Before someone else “having a really bad day” decides to pick up a gun in response to their lies.
Magazine, The Immigrant Experience, Culled from The Nation, By Erika Andiola
Tempe, Ariz.—Over the past several weeks, we’ve all heard the news about what is happening at the border. Most of the headlines and commentary in the media have painted a picture of a “surge” of migrant children crossing the border on their own. They talk about this “security crisis” at the border over and over again. After hearing these news stories, it’s hard not to think that the United States is being invaded by brown children. Which we know is not the reality, but with the amount of coverage this issue gets and the type of narrative that the media focuses on, it’s hard for the public to see it through a different lens: through the lens of humanity.
At a personal level, watching and reading these news stories is deeply painful. I too, came to this country as a child. I was lucky enough to be able to come with my mother and siblings, but know very well the experience of having to cross the border in search of a better future. For many years as a kid, before I became involved in the immigrant rights movement, I saw the same images and rhetoric on TV. I knew they were talking about people like me—but I didn’t see myself in those images. I never saw my humanity reflected in those stories. We were being called “illegal,” “aliens,” “invaders”—I can go on and on.
Because of that, I decided to share my story publicly. No matter how re-traumatizing and difficult it was to share my story over and over again, I felt like I had no other choice. I thought that the only way for me to help reform our immigration system was to prove to this country that I was human enough. That I, like many people in this country, had dreams and aspirations. I felt compelled to open up my childhood wounds over and over again and tell the world about the violence I experienced with my own father, in order for Americans to empathize with me and not allow their government to detain me or deport me.
I still share my story and have learned to be OK with it—but it shouldn’t have to be this way. A few weeks ago, as I was watching the news and grieving the death of more innocent people at the hands of armed white supremacists, I started to notice the constant question being asked and the answers that were given. Who was he? Why did he do it? Was it his mental health? Does he have family?
The answer that captured what many people in this country wanted to hear came from a police officer: “He was having a really bad day.” This white man who killed eight people was immediately heard and understood.
Hearing that answer made me break down in tears. We, as immigrants, have been demonized, dehumanized and blamed for most problems in this country. Children are traveling thousands of miles to a country they have never known in order to escape poverty and violence. Families are selling everything they own, so they can help their children seek a better life in America. Every single one of us has a story to tell, but we hardly ever hear those questions when it comes to immigrants and asylum seekers.
