Days turn to weeks, weeks to months and I think back to when I was
first arrested by Border Patrol agents in
Texas and told that this would take, at
maximum, a few weeks. That might have been
true if at one's first court appearance you
readily accepted deportation without
challenging the underlying reasons for your
detention. Even then, it's a lie because
you'd still have to wait for three months or
more before they can fill up a large
aeroplane with enough deportees to make it
economical. If you're from Mexico, they'll
just drive you to the border less than 25
miles away from here, if there are no other
charges pending.
There are men in this facility who have
been fighting their cases for over three
years. I have been here since January and my
very first substantive hearing won't be
until mid-August. Judge Achtsam will be
hearing my request for adjustment of status,
which could lead to a green card if all went
well, and also for a change of venue back to
the Bay Area where all of my relevant
witnesses are located. I don't believe he
will grant either of these motions as he has
a reputation for routinely denying bail and
not granting reprieves to those who qualify.
However, he is doing exactly what he was put
down here to do, namely deport the maximum
number of detainees with the least amount of
due process.
I have encountered many within these
walls who have spent nearly their entire
lives in the U.S. who are now being forcibly
returned to their countries of origin which
they left when they were small children.
Often they have little or no knowledge of
their birth country.
A cellmate of mine, I'll call Carlos,
came to the states when just seven years old
from Guatemala. He's now 32 years of age, so
he came here during a time of unrest that
would lead to upheaval and mass slaughter of
the indigenous Mayan populace in the
hundreds of thousands by the government
military and intelligence agencies, both US
trained and financed.
Carlos tells me he knows nothing of this
recent history of his parent country; he
grew up in the city of Compton, within
greater Los Angeles as is obvious by his
many tattoos. He was a member of one of the
many street gangs that infest the South
Central LA area.
When I say Carlos has tattoos, that
doesn't begin to tell the whole story.
Carlos is the most completely tattooed
person I have ever seen. He is literally
covered from the top of his head to the tops
of his feet. He has his gang name stenciled
in 2-inch Gothic lettering on his forehead
and his whole face is covered in what
resembles Maori tribal markings interspersed
with snarling animal heads. Even his eyelids
and eyebrows are employed to advertise where
he has hailed from, Compton, Southern
California. He has skeletal bones drawn on
the backs of his hands, there are gang
inscriptions arched across his midriff in
common gangbanger fashion. But the vast
majority of Carlos' skin tapestries are
naked women in soft pornographic poses, with
exquisitely drawn fully displayed pudenda,
all copied from Hustler and Playboy
magazines. To add to the complexity, the
women all have clown faces.
These women cover his arms and legs
completely and almost every inch of
observable skin on the front of his torso
and yet the irony is that on the whole of
his back, from the nape of his neck to the
small of his back is portrayed a large
apparition of Our Lady of Guadeloupe.
Carlos is one of those people who, when
you see him for the first time you're almost
afraid to look him in the eye for fear of
antagonizing him. In truth, I was in
solitary when I first saw him from my cell
door window as he was being marched by the
guards to the TV room opposite my cell for
interviews by the ICE agents, I did not
return his gaze. But on the second occasion
we exchanged glances and cursory nods as he
went by. Ironically, within a few weeks we
would become cellmates when I was moved into
his cell to make room for more incoming
"solitary confinement" detainees.
I arrived at his cell as Carlos was
shifting his bedding from the bottom to the
top, leaving me the lower bunk which is my
preference. We introduced ourselves and I
got the first chance to see Carlos within
our 8' x 14' confines. We were almost the
same height, perhaps he was even an inch
shorter, but he was solidly built without
being overly muscular. I was initially
aghast when I learned we'd be cellmates even
though a guard had said that, "the tattoo
guy is easy going" but Carlos indeed turned
out to be courteous and respectful.
From what I'd seen and heard of gang
members, they were not sociable, relying
more on abrupt confrontations to make their
points and stake out their territory. If
they did talk, it was ad nauseum about
themselves, their clothes, cars, guns, bling,
exploits, their homies and their bitches. I
was preparing myself for all this, but it
never came. Instead, Carlos was soft spoken,
whose English wasn't great despite being
raised and living in LA for 25 years. Like
many street gang kids, he never finished
school, in part because he lived in a war
zone. Surprisingly, though, he hadn't done
much time except for a few days here and
there at the odd city jails. He hadn't done
any county or state time; perhaps he was
lucky, careful or both.
Over the coming weeks we spent as cellies,
Carlos never opened up in any overt sense;
instead he revealed himself in small ways as
the time went by. He would not answer
questions about his past either because he
did not trust me or due to loyalty to
associates and friends; he almost always
evaded questions pertaining to his gang
affiliations and lifestyle. Still, I got the
sense that whatever youthful indiscretions
he engaged in during those periods were far
behind him now and he considered them wasted
time. I guess we all have these feelings
once and a while, but Carlos carries with
him in indelible ink on every inch of his
face and body, the tortured reminders of
those years for everyone to see and gawk at.
He was sent to the SHU because he's
considered a security risk in that whether
he likes it or not, he attracts notice to
himself and this leads to probable
confrontations, especially by members of
opposing gangs. He seems resigned, though,
to the fact that he'd be spending the
remainder of his time here in the SHU.
It isn't merely the tats that bring
unwanted stares, lots of detainees and
prisoners sport them, but it was the fact
that his whole face, neck and even head
(because they disappeared up into his thick
hair) were covered. This is what drew
people's attention to him. Had he stopped at
his neck, as he now realizes would have been
prudent, he wouldn't be considered by many
as a freak. What's bizarre is that Carlos,
underneath all that facial ink, is actually
a good looking guy, although he would
disagree, saying to me that he was ugly with
big lips (not true, which I told him
whenever he brought it up). I suspect this
was a cruel and possibly jealous taunt by
his homies, that maybe those envious of his
obvious good looks even encouraged him to
the extremes he now regrets. On sunny days
in LA, visiting family, his brothers' wives
would admonish him to put on long sleeved
shirts and long pants lest their children
see his x-rated erotica.
"So, why all the naked women?" I ventured
one day, "Because I like women." "And their
clown faces?" "I like clowns." Go figure.
One day after much prodding, Carlos
recalled for me how he came to be here. He
recounted being stopped by the LAPD, who he
said pulled up alongside him, stopped, and
in the process of shaking him down, found a
discarded pistol nearby, connected it to
Carlos and arrested him. He insisted that
the gun was a plant, and the way he told it
to me, I was convinced that he had actually
been framed because of his gang
affiliations. So I was surprised the next
day when he admitted that, in fact, the gun
was his and it was a clean bust after all.
Why he reversed himself and told me the
truth of the matter, I'll never know. Maybe
he felt guilty deceiving me, but I doubt it.
I wouldn't have thought any less of him had
he told me the truth. It would have been
perfectly logical that he had the gun for
self-protection in the notoriously violent
area where he lived.
While I've given the impression that
Carlos was slow of speech and unable to have
much of a conversation in English, this was
not the case if he was speaking in his
native Spanish with either other detainees
who would stop at our cell door to wish him
well or when he'd be conversing with the
guards through the access hatch in the lower
half of our cell door. Then he had a
melodious stream of unbroken vocabulary and
inflection that was expressive and easy
flowing. I think if I was a Spanish speaker,
I would have learned much more from him of
his past.
We came from such different backgrounds
and differently troubled cities that were
6,000 miles apart. I'm not even sure if he'd
ever been outside LA once he arrived there
as a small boy. He knew nothing of the
Northern Irish troubles and when I told him
my story he was either uninterested or he
just didn't get it (I'm not sure I get it
all myself sometimes). He did like the story
of the escape, though initially he was
skeptical. When I produced a complete
written and photographic narrative journal
of the escape, then he was a believer.
A short time after I moved in with him,
he stopped taking the one hour recreation
time that we were allocated daily, either in
the TV room or in the basketball cage that
was used as the exercise yard for the SHU
residents. It struck me as odd that Carlos
would refuse all opportunities to get out of
the cell. When two people are forced to
share a small space, there is an etiquette
connected to the arrangement and unless this
is established early, it can lead to
difficulties. Since we are only allowed to
take recreation alone, taking it allows some
private time to the other fellow left in the
cell, relieving the pressure of close
quarters by doubling the time each man has
to himself. Also, it breaks up the day and
reduces the monotony of daily cell life.
Although Carlos rightly observed that
there wasn't much worth watching on TV,
there seemed to be deeper reasons for his
not wanting to leave the cell except for
daily showers.
After many weeks here, I was finally
permitted reading material and I had, thanks
to friends and supporters, a steady stream
of books pouring through my hands.
Technically, I'm only allowed two books at a
time, but I can camouflage extras in large
envelopes and inside clothing. Over time the
guards lessened their enforcement and I
ended with many books at once.
I tried to get Carlos interested in
reading, but he refused all offers of the
many varieties of books that were being sent
to me; but finally he was interested in one
book. He slowly read and reread this same
book for some eight weeks whilst we shared
the same space. It was an interesting and
practical choice, "Immigration Law and
Procedure", a dense, 600 page paperback on
every aspect of immigration history and law.
He would ask for the book every morning and
at lights out at 10 pm, he would
respectfully return it to me and thank me
for letting him read it. Over eight weeks he
finished it, but the only passages he
mentioned pertained to some American
largesse of allowing a number of distressed
people aid and occasional asylum and entry
after natural disasters or political
upheaval. This was strange from someone who
was about to be dumped back in Guatemala
without a penny in his pocket or a single
person to call his friend. It almost seemed
he was trying to rationalize what was coming
his way with what he wanted to believe was
American goodness inherent in the system.
And while it's true there is enormous
American goodness at home and abroad, it's
just that it's mostly undercut by
dysfunctional foreign politics, corporate
greed and imperial overreach since W.W.II
and more recently, 9/11. But Carlos either
knew little or nothing or cared little or
nothing of those issues. In his own way, he
was battling to understand what was
happening to him and how he was going to
cope. He didn't have any answers.
I did inquire of him if he'd ever gone to
tattoo conventions or been featured in any
tattoo magazines in an effort to exploit his
rather unique body art and turn a negative
into a positive. But with a dismissive wave
of his arm and an, "Oh, fuck that shit", he
seemed resigned; he didn't want to be a
spectacle. When I pointed out the illogic of
this, he did allow that in the early years
it didn't bother him at all, but when he
quit the gangs, he realized his problem.
Apart from the odd phone call to friends
who were rarely home when he called, the
only other person he would contact regularly
was his aging, nearly blind mother with whom
he spoke 3 or 4 times a week. Whatever
homies or affiliates he once had appeared to
have evaporated since his arrest. I could
see him struggling to cope with the
realization that he was essentially now
completely alone.
In moments of depression, he would utter
out of the blue to me, "Pol, look at me, I
am a poor man, I have no money, no home or
house. I have done nothing, achieved
nothing. I am a piece of shit".
In a bid to snap him out of it, my
replies were sometimes harsh, "Ah, dry your
fucking eyes will you and stop wallowing in
this pathetic self-pity. You're only 32
years old and in the prime of your life. You
just need to help yourself if there's no one
else around to count on. Contact the
Guatemalan Counsel and ask for a meeting
with them to figure out what you should do
when you get to Guatemala or get some books
on the country and learn about the places to
go and those to avoid. Get advice, arm
yourself with information on what's
available from the government for deportees
from America. There must be something"! But
again with the dismissive waves and the
"fuck thats", reminiscent perhaps of a
paternal or fraternal gesture he was used to
seeing from his past. "I'll just get myself
a job and a hotel room and I'll get by." He
vacillated between being morose and clinging
to simplistic remedies.
These outbursts were rare, but I suspect
his uncertain future ate at him when he
would sit quietly by the door or on the
little bench just at the same level as my
bunk on the opposite wall, with a blank look
on his face. His conversations with me were
remarkably similar from one to the next and
after a while I could predict them.
"Mr. Pol, you read your book already"?
"Wow! you got more books today again"! "What
did you say when the guard didn't get you
the right request forms, Mr. Pol?" "I told
him to put his hands between his legs and
pull his head out his ass", I answered. He
would laugh heartily at such exploits and
other interactions I had with various guards
and medical personnel who I cussed out for
their inept operation such as taking a week
to get me some Tylenol or doctor ordered
prescription medications. These encounters
would be relived by Carlos days or weeks
later, as if he'd suddenly remembered a good
joke. "What'd you tell the man, Mr. Pol to
do with his head again"?
If I was ever in pain or frustrated, it
occurred to me that perhaps Carlos
experienced a touch of schadenfreude. Here I
was, after all, in the same cell as he, with
lots of things to keep me occupied, books,
letters, crossword puzzles, magazines,
visits from my wife, lots of phone calls to
family and friends; I had the advantage of
lawyers, a growing outside support group, my
name in the papers, getting to go on the
radio to talk about my case; so
self-absorbed in my own little cosmos, and
yet, still finding time to complain. Here
was he, just watching that deportation train
coming, knowing he had nothing here and
nothing where he's going, just waiting for
it to hit him. I'd hate me too...but if he
did harbor such justifiable sentiments, he
had the grace and good form never to show
it.
In all likelihood, if or when I'm
deported back to Ireland, I'll survive
through a large network of family, friends
and former comrades plus a good deal of
sympathy for my plight. Carlos, on the other
hand, has no such comforts waiting for him
in Guatemala. His tattoos shall make him a
person of interest to the local police and
I'm sure local street gangs will target him
soon after he steps off the plane. How he'll
manage to negotiate the hurdles is anyone's
guess.
The recent history of that troubled
country have left deep scars that, from a
psychological standpoint, the nation has yet
to recover as evidence by this short extract
from Chalmers Johnson's book, "Blowback"
(2000), that speaks to the many
repercussions of American influences and
over-reactions in other lands:
"In 1954 the Eisenhower administration
planned and the CIA organized and funded
a military coup that overthrew a
Guatemalan President whose modest land
reform policies were considered a threat
to American corporations. Blowback from
this led to a Marxist guerilla
insurgency in 1980 and so to
CIA-Pentagon supported genocide against
Mayan peasants. In the spring of 1999, a
report on the Guatemalan civil war from
the UN sponsored Commission for
Historical Classification made clear
that "American training of the officer
corp in counter- insurgency techniques
was a key factor in the genocide. Entire
Mayan villages were attacked and burned
and their inhabitants were slaughtered
in an effort to deny guerillas
protection." According to the Commission
between 1981-1983 the military
government of Guatemala financed and
supported by the U.S. government,
destroyed some 400 Mayan villages in a
campaign of genocide in which
approximately 200,000 peasants were
killed."
I shudder to think what might become of
Carlos in Guatemala when he could so easily,
if given half a chance, become a productive
member of his own society, the one where he
grew up: California. The caring America that
Carlos so much wanted to believe in whilst
slowly reading my immigration book is fast
becoming a mere memory, and sadly that may
be all that Carlos is left with in the end.
Memories!
