Alma is a survivor. Raised by her aunt and uncle, she became a victim of domestic violence at a young age. Eager to escape the abuse, at age 15 she married her first suitor — who also turned out to be abusive, and who she later found out was HIV positive. Her husband died of AIDS seventeen years ago, leaving her with three young sons in a community that ostracized them because of the stigma surrounding HIV/AIDS. “Everyone was afraid of our family and thought we could infect them just by touch,” she said.
Alma reinvented herself and family, finding work at a U.S. military base in Panama. She began dating an American stationed there who she followed to America with the promise of marriage. She came to the United States looking for a new life free from violence and stigma, and longing for economic opportunity.
But her dream soon turned into a nightmare. Her new boyfriend began to beat her; then he left. Once again, she had to recreate herself. She discovered that even having worked for the U.S. military in her country, and despite a degree in business administration that she fought to earn in Panama, she was not able to use her education to obtain work in the U.S. Instead she made a living by learning how to paint houses. Still, she was proud to be able to afford her own apartment and was eventually able to bring her three sons to America, eager to give them a good education and the opportunity for a better future.
But as immigration enforcement heightened in North Carolina, and the economy spiraled downwards, Alma’s resilience began to corrode. Like many immigrants, she lives in constant fear of being detained and deported; she does not want to return to the life she thought she had escaped, even though she realizes that this one is oftentimes just as hard. “In this country I feel like a second class citizen living in Hitler’s Germany,” she says. She struggles with depression and suicidal thoughts. Like many immigrants, she is frightened of being in public spaces, and even afraid in her own home: “I hide when people knock on the door,” she says.
In addition to living with constant anxiety, it has been increasingly difficult for Alma to find work as a result of the economic depression. She takes whatever housecleaning jobs she can find, but she is currently homeless and relies on the generosity of friends to house herself and her sons — though apart. She is continuously conscious of their vulnerability as they wear out their welcomes.
Then on July 4th, while celebrating the liberation of his adopted country, her youngest son, Melvin, was picked up by the police at a party because of a noise complaint. He graduated from high school that May with good grades and dreamed of studying civil engineering. Alma beams with pride as she comments that Melvin received an American education.
Once arrested, an ICE detainer was immediately placed on him. Despite Melvin’s relatively low bond of $2,500, without work it was impossible for Alma to afford this amount. Her depression deepened — her children were her greatest joy and now she was separated from her youngest.
After reading about the Bond Fund in a local Spanish-language newspaper Alma called the Southern Coalition for Social Justice and received a loan. She brought her half of the bond into the office, painstakingly counting out the exact amount, “Will I really see m’ijo again?”
She is grateful for the opportunity to spend Melvin’s last days in the U.S. with him. As his mother, it was unbearable to imagine him being alone in jail on his birthday; and she wanted one last Christmas Eve together. Although they cannot live in the same house, they see each other every day. However, both Alma and Melvin’s futures remain uncertain.
“The American dream is not true,” Alma says. “We’ve sold the world on a false dream. We came here to work. Now there are 15 million immigrants living here in fear and panic and the U.S. doesn’t care.” She pauses, “This country forgets almost everyone is an immigrant. Immigration will always happen, they just don’t like when it’s poor people immigrating.”
