Adventures of a Forced Migrant Contact Me
They say love and hate are two sides of the same coin. I seem to have the wrong currency.
I’m standing trial for something I had no control over.
The only things I seem to have control over are slowly slipping from my grasp.
They singled out the wrong dreamer for persecution. I was actually never meant to be a dreamer. I’m not just the accidental American. I’m the reluctant one.
There has to be something that compels me to fight this injustice. I just cannot figure out what is more unjust: being dragged here by my family when I was 14 or being told to get out of here without my family 14 years later. It all seems like a huge cosmic joke.
No one is really concerned. They don’t think it is possible.
No one understands my inner-turmoil. They think this is one of the easier things I have had to do.
How do I stand trial for the actions of my loved ones? “I’m here because my family is here” doesn’t hold much water in front of a judge.
How do I defend my presence in this country when I can barely tolerate it any more than it can tolerate me? This country has yet to give me a single reason for why it deserves me.
How do I fight against being sent to a place I’ve loved and lost? Persecution be damned, I feel like I was served a notice for divorce from a repressive and hateful marriage that I was forced into. And now, I have a chance to be free.
I’m told to shutup and let a lawyer do the talking.
So I wrote a lot. I deleted a lot more. I just couldn’t press control, alt, delete on how I feel.
I am really angry. But I’m also incredibly sad. I’m really amused. But I’m also annoyed.
I want to be home. I just don’t know what that means anymore.