This House is made of fear

This house is made of fear. I’ve lived in it my entire life.  

I can’t remember how old I was when I learned that my parents were undocumented and what that meant. But I do remember always keeping that secret extremely close to my chest. “Not a word to anyone,” my mom instructed me before I started kindergarten. “Even people you think are your friends can betray you.”

I felt the walls close in when my sibling turned sixteen and realized they couldn’t get a driver's license or a summer job like all their friends; again when our branch president and his family were deported; again when I visited our home country for the first time and realized just how dangerous it still was. Again and again and again. Every day our house felt smaller. 

Then we started to feel at home. DACA allowed my sibling to work and attend college. I turned twenty-one and filed for an adjustment of status for my parent so they could become a citizen and finally live freely. I met and married my partner and started the process of adjusting their status as well. It felt like taking a deep breath for the first time in my life. 

But our house is shrinking again. It doesn’t feel like a house anymore—it feels like a coffin. I feel so suffocated by the news of ICE raids every day that I can hardly breathe. There are no more corners left to hide in. 

We do not leave home anymore. We sit inside, perfectly still, hoping they won’t see us if we don’t move. I can’t move, even if I try. My fear is paralyzing. Fear of losing my partner, my family. Fear of being detained by ICE because of how I look. Fear of writing this. I feel my fear like a hard shell covering my body, keeping my heart from beating and my lungs from breathing. 

I see many protests on social media being planned on our behalf and I feel so grateful. Unfortunately, we simply cannot afford to be there. 

It’s not just my house anymore. My bones, my blood, are all made of fear.