Betita-March 9
I drew a picture of pregnant Mami lying on the floor near the fence.
Mami and the egg curl into an O
when she is sick.
Sometimes the egg’s kick
doesn’t make her a Q.
Betita-March 10
I drew the food they expect us to eat.
They give us black moldy burritos for breakfast
sometimes nothing for lunch
and frozen black moldy bread for dinner.
Betita-March 11
I drew Yanela, Carlos, Jakie, and me, jagged like we are vibrating.
Piojos bounce off our heads.
The itch drives us CRAZY!
Betita-March 12
I drew a girl trapped in a closet, crying.
Sometimes big people hurt us
and we can only cry, tell other kids,
or throw up.
Betita-March 13
I drew a boy holding his mouth and a shoe.
A root canal
makes you
throw a shoe.
The dentist is too far away.
Betita-March 14
I drew Marisel after she got beaten.
When you sing
the truth
not even a beating
will quiet it.
Betita-March 15
I drew a new family.
We met a girl today who is scared like her mother.
She is from an island
where they speak Creole and a little Spanish.
Her name is Ellie, nine like me.
Betita-March 16
When Papi gets these
I imagine he will hang them
on a clothesline in a field
of agaves where he works.
“Despair” is a word I learned from Marisel today.
We can’t despair, she says, after Fernanda tells us
our court date has been pushed back
because there aren’t enough judges
for all of the immigration cases.
Plus, their hashtag campaign
hasn’t made an impact at all.
Despair is to be without hope, lost.
I feel despair drip into my veins
like a poison starting to take over.
I wonder if
we are cranes at all.
We have to strike! These conditions
and the waiting are criminal,
Marisel says as she walks back and forth
a few steps at a time.
If we can’t have a movement on the outside
we can create it from the inside.
Mami asks, What kind of strike?
Marisel stops her pacing to look
seriously at Mami.
A hunger strike.
Some of the mothers in our cell
gasp a little, some shake their heads,
but almost all of them begin to nod
in agreement. So do all of the solitas.
Those who want to and can, should.
We can do a relay strike, one group
per week so not everyone has to suffer long.
Mami raises her hand.
I will start it off.
No, Gabriela, not you. You’ve got a baby.
I hardly eat anyway.
No way. Who else would like to?
Listen, it will mean more because of the baby.
Marisel bites down on her lip. But then she agrees.
A pregnant woman
on a hunger strike might be
the most powerful thing.
Mami! Not you. What if it isn’t safe?
Amorcito, I will only do it a few days
to start it off, and then the others will help us.
Already, my heart wants
to push past my chest.
I am so scared
of what a strike
will do.
Marisel turns to me.
We need a list of demands.
Betita, please give us a couple of pages
from your notebook
so we can write them out.
I clutch my notebook to my chest
when I see she’s coming over
but Mami gently pulls
my hands away from it
and rips out a few pages
herself and gives Marisel
my black crayon.
They write:
We are thirty-five mothers, caretakers, and children who have chosen to stop eating in protest of the current inhumane conditions for all detainees. We demand that our human rights, as defined by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, be respected. As such, we demand conditions for all detainees be improved to reflect this. We demand the following:
• Access to legal representation
• No separation from our children under any circumstances
• Already-separated children be returned to parents
• Moderate temperature inside the facility
• Cots or mats and real blankets
• Warm, well-cooked meals
• Access to clean water
• On-site medical care and medicine
• School supplies and instruction for our children
• More playtime or access to the outdoors
• Respectful treatment from all staff
We will continue our hunger strike until our demands are met.
Mami weaves the ends
of the notebook papers
holding our list of demands
into the fence by
tearing them a little.
She gives me an idea:
to weave toilet paper
into the links in the fence
like the ribbons in Tina’s
backyard quince.
I spell:
STRIKE
in square letters
as tall as me.
It is the strongest word
I’ve ever spelled.
When the day guards
first notice the demands
they laugh like hyenas.
By the end of breakfast
the trash can is filled with
untouched terrible rotten food
and the guards laugh some more.
Then the night guards
notice, and they also hyena howl
to see the trash can fill with
more untouched terrible rotten food.
They bang on our cage
and say we are stupid
to be hurting ourselves.
Don’t listen to them, gente
we cannot be deterred,
Marisel says, and waves them away
with a quick swipe
of her hand.
At the end of the first night
I can hear Mami’s belly
grumble, but she looks patient
and proud.
How long will you not eat, Mami?
Only a few days, until they notice.
They are hurting us more than
we can ever hurt ourselves.
I poke at her belly just to see
if the egg will respond
and it does right on cue
and I worry a little less.
I draw a picture of a line of cranes with wide-open mouths.
Cranes are hungry
to be treated
with kindness.
Betita-March 19
without eating Mami moves her
hands slowly while she tries
to catch piojos in my hair.
She lies down.
Looks weak.
Doesn’t teach.
Are you feeling okay, Mami?
I ask for the hundredth time.
I’m a little tired today, mi’ja.
She pets my head and rubs
the egg at the same time
and she lets out a little ay.
Yellow Hair comes over
when she hears us
and taunts,
Getting tired, stupid? Well, if
you keep it up, we will throw
you in the hole for child endangerment.
What kind of mother goes on a
hunger strike while pregnant?
Before Mami can respond
Marisel comes straight for Yellow Hair
wraps her fingers into the fence
and spits,
What kind of treatment
is the one you are giving all of us?
Look around. You think this is justice?
You think this is humane?
You are getting what you deserve!
You ignorant people put yourselves
here by breaking the laws of my country.
You think we deserve to be in a concentration camp for
seeking asylum? You have NO idea what
most of us are running from. Most of us
had no choice but to try to find a better life.
It is simple, you break the law
you have to pay the consequences.
What kind of demon are you? YOU
are the one who is breaking the law!
This is cruel and unusual punishment!
Marisel roars at Yellow Hair and bangs
and bangs on the fence!
YOU are breaking the law!
YOU are breaking the law!
She screams over and over again
while she rattles and rattles the cage.
Suddenly, Mami shoots up to her
feet and begins to hurry across
the floor toward the toilet
but when she is halfway there
she stops.
A stream
of blood comes
flooding out
from between her legs.
¡No puede ser!
Mami’s face is sunken in shock.
Mami!! I run to her.
She trembles as she
holds the lower part of
her nest. She doesn’t touch me.
Help, please! I scream. Please!
Mami turns to Yellow Hair
and pleads with a look
so hurt it needs
no words.
Yellow Hair yells,
Code Red! Code Red!
to the other guards on duty.
Marisel and Josefina rush
to Mami’s side to lay her down.
They open the gate
and two mean-looking guards come in
slapping on gloves. They
place a cloth between her legs.
Hold it there, they tell her.
I am so scared I can’t swallow.
¡Mamita, mamita!
Shards of fear seize me.
Betita, it’s okay, chiquita, it’s okay, her voice shakes.
But it is not.
There is so much blood.
Mami, our egg. Mami, our baby!
Then each guard grabs ahold
of Mami’s arms
to try to make her walk.
But she can’t.
They grunt
as they lift her
and drag
my bleeding
mami away
from
me.
rips
through
my
veins
and
tears
my
heart
to
shreds.
I don’t know how
to count how much I cry.
Is it in time?
Is it counted in miles?
In times tables?
It stutters
stops
goes forward
then backward.
I don’t know if I’m
speaking a language
other than tears.
I only know the words
Mami, Mami, Mami.
I only understand
she has been taken to a prison hospital
one hundred miles away.
Our cell is given
bleach and water
to clean Mami’s blood
from the floor.
They work in silence
except for my crying
and our coughing
louder and raspier
because of the bleach.
The other mothers huddle
around me like I’m
an orphan crane
in the flock.
But we are not a flock
and we are not cranes.
We are the same.
Unwanted.
Unwelcomed.
Human.
Caged.
Though they
are with me
I am
without
my mami
I am
without
my papi.
I am
solita
now.
Marisel comes to sit with me
and asks Yanela, who just sits quietly
next to me, to give us a minute.
I pull my knees to my chest
and bury my head into my arms.
She begins a sentence
but then stops
and goes quiet again.
I’m sorry, kid, she finally says.
You probably blame me for
what happened to your mom, yeah?
But we both know she hasn’t
been feeling well for a while.
I mean, three days of not eating
wouldn’t have caused her to
bleed like that. You got to know.
Words drain from me.
Looks like Yellow Hair
grew some sympathy finally.
She told me she found out
that your mother was saved
and that the baby was delivered.
You’ve got a baby sister!
I pull up my head trying to grasp the dulzura
wrapped inside what she is saying.
Alive? A sister?
Her words slow down.
But they are both very sick, kid.
We don’t know if they will
pull through, especially the baby.
Why? Why? WHY?
I drop my head
and hug
my knees again.
I rock myself
unable to find
the strength
to stop
the endless
falling
of my cries.
I spell:
Mami.
Betita-March 20
I draw Mami handcuffed to a prison hospital bed
I spell:
Wake up, Mami. Come back to me!
Betita-March 21
I draw a baby in a box attached to tubes.
I spell:
You don’t have a name.
Please let me know your face.
Betita-March 22
I draw myself alone in a desert at night with a moon.
I spell:
I walk in a sandstorm of moonlight and tears.
Betita-March 23
I draw myself with a big hole in my panza.
I spell:
What is food for
when I am only
hungry for Mami.
Betita-March 24
I no longer draw cranes or wings, only a bunch of cages.
I spell:
I don’t believe in flying.
Betita-March 25
Josefina tries to make me eat
but I can’t.
She tries to make me sleep
in my same spot near Yanela
who is more faraway lost than ever,
but I don’t sleep.
I wonder if Tía Raquel knows
what happened to Mami
all the way from the other side
of this maze of cages.
I stay awake to find the outline
of Mami’s space on the concrete next to me.
I count the times the guards
light up our faces with a flashlight.
When they get near, I close my eyes
pretend to be asleep.
I count ten flashing lights to the face
in one night.
I wonder how it is I slept
through that before.
I wonder how long
they’ll continue the hunger strike.
I wonder if Fernanda
will ever come back.
I wonder if Papi knows
he has another daughter now.
I wonder about Mami and the baby
fighting to live.
I don’t know how to look
into anyone’s eyes
but the blank pages
of Alas.
Marisel comes over
to see, but I hover
over what I draw.
Hey, kid, can I see
what you’re working on?
No.
Come on, I won’t judge.
I just want to see.
She tugs my sleeve.
I finally look up
at the warm breeze
of her smile and
the I’m sorry in her eyes
and how mad I am
at her begins to skirt away.
I plop down Alas
and open her up.
Your pieces are beautiful,
she says as she flips through the pages.
What are they called?
Crane, I mean, picture poems.
Ms. Martinez taught me.
They show your feelings.
Who are they for?
They are for Papi.
Fernanda is supposed
to get them to him.
That’s really awesome of her.
Well, they’re also
for the judge.
They’re testimonies
for our case.
Interesting. I’m sure
they’re going to be real useful.
That’s if she ever
comes back for them.
She’s supposed to come
soon, Betita. When she does
you’ll be ready. I wish
we all had testimonies like these.
They could really help us.
Then, a spark snaps
into my
mind
and before I know it
I’m saying,
We could all do them.
I have plenty of paper.
Really? But, you’d have to teach us how it’s done.
That’d be the easiest.
I feel a light and airy feeling
inside to think I can
be a teacher like Mami.
It isn’t hard
to remember
how Ms. Martinez
taught me.
I tear thirty-five sheets
from Alas
set them out