An ‘As Told To’ Story from Maria.
I was in Central California Women’s Facility (CCWF) for 14 years. In 2019, I went to board and was granted parole. The governor did not revoke my parole grant. So we were ecstatic. My mom and dad were finally able to breathe and say that the daughter that they thought they lost forever was finally coming home, like the prodigal son. The prodigal daughter. We were able to laugh about things during our calls.
But in reality, my parents’ nightmare was not over because I’m not a citizen. I had an Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) hold.
During California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR) classification, your counselor can [flag] you if you weren’t born here. After CCWF, my family didn’t greet me at the gate. Instead a private contractor for ICE was there. That’s how I ended up in the San Bernardino Adelanto ICE Processing Center for 11 months.
Detention is a totally different experience from state prison. In prison, you have your own space. In detention, you’re an arm’s length away from the next woman. You don’t have your own locker. You have a thin mattress, a blanket, a sheet. You’re lucky if you have a pillow. You don’t have a covered bathroom. It’s just a different environment. It’s dehumanizing. Every moment is a cliffhanger moment because you never know what was going to happen. And there’s that pressure from the officers for you to sign your deportation papers.
For 11 months I fought. It was during COVID-19 and people were getting desperate because [ICE] stopped [people from] visiting. We look forward to those one-hour visits with family, because we never know if it will be the last day that we’re going to be able to hold our child, husbands, parents.
Every detainee can petition for a bond hearing. My lawyer told me, “Don’t waste your money; you’re never going to get a bond because of your conviction.” He was very transparent. I said, “No, I don’t believe you.” So I filed for review. With the review pending, I submitted all my paperwork to the government. I made sure that I had contacts while I was in immigration [detention]. I had a job offer. I had housing. I had someone picking me up, and I think that’s what really helped me.
With everything that was going on with COVID-19, they needed to release people. Because I had that solid plan and solid support from my community — they all showed up at the court hearing — the judge acknowledged it. But that’s the power of the community and preparations. It all just came together.
Before I left, they had put an ankle monitor on me. It took me two years to get a driver’s license. [In the meantime] I walked with a paper from parole saying that my name is Maria. I was born on this day, and yes, this is my CDCR number. But I do exist. I’m not a ghost. I told myself, “I’m going to make sure next time somebody comes home, they’re not going to go through embarrassing moments like I experienced.” And since then, I help our community members in their journey.
We know what we’ve done in the past, how we’ve harmed people in our community. But we’ve also taken a different path. And now we’re a part of that community that’s thriving. We’re part of that community that helps families heal generational traumas.
We can ask our community members for all the support letters to flood the governor’s office. But at the end of the day, the right thing to do is to make sure that families are able to at least have some peace before they go to bed.
I think I can speak for my brothers and sisters that are under supervision, especially now with the current administration: we’re all in limbo. The risk of imminent deportation is hanging over our heads. Everywhere we’re like bobble heads continuously looking, looking to see if ICE is around. Because we’re not only looking out for ourselves, we’re looking out for our folks.
So what do we do in those moments? I always tell them, “Know your rights.” But it still takes an emotional toll on them and the family. No one can say anything that can help that kid, that wife, that mother, feel better. The idea of being separated, it’s frightening.
Every day I leave home, I kiss my husband, and there’s my heart asking, “Is it the last day I’m going to be with him?” When my mom drops me off at work, she’s like, “Call me, call me, call me.” Because she’ll say, “If I don’t hear from you, I’m going to panic.”
Even with the new administration in place, instead of that fear, [we] shift to community love, to empower each other and not give up hope. We can ask our community members for all the support letters to flood the governor’s office. But at the end of the day, the right thing to do is to make sure that families are able to at least have some peace before they go to bed.
We have community gatherings in different places. We have panel discussions to give space for the families that are experiencing this trauma. We have immigration law clinics. We work with different organizations all around the Bay Area and Central Valley to keep the community informed.
People don’t want to talk about it because they don’t want it to speak [their deportation] into existence. I always tell them, “God gave you wisdom and understanding and you have resources at your disposal. Use it.” There’s nothing wrong with being prepared instead of being stuck in a situation. So we’re having those hard conversations with family and individuals, conversations that we need to have.
So those are just a few of the things that we do to keep the community safe, and it changes every day. The needs change every day, so we just keep up with it to see what else we can do to make it better, to make it more understandable for them or the families.
We’re in a nightmare. But we do what we need to do to keep the monsters away at night.
Kate McQueen is editorial director at Pollen Initiative.
Maria is a daughter, sister, wife, friend and an advocate working with the community to families together. Her last name has been withheld for safety considerations. This ‘As Told To’ story is based on a conversation between Maria and Kate McQueen and was edited for length and clarity.