This One Was Taken by My Tia, My Dad’s Sister, and Everything You Don’t Know

Artist Statement

An immigrant is defined as someone who migrates to live in a foreign country. If the United States wants to label my father a foreigner, then I am just as undeserving for a citizenship. I do not recognize my country nor the “American Dream” promised to my dad when he stepped across the border. As a matter of fact, across the border you will find the missing land of Mexico. In that case, I legally ask that you give my dad his deserving citizenship and call yourself the illegal alien, America. I write poetry to shed tears and light to the families still in the waiting room of the detention centers. 

Silvia Nuno

Silvia Nuño is an undergraduate student majoring in Journalism and minoring in Africana Studies. She invests her time in creative visions to rebuild and restore humanity. A large amount of her work speaks through visual content and writing. Her poem was crafted under the influence of predatory policeman working for ICE.

Family photo provided by Silvia Nuno.

..."You don’t know these hours of desperation
happened before the picture taken by my Tia"...

You don’t know the building behind  

is a prison for man who migrated here.

You don’t know the blue in the sky

traced outside the prison

is deceiving for a 110 degree fan.

You don’t know the formal attire

was for a scheduled court; 8 a.m.

You don’t know the water buildup and bruising in our eyes

cried trauma and redemption.

You don’t know the uniform on my dad’s back

was June 20th’s work clothes

same ones they cuffed him with,

same ones he made his one phone call with.

You don’t know he birthed all daughters

1, 2, 3, 4, and me

my mom to his right.

You don’t know this was in Adelanto

exactly 30 days.

You don’t know no one slept the night before

in the green house of Compton

2 hours away.

You don’t know we traveled in two cars

right before 5 a.m.,

just in case.

You don’t know we arrived at 7 a.m.

lecturing a 3-year-old how to behave in a court room.

You don’t know we didn’t know how to tell a 3-year-old

not to speak her dad,

or there would be consequences.

You don’t know we prayed in the waiting room,

hand-in-hand

tear-in-tear.

You don’t know they called our name

“Family Nuno”

you can only enter with proof of identification,

pass the metal detector

empty our pockets

and walk into the second waiting room.

You don’t know this time it was only 5 feet worth of air

sitting on breathless chairs

running out of air,

anxiety took away my bloodstream.

You don’t know there was a little window

on a door, in the second waiting room

where you can see the blue- only for misdemeanors

and the red- for severe crimes

 entering boxed court rooms.  

You don’t know we piled our heads onto the little window

every time more blue and reds would arrive

hoping to see my dad- he was blue.

You don’t know we waited for over two hours

and I saw our hope

and prayers

walking out the room,

I didn’t say anything.

You don’t know my dad’s attorney was late

he was injured

with crutches

sweat slid down his scalp,

he was late.

You don’t know we knew this could affect my dad’s case,

I still didn’t say anything.

You don’t know we were called in

my hands could not sit still  

my heart pulsed a flatline

my head fainted,

each time a little closer to the floor.

 

I asked God to take over my body.

 

My sisters, I, and my mom

had to sit in the very, very back row.

locked family

locked faith

locked scared

locked prayers

locked trust in God

locked what if all goes wrong

locked we have each other

locked I love my dad

locked please give him back

You don’t know my dad was sitting in the front

next to his attorney

whispering words of release,

shaking himself.

You don’t know my dad had a translator

a headset to help

and a microphone.

You don’t know the panic

the terror

the cries for help

in our bodies

sitting in the very, very back row.

You don’t the woman in the suit

to the judge’s right

was here to do her job,

get my dad out of this country.

The judge began to speak

a mouth-full of words.

He spoke about our letters

the letters my sisters, I, and my mom were forced to write

begging the judge to return what was ours.

recognizing the variety of 6

the college attendees

the over 20 years presence in our lives

the dad who carries his family

the dad who’s never surrendered working at 5.a.m.

till the sun shut,

the dad who is a leader to this country

the, the reason my dad was arrested was reasonless

the, I do not understand why you were held for 30 days.

You don’t know the judge asked my father to look back at his

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

golden geese,

devoted to him

never ever leaving him lonely.

You don’t know my dad did not have the strength to turn his head

a strained throat

and clumped eyes.

You don’t know you can’t imagine how many tears cried down

his 5 daughters and mom’s cheeks

in the very, very back row.

You don’t know the God I know

the God I know secured our prayers

the God I know asked my dad’s judge to save a family of 7.

You don’t know my sisters, I, and my mom

walked out that room

to deep breaths of waterfalls

heavy breaths of relief

startled breaths of suffering

shaking breaths of gratitude.

You don’t know these hours of desperation

happened before the picture taken by my Tia,

my dad’s sister,

and you still don’t know

…