Your Heart Beats Against Mine

My mother always said that she could feel me before she even knew I existed.

She said that she had a dream one hot summer night that she was in the middle of a forest and that the rain was pouring, pouring down.

She said that in the dream she was dancing in the rain, her arms raised to the beautiful, gray sky.

As she danced, she began to hear a drumbeat.

Not really hear.

Feel.

She could feel it.

It was all around her- in the air, in the rain.

It was beneath her- she could feel it coming up from the ground.

It was above her- she could feel it coming down from the sky.

Her whole dream world was pulsing with this steady beat and the harder it beat, the harder she danced.

She said she woke up in a sweat, exhilarated, and that when she put her hand to her chest, she swore that she could feel two heartbeats.

Hers and mine.

Hers and mine.

My mother said that I was a miracle.

That her and my father had given up the hope of a child after trying for so long.

But then the dream came and so did I.

Since being here, I can’t stop thinking about my mother.

Her face fills my every thought.

All I want is for her arms to be around me.

For her to tell me that everything is going to be ok.

I want to feel her heartbeat against my chest.

I’m walking toward the bus stop.

5am.

Still dark.

Most places are still closed except for the coffee shops and the liquor stores who are just starting to open their doors.

I am walking, but not really seeing what's around me.

My mind is elsewhere-

Thinking about my Intro to Psychology classmate Reyna Lozano.

I daydream about her lips and hair and hips.

My mind is so full of imagining what it would be like to hold Reyna’s hand in mine, that I don’t even notice the big white van pulling up next to me.

There are ten men beside myself in this small cell.

I am by far the youngest one here.

Sometimes we talk. Most of the time we don’t.

Most of the time, we stare into space, our minds taking us somewhere else.

Somewhere far away.

Somewhere warm.

Somewhere we are loved.

At night, I can hear the men calling out to their loved ones.

I wonder if they call out to their wives or girlfriends or fathers or brothers.

I wonder how many of them also call out to their mothers.

Suddenly there are hands pulling at my arms, my backpack.

Someone grabs my hair and pulls hard.

I try to scream, but before I can, someone’s hand covers my mouth.

They pull me into the van, my legs scraping the door of the car.

They tell me to shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!

It isn’t until I’m inside the van that I see their masks, their uniforms-

POLICE ICE.

I try to tell them that I have my documentation, that I have DACA, but one of them punches me in the mouth.

I see stars, my tongue is full with the taste of metal.

In here, they call us animals.

Get Up Animals, they shout in the morning.

Lights Out Animals, they shout in the evening.

I had a dream last night that I was running through the forest, the rain was pouring, pouring down.

Through the trees, I could see my mother dancing, with her arms raised toward the sky.

And in the dream, I charged at her, wanting nothing more than to tear her apart.

I woke up screaming and was shocked that when I looked down at myself, I still had my own body.

I was convinced that I had indeed become an animal.

We drive for a long time.

I don’t know how long.

I tried asking them questions: why they were taking me, when was I going to get a phone call, but each question was met with either a punch in the face or an order to shut my mouth.

I watch them watch me.

Watch their eyes glare in disgust.

At long last we stop.

One of them handcuffs my hands and legs together, as if I’m a dangerous criminal, something to be feared.

They drag me out of the van and march me into the warehouse looking building.

As we get closer to the entrance, I look up at the sky, a part of me knowing that this will be the last time I ever see it.

This morning when I wake up there are two small boys sitting in the middle of the room.

I stare at them in shock.

Who are they?

What are they doing in a men’s cell?

We, the other men, look at each other, unsure of what to do.

Finally, I go up to the children and ask them their names.

Omar is six, Alberto is four. They are brothers.

When I ask where their parents are, they shake their heads. Alberto cries. Omar holds him and tells me that they don’t know where they are.

I try to get a guard’s attention, to tell them that these children shouldn’t be here, but the guards slam their batons against the cell, telling me to back up, to shut up, to mind my own business, and I suddenly know for certain that there are no animals in this cell.

The animals are out there dressed in their uniforms and holding batons.

In the middle of the night, I am woken up to the sound of Omar and Alberto softly crying.

I go to them.

Omar tells me they miss their mother.

I tell them that I understand that completely.

I tell them that I miss mine.

They ask me to tell them a story.

I tell them the story of two women, two mothers, who meet in the forest. Who dance together in the rain, with their arms up to the sky, praising the heavens for the gift of their children.

At some point, I look down and see that Omar and Alberto are fast asleep in my lap.

I can feel their hearts beat against my chest.