The phone rang.  I had been waiting. Last night, I got word that I.C.E. was rounding up their quotas and sending them to a few counties that had agreements.  Agreements to take in detainees. Detainees that just hours before were working in the meat-packing plants, picking their kids up from school or headed to decorate churches for Christmas. Las Posadas, the re-enactment of Mary and Joseph seeking refuge, began on December 12th.  People gather in groups, go door to door singing the villancico asking for a room in the inn before getting to the prearranged house where the piñatas and spiked punch awaits. Not safe to do this year.

I taught about El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua and Costa Rica. El Salvador had a 12-year Civil War. . . a “witch hunt” for communists. Government sponsored cars drove around with their blackened windows and “death-squad” drivers, disappearing people throughout the night to the final total of 75,000 civilian casualties – a sanitized term for dead people.

Guatemala’s President Rios Montt ordered Mayan villages to be burned to the ground with his motto: “To catch the fish, drain the lake.” In Honduras, the United States had sent troops to build roads and airports, large enough to handle war planes going to Nicaragua. Nicaragua was torn between Somoza’s Contras and the rebel Sandinistas. Costa Rica refused to build an army and their President Arias won a Peace Award. With all of this in my head, I answered the phone.

“Yes, I will go to jail on Friday. I will pick up my friend who teaches writing there. She is part of a group that encourages inmates to express themselves, process, arrange their thoughts into sentences. Yes, I’d be glad to interpret or just be a presence for the three men from Guatemala, Ecuador and Nicaragua, recently added to her class.”

She reminds me of the orientation instructions. I am to leave my keys and phone in the locked cubbie. We will get buzzed into an entry space and then through a door to the hallway. We will be body-checked with a wand, like at the airport. I am to only use my first name, or maybe go by Señora, since I’ll be speaking Spanish. No last names or personal information about ourselves, in case someone tries to find us later.

I can take in a packet of Kleenex. I can make eye contact, but not shake hands. My friend plans to have her students make Christmas cards, so there will a materials bag with pre-cut colored paper, glue and magic markers. No scissors. No pens. They can be used as weapons. Only because she has done this for years is she allowed to take in this contraband. Everything will be searched and inventory made, so that any items brought in, will go out.

The rooms have windows into the hallways, but not outside. There is no outside time. No fresh air time. They buy their own toothpaste and toilet paper, if someone sends them money.  I learned many details of prison life earlier through my eight-year correspondence with Ana, incarcerated for 35 years and counting, at the Lowell Institute in Ocala, Florida. Before Sister Donna died, she asked me to pick up the “pen pal” relationship, because I speak Spanish.

Again, I am called because I speak Spanish. Again, I answer the phone.  Again, I step into the unknown. Again. . .

I hear myself saying, “Of course. I will go to jail. I will listen. I will be their voice.”

Again, I answer The Call.

Aside:
Being called to take action because of being bilingual is a common thread of my life story. Am I ready to again meet the real people behind the news stories? The rhetoric? Ignore the vile retorts of Facebook comments? Fathom the ignorant spewing of certain politicians? This is a case of subdued exuberance, my new favorite term.  I quietly, intentionally, thoughtfully step up while feeling exuberant to use my talents to push back.

Question:

What are your talents? How can you “answer the call” in an everyday way?