When Carlos was 14, he became a marked man. He’d witnessed a gang execution in his Latin American hometown, and suddenly, his life was precarious. He fled. Entering the United States, the teenager registered with authorities and asked for asylum.
That means Carlos is not a lawful permanent resident, and his ability to remain here depends on the outcome of his application. Despite limited English and without his parents to help, Carlos graduated from public high school in my western Colorado town, bolstered by caring teachers and friends who got to know him through their own children. Now 18, he wants to become an electrician, he says, to help the country he credits with saving his life.
That is why we are now crossing a concrete expanse leading to the Denver Immigration Court. It feels like the floor of a coliseum. With Odysseus on my mind from the Christopher Nolan movie, I think of W.H. Auden’s poem “The Shield of Achilles,” about another plain, outside Troy:
“No blade of grass
No sign of neighborhood,
Nothing to eat and nowhere to sit down.”
But this is not a place for poetry. Two security guards glare as we enter. We both feel intimidated, and Carlos hasn’t eaten at all.
The administrative meeting we’re going to is procedural: setting a date for a judge to hear Carlos’ asylum application. But like all actions from U.S. immigration these days, it can serve as a trap.
Miss this, and applicants get red-tagged for deportation “in absentia.” Carlos filed a motion to appear virtually, explaining that he works nights, has no functional car and the hearing is three hours away. But the judge never ruled on it.
Worried that he’d be grabbed by ICE and deported, he didn’t want to go today. It took a half-dozen teachers, friends and lawyers six weeks to convince him to make the trip. I volunteered to drive.
Twenty other asylum seekers fill the courtroom. The judge isn’t here in person. He’s virtual, on a small screen, though he criticizes others for attending remotely. All we can see is the top of his head as he reads out rights and processes as if he’s never seen the words before.
“You should have received a letter explaining why the U.S. believes you do not belong here, and the allegations against you.” He speaks in clipped tones, as if we’re wasting his time. Then he hits “a wrong button,” as he puts it, that closes all his files and we have to wait. The room is quiet, almost hushed.
I look around. This room is a simple thing: a place of human beings, making their way. Asking to live and work in a country without fear.
A young woman next to me wears a turquoise dress, her hair in a bun, stylish glasses, nails and makeup perfect. Nearby there’s a father with his arm around his preschool daughter who’s holding a stuffed bear, her hair in pink barrettes. Too young to understand, she laughs and pokes him. He kisses her head. When he is called to the stand, she sits alone, dwarfed by the pew-like benches. I fumble in my bag for a Hi-Chew to give her. But I have none.
The judge’s behavior seems so severe that I’m forced to wonder, is he angry, hostile, overworked? His decisions can mean life or death for the people before him. Carlos’ foot is bouncing frantically on the floor.
Shortly, everyone in attendance receives a letter with a date for their hearing six months out, a brief reprieve that’s more like borrowed time. Federal statistics reveal that more than 90% of applicants nationally are being denied asylum and deported — perhaps to a country they’ve never seen. In the elevator, nobody makes eye contact. I consider saying: “congratulations,” though for what? Surviving today?
As we exit, eyes scanning the plaza, Carlos and I hustle to my car. There’s no sign of ICE. We don’t talk or linger: our lawyer told us to get the hell out afterwards. In the garage, we high-five each other and embrace, then drive west, into a thunderstorm.
We pass the woman in the turquoise dress, head down, walking alone into the looming city. Heat rises off the concrete, wispy ghosts of the tired and poor, once welcome in a grateful country.
Auden Schendler is a contributor to Writers on the Range, an independent nonprofit that seeks to spur lively conversation about Western issues. He is a writer and climate strategist in Western Colorado. Details of this opinion have been modified to protect the individuals described.
