Last week I had one of the most rewarding and yet most difficult experiences of my storytelling journey.
I was asked to have a conversation/presentation with a group of male asylum seekers in their teens. They had crossed the border unaccompanied and were detained by ICE. Now they are housed at a residential facility while awaiting placement with family members and/or sponsors. Most of them came from Guatemala, none on them speak English, some don’t even speak Spanish. Looking at them, I couldn’t help but see myself in them. After all, I also came from Guatemala in my teen years, undocumented and without knowing the language. But unlike them, I came with my siblings and my father, they made the trip all by themselves!
So, I started my talk by telling them how at awe I am at their determination, valor, and strength to make such a difficult trip on their own. Then I told them that their trip is not over, they still must learn the language, get an education/job and always be vigilant (every mistake they make will be multiply and might be use as an excuse to try to send them back). I tried to assure them that there are many people trying to make things better for them, and they have many resources that were not available years ago (scholarship for undocumented, legal help and more). By now, I feared that I was beginning to sound like an old man, so I stopped talking and instead asked if they wanted to hear some stories.
I started with a story about growing up in Guatemala and playing soccer with my brother. At first, they were looking at me in silence, with sad eyes that have seen too many horrible things for their early age.
Soon, shy smiles were beginning to appear on their faces. A minute or so into my first story they started to laugh. By the time I told my story about my first days in high school, they were laughing aloud. I silently thanked God for allowing me to bring a bit of cheer to them and continued telling my stories.
When I was done, they shook my hand and told me how much it meant for them to hear from someone that years ago was in a similar experience that they are now. I know that they wouldn’t be here if they had a choice, no one grows up wanting to be a refugee.
When they started to leave, I started to tear up, I wanted to hug them, protect them, take them home with me. Alas, all I could do was hope that they got some fun, perhaps hope, from my stories and that those stories and feelings stay with them when they need it the most. . .
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