Land of the Cranes

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Land of the Cranes Page 9

by Aida Salazar


  Betita-March 9

  I drew a picture of pregnant Mami lying on the floor near the fence.

  Mami and the egg curl into an O

  when she is sick.

  Sometimes the egg’s kick

  doesn’t make her a Q.

  Betita-March 10

  I drew the food they expect us to eat.

  They give us black moldy burritos for breakfast

  sometimes nothing for lunch

  and frozen black moldy bread for dinner.

  Betita-March 11

  I drew Yanela, Carlos, Jakie, and me, jagged like we are vibrating.

  Piojos bounce off our heads.

  The itch drives us CRAZY!

  Betita-March 12

  I drew a girl trapped in a closet, crying.

  Sometimes big people hurt us

  and we can only cry, tell other kids,

  or throw up.

  Betita-March 13

  I drew a boy holding his mouth and a shoe.

  A root canal

  makes you

  throw a shoe.

  The dentist is too far away.

  Betita-March 14

  I drew Marisel after she got beaten.

  When you sing

  the truth

  not even a beating

  will quiet it.

  Betita-March 15

  I drew a new family.

  We met a girl today who is scared like her mother.

  She is from an island

  where they speak Creole and a little Spanish.

  Her name is Ellie, nine like me.

  Betita-March 16

  When Papi gets these

  I imagine he will hang them

  on a clothesline in a field

  of agaves where he works.

  “Despair” is a word I learned from Marisel today.

  We can’t despair, she says, after Fernanda tells us

  our court date has been pushed back

  because there aren’t enough judges

  for all of the immigration cases.

  Plus, their hashtag campaign

  hasn’t made an impact at all.

  Despair is to be without hope, lost.

  I feel despair drip into my veins

  like a poison starting to take over.

  I wonder if

  we are cranes at all.

  We have to strike! These conditions

  and the waiting are criminal,

  Marisel says as she walks back and forth

  a few steps at a time.

  If we can’t have a movement on the outside

  we can create it from the inside.

  Mami asks, What kind of strike?

  Marisel stops her pacing to look

  seriously at Mami.

  A hunger strike.

  Some of the mothers in our cell

  gasp a little, some shake their heads,

  but almost all of them begin to nod

  in agreement. So do all of the solitas.

  Those who want to and can, should.

  We can do a relay strike, one group

  per week so not everyone has to suffer long.

  Mami raises her hand.

  I will start it off.

  No, Gabriela, not you. You’ve got a baby.

  I hardly eat anyway.

  No way. Who else would like to?

  Listen, it will mean more because of the baby.

  Marisel bites down on her lip. But then she agrees.

  A pregnant woman

  on a hunger strike might be

  the most powerful thing.

  Mami! Not you. What if it isn’t safe?

  Amorcito, I will only do it a few days

  to start it off, and then the others will help us.

  Already, my heart wants

  to push past my chest.

  I am so scared

  of what a strike

  will do.

  Marisel turns to me.

  We need a list of demands.

  Betita, please give us a couple of pages

  from your notebook

  so we can write them out.

  I clutch my notebook to my chest

  when I see she’s coming over

  but Mami gently pulls

  my hands away from it

  and rips out a few pages

  herself and gives Marisel

  my black crayon.

  They write:

  We are thirty-five mothers, caretakers, and children who have chosen to stop eating in protest of the current inhumane conditions for all detainees. We demand that our human rights, as defined by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, be respected. As such, we demand conditions for all detainees be improved to reflect this. We demand the following:

  • Access to legal representation

  • No separation from our children under any circumstances

  • Already-separated children be returned to parents

  • Moderate temperature inside the facility

  • Cots or mats and real blankets

  • Warm, well-cooked meals

  • Access to clean water

  • On-site medical care and medicine

  • School supplies and instruction for our children

  • More playtime or access to the outdoors

  • Respectful treatment from all staff

  We will continue our hunger strike until our demands are met.

  Mami weaves the ends

  of the notebook papers

  holding our list of demands

  into the fence by

  tearing them a little.

  She gives me an idea:

  to weave toilet paper

  into the links in the fence

  like the ribbons in Tina’s

  backyard quince.

  I spell:

  STRIKE

  in square letters

  as tall as me.

  It is the strongest word

  I’ve ever spelled.

  When the day guards

  first notice the demands

  they laugh like hyenas.

  By the end of breakfast

  the trash can is filled with

  untouched terrible rotten food

  and the guards laugh some more.

  Then the night guards

  notice, and they also hyena howl

  to see the trash can fill with

  more untouched terrible rotten food.

  They bang on our cage

  and say we are stupid

  to be hurting ourselves.

  Don’t listen to them, gente

  we cannot be deterred,

  Marisel says, and waves them away

  with a quick swipe

  of her hand.

  At the end of the first night

  I can hear Mami’s belly

  grumble, but she looks patient

  and proud.

  How long will you not eat, Mami?

  Only a few days, until they notice.

  They are hurting us more than

  we can ever hurt ourselves.

  I poke at her belly just to see

  if the egg will respond

  and it does right on cue

  and I worry a little less.

  I draw a picture of a line of cranes with wide-open mouths.

  Cranes are hungry

  to be treated

  with kindness.

  Betita-March 19

  without eating Mami moves her

  hands slowly while she tries

  to catch piojos in my hair.

  She lies down.

  Looks weak.

  Doesn’t teach.

  Are you feeling okay, Mami?

  I ask for the hundredth time.

  I’m a little tired today, mi’ja.

  She pets my head and rubs

  the egg at the same time

  and she lets out a little ay.

  Yellow Hair comes over

  when she hears us


  and taunts,

  Getting tired, stupid? Well, if

  you keep it up, we will throw

  you in the hole for child endangerment.

  What kind of mother goes on a

  hunger strike while pregnant?

  Before Mami can respond

  Marisel comes straight for Yellow Hair

  wraps her fingers into the fence

  and spits,

  What kind of treatment

  is the one you are giving all of us?

  Look around. You think this is justice?

  You think this is humane?

  You are getting what you deserve!

  You ignorant people put yourselves

  here by breaking the laws of my country.

  You think we deserve to be in a concentration camp for

  seeking asylum? You have NO idea what

  most of us are running from. Most of us

  had no choice but to try to find a better life.

  It is simple, you break the law

  you have to pay the consequences.

  What kind of demon are you? YOU

  are the one who is breaking the law!

  This is cruel and unusual punishment!

  Marisel roars at Yellow Hair and bangs

  and bangs on the fence!

  YOU are breaking the law!

  YOU are breaking the law!

  She screams over and over again

  while she rattles and rattles the cage.

  Suddenly, Mami shoots up to her

  feet and begins to hurry across

  the floor toward the toilet

  but when she is halfway there

  she stops.

  A stream

  of blood comes

  flooding out

  from between her legs.

  ¡No puede ser!

  Mami’s face is sunken in shock.

  Mami!! I run to her.

  She trembles as she

  holds the lower part of

  her nest. She doesn’t touch me.

  Help, please! I scream. Please!

  Mami turns to Yellow Hair

  and pleads with a look

  so hurt it needs

  no words.

  Yellow Hair yells,

  Code Red! Code Red!

  to the other guards on duty.

  Marisel and Josefina rush

  to Mami’s side to lay her down.

  They open the gate

  and two mean-looking guards come in

  slapping on gloves. They

  place a cloth between her legs.

  Hold it there, they tell her.

  I am so scared I can’t swallow.

  ¡Mamita, mamita!

  Shards of fear seize me.

  Betita, it’s okay, chiquita, it’s okay, her voice shakes.

  But it is not.

  There is so much blood.

  Mami, our egg. Mami, our baby!

  Then each guard grabs ahold

  of Mami’s arms

  to try to make her walk.

  But she can’t.

  They grunt

  as they lift her

  and drag

  my bleeding

  mami away

  from

  me.

  rips

  through

  my

  veins

  and

  tears

  my

  heart

  to

  shreds.

  I don’t know how

  to count how much I cry.

  Is it in time?

  Is it counted in miles?

  In times tables?

  It stutters

  stops

  goes forward

  then backward.

  I don’t know if I’m

  speaking a language

  other than tears.

  I only know the words

  Mami, Mami, Mami.

  I only understand

  she has been taken to a prison hospital

  one hundred miles away.

  Our cell is given

  bleach and water

  to clean Mami’s blood

  from the floor.

  They work in silence

  except for my crying

  and our coughing

  louder and raspier

  because of the bleach.

  The other mothers huddle

  around me like I’m

  an orphan crane

  in the flock.

  But we are not a flock

  and we are not cranes.

  We are the same.

  Unwanted.

  Unwelcomed.

  Human.

  Caged.

  Though they

  are with me

  I am

  without

  my mami

  I am

  without

  my papi.

  I am

  solita

  now.

  Marisel comes to sit with me

  and asks Yanela, who just sits quietly

  next to me, to give us a minute.

  I pull my knees to my chest

  and bury my head into my arms.

  She begins a sentence

  but then stops

  and goes quiet again.

  I’m sorry, kid, she finally says.

  You probably blame me for

  what happened to your mom, yeah?

  But we both know she hasn’t

  been feeling well for a while.

  I mean, three days of not eating

  wouldn’t have caused her to

  bleed like that. You got to know.

  Words drain from me.

  Looks like Yellow Hair

  grew some sympathy finally.

  She told me she found out

  that your mother was saved

  and that the baby was delivered.

  You’ve got a baby sister!

  I pull up my head trying to grasp the dulzura

  wrapped inside what she is saying.

  Alive? A sister?

  Her words slow down.

  But they are both very sick, kid.

  We don’t know if they will

  pull through, especially the baby.

  Why?    Why?    WHY?

  I drop my head

  and hug

  my knees again.

  I rock myself

  unable to find

  the strength

  to stop

  the endless

  falling

  of my cries.

  I draw a pool of blood.

  I spell:

  Mami.

  Betita-March 20

  I draw Mami handcuffed to a prison hospital bed

  I spell:

  Wake up, Mami. Come back to me!

  Betita-March 21

  I draw a baby in a box attached to tubes.

  I spell:

  You don’t have a name.

  Please let me know your face.

  Betita-March 22

  I draw myself alone in a desert at night with a moon.

  I spell:

  I walk in a sandstorm of moonlight and tears.

  Betita-March 23

  I draw myself with a big hole in my panza.

  I spell:

  What is food for

  when I am only

  hungry for Mami.

  Betita-March 24

  I no longer draw cranes or wings, only a bunch of cages.

  I spell:

  I don’t believe in flying.

  Betita-March 25

  Josefina tries to make me eat

  but I can’t.

  She tries to make me sleep

  in my same spot near Yanela

  who is more faraway lost than ever,

  but I don’t sleep.

  I wonder if Tía Raquel knows

  what happened to Mami

  all the way from the other side

  of this maze of cages.
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  I stay awake to find the outline

  of Mami’s space on the concrete next to me.

  I count the times the guards

  light up our faces with a flashlight.

  When they get near, I close my eyes

  pretend to be asleep.

  I count ten flashing lights to the face

  in one night.

  I wonder how it is I slept

  through that before.

  I wonder how long

  they’ll continue the hunger strike.

  I wonder if Fernanda

  will ever come back.

  I wonder if Papi knows

  he has another daughter now.

  I wonder about Mami and the baby

  fighting to live.

  I don’t know how to look

  into anyone’s eyes

  but the blank pages

  of Alas.

  Marisel comes over

  to see, but I hover

  over what I draw.

  Hey, kid, can I see

  what you’re working on?

  No.

  Come on, I won’t judge.

  I just want to see.

  She tugs my sleeve.

  I finally look up

  at the warm breeze

  of her smile and

  the I’m sorry in her eyes

  and how mad I am

  at her begins to skirt away.

  I plop down Alas

  and open her up.

  Your pieces are beautiful,

  she says as she flips through the pages.

  What are they called?

  Crane, I mean, picture poems.

  Ms. Martinez taught me.

  They show your feelings.

  Who are they for?

  They are for Papi.

  Fernanda is supposed

  to get them to him.

  That’s really awesome of her.

  Well, they’re also

  for the judge.

  They’re testimonies

  for our case.

  Interesting. I’m sure

  they’re going to be real useful.

  That’s if she ever

  comes back for them.

  She’s supposed to come

  soon, Betita. When she does

  you’ll be ready. I wish

  we all had testimonies like these.

  They could really help us.

  Then, a spark snaps

  into my

  mind

  and before I know it

  I’m saying,

  We could all do them.

  I have plenty of paper.

  Really? But, you’d have to teach us how it’s done.

  That’d be the easiest.

  I feel a light and airy feeling

  inside to think I can

  be a teacher like Mami.

  It isn’t hard

  to remember

  how Ms. Martinez

  taught me.

  I tear thirty-five sheets

  from Alas

  set them out

 

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