Thoughts, Reflections, and Experiences

What a great read!! “But you’re basically white, right?”: I’m Latina and I don’t speak Spanish

(unfinished thoughts of an unfinished journey) Yesterday was Ecuador's first game of the World Cup. I was SO excited, that one of the first things I did when I woke up was change my Facebook profile picture to that of an Ecuadorian soccer ball. I dress in my country's flag colors, did my make-up in blue, red, and yellow, and used eyeshadow to draw some flags on my cheeks. I saw the first half before church, which was interesting, actually...but I'll get to that later. Sad to say, Ecuador lost 2-1 in the last minute of overtime. After church, I called my mom to tell her I was on my way. My family was all gathered to celebrate Father's Day and watch some fútbol. The first sight of my family brought a smile to my face. All the yellow, red, and blue. The kids jumping on the trampoline. The sound of my family's commentary over the France vs. Honduras game. That first minute of walking into my backyard brought me back to the reality that I was a part of something ...

Today. Today my father gets released from prison. Hopefully soon, I'll post about my father's experience with immigration, deportation, and imprisonment. Its intent will not to make anyone sad, angry, encouraged, fired up, depressed, or satisfied. The post will simply be a soundboard as I process, as well as invitation for others to journey with me in the processing. But more on that soon. For now, REJOICE! I rejoice with my father, knowing that the day has come! The Lord has been faithful and soon he'll be free again. Praise God.

Using Jailed Migrants as a Pool of Cheap Labor   Interesting read.

As I sit here, I remember the first Panera I ever went to. It was in a strip mall close to my father's job. The memories rush back. One after the next. Fluidly. They move. They dance. The Old Country Buffet, where I was "8 years old" for about 3 years. The Borders, where my father and I listened to CDs in the 'Latin' music section. The movie theater, where I once lost my purse. A Pause. Moving faster, an ice cream place. Dairy Star. "Cherry-dipped vanilla ice cream, please." Every time. A Twirl. It moves west. It remembers the mini-golf course, where I first learned how to 'putt.' A Jump. Still, it moves. It remembers the Backyard Grill across the street from my father's shop, where we would get burgers for lunch. That white paper bag that I just couldn't wait to open. A Slow Fall. His shop. The smell of wood. The sight of so many colors of fabric. The sound of the upholstery stapler. A Tempo Change. Faster. The year I...

As I listen to song and start texting, the voice-to-text button gets accidentally pressed and my first thought is, "will it pick up the lyrics?" At that moment, I think about the enthusiasm with which my father once held up his phone next to my car's speakers. We were trying to figure out what the song on the radio was called, so that we could listen to it later, and I thought we would just wait until the radio host announced it, but nope-- he wanted to show off his cool, new phone app. This app that could tell you what song you were listening to after hearing a few seconds of it. He looked like a little kid with a new toy; it was precious.  ...And the moment is gone as I press "cancel." Te extraño, pa.

Powerful song. "Our folks forced out of their country. You must be crazy, no one crosses the desert ‘cause they want to. It’s a necessity… a sacrifice for the family. You don’t call them illegals you call them Economic Refugees "