4/1/21

By Josh Rubin

We see the children separated from their families, this time not inside storm fences, that we called cages, this time inside clear plastic walls, huddled on the floor wrapped in Mylar. We are asked to be glad that convention centers and military bases are lining up cots in large spaces to get them to where the blankets are nicer, and they lower the lights at night, and there are fresh masks, occasional showers, and maybe a phone call or two.

Inside those spaces, tape marks your zone, and the days are endless. The staff is untrained, and unvetted. The time between now and the day you and your family are given back to each other stretches out and vanishes into uncertainty. Each day more arrive, and those few who disappear leave thousands behind wondering why it wasn’t me, sitting on a cot, shoulders bent, head down, asking anyone, youth care worker or volunteer, for a phone call, to reach out to the world, as the days pass with little access to daylight, and less to love.

We who watch them reach for our rage at the injustice to help us fend off the pain. But we know they can little afford anger. We fill ourselves with it, but it is not long before the emptiness of abandonment spreads inside them. And we know, whenever that someday comes and it is over, that they, and their families, will spend a lifetime trying to fill that empty space. And never quite making it.

I am not glad. We are doing this again. Don’t believe them. It does not have to be this way.