by Elly Fishman
“You know, my parents always tell me that I’m going to die a horrible death,” says Aishah. “Like worse than I can imagine. They say it every day. Especially during Ramadan.”
“Mine, too,” adds Shahina. “I came into this world alone and I will leave it alone.”
“Except me,” says Aishah, pulling Shahina’s arm closer to her. Shahina laughs. A crowd has begun to form around the two smashed cars. The girls decide to continue walking. As they do, they move at a slow pace, watching traffic speed by and soaking in the sun.
11
JUNE
Alejandro
Alejandro stands over a small altar for his slain friend Jose. He’s assembled a jar candle virgin and a photo of Jose, a young man with a thin mustache, on the cusp of adulthood. He dips his head down, closes his eyes, and prays. He prays here every night. This small corner of Alejandro’s room is his church. He prays for his family. He prays for the sick. He prays that he’ll remain safe in America. News from the border has been grim for months. In early May, more than two thousand children had been separated from their parents after crossing into the United States. The separations were introduced as part of the Trump administration’s new immigration policy that asserted a “zero-tolerance” for illegal border crossings. That also included prosecuting parents traveling with their children as well as people who attempted to request asylum.
Alejandro climbs into bed. His nights have been restless, and he knows he won’t sleep tonight. When he closes his eyes, disordered images of Guatemala flood his mind: his mother’s house, rivers he swam in, friends, many now dead. In preparation for his day in court, Alejandro has spent the last several weeks trying to memorize the details of his journey to the United States and of what propelled him. The query frustrates Alejandro. If he could return to Guatemala safely, he would already be there. He’d wake up to his mother’s pupusas and walk streets full of the familiar smells. He could see his friends again and watch his sisters grow into women. How can he communicate how much he’d like to go home if there were a good chance he’d escape the gangs? One wrong date or detail in court tomorrow, Alejandro fears, could cost him his life.
From his bed, Alejandro can see his black suit hanging in the closet. His father, Sergio, had it pressed and cleaned, and it now hangs under a protective plastic dry cleaning bag next to the black Air Jordan sweatshirt that Alejandro wore the night he fled Guatemala. He received the hoodie the Christmas before he left, and wore it for the first time when he went to join his father. He wanted to arrive in the United States in his best clothes. He never wears it anymore; it doesn’t fit.
Sergio told Alejandro he cannot dirty the suit; he has to wear it for both his court date and his Sullivan graduation on Wednesday. Alejandro and Sergio had spent the day together. They first hit a barbershop just south of their apartment, where the barber, a Guatemalan man who had cut Sergio’s hair for years, asked Alejandro what style he preferred. Alejandro explained he had to appear in court. The barber nodded knowingly. His technique was old school. His long black comb moved through Alejandro’s thick hair as the fast, muted scissors reshaped Alejandro’s shaggy top into an unthreatening cut for court. No fades or razor patterns and just enough pomade to keep his hair in place. The loss of his ponytail hit harder. He hadn’t trimmed it in years, hoping that his mother would be the one who finally cut it when they met again. But Alejandro’s lawyers insisted that he clip it, and he relented. Once Alejandro was brushed off and treated with talcum powder, Sergio paid and they both thanked the barber. Sergio took his son for a caldo de res, a beef soup made with potatoes, corn, jalapeños, and topped with lime and cilantro. He knew the soup would comfort Alejandro. It wasn’t Luana’s recipe, but it wasn’t bad, either. Sitting at the table, the two talked about sports and graduation—any topic that wasn’t Alejandro’s court hearing or his hair. But the next day weighed heavily on them, and by the end of the meal, they ate in silence.
Struggling to sleep, Alejandro has his mother on his mind. He wishes Luana were with him in Chicago. He wishes he could talk to her. Nearly four weeks have passed since they last connected by phone. A recent volcanic eruption in Guatemala City left her with feeble internet access, and texts were the best they could do. The last message she sent him read: I will pray for you. Everything will be OK.
When Alejandro’s alarm sounds at 7 a.m., he’s still awake. He didn’t sleep at all. After showering, he fits into his suit. His freshly starched shirt feels crisp against his skin. He promised to walk his girlfriend to school this morning, but they’ll have to walk slowly so he doesn’t sweat through his jacket. When the two arrive at Sullivan, Alejandro stops by the library. He looks in vain for Sarah. Alejandro had considered asking Sarah to accompany him to court but decided against the idea. He’d rather go alone. A student asks him why he’s wearing a suit. A funeral? Job interview? He shrugs, avoiding the question. Sergio calls. He’s parked outside.
Sergio won’t join Alejandro in court. He’s heard rumors that U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents have made a habit of stationing themselves outside courthouses to arrest undocumented individuals accompanying their family members. While schools, hospitals, and places of worship have effectively been off-limits for federal immigration officers, courthouses have not. And because of reports about the marked increase of ICE activity in courts over the past two years, many, like Sergio, no longer feel safe going anywhere near them. It is simply too risky. But he’ll drive Alejandro to his lawyers’ offices. When they pull up outside the downtown building, Sergio turns to Alejandro. “I’m going to pray for you. Go do your best.”
Alejandro and his two lawyers spend the next two hours reviewing his answers one last time. The two women are thorough and matter of fact, but also give him hope. Before they leave for the courthouse, one of the lawyers collects Alejandro’s file. In it, there’s a letter of support from Sarah. She writes:
[Alejandro] is a selfless and mature man; it is hard to believe he is only eighteen years old. … [Alejandro] is a person who cares very deeply for the feelings of others and is cognizant of how he can leave the world a better place than he found it; [Alejandro] truly embodies cura personalis. I believe this intense empathy for others stems from the fact that [Alejandro] immigrated to this country when he was thirteen years old. He knows what it’s like to feel lonely and scared. … And, like most refugees, [Alejandro] would tell you that he would return to Guatemala—return to his mom, siblings, and friends—if he felt like it was safe to do so. But he also knows what it feels like to dream and have ambitions—and this is where [Alejandro] focuses his energy and talents. He does not lament his struggle or blame others for his defeat. [Alejandro] will clearly, and unequivocally, tell you he has been blessed with an opportunity and he plans to waste no time in creating a meaningful life for himself and his family.
Alejandro is already thinking past the hearing. If he is denied asylum and the judge orders his deportation, Alejandro would have to act quickly. Someone told him he could marry his girlfriend, who is an American citizen. The idea irks him. He doesn’t want to marry for the wrong reasons or put that pressure on his girlfriend. He could stay and continue to work without any legal status. Continuing to work as an undocumented immigrant is obviously not ideal, but it’s better than a death sentence.
In the early afternoon Alejandro and his two lawyers cab it to the courthouse. It stands at the corner of two busy streets in the heart of the Loop, Chicago’s main business district. The elevated train rumbles and screeches above the sidewalks as the cars drive over the tall, rickety tracks. Every sound seems amplified to him now. Are these the sounds of his past or will they fill his future? A steady stream of people pour in and out from Union Station, Chicago’s imposing old central train station. Many carry wheeling luggage. Perhaps they’ve just arrived in Chicago. There’s a Starbucks across the street and a deep-dish pizza joint a little farther south. It feels like the city is passing him by, a blur from the taxi window.
/> Inside the federal building, Alejandro and his two lawyers take the elevator to the fifth floor. When they arrive at the hall leading to the courtroom, they put their belongings down on a security conveyer belt and walk through a metal detector. Just like at school. He does the same every morning when he enters the Sullivan building. America is safer for him than Guatemala, but the regular scanning reminds him it’s not all that safe. There are seven courtrooms, one for each judge, spread along a labyrinthian corridor. The floor has no windows or plants. It’s not unpleasant, but it gives little face to the bureaucracy. Each courtroom has a small waiting area with sets of chairs, some bolted to the floor, others freestanding. Alejandro sits and waits for his lawyers’ instructions. Just beyond the doors, the courtroom is empty. No one occupies the wooden benches in the gallery or the two long tables just beyond the gate that divides spectators from the lawyers, the subject of the hearings, and the judge’s high bench. The witness stand is vacant, too. When the court is next occupied, Alejandro’s future will be at stake.
Even before the room fills, however, Alejandro’s heart begins to pound. Please God, make this fast, Alejandro says to himself, holding his hands in a prayer formation against his chest. He prays. Dios mio, no deje que esta gente me mande de vuelta a Guatemala que no quiero regresar. Or, “My God, don’t let them send me back to Guatemala, because I do not wish to return.” His fear swells. He tries to breathe deeply to slow his heart.
A few minutes pass. The room remains oddly empty. Usually, the waiting area is filled with individuals waiting for their cases to be heard. The quiet adds to Alejandro’s anxiety. Something’s amiss. So far, the only person he’s seen on the fifth floor is a security guard. Time seems to slow.
Alejandro’s lawyers approach him. They look angry. They tell him that his court date has been pushed back—again. Across the country, nearly eight hundred thousand immigration cases are waiting to be resolved, and most of them need a judge to determine whether they can stay in the country. There are only fifty-eight immigration courts across the country and every single one of them has a massive backlog. Alejandro’s lawyers explain to him that they should have a new date soon. The two women keep talking, but Alejandro can’t keep track of the details. His head buzzes. What he does understand is that he will continue to wait. His fate won’t be settled today. Later that summer, his lawyers would send him his new court date: August 2021.
On Wednesday, when Alejandro’s alarm again rings, he is already awake. He dons his black suit and pulls his polyester navy-blue graduation robe out of his closet. It’s a good day. He will graduate. And he’s alive, and he’s in America.
Alejandro arrives at Loyola University, the big campus on Lake Michigan, not far from Sullivan, and the site of graduation. The sidewalk is lined with vendors carrying balloons, flowers, and stuffed bears in small red buckets. Alejandro files behind some of the other students heading into the auditorium, disappearing into the sea of blue, yellow, and white gowns.
“Alejandro,” Sarah calls out from somewhere in the crowd. She comes barreling over and throws her arms around him. “I’m so proud of you. I wish your real mom was here, but I love you like my own family.” He smiles in the embrace. Yes, he does wish his mother were there, but Sarah, he feels, does love him. He will take a lot of pictures and tell Luana all about graduation later.
The group of graduates gets antsy as they wait for their cue to enter the auditorium. Lauren, who is headed to University of Maine on a scholarship, stands nearby in a white robe and cap decorated with numerous tassels—a distinction reserved for honors students. She beams from both elation and sweat. It’s hot.
Later in the summer, Lauren will settle into her new dorm room and discover a love for lobster rolls. She’ll study anthropology and fight for environmental justice. She’ll write poetry and immerse herself in early Hollywood films. She’ll find it challenging to build community where less than 2 percent of students are Black. The word “outsider” will take on new, acute meanings. But for now, standing in the packed lobby surrounded by her Sullivan classmates cloaked in their graduation wear, Lauren feels invincible.
Nearby, Alejandro drips with sweat. When the ceremony finally begins, he lines up, standing parallel to a classmate. As he walks into the hall, Alejandro holds his head up. A smile of satisfaction stretches across his face. When he takes his seat, the sun shines through the big stained-glass windows and Alejandro’s row alights with a glow of colors. The ceremony begins with students welcoming the room in a medley of languages. Next, Joe Moore, the city alderman for Sullivan’s ward, steps to the microphone.
“This is the face of America,” says Moore. “We have every single nationality in this room. … This is not the end. This is the beginning.”
Chad speaks. So does Matt Fasana. The valedictorian talks. Mayoral candidate Lori Lightfoot—who will go on to win the election—takes the microphone.
“When I look out on this incredible crowd, I see what is best about our great city. You reflect our hope for today, tomorrow, and a brilliant future. Your diversity, your distinction, and your passion for the city, for the school, and for learning is infectious. It really gives me hope about what we can accomplish together.”
Sarah leans against the metal railing at the back of the auditorium. She recently gave her own spin on Lori Lightfoot’s speech when she tracked Aishah down. Aishah had been one of Sarah’s best students when Sarah still taught. She had nominated the junior for the school’s honors medical program. Not only was Aishah accepted, but before she started skipping class, she was one of the top students in the program. Sarah wasn’t willing to lose Aishah, so she asked the girl’s teachers to each write a letter encouraging her to return to school. Sarah delivered the letters to Aishah herself. When Sarah knocked on Aishah’s door, the girl was home without her parents, caring for her younger siblings. Aishah’s head was uncovered and her siblings zoomed from one end of the apartment to the other, screaming with delight at their unexpected visitor.
Sitting in the living room, Sarah dove right in.
“How come you’re not coming to school?” she asked.
“I have some problems,” Aishah answered coyly.
“Are you pregnant?”
“No.”
“Is someone hurting you?”
“No.”
“Are you hurting yourself?”
“No.”
Sarah decided to take another approach.
“Aishah, you are smart,” she said. “I really believe in you. You need to go to college. I know you think I’m just saying these things because I’m your school mom, but other people believe it, too.” Sarah handed Aishah the letters. “I hope you decide to come back. We miss you.”
Back at Loyola, Chad reads off the names of the Sullivan graduates. Students file across the stage to receive their diplomas. Alejandro is among the first. He walks with a noticeable boost in his step. His mother often told him that only 10 percent of teenagers in Guatemala graduate from high school. He takes his diploma, descends the steps, and walks back to his seat.
Standing on the lawn after the ceremony, Alejandro takes dozens of pictures. One with every teacher who helped him make it across that stage. In each of them, he stands, relaxed, his cheeks flushed from the heat, looking directly into the camera. He keeps his smile mild, never widening his lips more than a millimeter, but his eyes are alert, even delighted.
Chad Adams
For Chad, the school year never ends abruptly. Rather, the sounds of shoes and slamming locker doors seem to dim to silence. First the seniors leave, then the rest of the students. For a few days at the end of June, only teachers remain in the building. Then they leave, too. In the end, Chad shares the halls with only a few other staff.
As Chad takes a seat in his second-floor office, the summer sun lights up the room. Opening the window, he listens to the birdsong. He sees a sign posted in the yard of a handsome, single-family house across the street. It’s one in a multihued row of sin
gle-family homes painted in mint green, taupe, robin blue, and it’s for sale. He’s considering making an offer for it.
Lately, Chad has been upbeat and the idea of buying a new home grows from his optimism. He’s graduated his second senior class at Sullivan and the school is taking a turn for the better. In April, Chad received the school budget for next year. He told the district that Sullivan would likely house more than 700 students next fall, the largest number since Chad took over as principal. He pointed to the school’s growing attendance and rising ranks among public high schools. His efforts paid off: The new budget came in at a record $4 million. It covered 720 students, or nearly 60 more than the 2017–18 budget.
Turning Sullivan around from a school with a 44 percent graduation rate to one where 90 percent of freshmen remain on track to graduate in four years has been one of the hardest lifts of Chad’s career. But now, he can boast a jump in college-bound students and a drop in suspensions. He can celebrate the school’s better ranking, and the fact that, for the first time in over a decade, it’s no longer on probation within the district or under threat of possible closure. He can also now use some of the new budget to hire additional staff, bolster school programs, and update a few of the school’s tired facilities.
As a former English teacher and high school and college athlete, Chad has a coach’s chest of metaphors that describe his plans for Sullivan: Sullivan has made the playoffs, but to really make the school great, Chad must bring the place to the World Series. He wants Sullivan to be the best-performing neighborhood high school in Chicago. And he has a specific data set in mind: 90, 90, 90. A 90 percent graduation rate matched by a 90 percent college enrollment rate at a high school where 90 percent of students qualify for free or reduced lunch.