The White House
Apagones. You might be reading a book, cooking a meal, or taking a shower when the power goes out. Your instincts tell you to gather the family in one room, find the candles and matches, and wait until the electricity returns. The family must always stay together. This is routine. This is protocol.
Loosely translated, apagones means “blackouts”, but the word embodies a reality of terror, uncertainty, and even death. I will always remember the same haunting scenario: the television stops working and the room becomes overwhelmingly silent. Mom calls for me to bring candles from the kitchen drawer, and we hurry to the bedroom. Dad smiles and entertains me by tickling my belly. Mom prays with a rosary in her hand and the word of God on her lips. I can hear the noises outside our house, the yelling and confrontation among people, dogs barking in the distance. I hear footsteps on the roof: burglars hopping from house to house.
We experienced more frequent apagones as the Shining Path terrorists infiltrated Lima. Family friends died in car bombs and family members felt terrorized. The government responded with brutality and dictatorship; President Fujimori dissolved Congress. The armed forces murdered infants and elders, pillaged farms and villages, raped and murdered mothers and daughters, and instilled in the population a fear and distrust of authority that not even time could assuage. It was a time of darkness, even with the electricity on. After witnessing much volatility, my family fled toward a steadier light.
We escaped the apagones by immigrating to America where we encountered opportunities otherwise unimaginable in Peru. When we first moved to the United States, my family relied on our faith community for help, from obtaining the mattresses we slept on for many years, to getting rides to the supermarket and to church each Sunday. Our congregation became our extended family, our comfort, and our home. After spending so much time in frequent blackouts in Lima, we found ourselves with a constant source of light in a new, unknown place. As before, a group of candles shone brightly around us, but this time in the form of warm hearts willing to help us in any way possible. The kindness shown to my family was just the manifestation of the openness and warmth Americans had.
As we made the U.S. our new home, my parents fixated on the aspiration that their children would build a future more secure than theirs. My Dad’s sixteen hour days at work and my Mom’s back pain paid off with what they deemed the American Dream for their children. I attended Harvard College on a full scholarship, and then I stayed at Harvard Divinity School for my master’s. Today, thanks to President Obama’s executive action on immigration, I am employed at a national organization working against domestic violence, sexual assault, and human trafficking. I love what I do. I love this country. But in recent weeks, I have wondered where the warmth I felt as a child went.
Today, my family lives in a shadow—one that comes from having overstayed our visas. At first, I feared deportation and agonized over my legal situation. Would I be able to work in the United States? How will I support my aging parents? Would I have to leave after years of living in the country I learned to call home? (This December marks the eighteenth anniversary of my coming to this country). As of last week, I have also wondered whether President-Elect Trump will cancel President Obama’s executive order and have me deported. I have managed over the years to navigate my feelings and fears by surrounding myself with supportive friends and family members as well as by creating opportunities for myself one step at a time. I think that’s how immigrants learn to deal with the uncertainty of being undocumented—one step at a time. We dream for the long term, but we concentrate on today because tomorrow we might wake up in another continent.
I think back to December 18, 1998, the day I landed in Dallas, Texas. That day, I no longer felt the need to have a candle close by in case the lights suddenly went out. On this, my day of immigration, I felt hopeful yet nostalgic. During our first blackout in the United States, Dad joked, “Do you remember the apagones in Peru? We looked for candles and just played around.” Mom shook her head and said admonishingly, “You’re always laughing even at death.” I, too, shook my head, smiled, and remembered our adversities in Lima. In America, I saw darkness not as a threat but as an opportunity; it was a place where I could make my own light. Within minutes, the electricity returned all of the comforts of our home, and I realized I no longer feared the next apagón because its contexts were thousands of miles south. In Peru and around the world, people will continue to live in a metaphorical and literal blackout. Today, in what some are calling Trump’s America, I am left wondering: will the United States continue to provide at least a candle?