Valentina Larrivey, MS3, Emory School of Medicine
As a medical student arriving in Atlanta, Georgia, I was filled with the excitement of a new city, curious of all the new places I would visit and get to experience. Once I got my bearings at school, not only did I try to explore this beautiful new state, but I also went in search of diverse opportunities to work with underserved communities in medicine. However, nothing could have prepared me for a visit to Lumpkin, Georgia. If you haven’t heard of it, it’s likely because there’s really nothing there to see, per se. What is in Lumpkin, is an infamous complex – it’s home to one of the largest immigration detention centers in the United States, housing over 1400 detainees and specifically, one detainee that I will identify as Sara (changed for privacy reasons).
I had the opportunity to meet Sara, not in my role as a medical student, but as a volunteer working with a non-profit organization called El Refugio. This group advocates for the injustices immigrants detained at this facility and their families experience and provides a place to stay so that families may visit their loved ones. Since some detainees never have family members visit due to the distance or fear of legal retaliation because of their own immigration status, El Refugio coordinates volunteers, like me, to visit with detainees.
First, to enter the detention center is an obstacle in and of itself. The complex is surrounded by tall fences with barbed wire, so the only way inside is by entering through two separate metal gates that eerily creep open after a strange voice appears from an intercom, asking a few general security questions. Once inside, I was asked to fill out several pages of paperwork – my name, address, reason for my visit, name of the person I intended to visit, my relationship to this person, their alien registration number (yes, alien, also called an A-Number), and even my own immigration status. I decided not to answer this last question, frustrated and curious if this was meant as a tactic to identify other undocumented individuals and deter family members from coming to visit their loved ones. After intake, I had to go through a metal detector, taking my shoes off just like at the airport, before being escorted through two more sets of doors, another gate, and a final door, that opened into a white visitation room, complete with brown plastic chairs, a black telephone connected to the wall, and individual booths each facing a window to the inside of this mysterious place. When I walked into this room and sat down in the first booth, I was met by Sara, who was sporting a red jumpsuit, thick curly black hair, and a smile.
Sara is from Mexico and came to the U.S. with her family when she was 8 years old, after which they returned to Mexico for a few years before coming back when she was 15 – she had lived here ever since, 24 years. Sara had been in the detention center for 6 months, arrested originally for a minor infraction, which she explained got escalated through the court system into a felony charge, which then led to her arrest and placement in the detention center. It was also the reason she wore red, she explained. Orange and red jumpsuits were for felonies, blue for individuals detained immediately at the border. She did not have a lawyer, nor could she afford one, and though she spoke some English, she was much more comfortable speaking in Spanish.
After we introduced ourselves, I asked her how she was doing and she replied, “happy”. It certainly wasn’t what I expected to hear, but she further explained that after spending 6 months at this detention center, she decided to file for voluntary deportation. Even though her mother, her 8 children, and her friends were still here in the U.S., her father and two of her brothers lived in Mexico. She hadn’t seen them since they’d been deported several years ago. Since her children were all U.S.-born, she knew they were going to be okay, but her father was getting older and had dementia, and she felt it was God’s plan that she must return to take care of him. She smiled because she felt it was the right decision and she was at peace with this. However, I secretly wondered if this may have been her only option.
Throughout her time in the detention center, Sara faced many adversities, including verbal assault from guards and other staff, physical assault from fellow detainees, and even spent a portion of her time in solitary confinement. I was especially curious about her medical experience, having heard and read stories about the poor quality of medical care within detention centers. She shared that she has hypertension and anemia, for which she previously followed with a primary care doctor in the Atlanta area. Once inside the detention center, it took over a month for her to receive her medications. “You basically have to be dying for them to treat you properly” she said. Each medical visit, she said the staff would tell her to choose which condition she wanted to be treated for that day, as if she could only prioritize one health need over another. She especially had trouble receiving her supplement for anemia, which got to the point where she fell off the top bunk of her bed one evening from dizziness and hit her head on the concrete floor. Only then did the staff finally start administering it to her on a regular basis. As she shared this story, she rolled her eyes, as if this was just another day, nothing unusual about the incident.
Though Sara faced many challenges, she also shared some positive experiences that she’d had while in the detention center. In addition to creating surprising, yet everlasting friendships with some of the other women, she also found joy and passed her time making art and jewelry. She loved coloring books, made bracelets, and even dabbled in some painting. She created paint by mixing the ink from colored pens with toothpaste. She rolled up her sleeve to uncover a bracelet she made with red and green beads. “Roses for Christmas” she said, smiling. I never got to ask if she planned to bring her art with her when she left or share it amongst the other women she would have to leave behind because suddenly, I heard the door unlock and the security guard’s voice, yelling “time’s up.” It had already been an hour, the maximum visitation time, but it felt like I’d only been there 5 minutes. I said goodbye to Sara, wishing I could give her a hug.
Though I had just met her, I realized that Sara is just one of many untold stories in the U.S. Whether it’s a legal issue or not, I realize that immigration detention encompasses so many aspects of our medical profession. Particularly, how could it be possible that any person in the U.S. does not receive the proper medical care they need, whether a legal resident or not? As we navigate through our roles as medical professionals, I realize that those we meet and have yet to meet expose us to the unseen political issues that the study of medicine doesn’t always prepare us for. I’m humbled and appreciative that Sara was willing to share so much about her life with me, a stranger. Even though Sara seemed happy, I couldn’t help but feel saddened by the fact that this was likely the first and last time I’d ever see or speak to her. Reflecting on my visit, I've come to embrace my own freedoms more than ever, recognizing the privilege of having access to opportunities that many others seek when arriving in this country, opportunities that may remain elusive for some. As I stand alongside my fellow colleagues on this platform of opportunity and advocacy, it becomes imperative to continually acknowledge and remember the diverse faces of those we encounter. Through their shared medical, legal, and life experiences, we gain insight into their unique journeys, ensuring that their stories live on within the legacy of the work that we do.
About the Author: My name is Valentina Larrivey and I'm a 3rd year medical student at Emory University School of Medicine. I was born in California, but spent most of my life in Michigan. I've always been passionate about immigration issues, predominantly because my own parents and grandparents immigrated from Mexico and Argentina, respectively, and it was a large focus of my academic studies outside of my pre-med classes at the University of Michigan. As a medical student, I've had the opportunity to serve as the Vice President of our LMSA chapter as well as a clinic coordinator for a student-led, Spanish-speaking clinic called Portal de Salud. I hope to continue advocating for all patients, particularly those who are underserved, both as a medical student and in my career as a physician.
About the Work: Earlier this month, I went to volunteer with El Refugio, a non-profit organization based in Georgia that provides support and advocacy for detained immigrants at the Stewart Detention Center in Lumpkin, Georgia. I'd never visited a detention center before but I've always been passionate about immigration issues, given that my own parents and grandparents immigrated from Mexico and Argentina. It was also a large focus of my academic studies in college outside of my pre-med classes. Yet, no matter how many articles I’d read or papers I’d written about immigration reform, there is nothing that could have possibly prepared me for what I would experience when I went to a detention center for myself and spoke one-on-one with one of the detained individuals. I hope that this experience inspires others to work with organizations like El Refugio, to continue to promote medical advocacy and build awareness around the injustices that perpetuate within the legal system that directly impact medical care.
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