Brother, I'm Dying

by Edwidge Danticat

“Did you understand my questions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any questions or is there anything you’d like to add?”

  “No.”

  My uncle was then asked to sign the statement. He was supposed to have initialed each page of the translated transcript, but instead he signed his name on all five pages. A CBP log shows he was then returned to the waiting area, where at 7:40 p.m. he was given some soda and chips.

  At 10:03 p.m., my uncle Franck received a call at his home in Brooklyn. The male CBP officer who called him asked Uncle Franck whether Uncle Joseph had filed an application to become a U.S. resident in 1984. Uncle Franck said no.

  Later, Department of Homeland Security files would show that a September 22, 1983, request had been made by Kings County Hospital, where my uncle had had his surgery and subsequent follow-up visits, to the United States Department of Justice, about my uncle’s immigration status. As a result of this, on February 14, 1984, an immigration “alien” file, number 27041999, a file he was never aware of, was opened for my uncle. The file was subsequently closed.

  “He’s been coming to the United States for more than thirty years,” Uncle Franck remembers telling the CPB officer who called him. “If he wanted to stay, he would have stayed a long time ago.”

  Uncle Franck then asked if he could speak to Uncle Joseph.

  “They say they’re going to put me in prison,” Uncle Franck remembers Uncle Joseph saying. It was difficult to register emotion on the voice box, but Uncle Franck thought he sounded like he was caught up in something he had no way of understanding.

  “It’s not true. They can’t put you in prison,” Uncle Franck recalls telling him. “You have a visa. You have papers. Did you tell them how long you’ve been coming here?”

  Uncle Franck then asked Uncle Joseph to put the CBP officer on the phone again.

  “He’s going to Krome,” the officer said.

  “He can’t,” Uncle Franck said. “He’s eighty-one years old, an old man.”

  Uncle Franck then asked if he could speak to my uncle one more time.

  The CBP officer told him, “We already have a translator for him,” and hung up.

  At 11:00 p.m., my uncle was given some chips and soda again. At 11:45 p.m., he signed a form saying his personal property was returned to him. The form lists as personal property only his one thousand and nine dollars and a silver-colored wristwatch. At 1:30 a.m., I received my phone call. At 4:20 a.m., my uncle and Maxo were transported to the airport’s satellite detention area, which was in another concourse. By then my uncle was so cold that he wrapped the woolen airplane blanket he was given tightly around him as he curled up in a fetal position on a cement bed until 7:15 a.m. At around 7:30 a.m., they left the detention area to board a white van to Krome. Maxo was handcuffed, but asked if my uncle could not be handcuffed because of his age. The officer agreed not to handcuff my uncle, but told Maxo to tell my uncle that if he tried to escape he would be shot.

  There is a form called a Discretionary Authority Checklist for Alien Applicants, which is meant to assist examining Customs and Border Protection officers in deciding whether to detain or release a person like my uncle. On the checklist are questions such as: Does the alien pose a threat to the United States, have a criminal history or terrorist affiliations or ties? Is s/he likely to contribute to the illegal population or pose some other credible threat?

  Noting the “nature” of my uncle’s inadmissibility, Officer Reyes cited a positive Central Index System search involving the 1984 immigration file.

  In the remarks section beneath his check mark, he wrote, “Subject has an A#” or an alien registration number. In a more detailed memo, he would later write, “The Central Index System revealed that subject had an existing A (27041999) number which revealed negative results to him being a resident. The Central Index System did not contain any information on the subject except his name and date of birth and activity date of 02/14/1984.”

  Still, I suspect that my uncle was treated according to a biased immigration policy dating back from the early 1980s when Haitians began arriving in Florida in large numbers by boat. In Florida, where Cuban refugees are, as long as they’re able to step foot on dry land, immediately processed and released to their families, Haitian asylum seekers are disproportionately detained, then deported. While Hondurans and Nicaraguans have continued to receive protected status for nearly ten years since Hurricane Mitch struck their homelands, Haitians were deported to the flood zones weeks after Tropical Storm Jeanne blanketed an entire city in water the way Hurricane Katrina did parts of New Orleans. Was my uncle going to jail because he was Haitian? This is a question he probably asked himself. This is a question I still ask myself. Was he going to jail because he was black? If he were white, Cuban, anything other than Haitian, would he have been going to Krome?

  “Are age and health factors in this situation?” demands the Discretionary Authority Checklist for Alien Applicants.

  In spite of my uncle’s eighty-one years and his being a survivor of throat cancer, which was obvious from his voice box and tracheotomy, when answering whether there were age and health factors to be taken into consideration, Officer Reyes checked No.

  Is the applicant a well-known public figure?

  No.

  Congressional or media interest?

  No.

  Does the applicant have a legitimate reason for entering the U.S.?

  No.

  Is the applicant’s reason for entry based on an emergency? No.

  Credible claim of official misinformation?

  No.

  Is there a relationship to a U.S. employer or resident?

  Yes.

  Intent to circumvent admissibility requirements?

  No.

  Misrepresentations made by applicant during inspection process?

  No.

  Would the applicant be admissible if s/he had a valid passport and/or visa? (My uncle had both.)

  Yes.

  Is there relief for the applicant through the parole or visa waiver process?

  No.

  Tomorrow

  My father’s rough patch had continued. He was becoming agitated, panicked at times over his decreasing ability to speak for extended periods. His anxiety sent us on a renewed search. During his monthly visit with Dr. Padman, Bob asked if he could be considered for any experimental treatment programs and procured a referral to a pulmonologist at Columbia Presbyterian in upper Manhattan.

  Suddenly my father had a place and time on which to pin his hopes. He was so looking forward to his appointment that he would end each of our brief conversations by saying, “We’ll see what they tell me at Columbia.”

  On Saturday morning, as my father struggled for breath and dreamed of Columbia, I had to tell him that his brother was at Krome, a place that he, like all Haitians, knew meant nothing less than humiliation and suffering and more often than not a long period of detention before deportation.

  “So it’s true,” he said. Uncle Franck had called the night before to tell him that Uncle Joseph might be going there.

  “I hate to put this on you,” my father said. “You’re pregnant, but you’re the only family he has down there. It’s in your hands.”

  I told him that Fedo and I had already called a few immigration lawyers and they’d all advised us that there was nothing we could do before Monday morning.

  “You mean,” my father said, “Uncle has to spend the whole weekend in jail?”

  When he arrived at Krome, my uncle was lined up with a dozen or so other detainees and his briefcase inventoried and taken away from him. A Krome property inventory form lists one softcover religious book, his Bible, one thousand U.S. dollars—he was allowed to keep the nine dollars to buy phone cards—one airline ticket, one tube of Fixodent for his dentures, and two nine-volt batteries for his two voice boxes. Again there’s no mention of the herbal medicine or the pills he was taking for his blood pressure and inflamed prostat
e.

  My uncle’s initial medical screening involved a daylong examination of his vital signs, chest X-rays, and a physical and mental history interview. In the notes jotted down by the examining nurse, he is described as composed, friendly and “purposeful.” To the question “Does the detainee understand and recognize the significance and symptoms of the situation in which he finds himself?” the nurse answers, “Yes,” adding elsewhere, “Patient uses a traditional Haitian medicine for prostate & says if he doesn’t take it he pees blood & has pain.” Russ Knocke, a spokesman for U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, would later derogatorily refer to my uncle’s traditional medicine as “a voodoolike potion.”

  At the end of his first day at Krome, my uncle’s blood pressure was so high that he was assigned to the Short Stay Unit, a medical facility inside the prison. He and Maxo were separated.

  I am acquainted with Ira Kurzban, author of Kurzban’s Immigration Law Sourcebook, one of the most widely used immigration manuals in the United States. Ira had represented Haitian immigrant clients for more than thirty years and had worked as general counsel to the governments of Panama, Nicaragua, Cuba and Haiti and as former president Aristide’s attorney. On the recommendation of a mutual friend, I called his office early Monday morning and asked for his help.

  “I’m sending one of my best guys on this,” he said, after I explained the entire situation to him. “Because of his age and health condition, we’ll first try to get your uncle out as soon as possible.”

  Soon after Ira hung up, John Pratt, a stern-sounding man with a slight southern drawl, called.

  “I’m heading to Krome now,” he said. “I’ll need as much information as you have about the situation.”

  I told him all I knew. I hadn’t been able to speak to my uncle since his arrival, so I couldn’t offer much insight into his state of mind or how he might come across at a credible fear hearing, an inquiry into his claims of persecution that would be held before an asylum officer at Krome.

  “Are you willing to take him in if they release him?” Pratt asked.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Hang on tight then and stay by the phone,” he said.

  Once there was only waiting to do, my husband left for work. I called some Brooklyn ambulette companies about transporting my father to Columbia Presbyterian the next day. My father had so little fat and muscle left on his body that it was agonizing for him to sit for any stretch of time, so I basically wanted to rent him a bed on wheels.

  “The only way you get a bed is if you call 911,” a Russian dispatcher told me, so I booked a van with a recliner.

  All morning, I hoped that John Pratt would call and tell me he was going to walk out of Krome with my uncle, news I would have loved to share with my father. However, when Pratt did call that afternoon the only good news was that my uncle’s credible fear hearing had been scheduled for nine o’clock the next morning.

  “So he’s not coming home?” I said. Even as I said it, the word “home” felt inappropriate, unsuitable. My uncle no longer had a home.

  “Can I visit him?” I asked.

  “Only weekend visits are allowed at Krome,” he said, “and he’d have to put you on a list a couple of days before the fact, but there’s a good chance they’ll release him tomorrow.”

  That night at around six o’clock, my uncle called me from Krome.

  “Bon dye,” I shouted, so overjoyed to hear that motorized voice. “My God. It’s so good to hear you.”

  “Oh, I can’t tell you how good it is to hear you,” he said.

  Then I slipped into a repartee I had fallen into with my father in the last weeks or so as he’d grown sicker. I called him cher, amour, mon coeur, darling, my love, my heart.

  “How are you, my heart?”

  “M nan prizon,” he said. I’m in jail.

  “Oh I know,” I said, now missing his real voice, the one that didn’t always sound the same, the one I could no longer fully remember. “I know and I am so sad. I’m so sad and sorry for everything that’s happened both in Haiti and here. But you met with the lawyer?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Maxo and I both did.”

  “He’s going to get you out,” I said. “He’s a very good lawyer. He’s going to get you out.”

  “Okay,” he said. He’d had so many horrible surprises in the last few days, why should he believe that things would start going well now?

  “Nèg nan prizon,” he said. “Fò w mache pou wè.” If you live long enough you’ll see everything.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll get you out.”

  “They took my medicine.” The machine produced some static as if his finger had slipped off the button that he pressed to keep the voice going. “I also had something for your father, some liquid vitamins. They took that too. And my papers, my notepads, they’re gone. Burned.”

  “Don’t worry about all that,” I said. “Just concentrate on getting out tomorrow.”

  “Does he know?” he asked. “Does Mira know I’m in here? I didn’t want him to know. He’s so sick. I don’t want him to have this on his mind.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “He knows you’re getting out tomorrow.”

  “Do people in Haiti know?” he asked. He was most concerned about his sisters, Tante Zi and Tante Tina.

  “I think they know,” I said.

  Now even the motorized voice betrayed a hint of shame, the kind of shame whose only reprieve is silence.

  “I have to go,” he said. “Others are waiting.”

  “How do you feel?” I asked. “If you don’t feel well, tell them.”

  “I will,” he said. “I have to go.”

  I heard a muffled voice in the background, someone demanding a turn at the pay phone.

  “You’re strong,” I said. “Very strong. You have so much more strength than even you know.”

  And reluctantly he agreed and said, “Oh yes. It’s true.”

  “Just get through tonight,” I said. “Tomorrow, God willing, you’ll be free.”

  Afflictions

  My father every now and then would quote from the book of Genesis, paraphrasing his favorite lines from the story of Joseph, the youth who was ousted and sold into unfriendly territory by his brothers. My uncle Joseph was named after the rainbow-coated man, but I’d never heard Papa look for parallels between my uncle’s life and the biblical story before.

  “Uncle is in his own Egypt this morning, in his land of afflictions,” my father said, when we talked just before nine a.m. the next day.

  “He’s going to be all right,” I said. “You just concentrate on Columbia Presbyterian.”

  As I was talking to my father, my uncle was waiting with John Pratt outside an asylum unit trailer office at Krome. Leaning over to one of three other detainees also waiting for hearings, my uncle asked the English-speaking Haitian man to tell Pratt that his medication had been taken away. Before Pratt could respond, he and my uncle were called in by asylum officer Castro, a woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties. The asylum interview was about to begin.

  My uncle and Pratt were seated at a desk close to the back wall, facing Officer Castro. A certified translator was needed for the proceedings, and since there wasn’t one on the premises, a telephone translation service was called and the interpreter put on speakerphone. The phone was on the desk in front of my uncle, next to Pratt’s lawbooks, notepads and other materials.

  The interpreter had trouble understanding my uncle’s voice box, so Officer Castro asked my uncle to move his mouth closer to the phone. As my uncle leaned forward, his hand slipped away from his neck and he dropped his voice box.

  The records indicate that my uncle appeared to be having a seizure. His body stiffened. His legs jerked forward. His chair slipped back, pounding the back of his head into the wall. He began to vomit.

  Vomit shot out of his mouth, his nose, as well as the tracheotomy hole in his neck. The vomit was spread all over his face, from his f
orehead to his chin, down the front of his dark blue Krome-issued overalls. There was also vomit on his thighs, where a large wet stain showed he had also urinated on himself.

  “Somebody call for help!” Pratt jumped from his chair and pulled his papers away from the spreading vomit.

  Officer Castro rushed over to the desk and grabbed the sleeves of my uncle’s uniform. She pulled his body forward, straightening his head. Grabbing a nearby wastebasket, she placed it in front of my uncle. My uncle continued to vomit into the wastebasket as he opened and closed his eyes, which wandered aimlessly in their sockets.

  When he stopped vomiting, my uncle’s body grew rigid and cold, his arms falling limply at his side. Officer Castro called out to the guards keeping watch over the other detainees outside her office and asked them to call the medical unit. A guard radioed for help but said that Krome was in lockdown and that it might take some time for help to arrive.

  Officer Castro grabbed the phone in front of my uncle to see if the interpreter was still there. The phone was dead. She asked if there was anyone around who could speak to my uncle in Creole. The guard brought the English-speaking Haitian detainee to whom my uncle had spoken about his medication into the asylum office. The man said a few words to my uncle, but there was no reaction. Pratt asked Officer Castro to send for Maxo. The guard said he needed special permission from his supervisor to have Maxo come. The guard radioed for special permission.

  Fifteen minutes had passed since my uncle first started vomiting. A registered nurse and medic finally arrived. By then my uncle looked “almost comatose,” Pratt recalled. “He seemed somewhat unconscious and couldn’t move.”

  Pratt told the medic and nurse that right before he became sick, my uncle had told him his medication had been taken away. Pratt then turned to Officer Castro and asked if my uncle could be granted humanitarian parole given his age and condition.

  “I think he’s faking,” the medic said, cutting Pratt off.

  To prove his point, the medic grabbed my uncle’s head and moved it up and down. It was rigid rather than limp, he said. Besides, my uncle would open his eyes now and then and seemed to be looking at him.