A Dream Uncaged:
Part Two
This story is part two of Jessica's journey. Please click here to read part one.
Life in the Shelter: Ciudad Juárez, Mexico.
Five months later.
Jessica was standing in line for dinner at the shelter in Ciudad Juárez. She felt as though her entire life was waiting in line: for meals, for the bathroom, for extra soap, for any medical needs.
Waiting was the state of her existence; she was so tired of it she could scream.
The Molina family had been returned to Mexico under the Migrant Protection Protocols policy, known as MPP, or “Remain in Mexico,” and were awaiting their U.S. immigration hearing while living in this shelter in Ciudad Juárez with hundreds of other migrants.
They had been there five months, though it felt like five years and five minutes at the same time. Time was suspended; she passed a birthday and hardly noticed. Life in the shelter was a hazy existence, every day playing out almost exactly the same.
Jessica and her family slept on mats on the floor near one another in an open, concrete room that was previously a warehouse. There was constant noise at night: a baby crying, someone coughing or talking, a dog barking. Jessica got up each day after little sleep, waited in line for breakfast for the same tasteless food, and helped her mother feed and play with the children.
Her father went off to find work most mornings. She occasionally attended “class” for school-aged residents, put on by an international nonprofit, which consisted of vague lessons and a lot of chatting with other kids her age. She hung around the shelter, took naps when she could, and helped her mother. The day concluded with choking down another bland dinner and laying listlessly on her mat.
On the best of days, she would sneak out of the shelter with a group of teenagers. They’d find the closest corner store and buy these ramen noodles in a Styrofoam cup. They’d sit on street curbs and would talk and laugh. Jessica treasured these moments of freedom, brief respites from the monotony.
That night, after Jessica ate dinner with her family, there was a Know Your Rights presentation with a lawyer, which occurred in the shelter every few weeks. The lawyer would explain the rights of asylum seekers in the United States, the process ahead of them, and what to expect in the hearing. Her parents attended, and Jessica looked after the children in the back of the room.
After the presentation, she watched her parents conversing from afar. Her mother’s brow was furrowed, and she was gesticulating toward the attorney, Tania, from an organization called CLINIC, clearly wanting to go speak with her about their upcoming hearing.
Jessica watched her mother approach Tania and begin to speak.
COVID Imprisonment: Ciudad Juárez, Mexico.
Six months later.
Jessica sat on the floor of the hotel room, her back against one of the beds. She faced the only window, through which morning light poured in. Julio and Ruth, both toddlers now, were playing with Luis a few feet away. Her mother lay on the bed; her father sat in a chair by the door, staring at the wall with a blank gaze.
What time was it? What day of the week was it? She couldn’t have said. She knew they’d been in this dingy hotel room for about three weeks.
“Hotel Filtro,” or Filter Hotel, as it was nicknamed, was the place where migrants staying in the shelter were sent when one family member tested positive for COVID. You had to stay in the hotel until all the family members tested negative. But the six Molinas had tested positive one by one, and their stay had gradually been prolonged.
Sometime during the first week, the family had gotten news that Angelica’s mother, Jessica’s beloved abuela, had died of COVID-19.
Angelica, already anxious and depressed with their situation, had become nearly despondent.
Motivated by the needs of the little children, Jessica moved through the days mechanically. Inside she was often numb from the monotony and bleakness of their situation, but occasionally, particularly at night, bouts of grief and frustration seized her. She’d wake up and find her pillow wet with tears after drifting in and out of dreams about her friends, her bedroom at home, her abuela’s smile.
Life since the COVID-19 lockdown in April had been nearly unbearable. They had been locked in the shelter with the other migrants for months on end. The walls of the giant concrete building felt like they were closing in on them, the space getting smaller with time. The noises becoming more obtrusive; the other migrants more obnoxious.
At first Hotel Filtro had been a little respite, a place to themselves. But quickly these walls became a prison too.
The highlight of their days was when the social worker, Amanda, would come and check on them. She would knock on the hotel room door, her cheerful voice ringing through the door, her smile communicated through her eyes over her mask.
“Buenos diaaaas, familia Molina!”
She would give them updates on life outside the hotel and tell them that soon it would be over. Whether or not she could actually promise it, she would paint pictures of better days ahead. MPP would be ended, COVID would go away, and they would start life in the United States. Forgotten as they felt in that hotel room, Amanda at least made them feel cared for — and she kept a tiny flame of hope alive.
Freedom at Last: Ciudad Juárez, Mexico/El Paso, Texas, United States.
Six months later.
It was happening at last: they were entering the United States, and today was the long-awaited day.
MPP was ending, truly. It was not merely a rumor this time. Tania, the attorney they had met long ago at the shelter who had been accompanying them, told them for certain. Tania had told them that in ten days it would be their turn to cross the border with a group of other migrants.
Jessica could hardly contain her excitement. Finally, it would be over: the shelter life, the constant waiting, the backaches from sleeping on the floor, the terrible food. She could go to school again. Buy new clothes. Perhaps she would have her own room, with a bed.
They went through some initial processing at the shelter. They were lined up outside the shelter with other migrants, grouped by family; there was a crowd of people watching them leave, from staff members to other migrants whose turn had not yet come. In the crowd they saw their caseworker, Victor, Tania’s colleague from CLINIC. He could not reach them, but he waved enthusiastically from afar.
“Adios, Molinas! Que le vaya bien! Mucha suerte!”
Hours later the family was walking with a large group of people across the bridge connecting Mexico to the United States.
Jessica’s smile was wide; she breathed deeply and took in the scene.
The buildings across the river on the U.S. side seemed to glow in the sun. Everything looked wonderful, beautiful and clean. Birds flitted across the bridge, diving up, around, and above the covered portions of the bridge, over and across the Rio Grande River which separated the two countries.
A sense of freedom expanded in her chest. She felt like crying.
They were fingerprinted and processed; it was a blur. They spent the night in a shelter on the U.S. side, and then took a plane ride, the first in Jessica’s life, to Atlanta.
The Scholarship: Indiana, United States.
8 months later.
Jessica was scrolling through homework assignments on her computer when her phone buzzed. It was Jimena, the school social worker, calling.
“Hola?”
“Jessica, did you hear?! You got the scholarship!”
Jessica grinned at the joy in Jimena’s voice. She did already knew about the scholarship, as she’d gotten an email notification earlier that day. But she excitedly talked over the details with Jimena, who walked her through the next steps of filling out paperwork and enrolling in the college program.
Jessica had met Jimena on her first day of high school in the United States. She was immediately drawn to her — Jimena was young, of Mexican heritage, a Spanish-speaker, and had a warm personality. Her job was to help new Latino students integrate into the school.
Jessica had started school several months after they’d arrived in the United States and moved from Atlanta to Indiana to live with friends of Jessica’s mother. She had been excited for school after having been out of the classroom for several years. She’d been a good student back in Nicaragua.
However, the first few weeks at this large public high school had been very difficult. Jessica couldn’t understand anything her teachers were saying. She knew no one.
Jessica was overall overwhelmed by the pace and rhythm of their life in the United States: the loud ringing of the bells in the hallway at school; the piles of homework handed out to her; her parents’ constant work schedules and absence at home; the continued demands of responsibilities at home; the complexity of getting around this enormous, spread-out city that they’d moved to. Although relieved to be out of the shelter in Mexico, she was lonely and homesick. This wasn’t what she’d pictured life in the United States would be like.
The bright spot in all of this newness had been Jimena. Jimena was remarkably sympathetic to what Jessica was experiencing. She became Jessica’s cheerleader and confidant. She texted Jessica to check how she was doing at home and in her classes and to remind her to do her homework. She listened when Jessica shared about her past and present challenges.
Seeing Jessica’s progress in learning English and catching up in her classes, Jimena realized that Jessica, who was now 18 years old, had a shot at graduating in the spring and maybe even at going to college. She helped Jessica apply for special college scholarships, some specifically for Latino students. When Jessica got an interview for one of the scholarships, they were both elated.
Getting Jessica to college had become both of their dream. Now, with this scholarship, it could become a reality.
“Jessica, this is such an amazing opportunity for you. I hope you will take it. You have to keep up your grades in the meantime,” Jimena said.
Jessica assured her she would and hung up the phone. She sat back on her bed and tried to absorb this news — she might be going to college, in the United States!
Life here was improving. Still, she had moments in which she ached with longing for life in Nicaragua — for her friends, her grandmother, the warm climate and slower pace of life.
But looking around her room, and with this new sense of possibility, she felt a rush of gratitude. The Molinas had moved into their own rented house, and Jessica had her own room. She had decorated the walls with a string of lights and photos of her new friends. She gloried in the quiet of this private space.
She heard her mother and father passing by outside her room. The sound of their footsteps prompted in Jessica a flash of realization.
There was still one major obstacle in the way of going to college: their still-pending asylum case.
The Molina family had begun to settle into their life in the United States, and Jessica’s mother was even expecting another baby.
But undergirding the new sense of stability and safety was an awareness that they were still waiting, still at the mercy of other forces that would determine whether they could stay or had to go.
Dreams Take Flight: Indiana, United States.
Three months later.
Downstairs in the kitchen before school, Jessica’s phone rang once before picked it up — the name of the paralegal, David, from their attorney’s office, had flashed across her screen.
Before the Molinas had crossed into the United States, CLINIC had placed their case with a practice of pro bono attorneys who took on asylum cases. The pro bono attorneys always called Jessica’s phone to contact the family, because she was the one who most reliably answered.
“Jessica, it’s David. Listen, I have great news: We got the decision from your last asylum hearing. The judge has granted you all asylum!”
Jessica almost dropped the phone.
“De verdad? Truly?” she asked breathlessly.
A few minutes later she put down the phone. This was it — they could stay in the United States. The wait was over.
Happiness dawned slowly in Jessica. After so long of no knowing what would happen to them, after hearing after hearing once they’d entered the country, it was hard to believe the reality that the long legal process was over, that their fate was set — they could stay, and live safely, in the United States.
She couldn’t wait to tell her parents. Of anyone, the journey had been hardest on Angelica, who had been deeply impacted by the trauma they’d faced. Jessica could picture the tearful relief that would be on her mother’s face, how the weariness she carried in her body might slowly dissipate overtime. She could picture her father’s muted, but real, happiness — a new brightness behind his eyes, a quicker step.
For the past few years, any hopes that blossomed in Jessica’s mind about what the future could hold had been stamped out by set back after set back, delay after delay, since they’d left Nicaragua three years ago. She’d grown unaccustomed to letting herself think too hard about the future; even after receiving the scholarship she’d worked hard for, she’d held onto the dream of college tentatively, ready to let it go.
But now she lingered at the kitchen table and allowed into her mind visions of what could be, for her and for her family. She could go to college, perhaps fulfil her dream of studying medicine. Her brothers and sister wouldn’t know hunger or want. Her mother could feel safe again. Her father would be released from his worry and would joke and laugh with her like he used to.
Joy filled her chest; these dreams — they were beautiful.
This story was written by Kathleen Kollman Birch, CLINIC staff member, through interviews with Jessica. It was translated into Spanish by Tania Guerrero from CLINIC. CLINIC wishes to express its gratitude to Jessica and her family for sharing their story.
CLINIC is deeply grateful to Benjamin Osorio and the Murray & Osorio team for their courage and their relentless efforts to represent and counsel many families under MPP. Your work changes lives.
Finally, we want to express our gratitude to Michelle Garcia, the artist behind many of the illustrations that accompany this piece. Michelle Garcia is an illustrator, designer, first generation American and Latina. Learn more about her work here.
*The names of all characters – except CLINIC staff – have been changed to protect privacy.
CLINIC advocates for humane and just immigration policy. Its network of nonprofit immigration programs — over 450 organizations in 49 states and the District of Columbia — is the largest in the nation.
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