parents will be there for them. But my mother said, I needed to go to school and seguir adelante, press on forward. And so I did. I even forgot how old I was. I don’t remember what month it was, whether I was in school, or even if I discussed it with my friends.

I just know it happened. And I moved on.

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I don’t mean to brag, but I’m a high achiever. I graduated at the top of my high school class, served as president of the National Art Honor Society, and earned an AP Scholar distinction. I knew how to put the pedal to the metal. I did it all with a broken childhood heart.

No one needed to know my dad was ever deported. After all, why would I admit that? It didn’t happen. Little did I know that this very fact contributed to a new type of test I took in front of my therapist.

My ACE (Adverse Childhood Events) score was sky high. But I was a good reasoner. Oh, that probably doesn’t count as having a parent who was incarcerated. It’s not the same thing. I watched my therapist type.

“Yes, it does,” she replied as she looked at me. “It all counts.”

A high score just means achievement unlocked. Pressing forward.

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All I think of when I see children looking for their parents as they’re sent away or arrested is that we’re adding to the score. According to a study published by the National Library of Medicine, “There is growing attention to associations between incarceration and health disparities. Research on incarceration's collateral damage to children has also increased. To date, though, there is little evidence of incarceration's long-term consequences for health, either for the individual or for his/her family.”

We don’t know what happens. For those kids who are watching their parents be deported, I’m sure they also don’t know what will happen. But I know one thing: they’ll probably forget how old they were when it all happened. Because they know they have to move on.

I’m watching it all happen—I’m not moving on. Children shouldn’t be collateral damage.

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Here’s Part II & Part III