January 20th

Every time I want to put into words how I feel about my dad's current situation and impending resolution (?)  I can't really articulate what is on my mind and heart.

When he was housed at the county jail I feel like I had a glimmer of hope. I had a countdown. Only one more month. Only two weeks. I checked the website constantly to see if he had been moved or if the worst, getting picked up by ICE, had happened. Nothing. Everything remained the same yet it didn't. With each passing week my heart felt a little fuller, that feeling that hope always brings to you. Then one night I checked the website and I saw "Released." What?!?!?!? My heart fluttered. I'm not kidding when I said that I smiled and thought that he didn't call because he was planning on surprising me. I was finally going to be able to give him a hug after months of not having anything but phone conversations. We were finally going to go hiking on Sunday at the Chumash Trail that I would always tease him about not being as great a shape as me.

Then as if reading my mind I got a call. A weird number that I did not recognize calling from San Bernardino.  I ignored it since I usually never answer calls from numbers I don't have in my contacts. My phone rang again. Ok. That's weird, I thought. Who is this? I answered and the automated voice began speaking..........that familiar feeling of my stomach churning, face feeling hot and the taste of bile forming in my throat rose up. 

Yadda....yadda...yaddda....don't even know what it said but then I heard it. That three letter acronym I have become to hate. "ICE inmate..." followed by his voice. My dad. The one that I would go on hikes on Sundays. The one that was at all of my races: two half marathons and one 5K. The one that called me cranky. The one that would always leave me hand written posters on a random piece of paper hanging from my door on my birthday. 

I was in the kitchen and for the first time I gave in. I fell. For the first time I knew what it felt like for hope to be gripped from your arms. So close to touch it, feel it, and then gone. Like the illuminator given to Ron that helped him find Harry & Harmonie. Except for me it wasn't light illuminating me. It was darkness engulfing me. 

We spoke. I honestly can't remember what we spoke about. All I know is that I kept saying "Please don't tell me you're there. Please don't tell me they are going to deport you today." I begged. Begging more for my sake. Hoping God would listen to me. Please. I was left without a response. My begging slowly fainting into a whisper and then quietness. Like I had used up all my energy on simply begging.  That night was a blur. Why is it that everything happens at night when you've kicked your feet up and have let your guard down? 

After the call I knew that I was no longer going to ever see my dad. I knew that gone were the hugs. hiking, future races that would never feel the same, the bantering, the hand made posters and the comfort of having him around whenever I needed him. One thing you should know about immigrating court is that the odds are against you. You're one of the tributes in the Hunger Games competing for the judge to grant your stay. But instead of 12 tributes there is millions spread across the US. The court works independently from the State courts so it's like the capital where you know very little facts and the rest of the information is pure speculation and assumptions. 

I knew going into his first appeal that there was no logical reason to be hopeful but why then did I, at the bottom of my heart, feel a little hope. Just maybe. Maybe he was going to be one of the lucky ones. Maybe all the letters we wrote to the judge would make him/her understand and have compassion. Maybe? Just maybe?  DENIED. Another tribute discarded in this hunger games we call the immigration system. They system just as devoid with emotion as President Snow. 

Now as his next court date approaches I start to pack a bag. First with his shoes that he will never wear hiking again. Then with his belts that I would always hate and make fun of because they were detailed with horses all around. His UCLA Dad shirt follows along with the sweater I got him when we first visited UCLA. Lastly, I put the red vest that he requested, the one that he settled on out of all the ones he owns. I smiled because it clicks, he's the reason why I have such a strong affinity to wearing vests. Finally I zip up the bag. How can someone's life of over 40 years be confined to such a small duffle bag? Where do I put  all the memories, laughs, hugs and experiences? I don't know. 

January 20th. The last appeal, yet we all know the outcome even if we haven't dared to speak it. We know there is no  hope. There is no more fight. The bag would not have been packed if there was anything left. January 20th will be the last day my dad is in the US. None of us will explicitly say it because it becomes real. But we know. I know it when I find my mom in the kitchen with red puffy eyes. I know it when my brother refuses to even speak about it. I know it but I won't say it. January 20th is all I bring myself to say.