Jennifer Chinchilla Perez, MS3 Michigan State University College of Human Medicine
On my flight back home from my first out-of-state medical school interview, I sat next to a man at most five years older than my father.
"I'm on my way to visit my daughter." "He's my first grandchild." "I forgot how long this flight is." "I try to visit at least once a month."
Simple pleasures.
I smile, make small talk, and blink back tears. This man has no idea. Why would he ever imagine that this apparently innocent conversation was ripping deep into me? Every time he spoke, his words pierced my soul and tore open a very fresh injury.
At the time, my pain was still so raw. I had no hope. I was angry, fearful, and incredibly sad.
I was going through the motions of my application cycle, but every single day was a battle. The most difficult question I had to answer on my interview trail was, “What is the hardest thing you have had to overcome?” How could I answer that question when I was in the trenches at that very moment? I had overcome plenty, but I was consumed by my current situation.
Just two months prior to this, my father had been deported to Guatemala, seemingly indefinitely.
I laugh when I tell the story of how ICE barged into my parents’ house. As I hear myself describe the event, it sounds like a movie.
It is 5am and eight ICE patrol cars surround my parents house. Officers knock on the door and blatantly lie to my mother to let them in the house. She knows her rights-- she resists and asks what they need. They scramble and look around.
“Is that your car parked right there?” “There’s something wrong with the car and we need to come inside.” “Is your husband the owner of the car? Because if he is, you’ll be in serious trouble.” “You need to let us in.”
No, she doesn’t need to let them in-- but she’s home alone, Spanish is her first language, and she’s confused because officers have surrounded her home.
She agrees to let them in. They push past her and start searching everything. Her confusion has turned into fear. They open all the bedroom doors, sift through her mail, and open drawers and cabinets. They have invaded every part of the privacy of her home.
“Where is he?” “There are men’s shoes here, so we know he lives here.” “Give us the address of where he is.”
She denies it all and something within her has given her the courage to demand they leave. They retreat, and the breakdown ensues.
A week later, my dad decides to leave the US on his own accord. From that moment onward, simple pleasures have been stolen from us.
On the flight, I close my eyes and wonder if my father’s absence would be temporary or permanent. I wonder if he will be home in time for my white coat ceremony, walk me down the aisle for my wedding, or fly back home to pinch the chubby cheeks of his grandchild.
I think about the 30 years of sacrifices he had made for my siblings and I and how he was about to be at the point of fruition. I think about how lucky we had been that this occurred when all of his children were adults and not small children.
I think about the thousands of families wondering the same thing about their loved ones. We are united by a deep loss, a grief and trauma that we carry and hide because it is too difficult to explain and society has decided it is shameful to share. We are united with the same pain and the same love that pushes us to keep moving forward.
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I am happy to report that 3 years later, my dad was granted residency and came home to the US.
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