Beyond the border.

You always hear the tales of people coming into the United States in hopes of a better tomorrow, in hopes of attaining the "American Dream" for themselves, for their children, for their country. But you rarely hear the stories of the people that have to leave -- especially the stories of people who don't know life beyond their suburban home in Florida or the Kroger's in Texas. These stories are lost or hidden beneath the illusion of wonder and beauty that blankets outsider perceptions of the United States. To them, the U.S. is seen not as a place in need of repair, but as a place where everyone's dreams come true and everyone can achieve them if they just work hard enough. But we all know that is not the case. It is not the case for those millions incarcerated every year, for those families who are broken by deportation, for those who fear walking alone at night. But this is not about everyone. This is about my story and how deportation broke my family. This is the story of my two brothers.

It didn't happen all at once. Time was meticulous in its winding course and decided it best to allow us to collect memories before erasing the future.

I was born in sunny Jacksonville, Florida, along with my younger sister, in the late '90s. My parents and my two older brothers, however, arrived here roughly 20 years ago with minimal knowledge of the country and even less about their futures. They received their visas and from then on had to walk on eggshells to ensure their stay in my country. My brothers soon enrolled into a neighborhood elementary school, and my parents began searching for work. It was a nice life, and I remember laughing while we bounced on a trampoline, sticky from the summer sun, and played Barbies together in ways only children know how. I remember their toothy smiles and the way that Marco liked to mix his mayo and ketchup as dressing for steaming french fries, and how Jose's go-to snack was a spongy Twinkie. I remember them getting older and bigger as I did the same. We stretched into the sky with hands grasping for stars and possibility. Little did we know the stars would lose their light and possibility would turn into heartbreak.

Marco went first.

It happened all at once. I was getting ready for school when, as I was pinning back the last baby hairs to my scalp, I heard rapping at the front door. It was my other brother's girlfriend telling us that there had been an accident with Marco. A swerve-and-miss type of car accident but nothing grave, just a few scratches and shattered glass. But that trite moment was the moment it all changed for us. He was escorted away in a vehicle I knew all too well was not where you wanted to end up. He was away for a while, and we longed for his presence and his laugh and his compassion. He would send us letters on prison stationary telling my sister and me to be good in school and to listen to our mother.

On the back of the letter, there would be sketches of roses and thorns, a reminder that life's troubles seem to have a meaning in the end. Or at least that's what he believed. I remember my mother driving down the nine hours to Miami in hopes of appealing his case. She would do this a number of times that year. It was a long year. I accompanied her once with my sister. It was the last time she would go to Miami.

I wrote a heartfelt letter begging the justice system to have mercy and to not take my brother away from me. To not take away the person who taught me how to read, who took me to the doctor's office when I got sick, who took me out for breakfast before school. We got a chance to look at him on the sad monitor (as he was not allowed to be present) after he was denied and he looked so thin and pale. He was diagnosed with diabetes as a preteen and, in a system where not enough money is allocated appropriately, I can only imagine the emptiness he felt. I remember crying.

I remember crying salty tears and not knowing how to stop them from rolling down my puffy cheeks. It was worse on my mother, who had my brothers very young and cared for them on her own until she found my dad. She was always very fragile. He was sent away to Mexico, where most of my family lives. He was loved by everyone, no doubt, but our family was fragmented by then. We were a bright red rose that lost its petals, never to hope for their return. I never got to see him afterward. He got sick, and that was the end of it.

Then came Jose, the oldest of the two.

He was always very rowdy and rebellious but I loved him nonetheless. He dropped out of high school along with my other brother. I like to think that it was because the education system does not cater well to immigrants or to Latino boys in particular. I like to think that it was because they wanted more in life than the school could offer. He'd gotten in with a not-so-good crowd and made some poor decisions, but I don't see his white equivalents bearing the same consequences that he did. On numerous occasions, he was incarcerated, but I don't think from his own merit. I mean, whose fault is it when a room full of students can't seem to pass math? The students or the teacher?

The last time was the final time and as simple as that, he was deported with the swish of a pen. It was immensely difficult for him. Not being able to write in Spanish was hard enough, but being perceived a delinquent by both the town and our family was another. He left behind a pregnant girlfriend. Three years later, his son has never even seen his face and maybe never will. I hardly talk to him because I have no words for the loss in my heart. I have no words for the confusion I feel and the injustice I can't seem to shake away.

It's a difficult thing to talk about. You're taught it's shameful to have an immigrant family. It's a shameful thing to be illegal. You're taught to forego Spanish and learn to be American in every way imaginable. You're not educated on your rights, on your parents' rights, on anything worth learning. I hope that one day they will listen and stop breaking apart families. I hope that those families broken apart will receive justice.

I hope that organizations like the Esperanza Center and La Familia keep fighting and that more narratives are brought into the light. I hope that we no longer have to mourn the loss of our brothers, of our mothers, of our children, and that this will truly become the "land of immigrants" and the "land of the free" we're always claiming it is. I hope we educate ourselves about our past, about the United States' past, about our laws, about our rights. I hope we never again have to worry about losing the people we love. And I hope we never lose ourselves and never believe our stories aren't worth sharing.

For more information on Immigration non-profits, Immigration Laws and Deportation in the U.S., check out these links:

CASA

Esperanza Center

Immigration Law in the U.S.

My Immigration Story

American Immigration Council

Immigration Legal Resource Center