Remember with me:
You were in a store or a mall or the zoo or another large place and you realized you could not locate your parents. You looked where they were last and they are not there. As you realize you are lost, the panic wells up inside you. Maybe you cry. Maybe you crumple to the ground. There are no cell phones. You don’t know anyone. You feel completely helpless.
You turn for two seconds to pay for the clothes or to check your watch or make sure you didn’t leave a bag at the table and your child has disappeared. You search the area and you cannot see your child anywhere. Perhaps you are hanging on to another child or a stroller or turn to your partner. Your heart is racing. Where is my child?
You are trying to go to sleep. You have been properly tucked in and all the bedtime rituals have been completed. The light streams out from under your door and you can hear the television and your parent on the phone. You think, “what is my mommy or daddy wasn’t there when I woke up? What if they left? What if they didn’t come back? What if they died?” Before you complete the chain of thoughts, you are crying into your pillow. You tell yourself that nothing has happened. That everyone is at home and watching TV, but somehow merely imagined disaster has upset you so much that sleep is now impossible.
You are awakened by sobs or maybe yelling. You rush to the source of the sound and find your child thrashing in bed, wrestling a nightmare. You gently put your arms around them and turn on a night-light. The child is disoriented, still feeling the residual emotion and not sure what is going on. “It’s alright,” you tell your child, “Everything is fine. You’re fine. I’m here.”
You don’t want to go to the funeral, but you must. You don’t want to consider the possibility that someone so young could die. While you have strong feelings for the parents, you sit in a special place of denial. This sort of thing can’t happen, doesn’t happen, especially to people like us. As you wait to greet the parents, you grip your resolve and try to remember what to say. You fight the tears. They are the grieving parents, not you. Yet you cannot help but see yourself in them, and your child in their loss.
The phone rings. It is late at night or early in the morning. The voice of your child startles you to alertness, “I’ve been in an accident.” Your mind races with questions. Your child has few answers beyond where they are and what is going on. They are at the police station or the hospital or on the side of a road. You are putting on your clothes and grabbing your keys and wallet and rushing out of the house.
The image of a parent being separated from their child at the border is one I don’t want to think about. I can see it all too clearly. I can imagine the child who is lost, confused, and thrust into a strange and terrifying place without any signs of safety. I haven’t been there, but my experiences allow me to empathize and I resist that feeling because it is so gut-wrenching.
I cannot imagine causing this.
While not all of us are parents, we were all children. Let us remember what this feels like. Regardless of politics, economics, or any other artificial distinction, let us be human. Let us treat each other humanely.
The events at the border are horrifying in a visceral and primal way. Let us do everything we can to reunite children and their parents. No one’s child should be a pawn in a political maneuver.
Here are a few articles that will help you take action:
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