On television, muted scenes alternate. Men, mostly young, most Latino, handcuffed and shoved into vans, under the chilled orange and blue of LA streetlights and flashing sirens. Crowds blocking intersections, waving arms, crying, shouting, in silence too. No point in turning the volume on; the commentary will be as grainy as the videos, as confused, also looping. And nasal. A voice that would clearly prefer to be reporting the latest sex scandal.
That follows, swiftly. The news and America move on to the next story. Then entertainment, sports and the weather, stocks. I keep the TV on, still.
“Sama, are you still watching?”
Your voice sifts through the phone, thick, murky, muffled, almost forcefully calm.
“I can’t stop crying.”
“Where will they go?”
“Sama! Turn the TV off!”
The newscaster is back, mouthing in silence, her lips plump, rosy, shimmery. Her eyes glaze, moving left to right, over words on the teleprompter. Then the boys again. I see us. Give me your tired, your poor… Everyone wants America.
“I called Paul. He says they’re not going after people with visas yet, just the undocumented. As long as the travel ban is still on hold, you should be safe…”