“Also, make sure that your ankle monitors are charged at all times. The battery only lasts 10 hours, and if it dies, you will be considered of illegal status again. You only have a range of 75 miles from your sponsor family’s address where you can freely travel. All other travel must be approved by the immigration court.” Ankle monitors? I looked down, and several of the able bodied young men in the room had blinking black ankle cuffs under the hems of their blue jeans. What I had assumed were cell phone chargers were ankle monitor battery chargers. I helped one of the young men carrying a toddler find a wall socket for his charger. I asked why he was wearing the ankle cuff. “Because I had tried to enter the U.S. once before illegally,” he explained as he reined back his baby son. From bus ride to sponsors home, he would be tracked by GPS. He had broken our immigration laws in the past, but he was trying the legal route this time.

Adan then announced that if anyone would like to talk to me that I would be interviewing people about their journeys. A man and a woman volunteered to talk to me, and we arranged a seating area in an adjacent dining room. Rosalba sat down with her two boys, and Jorge sat down next to her.

Rosalba was from Honduras, and she had left her village because of marital problems. I couldn’t help but notice I was twice her size; she probably weighed around 85 pounds, and was under 5 feet tall. One of her boys, Toni, was an energetic charmer, asking questions and showing me with his fingers that he was six years old. His older brother sat holding hands with Rosalba, quietly staring at the wall. “He is 13 years old, and has special needs,” said Rosalba. The family was headed to Boise, and I wondered how she had traveled 1,000 miles overland with the two boys. The trip to Idaho would be twice as long.

Jorge was from Guatemala, and listened quietly as Rosalba talked. Initially, I thought they were traveling as a couple, but it seemed they were only friendly as they were sharing such tight space in the Respite Center. Jorge had attempted to enter the U.S. in the past, but had been caught and deported. This time, he brought his 15-year-old daughter. His village was rife with mafiosos who extorted and terrorized his community. There was no money, and the little they had was regularly appropriated by local gangs. Once they left their village, the people in the smuggling community were no better than the gang members at home. In Jorge’s words, the coyotes, or human smugglers that had guided him and his daughter from Honduras through Mexico, were “animals.”

[q]Jorge had attempted to enter the U.S. in the past, but had been caught and deported. This time, he brought his 15-year-old daughter.[/q]

Jorge reminded me that undocumented immigration and human smuggling in Mexico is just as illegal as it is in the United States. The tractor trailer that smuggled him 20 hours through Mexico was loaded with 35 other people, along with his daughter. “There was a tiny hole for air, and no light,” he said in a low voice. “I’m from a farm, and I can control my body, so I only need to relieve myself when it is convenient. But the other people in the trailer were from cities, and they weren’t accustomed to not having a bathroom.” There had been a high-speed chase with Mexican federal police, and the driver of the tractor trailer had gone off road at high speed, accelerating over speed bumps and boulders. “There were mothers holding babies, and when they hit the bumps, the babies went flying.” He shook his head, and looked downwards solemnly at the floor.

“Where are you going now?” I asked. “New Orleans…my brother is there,” Jorge answered.

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “I’ve been there. The food is great.” And then I caught myself. My food travel experience had nothing in common with his and I felt sheepish.

“Yes,” Jorge said. “I know there are jobs there, but I am not sure anyone will hire me.” He lifted the leg of his jeans, and showed me his ankle monitor. I noticed it is the same type used by felons on parole. How would a potential employer know the difference?

Jorge’s intelligence and ability to express himself was remarkable. He was deeply concerned for the safety of his young, beautiful daughter among the “animals.” He needed a lawyer, perhaps another one for his daughter, and I wondered how he was going to pay, especially with no job prospects. I wanted to talk further, but the general air of discomfort in the Respite Center compelled me to retreat. I thanked both Jorge and Rosalba profusely, and continued to observe.

The remaining 50 or so people in the Respite Center talked among themselves as we returned to the main waiting room. I walked over to Adan, who was monitoring a spread sheet of current migrants, coordinating names with bus departure times. The surnames were unfamiliar to me: Chub Choc, Quib, Xum, or Cuc. They were indigenous tribal names from Latin America and I realized that a good portion of the room was Mayan Native American. Historical comparisons of human suffering are unfair and inaccurate, but in that moment of realization, I flashed to the bitter history of The Trail of Tears, where indigenous tribes across the United States were stripped of their territories and consolidated from East and West onto reservations. I was standing in a room of consolidated tribal members, who were traveling from South to North. Though my mind quickly flashed to tiny Rosalba, I realized everyone in the room was just as small in stature.

Soon enough it was time to go; a new group began to arrive, chairs were rearranged, and sack lunches were given to migrants catching buses onward. But instead of a take-away of hope for the American dream, I returned home preoccupied with the sadness and fear of the people I met, and the uncertainty of how the system they were allowed to enter could provide the new life they were searching for.