Go With God, Immigrant

I first met her through a note on the church refrigerator: “Ana Guadeloupe. Brought to the shelter by police. She doesn’t speak English and only has an El Salvador ID. Call Chicago Immigration in the morning.”

Our three a.m. shift discussed this while we made breakfast for the 94 hungry homeless people sleeping in our sanctuary. As the shift leader, I had to make the call. We didn’t actually know if she was an illegal immigrant or whether we were required to turn her over to some authority. If we called immigration, we assume she’d be flown home. We didn’t know why the police picked her up. ”Let’s talk to her and find out what’s best for her,” I said.  ”We don’t have enough information to make a decision.”

A shivering, weepy young woman came up with an elderly Puerto Rican woman who translated for her. I was grateful because my small store of Spanish did not cover a lengthy conversation about her situation. And the situation was this: she was twenty-five years old, she had no family in El Salvador, and had moved to the US just a few weeks ago to live with a guy friend. She went for a walk that night and got lost, and the police picked her up on the street. I asked her if she would like to go back to her friend. The way she shook her head and looked away made me think that something happened that made the guy not a friend to her anymore. I couldn’t imagine the terrifying situation she was in now – speaking no English, carted off by police who probably didn’t know much Spanish, and left at a shelter in the middle of the night to sleep on a pallet on the floor. I’m sure she wondered what the authorities would do with her.

This girl was only a few years older than my own daughter, and seemed frozen with fear. She answered our questions in a whisper while tears slipped down her face. And I wanted to wrap her up in my arms and tell her everything was going to be all right. But how could I know that?

The problem was, the winter shelter program was ending. From now until October, the homeless could stay at a group shelter from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., but the ones who could not find a place to sleep at night will be sleeping in tents and makeshift shelters under bridges and in parks and forests.

My husband took out his list of ministries and looked for any kind of charity or agency that would help. She kept saying she wanted to go home. Did she really? Or was she thinking that was her only option – or the least scary option? I don’t know what the poverty level is like where she lived, but I knew what waited for her here – a lifetime of factory or maid work breaking down her body, a run-down apartment to call home, a bunch of kids to care for and feed and keep out of gangs.

But she wanted to go home, so we filled out a report form and contacted the shelter’s central office. These people spoke fluent Spanish and would be able to help her with the Chicago immigration. She took one last look at me and said, “Adios” and I wanted to take her home with me. We could care for her. My daughters could talk to her; they are fluent in Spanish. I could learn more Spanish and she could learn English. I remembered how to say “Go with God”, but I didn’t say it because my pronunciation would probably be wrong and she would be saying, “Que? Que?” and the beautiful compassionate moment would be ruined.

My thoughts about illegal immigrants has been formed by the illegal immigrants I have known – mostly my ex-husband’s Mexican family who were almost entirely illegal. When an amnesty program was introduced in the late 80s, I helped a couple of ex-sister-in-laws work towards citizenship, but the rest didn’t make the effort. Yet all the family members drove, bought houses, put their kids in public schools, got food stamps and welfare, and received free medical care through the health department. I don’t know if they paid taxes or not. But I’ve always objected to the illegal immigrants that receive the benefits of the system without contributing to the system.

This girl put another face on illegal immigration. I knew just a tiny bit about her story. I don’t know what drove a young lady to move to another country where she couldn’t speak the language, but I assume she was hoping for a better life. I don’t know if she would become a parasite on our system or contributing member of our society. I don’t know how to classify her within my current view.

I have no answers to the problem – if you were hoping I’d come up with something wise at the end of this post, I’m sorry to disappoint you. All I can say is my encounter with Ana won’t leave my mind. I live in a nice place, with plenty of food and so much room that I can use the extra bedroom as an office. We even have a pull-out couch. I have tons of family and friends and many contacts. I could help someone like Ana. I can’t fix the problems with immigration, and I do have trouble with people who come here illegally. But this girl had no family or friends. She had nothing but the clothes on her back and an ID card.

After she left, I sat at the table, crying. An elderly black man in shabby clothes came up to me. “Are you ok?” he said.

I wiped my eyes and said I was sad. I told him about Ana. He nodded and quietly said, “That’s the way it be sometimes.”

“It’s not supposed to be like that!” I said. “We’re not meant to live without anyone to depend on.”

He nodded again, and I saw his twisted glasses were missing one lens. “Maybe that’s why people like you and me are here.”