Deportation: One Man's Tragedy in the Age of Trump

Pansy Valdez

©Steve Pavey, Hope in Focus

When I returned from the hotel breakfast buffet, Keeland and Pansy were still sleeping on the bedroom side of the suite, but Eric was awake, looking at the news on his phone, and looking uncomfortable on the skinny sofa bed mattress we’d finally pulled off the broken springs and laid on the floor the night before. Benjamin’s asylum hearing, the reason we four had journeyed to cold and, now, snowy Chicago wasn’t until one p.m., so I suggested to my husband that he and I go somewhere for the morning.

          He got dressed and met me in the lobby, where I sat looking out at the still-festooned wrought iron railings and the shops across the way being dusted with a feathery snow. It was so evocative of Christmas, although we were now several days into January. But nothing about this was in any way festive. From the visit to the Valdez’ lawyer back in Kentucky with Pansy, to the time I’d spent reading the English version of the Documentos para Detenidos, I had a feeling that the odds were not good that Big Daddy (the name by which everyone in our town of Springfield knew Benjamin) would be released today.

          Indeed, even if by some miracle he prevailed with his plea for asylum, the Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) attorney could appeal, and was likely to, so the chances of him leaving seemed nil.

          Earlier, over coffee and generic omelet at the Marriot buffet, I’d skimmed the things to do offerings, and discovered the Garfield Park Conservatory. It wasn’t close, but it was free, so if we took an Uber, we’d be able to stroll there awhile and get some warmth and color on this bleak and foreboding morning.

          We both love plants and flowers. A major in Natural Resources, Eric knows much more about the scientific and botanical angle, but I appreciate the aesthetic and poetic properties of flowers, trees, and grasses. On this early January day, the Christmas display remained in a large hall, a massive creation of red and a smaller number of yellow poinsettias, interspersed with carefully chosen and placed charred wooden stalks, aptly titled Fire and Ice. I contemplated the destructive yet wondrous beauty of flames; Eric marveled that each of those limbs had to be charred painstakingly by hand. Perhaps meant to evoke the destruction and awesomeness of the recent conflagrations in the West, it filled a room with red and almost enveloped the viewer. In Buddhist thought, we might call this the jewel in the lotus.

          But it was our stroll through the desert plants that pricked my heart. We passed one plant after another: the allspice, the white zinnia, the Thompson’s yucca, all native to Mexico. I studied their leaves and spines, their colors, vibrant yellows and greens that must be a balm in Central America’s desert regions. All these plants, while indigenous to Mexico, can also be found in Texas, other South western states, and in Central America. No wall or border guard stops them from entering another country. In fact, here they are, in frigid downtown Chicago, being coddled and celebrated, in a museum. People admire and remark upon their qualities and unique abilities to adapt and thrive.

About a week after the hearings, I attended the AME Zion Church in Springfield, and this was the text. The sermon's title was What Are You Worried About?"

And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:

And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, o ye of little faith?
Therefore take no thought,saying, What shall we eat? Or what shall we drink? or Wherewithal shall we be clothed?
..... for your Heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.
But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you.
Take therefore no thought for the morrow for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Mt 6:28-34

I've always loved this passage, and when I heard it after Benjamin's trial, it resonated with my witness of his profound and unwavering faith.

When we returned to the hotel, Pansy and Pupcake (Keeland's nickname) were ready to go to the hearing. Pupcake came out of the bedroom wearing a sweet black and white dress with leotards and a hair bow in her pony tail. “I got dressed up for my dad,” she said proudly.

I didn’t know what Pansy had told her about the hearing, or if she knew that Benjamin was in jail. That is, in the general population, not in a special detention for undocumented immigrants or any such thing. But she probably did. Her birth mother had been in and out of jail, so even though she was immature in many ways, she knew a lot more than many twelve-year-olds. The thought of her being dressed up and excited and then seeing him coming in wearing an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs upset me. Still, I knew that being upset visibly would not help anyone. I tried to keep a playful, non-anxious attitude throughout the trip. Part of me still felt a foreboding about Big Daddy’s chances. O ye of little faith.

We took an Uber to the Immigration Detention Courthouse. Pansy had offered to cover the costs of the trip, and when I told her we’d pay for our expenses, she insisted. Hence, I tried to keep everything as inexpensive as I could. Neither she nor Eric quite understood how Uber worked, so when I explained that the fee went to my credit card, she offered to my pay me, but I told her not to worry. We’d settle later.

I’ve been in jails and detention centers, prisons and courtrooms before, as a minister, as a mother. I know that once you pass through the revolving doors or enter the lobby of the facility, your own freedom is circumscribed. You obey commands, you give up your rights, you will be submissive, or you’ll be ejected or imprisoned yourself. Pupcake didn’t seem distressed about this round of metal detectors and searches. I guessed she’d visited Adrianne, her birth mother, in jail.Even though she presented as much younger than her eleven years, she'd seen a lot. Adrianne had died of a drug overdose just a few months earlier. I am certain she never went through an airport. Everything about being in the city was new and astounding to her.

Led to the small room where Benjamin’s testimony would be heard, we took our seats. I sat next to Pansy, in view of the far door from which Benjamin would emerge. She wore a jewel green top which crossed at the bodice, and her usual assortment of rings and bracelets. Like Pupcake, she’d dressed up for her husband. In minutes, we saw orange, and Big Daddy was at the glass window of the door. For the first time in six months, husband and wife saw one another. I saw only the love and delight on Benjamin’s face. “Oh my, he’s so thin,” Pansy whispered, and I saw that she was holding back tears. She called Pupcake over from the right side of the room, where she had started to work on homework with Eric, and I moved then. I recall being relieved that Benjamin was wearing a sweatshirt-type hoodie which, while still orange, looked less prisoner-like than the jumpsuit alone. It took about three or four minutes’ preparation; Benjamin’s lawyer was sitting in place as was the translator, a young woman who seemed to know the guards, the judge, and the lawyer. We'd been told the judge might be on CCTV rather than in person, but I was surprised that the back of the TV was to us, and he faced only Benjamin, the lawyer, and the translator. The guard brought Benjamin in. He was being detained at Kankakee, IL, so he’d been brought here from about one hour away.

The testimony lasted for about an hour and a half to two hours. I lost track of time. The judge asked Benjamin a litany of questions, followed by cross-examination from the Immigration attorney. From where we were seated, we could only see Benjamin, the lawyer, the translator and the back of the marshal, who I assumed came from Kankakee. He wore street clothes, did not appear to have a weapon, and sat slouched the entire time, chewing and picking at his fingernails. This habit distracted me on several occasions. I wondered if he was anxious or if this was just a tic or habit he resorted to when bored. The viciousness with which he bit and tore at them made me wonder what shape they were in. But most of all, I thought about how tedious this was for him. 

Meanwhile, Benjamin was given ample time to tell his story. He endeavored to explain to the judge why he should be granted asylum. Asylum is not an easy plea. The plaintiff must show that he or she is in imminent danger of being killed or tortured if returned to their country of origin.

Here is Benjamin’s story:

Benjamin Valdez-Gonzalez was born in Veracruz, Mexico in March of 1960. He is 57 years old. He first entered the US in the 1990s but has been deported once, in 2007. He has lived and worked in the US almost continuously for more than twelve years. He’s never been arrested or convicted of a crime in Mexico, the US, or any other country. He’s been married to a US citizen, Pansy Coleman Valdez, for over eleven years. Pansy and her family have lived in the same town in Kentucky for generations dating back to slavery.

When Benjamin was living in Veracruz, he was shot through the chest by police in a case of mistaken identity. He was hospitalized for eight days, and he nearly died. This is important to understanding his primary fear of return, because the police in Vera Cruz are corrupt, as is the entire government. One only needs to read/watch the news to find out about this. His home town, Panuco, sitting as it does on the border, is one of the most dangerous. Veracruz is currently the most deadly and dangerous state ruled by the cartels, namely the Zetas. The legitimate fear Benjamin has is that he would be killed or kidnapped for ransom because he has lived and worked in the US for so long, and it is known that he has money, or has access to money, since he has a wife and other family members here.

He cannot depend upon the police for protection. They are corrupt. He cannot just live somewhere else. “It is the same everywhere,” are his words.

After listening to Benjamin tell his story, I felt briefly that the judge might have mercy. It was clear to me that he showed legitimate reasons to be fearful. Still, in the back of my mind, I thought about the guidelines I had read, and I knew that the threat had to be something more imminent.

And the cross examination verified this. The ICE attorney pressed Benjamin on several small discrepancies between his interview and this testimony he just gave. She then went on to hammer home the point that being shot mistakenly twenty-some years ago did not constitute or could not be the basis for an immediate threat. She pointed out that he could live and work elsewhere in Mexico.

And so we had our ruling. The judge never saw Pansy, who sat tall and focused upon her husband throughout the hearing. She was behind the camera. He never saw Pupcake, who moved back and forth from her seat near Eric and me to a seat next to her mom, wearing her pretty dress she’d chosen for her Big Daddy. He never saw my husband and me, and he certainly didn’t see Big Daddy’s community, his church, the way he has mentored and taught men in the jail with hymns and Bible lessons, his garden at home in Springfield, the tobacco farms on which he labored in the summer swelter or the fine work he has done as a foreman. He didn’t see how harrowing this is for Benjamin’s small family, especially for Pupcake, who will have no one to take her to the pool like he did, to run to when she’s hurt, or to call her “Princess.”

He just saw another name, another number, and he did his job. He did say he found Benjamin "credible."

After the hearing, Pansy and Pupcake were able to visit Big Daddy through glass in a room equipped with phones and cubicles. They couldn’t hug or touch, but they had a long time to talk and made the decision to file an appeal. Benjamin told Pansy he was happy, he was fine, and if he had to leave he would be okay. It was for her he was fighting the deportation. I think what he was saying is that if it was God’s plan, he would accept it. He’d find a way back.

A few weeks later, I was at my Thursday night meditation group. Our teacher, who is both Christian/Catholic and Buddhist, was talking with us about the head/heart metaphor. He said that the Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh’s first impression of Americans was that we are too full of thoughts. He talked about the Buddhist chant om mane pame hum, and how, while it is translated “the jewel in the lotus,” it is also referring to the heart, to the place that can only be reached by the journey of introspection and contemplative practice.

In the room in which we sit are many icons and representations from various religions and schools of thought, from a beaded curtain of the Mona Lisa to a print of the Lord’s Prayer in Aramaic. New to me was a bust of the Christ with his finger pointing to the sacred heart. It was much like those you can see in South America or on kitschy candles in Mexican groceries. The robes of Christ are open, and the wounded heart is revealed.

My thoughts went immediately to Benjamin. In his testimony, as he talked about the gunshot wound he received long ago, he added in (and the translator told us) “But I knew that God wanted me to stay alive.” The judge didn’t ask him how he knew that or what it meant. Just the facts.

The marshal chewed at his cuticles. Pansy sat stoically, still and erect, never taking her eyes from her beloved Big Daddy.

Nonetheless, he continued, “the reason I know that I wasn’t meant to die that day is because the police shot me through the left side of my chest where the heart is supposed to be. Do you want me to show you?” And he raised his hands toward his heart, and for the first time we could see clearly that they were manacled.

The judge indicated that he didn’t need to see the scar, and Benjamin continued: “You see, my heart is not on the left. My heart is on the right side of my chest. So God wanted me to live.”

PLEASE Share Links Below TO A PETITION FOR BENJAMIN's APPEAL & A YOUCARING FUNDRAISER FOR THE VALDEZ FAMILY..

FUNDRAISER CLICK HERE!

SIGN THE PETITION CLICK HERE!


FOLLOWING ARE LINKS TO STORIES ABOUT KIDNAPPING OF MIGRANTS WHO RETURN, the ZETAS in VERACRUZ, and the POLICE CORRUPTION IN MEXICO:

KIDNAPPING THREAT

THE MISSING and the MASS GRAVES

HUMAN RIGHTS WATCH

VERACRUZ UNDER COMPLETE CONTROL OF ZETAS

WHERE ARE THE CHILDREN

          

Happy Thanks-taking Day!

I enjoy the traditions of this day! The third Thursday in November is a national holiday that is secular and all-American (except for the original "Americans.") But the myth of the first Thanksgiving is dangerous. I've taught all my children the truth: the story of the Pilgrims and the Indians was made up to whitewash genocide. Just yesterday, I told Seth, who is now twelve, a version of this, and since he's autistic, we never know how he'll react. He did reportedly, say, "Happy Thanks-taking Day" to a few people, but he also, when put in a group to make as many words as possible out of "Happy Thanksgiving," added in s--t, a prank that has more to do with his fascination with cuss words than with his newfound understanding of Thanks ("giving.") 

My son(right) in first grade, 1988

I think schools are far less likely to teach the old pilgrim and Indian story now. I know our national parks and museums have begun to include truthful accounts of the invasion and genocide we prosper from. You could say: that's the past, so get over it, because we can't change it.

But Native American communities are suffering today. They are suffering from poverty, early death, and addiction at higher rates than the general population. And the opioid crisis has hit them even more intensely.

My great grandfather, J.D. Self, and three daughters. My grandmother, Agnes Self Patton, is the eldest.

My great-grandmother was a Cherokee Indian who married a white man. She died in childbirth, and the baby, a boy named after his father, died a few months later. This was in the late 1800s. He was left to raise three girls, my grandmother, and her sisters. I found the graves of my great-grandparents and the baby in the tiny town of Telford, TN, some years ago. My grandmother married an alcoholic, my grandfather, also from Telford, and the disease has run rampant through my family. 

Great-grandmother Mora Lake Self

Family systems are remarkable. Without even knowing the patterns, we repeat them. My mother died when I was five, and my father raised three children, albeit with a stepmother. I married an alcoholic, and my own sons suffered from the disease. All of this is to say that holidays are fraught with memories and sadness and pain that may be invisible to others, and incomprehensible, even to oneself. You can repress them, but grief unacknowledged will surface.

Alice Miller:

“The truth about our childhood is stored up in our body, and although we can repress it, we can never alter it. Our intellect can be deceived, our feelings manipulated, and conceptions confused, and our body tricked with medication. But someday our body will present its bill, for it is as incorruptible as a child, who, still whole in spirit, will accept no compromises or excuses, and it will not stop tormenting us until we stop evading the truth.” 

My first child, 1982.

My mother died on December 10, 1960. It took me a very long time to acknowledge that Thanksgiving and Christmas, and especially the time in-between, would never be uncomplicated. My father's only brother, a beloved uncle who played a magical role in my childhood, came to our house for Thanksgiving when I was 13 and died in his sleep that night. My father's grief was bottomless. He drank even more than he had before. He and his brother had been best friends, and had both been bachelors and sportsmen into their forties.

The Thanksgiving before we separated, my then-husband told me he wouldn't cook and he wouldn't be there, after I'd invited my family. I can't even remember why. I know he thought I'd beg him to stay home. But I went forward, and just decided I'd cook the food myself. He ended up being there, and cooking, after all. It was a cruel trick.

Because of divorce, I spent many Thanksgivings alone, or without my kids.

After I remarried, and our daughter came along, the bad holidays continued. Once, we drove to New Jersey, and brought all the makings for Thanksgiving dinner, to find that my half-sister and stepmother had decided to go elsewhere, and my sons had to eat with their father, so my husband, our daughter and I ate alone in my family home. This sort of disregard is typical in my family.

My brother lives in Connecticut, and I haven't seen him for about ten years. My half-sister in New Jersey isn't speaking to me. To be fair, I confronted her angrily in April for what I perceived as her lack of hospitality to my kids (and me.) I may not have any meals, far less Thanksgiving, at the home I grew up in. It belongs to her now.

One thought I had when I heard David Cassidy died was, "Well, he and his family will be spared another hellacious Thanksgiving." Cynical, I know. But having alcoholics in the family is worst on holidays. The apprehension about whether they will show up, and in what condition, is bested only by cumulative fear and anxiety when they don't. Texts and phone calls, excuses and late arrivals, slurred speech and bleary eyes: these are on the menu in an alcoholic family. Just recently, one of my sons told me that the holidays caused him intense anxiety. I'd never taken the time to see it from his point of view. Now, I can. I am so grateful to him for telling me.

I could go on, but you get it. And I know I'm not special. Or unique.

Last Thanksgiving at home? 2014

I actually love this day: my favorite part is the food preparation. This year, we are using lots of things we grew ourselves. I'm grateful for so much! My sons are years into recovery. One of them is in Oregon, working on a fishing boat, because he can now follow his dreams. The other one will be at our family gathering. He's a vegan, and so is my daughter. I'm healthy, and have time to write, garden, and do research.

I focus and raise up the problems of the world, because we cannot ever forget those who suffer, who are impoverished, addicted, oppressed, or disenfranchised.The world, like the body, will present its bill, already has, and we can no loner afford to evade the truth. At the same time, I can be profoundly grateful for what remains. You wouldn't fight for a world you didn't love.

I would be happy to have it called "Gratitude Day." And in our gratitude, remember all of those who came before, those who didn't make it, those who aren't here, and those who writhe in pain today:

If you are here to read this,
think of those who aren't.
Pray for them: good thoughts for those
who lost their minds, love and years
to compulsion, addiction and fears.
Think of their great sacrifice.

We recover on the bones of others.
Wrap your loving thoughts around them:
alone no more.

If you are here and recovering
your original shining true self,
a moment of silence for those driven mad
by the voices and screams of disease-
driven dreams. We walk from night to day
on a path made of the bones of others.
Hold them tightly in the warm arms of your spirit:
cold no more.

If you are here and attaining freedom,
a thousand bows for those who didn't
reach this shore and drowned in a
sea of despair: suffering no more.

We walk in freedom past cages made
of the bones of others.
They hand us the keys of desperation.
Quench their burning thirst
with the tears of your soul.
Calm their cravings. Still their minds.
Grant them peace in the dark and
lonely places below and above the ground.
Fill the gaping holes left by their deaths
with the immensity of your love.

Remember them as you sleep;
remember them as you wake.
Only a thought is the difference
between you and the bones of others.

There But for the Grace....

Days like this, it is so good to go to the local Amish store and chat with Alfred and his daughters. It's not that the Amish are perfect or exempt from the challenges of living; in fact some things, like health care, impact them directly. They self-insure as a community, and Alfred's one son Michael (out of 8 kids) just broke his foot and had four pins put in... he told me each pin cost $700. (All things considered, I wondered if they did it without anesthesia, because it sounded pretty cheap.) But they are, in spite of their vastly increased contact with the English (only about 10% earn their living by farming now) still detached and serenely unconcerned with the turmoil and distress of modern life. It's their faith, and even if you find it absurd, you must admit that they are joyful, uncomplicated, and successful people.

Today, though, after having made that visit, and feeling I had stepped away from the ranting and speculation and finger-pointing after yet another mass shooting, a torrent of words and phrases I don't even want to get into... because it leads nowhere... and because I dispute the premises upon which it begins... something happened that left me far more disturbed, in some ways.

We live in a very small town (pop. about 200) and on my way home from the Amish store, where I bought fresh bread, nuts, kombucha made locally, chips, soap, and some items for my bnb, I stopped at the Dollar General to get something the Amish did not have. Heading to the register, I became aware of a woman with three small children ahead of me, trying to deter one of them (all girls) from fingering some candy. "Mommy can't buy that today. She doesn't have her food card.." The children were filthy, not a common sight in our rural town. People here are poor -- we have free lunches for all at our school --( and in fact, we are "poor" by common standards), but proud. We get by with loaning and borrowing, canning and freezing, stretching and scrimping. It doesn't look like a place of poverty. Yards and roadsides are clean and tidy. And kids have clean clothes and decent haircuts. So this woman, and her kids, stood out.

I glanced at her. And saw what I didn't want to. Her shoulder length hair was matted, her face as dirty as you'd ever imagine. Her stretch pants hung below her pregnant belly (the oldest of the three girls could not have been more than four) and also revealed a few inches of her buttocks. She had two residual black eyes and her nose was flat. Too flat for a white woman. Her front teeth, when she spoke a moment later, were gone.

Another woman, well dressed, with highlighted hair, swooped in and did what I'd briefly considered: Let me buy some candy for them. My treat, she said. 

It's just the money... the mom said.

Really, it's no problem at all, the lady stooped down and made sure each had two of the same, Mentos, and a round pop, so they wouldn't fight. You go on now. 

And on they went.

I was shaking as I paid my bill. This woman, a tiny saint, who knelt down to those children and said, in gestures, someone is out here who is kind and will care about you, was paying at another register, and I heard her say, That could have been me one day.

It was one of those idioms that I couldn't quite decipher; did she mean in the past, or in the future, if she hadn't escaped some situation?

That's right, I said, meaning me. Meaning, people I know, now and in the past, and people I am related to, meaning, it's not an either/or. It's just a matter of degree. There were four women in the Dollar General then. Two clerks and two customers. But a moment of understanding fell upon us that I think I have never experienced.

I had to stop three times on the four mile drive home. 

Yes, I know that there are men of color and women who are abusive. But the vast number of abusers are white men, from whoever is beating that woman so senseless that she doesn't even care if her butt is showing to the white man who just murdered and injured hundreds in Las Vegas, to our so-called President who spent days insulting and assaulting the Mayor of San Juan as she struggled to get a call for help out of her strangled throat.

God: what will it take for you to hear this prayer?

I tried to raise sons who would never demean or diminish women. I tried to raise a daughter who'd never sit still for one word of gesture that belittled or in any way impugned her.

Yet. Yet. The face and body of this poor, battered woman and her three daughters has nearly broken me, because I feel her within me. I think she lives within all of us, in the shadows, triggered so easily by the words of a domineering, narcissistic, dismissive, male (or female) and hiding there, in the shadows, where she was born. She wasn't born with us. We came into this world whole, proud, lusty, and worthy. And, just because you look "okay" doean't mean you're not on the continuum. With her.

The broken, beaten woman was born as the abused child, by stern fathers, mothers, teachers, abusive step-brothers, ex-husbands who cheated, demeaned, controlled, accused, bosses, and the shame that followed, and mocked by all the other women who I saw needed help and didn't know how to reach.

When I see her, in the flesh, it's like a ghost. I'm haunted. Pray with me.