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    Little sister poem. Be woke.❤️ #ajamonet #poem Found these wings on Sunday just strolling through DC. I’m reaching the part of the program where I’ve got so much good in my life but so much fear. When people ask me what my plans are for when my work permit expires, I kind of want to answer with silence and leave it at that. There’s no plan. There’s no plan for when that happens because something needs to pass in Congress before then. The longer the delay, the higher the chance there will be a lapse in a protected status or a  direct jump into being undocumented. There’s no shame in being undocumented. It’s just a really difficult path. Right now my hope is that people with wings, you know, permanent residents/citizens force their representatives at the state or national level to do something. I feel wingless right now. I mean, I’m entering rooms with sad poems in my mouth. I mean, I may or may not be spending a lot of time crying. I mean, I’ve got a job, poetry, bread, my mother, but no future and it stinking hurts. AND I wish I didn’t have to remind people that this is my reality, but I don’t see any new rages at society other than the regular fighters who have been fighting too too too long.💔 Practing my senses. 
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1,000 miles: step 33

Some months ago, my mother promised my half-sister a visit to El Salvador. We visited a lawyer and filed an application for permission to visit our home-country.The applications cost an entire pay stub. My mother’s salary gone in 1, 2, 3…

We made an appointment at the Post Office for my brother, too. I filled out a US passport application, the only one in the family literate enough. And while it wasn’t inexpensive, it certainty didn’t cost Mom two weeks of sweat.

My sister’s name is Emelin Elizabeth. She like myself, has not had a father to watch her grow up. But unlike me, she hasn’t had the privilege to grow up next to our mom. Emelin turned 15 years last April, on the day I was filling out my brother’s passport application. Turning 15 is the equivalent of turning 16 in America, and my sister, wanted to celebrate big. She asked for a pink dress, pink heels, a visit to the amusement park… as if Mum was a Santa Clause.

My mum says we don’t have much family in El Salvador. They stop asking for you once you tell them the truth about America. These streets aren’t made of gold. Money doesn’t come easy, especially with a 3rd grader’s education. Life isn’t easy, and it isn’t cheap. My mother’s children are expensive.

There won’t be a trip to El Salvador this year, we all know this.

Part of me is relieved. I am not ready. I’m petrified of walking into the country I was born to and not feel at home. I’m petrified that the white beneath my yellow skin is too pale for a country whose sun smiles in every direction. I’m petrified that all the miles between my sister and me will only intensify.

I’m also disappointed. Months turn into years and years turn into decades. I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of postponing plans and dreams.

I suppose though, if there’s anyone up for standing in line, that person is me. Grudgingly, me.

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