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By: Kat; New York, New York, USA
My body has always been my home.
When I was 8 years old, all my belongings fit in two dresser drawers and I slept on a roll-up foam mattress between my grandmother and great-aunt's beds in our one-bedroom apartment in Sunnyside, Queens, with my uncle and grandfather sleeping in the living room. The years before that, in the Philippines, are vague. The only thing I am certain about is that I moved from place to place and never stayed long enough anywhere that I completely unpacked. It didn’t matter, my body was my home.
By the time I was a pre-teen I was referred to as being “TNT,” Tago ng Tago. Loosely translated, “continuing to hide.” It wasn’t until later that I learned and began to understand the meaning and consequences of being undocumented in the United States. Part of this truth meant always having a “go-bag” in hand.
... a bag packed with survival supplies and kept ready for use in case of an emergency that requires rapid evacuation…
Merriam-Webster
My definition of valuable and precious things evolved overtime. Early on, the bag included my favorites: shirt, snacks, phone numbers and twenty dollars. Then it included what government papers I had, phone numbers and $100. As a teen the only time I ever used my go-bag was when I would pretend to run away. But no one really ever noticed and I never truly went very far for very long. However, at 28 years old, living on my own for the first time, being undocumented caught up with me. It was during the Bush Administration and ICE raids were all the rage. There was even a hidden-in-plain-sight ICE detention center a few blocks away from my apartment in Long Island City. I reached out to three organizations and they all suggested I leave my apartment. The DMV had my fake social security card, along with my three proofs of address.
“Don’t answer your door.”
“Even if your landlord lets them in the building, you don’t have to open your apartment.”
“If the landlord lets them in the apartment, you have no obligation to say anything.”
“Ask for a warrant”
“I suggest you leave your apartment altogether.”
“Go someplace else”
“Do you have some other place to go?”
“Leave your apartment.”
“Leave your apartment.”
“Leave your apartment.”
“Leave your apartment.”
And so, I left my apartment. I packed my belongings in the middle of the night, when ICE raids did not normally happen, as per the suggestion of a Legal Aid representative. I packed my belongings, not to move them, but to give them away, or to put them on the sidewalk. I left my furniture for the next tenant. This time, my go-bag included two contractor bags of clothes, government documents, flash drives, phone numbers, a senior dog and a five-year-old umbrella plant.
In some spiritual traditions, the umbrella plant is seen as a symbol of protection and shelter. The broad, umbrella-like leaves are thought to provide a spiritual canopy, offering protection from negative energies and influences.
I left my life in Queens and moved to Brooklyn, where I seemingly transitioned into a new life. Lots of life, fortune, luck and the kindness of others led me to taking my U.S. citizenship oath seven years later.
It is now many households and 10 years after that I became a citizen. Today, at 45 years old, the go-bag is now a fire and waterproof pouch in my cat’s carrier.
Two weeks ago was the Presidential Inauguration of Donald Trump. In the blink that he has been in office, ICE agents have been dispatched and migrants and immigrants are his target. A day or two after his inauguration, as predicted, I was fairly despondent. But I went to work, where we serve the community of young people of Hell’s Kitchen, and I behaved as though it were just another day. But on the inside I could feel myself disappearing, floating into the air. At the last two staff meetings my co-workers have been avid about learning about our rights as allies and steps to take should ICE agents come knocking down our door.
I am crying as I write this. I’m trying to document this event like a creative book report. I’m trying to be poetic in how I feel. But it’s not working. I am scared. I know logically that I am safe for the most part. There is no immediate threat to my existence or even daily life, beyond witnessing ICE agents profile people at the subway turnstiles. But my body doesn’t believe my mind. My body wants to disappear. My body does not feel safe. I am 10 years old again, listening to my grandmother tell me to say nothing if I am ever caught by the police. I am 11 years old standing in front of the church hosting legal consultations, but for adults. I am 13 years old listening to people in school and in the news about illegals and how they take “our jobs.” I am reminded by relatives that they could get me “sent home.” I am a teenager who doesn’t talk about how I’m being violated because the authorities may find out I am undocumented. I am 17 years old and realizing I can’t go to college. I am 28 years old, losing everything I own and pretending I am ok.
I feel guilty for feeling all this because my life is not in immediate danger. But my body doesn’t believe that. My body cannot leave my apartment. My body doesn’t want to go to work and review the “Resource & Guidance to Nonprofits Regarding Immigration Enforcement” bulletin. I don’t want to talk about what to do if ICE agents come to our office doors. I don’t want to be around the energy of urgency and panic. I don’t want to go places where I have to pretend that I’m okay. I want to stay home and just be not okay with my pets, on the floor, next to my fire and waterproof pouch in my cat’s carrier.
My body has always been my home, but now my home feels unsafe again. I want my body back. I want my home back.
Kat is formerly undocumented, multi-medium storyteller. The foundation of her passion, humor and curiosity is founded in the teachings and tales of her lola, lolo and tias.
Artist Links:
Click here for the short film featuring Kat’s Story
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